Bucket List Source Sheet

Following my Rosh Hashanah sermon, many people asked me to show them where to find the Talmudic quote upon which the sermon was based.  For your convenience, I have provided the text here as a PDF document.  The source sheet also includes some other references to questions you're asked in heaven. 

To download the source sheet, please click here.

Dr. Ron Wolfson wrote a thought-provoking and inspirational book that I highly recommend called The Seven Questions You're Asked in Heaven (Jewish Lights, 2009) based on these sources.

Kicking the Bucket List

Rosh Hashanah 5771

The Rabbi, the Cantor, and the President of the synagogue were flying home from a conference when their plane crashed on a tiny pacific island.  The three men crawled out of the wreckage only to be captured by a tribe of vicious cannibals.  The chief of the tribe said to the men, “Gentlemen: by tribal tradition, you are lunch… but seeing that you are men of great distinction, we will grant you one last request.”  The rabbi said, “In that case I would like to preach my greatest high holiday sermon – a two-hour discourse that ties together the entire Bible and finally solves the question of good and evil… but I never got to give that sermon because the cantor needed more time for Kol Nidre.”  The cantor stepped forward and said, “In that case, I wish to give my most sublime rendition of Kol Nidre ever.  Each 30 minute repetition is a tribute to one of the three greatest Hazzens of the early 20^th Century.  But I never had a chance to sing that Kol Nidre because the Rabbi here needed more time for his sermon.” “In that case,” said the President, “eat me first!”

The “dying wish” joke is, of course, part of a genre we love.  The final request of a dying person is supposed to reveal something essential about their character.  The question is: if you knew you were going to die soon, what would you want to do?  In recent years, a number of popular books, websites, and films have tried to answer that question.  It’s called “making a bucket list” – as in: “what would you like to do before you kick the bucket?”  It has become very popular to make bucket lists… especially for other people.  A number of books have been published in recent years beginning with Dave Freeman’s 1999 book titled 100 Things to Do Before you Die.  The book is about events and sites around the world that are worth experiencing.  Now there are hundreds of these books: 1001 Films to See Before You Die, 50 Foods to Try Before You Die.  The funniest one I came across is called No Regrets.  This one is too impatient to wait for death.  Marketed to young women the subtitle is: 101 Fabulous Things to Do Before You're Too Old, Married, or Pregnant. 

There are also a number of websites that provide suggestions and give you advice about writing your own bucket list.  If you go to 43things.com, you can see what the most popular bucket list items are.  The typical stuff usually involves travel, extreme experiences like skydiving, or accomplishments like writing a novel. 

A couple of years ago, Rob Reiner made a movie called “The Bucket List” in which Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson share a hospital room when each man is informed that he has less than a year to live.  Nicholson, who plays an obnoxious billionaire, and Freeman, a wise and intellectual auto-mechanic, make their bucket list and set off on an extravagant adventure around the world.  As you might expect from a big Hollywood film, the two men have their trite epiphanies in the last few minutes and discover that what really matters isn’t all the adventure but family and friendship.  The Bucket List is entertaining enough, but not all that profound. 

I have to wonder what the proliferation of these bucket list themed movies and books and websites is about.  What does it say about our culture and our society?  What does it say about an enormous generation of baby-boomers entering retirement?  What does it say about Gen Xers confronting a world with no clear answers or laid out paths?  The philosopher Ernest Becker observed that we are the only creatures who are consciously aware of our mortality.  And, it is this knowledge that drives us.  In his book, The Denial of Death, Becker argues that we compensate for this dreadful knowledge by constructing what he calls “affirmation systems.”  We see death as the ultimate failure, so we pursue success.  We see death as ultimate emptiness, so we fill our lives with stuff.  We see death as the end of feeling, so we crave pleasure.  We see death as impotence, so we seek power.  The bucket list craze is just another attempt at the denial of death.  Checking things off the list – even if they are noble pursuits – is still about us trying to conquer the inevitable. 

Judaism doesn’t see death as “kicking the bucket.”  And Judaism doesn’t see life as the short journey during which we have to get as much done as possible.  Judaism teaches us that our lives are a precious gift – a gift we did not earn, but one that comes with enormous responsibility and opportunity.  In the account of Creation we read that God fashioned humanity out of the dust of the earth and blew into us “nishmat hayyim” – the breath of life (Gen. 2:7).  The Torah means to teach us that our bodies are made up of the same finite stuff as the rest of the universe and will return to the earth from whence they came.  But, at the same time, we possess a tiny mysterious bit of what God is.  We call it many things: the soul, the spark of the divine, the image of God – it is that part of us that makes us who we are and that which lives on. 

So death isn’t oblivion to be feared; but Judaism isn’t a morbid religion either.  It is a religion that affirms life while reminding us that we don’t have an infinite number of tomorrows. 

Once a year Judaism asks us to confront our mortality – but not with a bucket list mindset. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are a drama.  A rehearsal.  The prayers we recite tell the Jewish story of what happens to us when we die.  Our ancestors imagined that when we leave this world we go before a Heavenly Court that reviews our lives.   This drama is represented in the most important and emblematic prayer of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the U’netane Tokef.  The prayer describes God as the ultimate Judge: “B’rosh Hashanah Yikateivu, u’ve’yom tzom kippur yechatemu”… “On Rosh Hashanah [the judgment] is written; and on Yom Kippur it is sealed: … who will live and who will die… who by fire and who by water…” –  you know the rest. 

In this heavenly court we find ourselves today, they don’t ask you if you ever went sky diving or climbed all the 14ers in Colorado .  God doesn’t want to know if you made a million bucks or if you belong to the Mile High Club.  The prosecutor in this court isn’t going to ask you how many items you checked off your bucket list.  No.  In this court, you’re asked to give an account of your life and how you lived it. 

According to the Talmud, there is a final exam in heaven.  The 4^th Century sage known as Rava says there are 6 questions you’ll be asked when you reach the heavenly court (see BT Shabbat 31)[1].  So what are they?  What’s on the entrance exam to heaven?  Before I tell you what Rava says, I’d like you to think about it for a moment.  What questions do you suppose you will be asked on that day? 

So, according to Rava, the first question is:  “were you honest in your business?”  WHAT!?!  Of all the questions that could be on the exam, that’s the first one!?  What about tzedakah? Did you give to charity? Where you generous?  Were you kind to people?  What about mitzvot?  Did you keep Shabbat?  Were you scrupulous about Kashrut?  How can the first thing on the list be so mundane?  But, it actually makes a lot of sense.  Tzedakah (giving charity) is certainly a righteous act, but you can be very generous and still be a crooked SOB.  I’m sure Bernie Madoff was very generous with other people’s money.  And religious piety is certainly important too.  God expects us to follow the commandments, but it’s possible to rest on the Seventh day and lie, cheat, and steal on the other six.  You can be scrupulous about what you put in your mouth, and lie with every word that comes out of your mouth.  So it makes a lot of sense that this is the first question.  How you conduct your affairs says a lot about you. 

The words in Hebrew are “nassata v’nattata be’emunah” – literally, did you give and take faithfully.  It is talking about business, but much more than commerce.  The question is: in your dealings in the world, in your interactions with other people, were you fundamentally honest and did you act with integrity?  How we deal with other human beings is an essential requirement to be considered a decent person. 

Interestingly, the question does not ask if you were successful in business – that’s a bucket list mentality.  The 1^st question is, were you honest in business?

The second question:  did you set aside time for Torah study? How should we apply this question to our lives today?  I want us to interpret it simultaneously in two ways.  The first way is to take Torah in its broadest sense.  To our sages the word Torah has always meant much more than the 5 Books of Moses.  Torah means knowledge – so the question here is: did you set aside time for acquiring knowledge?  We all know how easy it is to neglect our minds once we’re out of school. 

But I also want us to take the question more literally – that it really means Torah.  It means Judaism.  I can tell you with 100% confidence that there isn’t a single person in this enormous room (including the people up here on the bima) who doesn’t need to learn more.   I’m going to say something very challenging, but I believe it deeply:  there is no way to have a meaningful experience of Judaism without learning.  You may enjoy our services and you may love coming to hear the Cantor’s powerful voice; you might enjoy the company of other Jews; but the religion of our ancestors will not touch your soul or improve who you are if you don’t learn. 

And, again, the point isn’t to read the entire Talmud or memorize the Torah… that’s a bucket list mindset.  The question is: did you make time for Torah?

The third question you’re asked in heaven is: “did you engage in the mitzvah of being fruitful and multiplying.”  After my wife Melanie and I had our first child we argued often about how many more children we were going to have.  Melanie wanted to have a total of three children and I wanted only two.  It seems that God decided that for us when we conceived twins.  So it looks like we’re covered when it comes to being fruitful and multiplying!  Wrong!  That’s not necessarily true. 

At first glance you might think this question is about having children… but it doesn’t ask, “did you have children?”  So what could it mean? Our tradition teaches that a person can fulfill the mitzvah of being fruitful and multiplying in many ways – certainly by having children or adopting, but also by being a teacher, a mentor, or by being creative and putting something new into the world.  The question isn’t about children; it’s about leaving a legacy.  It’s about making a positive difference in the world.  Not for the sake of fame or honor, but for the sake of advancing the human enterprise.

There is a legend in the Talmud about a man named Honi who was famous for performing all sorts of miraculous deeds.  In one story, Honi sees an elderly man planting a carob tree (BT Taanit 23a).  So Honi asked the man, “how long will it take for that tree to produce fruit?”  The man answered, “seventy years.”  Honi laughed, “do you expect to live 70 years to see the fruit of this tree?” To which the old man replied, “I may not see the fruit, but just as my grandparents planted carob trees for me, I now plant a carob tree for my grandchildren.”  Honi snickered as he sat down to eat some lunch and fell into a deep sleep.  He slept for 70 years and when he awoke he saw a man picking fruit from a carob tree.  Honi asked him, “are you the man who planted this tree?”  The man replied, “no, my grandfather planted this tree.” 

Now, if you’ve ever heard this story at a Jewish fundraising event, this is usually where the storyteller will ask you to make a gift in order to leave a legacy to the next generation. And that is correct – that is what the tale is about.  But it isn’t actually the end of the legend.  The continuation of the story is that Honi goes back into town and tries to convince everyone that he is the famous Honi who had made miracles happen a couple of generations ago.  But, no one believes him; so, Honi despairs and asks God to take his life.  He would rather be dead than anonymous.[2]  Honi is actually a failure because he didn’t understand the true moral of the story: that leaving a legacy is important, but leaving a legacy in order to be famous is not – that’s the bucket list mentality.

               

The question you’re asked in heaven – “did you leave a legacy? – is not about grandiose accomplishments.  It’s about planting simple carob trees from which others will someday eat. 

The fourth question you’re asked in heaven is: tzipita li’shuah.  “Did you hold out hope for redemption?”  This too is an unexpected question.  We usually think of Judaism as a religion that places a priority on our behavior over our attitudes.  We might expect this question to be about repairing the world – doing tikkun olam… not simply hoping for redemption.  So why is hope so important? 

The Torah teaches us that in the beginning, the world was “tohu va’vohu” – unformed and void, chaos and disorder… and God created the reality we know by making order out of the chaos.  Yet we all have a sense that just under the surface of this world is tohu va’vohu.  We see it every day – when we watch the news, when we see the injustices and violence in our world, when we confront the struggles in our own lives.   It isn’t hard to despair in the face of all that chaos.  But the story of creation also teaches us that after each day of creation, God looked at what had been created and said, “ki tov” – that it was good. 

One of my mentors, Rabbi Ed Feinstein says that “good” is the most important word in the chapter.  “This is the great revolution that began our faith,” he says, “The whole world sees chaos, terror, random death as inevitable.  And this one little people, a people who suffered more than any other people, this people has the cosmic chutzpah to say ‘It doesn’t have to be that way! Come, be God’s partner.  There is goodness in creating the world.’”[3]  It is true that our world exists in the precarious balance between order and chaos, between good and evil.  It’s tempting to become cynical – to believe that nothing can change, that there is no hope for a better world.  It’s tempting to focus on ourselves and what we can grab in our short time on this earth.  It’s also tempting to think that the only thing that really matters is making big changes to the world – that anything short of a revolution is pointless… again, those are bucket list ways of thinking.  But Judaism teaches us that we have the power to bend the moral arc of the universe (even if only slightly) in favor of goodness and justice.  In order to be partners with God in the pursuit of a more perfect world, we have to hold on to hope despite the odds. 

The last two questions are related.  The fifth question is “pilpalta b’chochma – did you delve into wisdom?” and the sixth question is “havanta davar mitoch davar - did you understand one thing from another?”  On the surface these questions are about study and learning; but I think these questions are getting at something much deeper. First we have to understand what wisdom is.  My teacher, Rabbi Elliot Dorff, always taught us that wisdom is the knowledge we gain through experience.  It is what we learn when we pay attention.  Wisdom is a way of living in the world. 

And the 6^th question is related.  “did you understand something from something?”  In your life experience, in the choices that you made, did you derive some additional understanding from what was presented to you?  Did you accept the conventional wisdom or did you advance that wisdom is some meaningful way? 

Taken together, these last two questions are about the choices we make in life.  Interestingly, the question isn’t did you always make the correct choice?  Again – that’s a bucket list mindset.  They aren’t asking: were you right?  We all make mistakes, we all make bad choices.  These are questions about your process.  Did you make thoughtful and deliberate choices based on wisdom and understanding?

In the Talmud, Rava ends his list of 6 questions with an interesting conclusion.  He says, “even [if a person doesn’t have answers to these questions] if he/she had reverence for God, the judgment will be favorable.”  I think Rava telling us something I’ve to which I’ve been alluding all along.  Having the right answers to the questions isn’t what matters most.  After all, each of us will have different answers to these questions. These questions aren’t about what you’ve accomplished or what you’ve checked off a cosmic bucket list.  These questions are also not about being perfect or even righteous – that bar is too high for most of us; and it is a bucket list mindset.  These questions are about being a decent person, a good person.  They are about striving to be better; being better next year than you were last year.    

In these days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur we should all be asking ourselves theses questions:  Was I honest last year, and I can do better next year?   Did I make time to learn, and how can I learn more?   Am I proud of the legacy I cultivated last year, and what will I do in the year to come?  Did I live with hope this year? And, do I still hold out hope for a better life, hope that one day we will achieve a world worthy of the good God created?   And, finally, were the decisions I made based on wisdom, and will the choices I make next year advance that wisdom to the next level?

So let’s kick the bucket list mentality out of our lives; and instead, keep these questions in mind so we can live more thoughtfully, more deliberately and improve a little every day.  If we do, I believe the final judgment will be favorable

L’Shanah Tovah.

Following my Rosh Hashanah sermon, many people asked me to show them where to find the Talmudic quote upon which the sermon was based.  For your convenience, I have provided the text here as a PDF document.  The source sheet also includes some other references to questions you're asked in heaven. 

To download the source sheet, please click here.

For more on the questions you're asked in heaven and a somewhat different take on the Talmud section I discussed, please read Ron Wolfson's wonderful book, The Seven Questions You're Asked in Heaven (Jewish Lights, 2009)

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[1] My teacher Ron Wolfson wrote a wonderful book called The Seven Questions You’re Asked in Heaven” (Jewish Lights, 2009) based on this section of Talmud.  He counts this list as five and adds two additional questions from other sources.  Some of my examples come from the book. Though I interpret the questions somewhat differently from him, I owe Ron a debt of gratitude for the influence of his book.

[2] See Taanit 23a.  Most readers interpret Honi’s despair at the end of the story as a plea for “scholastic fellowship.”  Coincidently, it is Rava who interjects a comment at the end of the story citing an aphorism: “O Hevruta, O Mituta,” (“either fellowship or death.”).  But, in context and considering what we know about Honi’s personality from other stories, the source of Honi’s misery is clear: he is despondent because no one will accord him the honor he feels is due to him.  “Hevruta” in this context does not mean he is looking for a study-partner.  “Hevruta” here means the recognition of his peers. 

[3] Quoted by Ron Wolfson in The Seven Questions You’re Asked in Heaven (Jewish Lights, 2009), p. 60. 

It's the Grown-up Thing to Do.

Parashat Ki Tetze 5770

             

Having young children in your home at times feels like being the anthropologist living among warring tribes of ruthless Ya̧nomamö warriors.  Take my two year-old twins (please).  I like to observe Hannah and Micah when they don’t think I’m watching.  It’s interesting to see how they figure out problems together (like how to help each other climb up a book shelf) or how they are learning to share and take turns.  But, they are two years old and it usually doesn’t take long before the harmonious little society they’ve created in the living room breaks down.  One of them decides sharing is overrated, the other grabs the toy, the other screams, then the other replies with hitting or pinching, then it escalates to bighting or pulling hair.  Meanwhile I sit in the corner wearing my pith helmet recording it all in a field journal.  Of course, I’m kidding… as a parent I break up the fight and I discipline them.  It drives me crazy when the kids fight.  But I try to remember that they are, after all, two year-olds.  They don’t yet have the impulse control to respond appropriately when they feel wronged.  They haven’t learned that there are more important things at stake than who has the ball.    

It’s also interesting to observe how our 5 year-old, Koby, behaves differently.  His little brother and sister gang up on him – they break his stuff, they hit and pinch, they pull his hair; but, matter what they do to him, he very rarely will retaliate in kind.  It’s interesting to observe what a difference a few years makes: he’s begun to understand that even when someone does you harm, it isn’t always justifiable to do the same back.  He’s learned that there are higher principles to take into account: he understands that they are still learning how to behave; he knows that escalating isn’t going to solve the problem; he trusts that he can rely on grown-ups to help him; and he’s learning that hurting his siblings is wrong no matter what.  Approaching age six, he’s become more mature and I’m proud of him for that.  It isn’t easy to do the right thing when your instincts dictate otherwise.  

 This week’s Torah portion is largely about the rules that ask us to transcend our instincts and inclinations – even when giving in to them might be justifiable.  At first glance, Parashat Ki Tetze reads like a laundry list of laws that don’t have much to do with one another.  But one theme that ties together most of the mitzvot in Ki Tetze is the irreducible dignity and worth of every human being.  These are laws that demand that we uphold principles, even when it feels like a sacrifice.  Here are some of them:

                The Torah says that if you, as a soldier, are fighting in a war and you take a woman captive; and if you find her attractive and want to marry her, you have to wait for a month.  In the meantime, she’s supposed to make herself as unattractive as possible.  If after a month you still like her – only then can you marry her. If not, you have to set her free?  Why?  Why is it that in a world in which it was typical for men to rape women in war, Israelite soldiers had to go to such lengths to marry a captive woman?  Would our enemies have afforded our women the same rights?  After all, he’s not forcing her.  But God says no, you have to give her time to mourn her parents and you have to transcend the passion you felt on the battlefield in order to preserve her dignity.  If you’re going to marry her, you have to actually fall in love with her.  

The Torah says when you see someone’s lost animal, you have to return it.  Why?  Why is it your problem if your neighbor can’t keep his ox tied up?  What if your neighbor is a jerk?  But God says no, you can’t ignore it, lo tuchal l’hit-alem.  It doesn’t matter if you like your neighbor; you have to go out of your way to help him.  

The Torah says when you build a house with a flat roof, you need to build a wall around it to prevent people from falling off.  Why?  It’s your house.  If someone’s walking around on your roof and they don’t look where they’re going, why is that your fault?  You didn’t push them off!  But God says no – you have to protect other people, even against their own clumsiness.  

The Torah says if your father is married to a woman who isn’t your mother and your father dies, you can’t marry his widow.  Why not?  Your single; she’s single.  You like her; she likes you. What’s wrong with that? –she’s not even related to you! But God says no – you have to transcend your instincts and respect your father’s dignity even in death.  

The Torah says if you lend someone money you can’t take the clothes off his back or the tools he uses to make a living as collateral.  Why not?  If he wants to pawn his shirt, why’s that your problem!  But God says no, you have to look out for his dignity, even if poverty has stripped him of it. 

The Torah says if someone owes you money and doesn’t pay up, you can’t enter her house to seize property.  Why not?  You’re the repo man; and you’re taking what is rightfully yours.  But God says no - it may be yours, but you have to afford her the dignity of handing it over herself.  

The Torah says if you hire a day laborer you can’t wait till the next day to pay him.  Why not?  You’re not denying him his wage, you’re just saying, “I’ll pay you in the morning”?  But God says, no – a person who lives hand-to-mouth deserves to eat dinner after an honest day’s work and shouldn’t have to go hungry till morning.  

And there are several other examples like these throughout the Torah.  Taken together, they teach us that God holds human dignity as a primary value and an unconditional right.

                But the question remains: why do we have to be so moral? There’s nothing I just listed that is in itself wrong.  Doing the things prohibited by this list doesn’t make you an overtly bad person.  Why should we be expected to be better than what human inclinations dictate?  Why should we be better than the other nations amongst whom we live who don’t follow these rules?  But God says no, you do have to be better. 

Over and over the Torah says that it isn’t enough to refrain from doing harm.  Again and again, the Torah teaches us that human dignity is not up for debate.  You don’t get to choose which people are deserving of dignity and which are not.  You have to act fairly and respectful of others even when your inclination is to do otherwise, even when it costs you something, even when it doesn’t feel fair, even when it is uncomfortable for you.  But that takes maturity to understand.

The Torah does not use the language of “rights,” but in modern legal parlance we would say that human dignity and freedom are rights.  As Jews we should be proud of our religion for holding us to high standards.  And I think this is also true for us as Americans.  Like Judaism, we have a Constitution that holds us to high standards.  Like Judaism, the law of this land is one based on principles that uphold human dignity for all people.  That’s really hard to do!  Like the soldier who has to go to a lot of trouble to marry a woman who, by anyone else’s standards has no rights, sometimes upholding our principles is costly.  Like the guy who owes you money and fails to repay; or the schlemiel on the roof, some people take advantages of the system – they act irresponsibly or offensively; nonetheless, we afford them rights and dignities, even if we think they don’t deserve them.     

                Judaism acknowledges that it’s hard to be that moral.  If these standards were easy, God wouldn’t have to command them.  Likewise, the US Constitution recognizes that providing freedom equally and standing on principles is hard to do.  If these freedoms were easy to ensure, we wouldn’t have to declare them as rights.  

                Being Jewish and also being American means we don’t measure ourselves by other people’s lower moral standards.  We’re not governed by the lowest common denominator.  We don’t act like children who say “I’m going to treat you the way you would treat me if the tables were turned.”  We stand on principle even when we don’t like it or find it convenient.  Upholding our ideals not only makes us better people; it is a sign of maturity.  Like parents who have to teach their children not to lash out every time someone offends them; the law is there to help us be more mature, even when we don’t like it.

               

Be Wholehearted With God

Judaism draws our attention to the preciousness and holiness of moments in time, reminding us of the limits of our power as human beings.

Until recently, if you had asked me to go camping, I probably would have made an excuse not to go.  I’ve been camping before and I’ve had good experiences.  But I’ve never been enthusiastic to go on a camping trip.  I have to admit I’m a city kid and a bit… let’s say… fastidious.  I don’t much like to get dirty.  I don’t like bugs and reptiles.  I like sleeping on a good quality mattress surrounded by 4 solid walls and roof.  I like having a bathroom with a flush toilet and a shower.  (In short, I’m a wuss.)  At least that’s how I used to feel until this past weekend. 

I spent last weekend with Melanie and the kids at Camp Ramah in the Rockies for the annual family Shabbaton.  I have to admit that prior to the weekend I was not very enthusiastic about the trip.  Ramah in the Rockies is secluded in the wilderness of Pike National Forest on the site of an old Girls Scouts camp, which even in its heyday was pretty rustic.  As a person who likes his home environment, I get very nervous about all the possible contingencies – all the “what ifs.”  I don’t like being caught off guard without my stuff.  I want to know what to expect… but camping requires the kind of flexibility that I find uncomfortable. 

So when we arrived at camp on Friday afternoon, we set up our tents and unpacked our gear and I was still pretty agitated.  But then something happened.  As the sun began to set behind the beautiful red mountains on the west side of camp, we made our way to where the young campers were holding their Kabbalat Shabbat service in a wide open field next to where horses were grazing.  The campers’ spirited singing to the tune of guitars blended with the gentle outdoor sounds of evening… and a calm came over me that I haven’t felt in a long time.  Suddenly I became aware of the beauty that surrounded me – the crisp breeze, the smell of pine trees, the babbling of a nearby creek, the waving tall grass, the majestic horses a few feet away, the expansive valley and towering mountains all around, colorful rocks and rich dark earth, and even the insects that I usually dislike.  I looked at my children running around – healthy and happy.  I looked at my beautiful and talented wife, who had organized the Shabbaton.  I took a deep breath of mountain air and I felt at peace – profoundly grateful for everything that surrounded me.  I let go of some of my worries and nervousness and resolved to accept whatever the weekend would bring.

It turned out to be a glorious experience.  On Shabbat we sang, and played and prayed, and learned together.  We had great conversations and enjoyed the outdoors.  On Sunday and Monday we were treated to the activities the camp has to offer – hiking, mountain biking, rock climbing… and I got to go horseback riding for the first time in my life.  And, yes, I got some bug bites, I didn’t bathe, I slept on the hard ground, it rained on us a couple of times, and our kids refused to go to sleep when we wanted them to.  But, somehow, none of that bothered me very much.

For a city boy like me, spending a Shabbat in the wilderness reminded me of some very important lessons.  It reminded me of the wisdom Dr. Abraham Joshua Heschel shared: that in humanity’s need to survive and conquer nature, we must not be tempted to believe that we have ultimate control.  He taught that the rhythms and practices of Judaism draw our attention to the preciousness of the moment.  This is especially true on Shabbat, when we refrain from labor and activities related to the conquest of things and space.  And, being out in nature on Shabbat brings that into even sharper focus. Dr. Heschel wrote: “The solution to mankind’s most vexing problem will not be found in renouncing technical civilization, but in attaining some degree of independence of it.  In regard to external gifts, to outward possessions, there is only one proper attitude – to have them and to be able to do without them.  On the Sabbath we live, as it were, independent of technical civilization… Man’s royal privilege to conquer nature is suspended on the seventh day.”[1] 

           

One doesn’t have to trek into the mountains in order to be independent of civilization – that, according to Heschel, is what Shabbat affords us.  It is what he called “an island in time.” Nonetheless, taking a break from the creature comforts we all enjoy certainly reminds us that, in the scheme of things, what makes life meaningful is not what we possess or what we can conquer, but how we live with whatever and whomever surrounds us.  It teaches us the limits of our power.  It reminds us of what is truly valuable.  Similarly, and perhaps paradoxically, being attuned to time reminds us that we are not in control of time. 

           

In this week’s parsha, the Torah discusses a very interesting prohibition.  Chapter 18 of Deuteronomy admonishes us not to imitate the practices of the surrounding pagan nations.  Moses warns: “Let no one be found among you… who is an augur, a soothsayer, a diviner, a sorcerer, or who casts spells, or who inquires of the dead… [Instead] You must be wholehearted with the Lord your God.”[2]  These practices are associated with paganism, and for that reason alone they are forbidden.  But, the medieval commentator, Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman (known also as Ramban or Nachmanides) makes a very perceptive observation.  In his commentary on these verses he asks: how can these things be abominations?  After all, it is only human nature to want to know the future and seek out guidance about what’s to come.  Furthermore Ramban says, these things have some efficacy.  You see, Ramban was himself a mystic and he studied astrology.  He writes in his commentary that some kinds of fortunetelling actually work!  So what’s wrong with wanting to know the future?  To answer this Ramban draws on Rashi (the most famous of the medieval commentators) who points to the next verse that says, “Tamim tih’ye eem HaShem Elohecha.”  “You shall be wholehearted with the Lord your God.”  Rashi says that to be “wholehearted with God” means to trust in God.  Wholeheartedness means accepting with equanimity whatever comes – both the good and the bad.  Ramban expands on this and says that the problem with necromancy and fortune-telling isn’t that it doesn’t work; rather the problem is that these things feed into our impulse to control the future and manipulate time.   

            One of our challenges as human beings is that we are indeed very powerful; but that power is also seductive.  We start to believe we can defy time and space.  But, Rashi and Ramban wisely counsel us to accept what the future holds without fear.  That doesn’t mean being passive.  Instead it means believing in the capacity that God gives us to deal with what life brings.  It means we should embrace what Rabbi Irwin Kula calls the “sacred messiness of life” with humility, awe, and gratitude. 

Like the experience of Shabbat that Heschel prescribes; and like the experience of nature and wilderness, the prohibition against sorcery in the Torah teaches us to put into perspective the limits of our power.  These things teach us that our very lives are themselves precious; that the present moment is unique and valuable… but, only if we cultivate that awareness and let go of our desire to control everything.  That means instead of always trying to cheat the limits of time and space, we should respect what we have been given; that we should trust in our capacity to deal with what life has in store for us with grace and dignity. 

We are less than a month away from Rosh Hashanah.  During this month of Elul leading up to the Holy Days is a time to reflect on the year that has passed and look to improve ourselves in the year to come.  Paradoxically, one of the best ways we can do that kind of reflection is to be more fully present in the current moment.  So, sometime between now and Rosh Hashanah, I hope you will find some quiet time – perhaps in the peaceful rest of Shabbat, or maybe in the tranquility of nature – to look around you, to gain some perspective, to think about the many blessings in your life, to be honest with yourself about the challenges, to feel grateful, to experience wonder and awe.  It is the sort of reflection that happens when we let go a bit, when we refrain from trying to manipulate time or overpower space, when we take some time to just be rather than to do.

           

As Moses said, “May you be wholehearted with the Lord your God.” Shabbat Shalom.

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[1] A. J. Heschel (1951) The Sabbath.

[2] Deut. 18:10-13

Love II: Choosing to Love Judaism

Parshat Ekev 5770

Last week I spoke about love and how love relationships bring with them many challenges.  It isn’t easy to find love and when you do, it isn’t easy to sustain.  Yet, love is essential to who we are as human beings and love is our best hope for redemption – as individuals and as a world.  So, whenever two people come together in love, it is worth celebrating.

This evening, former first daughter Chelsea Clinton is getting married.  She apparently has found her beshert – the love of her life.  I wouldn’t usually remark on this sort of thing; but, as it happens, her groom Marc Mezvinsky is Jewish.  The son of a political family himself, Mezvinsky was raised with a Jewish identity and grew up in a Conservative synagogue.  So a lot of our Jewish friends in the press and in the leadership of the Jewish community have felt a need to comment on this very famous interfaith wedding.  Frankly, I feel a bit sad for Chelsea and Marc – neither of them chose to be celebrities and they probably don’t appreciate having millions of people gawking or giving opinions about how they should live their lives.  So I’m going to try not to talk about Chelsea Clinton and Marc Mezvinsky, per se, but I am interested in the ways this event has prompted a conversation in our community about interfaith weddings.  So, “Mazal Tov” to Chelsea and Marc and let’s leave it at that.

That being said, the reactions to the Clinton-Mezvinsky wedding, have been interesting to read because they say a lot about where we are as a Jewish community on interfaith relationships.  On the whole the Jewish community is not reacting with horror or dread.  However, there is an ambivalent mix of pride and concern.  On the one hand, I hear some muted pride that “one of ours” has made it to the top of American social life.  For some people this wedding is further evidence that we’ve arrived as a community.  All the barriers have fallen.  Yeah us! On the other hand, it is a sign of the times because the reality is that Marc Mezvinsky is not at all unusual.  He’s among the majority of American Jews today who marry someone of another religious background.  In fact, in his age cohort of younger Jews, the intermarriage rate is approaching 70%.  Oy vey!

As a community, we have good reason to be concerned about intermarriage.  The sociological research shows that intermarriage is a huge challenge to Jewish continuity.  We have always been a small minority that has felt threatened by outside influences.  This week’s Torah portion is a good example of how far back these concerns go.  In parashat Ekev Moses admonishes the people to follow in God’s ways or risk destruction.  He exhorts the Israelites to wipe out the pagans who occupy the land of Israel saying, “You shall destroy all the peoples that Adonai your God delivers to you, showing them no pity.  And you shall not worship their gods, for that would be a snare to you.”   Moses goes on to say, “You shall consign the images of their gods to the fire… You must not bring any abhorrent thing into your house, or you will be destroyed like it; you must reject it as abominable and abhorrent, for it is forbidden.” (Deut. 7:16; 25-26).

To our modern sensibilities these words seem harsh and intolerant.   But in context these strict social boundaries made a lot of sense.  The Cannanite tribes threatened to destroy us and their pagan practices enticed our people away from the One true God.  And I think our defensiveness over the centuries about mixing with other peoples made a lot of sense because we were persecuted and abused.  Today the situation is markedly different (or at least I would like to think so).  Jews today, especially in the United States, are freer and more accepted than at any time in our long history.  And, in contrast to our early 20th Century European brethren, I don’t think we’re deluded when we feel truly part of this multicultural society.  I really think we’re living in a new era of Jewish life.  That doesn’t mean we should stop encouraging Jews to marry other Jews, but it also means that shunning people who intermarry isn’t going to get us very far. 

When I was growing up, when someone married out of the community, it was often interpreted that they were rejecting their Jewish heritage.  But that turns out not to be true.  Instead, intermarriage is an outcome of the very freedom and acceptance we cherish; and many people who choose a partner who isn’t Jewish do not see their choice as incompatible with maintaining a Jewish identity or passing that identity along to their children.  And this isn’t unique to the Jewish community.  Americans today do not, by and large, see themselves divided by tribes or ethnicities.  And when it comes to religion they pick and choose with little loyalty to dogmas or ideologies.  People are instead seeking religious experiences that add wisdom and meaning to their lives. 

So, if we can no longer rely on tribal loyalty to keep us together; and if fear of anti-semitism isn’t a good enough reason to be Jewish, what then is the basis of our Jewish identity?  Judaism today is something people either choose to participate in or not.  So if we are to survive as a community, we need a new way of talking about Judaism and Jewish identity.  If couples like Chelsea and Marc are going to choose to give their children a Jewish identity, it will be because they find something meaningful, relevant, and compelling in Judaism that helps them live their lives with greater depth and purpose.  The challenge for Jewish leaders is: how we do that with integrity and loyalty to our tradition?

We shouldn’t forget that Judaism is much more than a wisdom tradition.  It is a way of life practiced by a people who share a common culture.  Judaism makes claims on our lives and demands of us.  The mitzvot, God’s commandments, are not a menu of choices.  So what is it that Judaism expects of us today?  Perhaps this week’s parsha also can give us some guidance.  In parashat Ekev Moses sums up Judaism in a succinct statement.  “And now, Israel, what does Adonai your God ask of you?  Only this: to revere Adonai your God, to follow in God’s ways, to love God, and to serve Adonai with all your heart and soul.” 

That’s Judaism in a nutshell.  All of our ancient traditions, customs, and laws, are directed to this purpose: Serving God and living by God’s example.  Judaism and the mitzvot are not an end in themselves.  Instead they are the means to a higher purpose.  If we remember that, perhaps we have a good chance of passing our religion on to our children.

Love is a Verb

Love is an art form that must be continually refined and practiced.   

Parashat Va’etchanan / Shabbat Nachamu 5770

In one of my favorite scenes in Fiddler on the Roof, Tevye the milkman asks his wife Golda this very simple question: “do you love me?”  To which she very romantically answers, “do I what!?” 

To modern audiences it might seem like a silly question.  In an open and free society like the one we live in, we take for granted that love is an individual decision that stems from romantic feelings.  But Fiddler is a reminder that it wasn’t too long ago that arranged marriages were common in many Jewish communities as well as in other traditional cultures. 

When we think about our ancient ancestors and the texts we inherited from them, the theme of romantic love does not usually come to mind.  There are only a few examples of romance that stand out in the Torah.  But the truth is that love is very important in Judaism.  In fact we have a day set aside for celebrating love. 

According to the Mishna (Taanit Ch. 4), during the time of the 2^nd Temple, the 15^th Day of Av (Tu B’Av) was a day set aside for romance.  Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel recounts that on Tu B’Av, under the warm glow of a full summer moon, the young women of Israel would go out of the city walls dressed in white and dance in the vineyards calling to the young men to choose their bride. 

We know very little historically about Tu B’Av and it fell out of practice after the destruction of the Temple, but in recent decades this day has been revived in modern Israel as the Jewish day of romance (kind of like Valentine’s Day). 

It’s interesting to me that this joyous day comes right after the saddest day of the Jewish year – Tisha B’Av.   On the 9^th of Av we mark the destruction of the 1^st and 2^nd Temples, the massacre of Jewish martyrs, and a number of calamities that have befallen our people over the centuries; but just 6 days later we have a celebration of love.  It was also on the 9^th of Av, according to tradition, that the Spies returned a negative report about the Land of Israel and God condemned the generation that had left Egypt to wander in the wilderness; but on the 15^th of Av, 40 years later, the Israelites were given permission to enter the Promised Land. 

I don’t think it is a coincidence then, that Tu B’Av – the day of love – falls during the week we read Parshat Etchanan.  Love figures in very centrally to this week’s parsha in which Moses admonishes the people to follow God’s mitzvot and live up to God’s standards when they settle the Land of Israel.  He recounts how we witnessed God at the foot of Mount Sinai (called Horev in the Book of Deuteronomy) and how we received the 10 Commandments. 

This parsha also contains one of the most famous passages in Torah – recognized by almost any Jew.  “Shma Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Ehad.”  The Shma and the paragraph known as “V’ahavta” are taken from Chapter 6 of the book of Deuteronomy.  This section is essentially a sermon on the first commandment, which is to know that there is One God and to Love God.  “Shma Yisrael – Hear, O Israel!  Adonai is our God, Adonai is One.  You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all you have.”

The most well-known Mitzvah – to Love God – is also one of the most enigmatic.  How can love be commanded?  How can God demand our love?  The reason this commandment seems odd to us is that we’ve been raised in a culture in which love is thought of as a noun – an emotion or sentiment that one feels.  But for God, love is a verb – love is something you do.  It is true that emotions cannot simply be commanded, but we can be instructed to act in loving ways. 

Let’s consider the first line of V’ahavta because from it we can learn about what the Torah means by love.  “V’ahavta – You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart (b’chol levavcha)…”  Our ancestors believed that the heart was the seat of intellect and will.  Therefore, to love God with our heart means to love with intention – with all our thoughts and desires.  The Hasidic Rabbi known as the Sfat Emet says that loving God with our heart means directing our impulses and drives (both noble and base) to God so that everything we do is imbued with holiness.

“u’v’chol naf’shecha - With all your soul…”  The word nefesh in the Torah is often translated as “soul” but it really means “life.”  Love God with your life.  Basing himself on the Talmud (Ber. 54a, 61b) the commentator Rashi says that loving God with your Nefesh means being willing to give even your very life for God.  When you truly love someone, you have to be willing to give of yourself.  It takes a commitment of the heart, but also a commitment of self.

“u’v’chol me’odecha”  This is usually translated as “with all your might.”  The word “me’od” is really a measure of quantity, so the traditional understanding of this phrase is that loving God “b’chol me’odecha” means loving God with all you own and all you have.  It means not only the willingness to give something intangible – like your time and effort.  This means quite literally to give what you have to God.  Sometimes loving relationships call on us to really give to another what is precious to us. 

The paradigm for loving God also applies to all the loving relationships in our lives.  Loving other people cannot simply be a sentiment we hold in our hearts.  The romantic impulse that draws us to another person is not enough to sustain a relationship.  The Psychoanalyst Erich Fromm (perhaps drawing on his Jewish roots) also observed that true love is not a passive feeling but rather an art we must cultivate and practice. 

It isn’t easy for me to talk about this subject.  I like to think of myself as a pretty good husband and father, but I’m as guilty as anyone of being lazy when it comes to what Fromm called The Art of Loving.  It’s so easy to forget that love is a verb – something you have to do and sustain.   But that’s the point.  One of the lessons of parashat Etchanan is that God would not have to command Love if it were easy to do.  Think about it: Moses is speaking to the generation that experienced God’s salvation from Egypt, saw the plagues and the miracles God did, and actually encountered God face to face at Mount Sinai.  You might think that they would have no trouble loving God.  But God understand that love is not easy.  So we shouldn’t beat ourselves up when we falter in our attempts to love another.  Through love of God, the Torah gives us a paradigm for life.  Or, as Fromm put it “Love is the only sane and satisfactory answer to the problem of human existence.”

So this Sunday night and Monday (on the 15^th of Av) do something loving for someone you love; and let this day – like the Sh’ma we recite day and night – serve as a time to refine your skill in the art of loving.  Take an opportunity to go beyond the feeling of love that you hold inside and instead remember that love is verb.

UPDATE: Rotem Conversion Bill

Thankfully, it looks like the Rotem Bill will not be voted on before the end of this legislative session.  Your letters and the efforts of our leadership made a difference.  But the Rotem Bill is not dead yet.  In all likelihood it will be taken up again when the Knesset reconvenes after the High Holy Days.  Please stay tuned for updates and keep yourself informed on the issue.  United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism has a very helpful page with information about the bill and relevant links.

The situation with regard to the Conversion Bill looks very encouraging. I hesitate to say it is totally and completely off the table for this session only because I know there are still some meetings taking place and I know that MK David Rotem and his allies would attempt to move the bill forward if they saw the slightest chance for success. Your efforts in all of this were extremely important. Through our website link alone we know of 23,000 emails that went to Prime Minister Netanyahu and we understand that the office of the Prime Minister, in total, received in excess of 50,000 emails. I think it looks very good, but we are staying alert. Again, thank you. David H. Lissy Executive Director and CEO Masorti Foundation for Conservative Judaism in Israel

To learn more, please contact: Masorti Foundation for Conservative Judaism in Israel 475 Riverside Drive, Suite 832 New York, NY 10115-0068 (212) 870-2216; 1-877-287-7414 http://www.masorti.org/; info@masorti.org

Words of Rebuke

Parshat Devarim 5770

Events taking place in Israel threaten to further disenfranchise non-Orthodox Jews.  We should not be afraid to offer loving rebuke backed up by real substance.

This Shabbat we begin reading from the Book of Deuteronomy – Sefer Devarim.  The entire book of dvarim consists of a series of sermons that Moses gave to us as we stood poised to take possession of the Land of Israel. 

In this first parsha of Sefer Dvarim, Moses recounts the long journey the people took through the wilderness.  He lists all the places where Israel encamped or where some significant event took place.  The parsha opens very simply: “Eile ha-dvarim asher diber Moshe el kol Yisrael…” These are the words that Moses spoke to all Israel…” On this verse, Rashi – the most important of the Medieval Biblical commentators – points out that the verse uses the word diber (spoke) rather than amar (said).  Rashi explains that the use of the word “spoke” means that by these words Moses was rebuking the people; and that the purpose of recounting all the stops along the way was to remind the people of all the times that they disobeyed God.  Rashi bases his comment on a principle set out in Midrash (Sifre) that notes that anywhere that the Torah uses the word diber (spoke) it indicates rebuke whereas the word amar connotes praise.  Rashi goes on to say that the reason Moses only recounts the places and not each sin committed in those places was in order to not shame the people.  In other words, Moses wanted the Israelites to remember all the setbacks along the journey, but didn’t want to rub their faces in it.

            From this instance of gentle reproof we learn some Jewish principles of loving rebuke.  The first thing we learn is that criticism is necessary and important.  Without critique and expressions of disapproval, people don’t grow or improve.  The second lesson Moshe teaches us is that truly valuable rebuke comes out of love and sincere concern for the wellbeing of the other. 

            In Hebrew, the word for rebuke is tochecha.  And our ancient sages were very concerned with tochechah because, as important as rebuke is to our interpersonal relationships and a well functioning society, when done wrong it can be very destructive. 

            The Mishna – the compendium of Torah interpretation from the 2^nd century – recounts a discussion on the opening of our parsha.  In it, Rabbi Tarfon laments, “I doubt if there is anyone in this generation who is fit to give rebuke” because there is no one who is beyond reproach like Moses.  Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah replies, “I doubt if there is anyone in this generation capable of receiving rebuke.”  Rabbi Eleazar observed that, unlike the Israelites who listened attentively to Moses, most people nowadays get defensive when they are criticized and are not able to hear rebuke as an act of love.  Then Rabbi Akiva adds a third opinion saying “I doubt if there is anyone in this generation who knows how to offer criticism.”  In other words, the problem isn’t that we lack people as righteous as Moses or as receptive as the Israelites, but rather that good tochecha is an art form that few people know how to practice.  Too often, we level criticism of others in order to feel superior or to humiliate.  Sometimes rebuke is really a veiled way of attacking our enemies.  On the other hand, tochecha done right starts from a place of genuine love and concern for others.  We offer reproof to the people we love because we want them to improve.  When you offer criticism with love and humility, it is not destructive but rather an act of affirmation and faith – it affirms that you care about the person you’re criticizing enough to be concerned for his or her behavior.  And, loving rebuke expresses faith that the person you are criticizing is capable of doing better. 

It is with this long preface that I now step with trepidation into the risky territory of tochecha with what I hope will be taken as loving rebuke. 

I have been preoccupied this week with two events that took place in Israel.  On Monday morning, Rabbi Anat Hoffman, a leader of Reform Judaism in Israel and Chair of a group known as Women of the Wall was arrested at the Kotel.  Since 1989, Women of the Wall has been meeting every Rosh Hodesh to pray at the Kotel.  Over the years, these women have been subjected to verbal and physical violence from haredi men for doing nothing more than praying quietly.  In a number of rulings, the Israeli Supreme Court has upheld the right of the women to pray at the kotel so long as they do not wear Tallitot or Teffilin and as long as they don’t chant from the Torah.   On Monday of this week, Rosh Hodesh Av, Rabbi Hoffman was arrested for merely holding a Torah, even though she was not in violation of the court’s ruling. 

            This incident, and other recent arrests of WOW members, has caused an enormous uproar among the leadership of the Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist movements because it is emblematic of an ongoing religious conflict within Israeli society and only the latest in a growing effort by the state-sponsored rabbinate to disenfranchise non-Orthodox and secular Jews. 

            The incident at the Kotel was closely followed by another troubling event.  On the same day, a Knesset committee approved a draft bill that, if passed, will cede greater authority to the Chief Rabbinate over conversions to Judaism.  Up to this point, conversion has been one of the few areas of Jewish life that the Chief Rabbinate does not control.  According to the status quo, any orthodox rabbi can perform conversions in Israel; and conversions performed by rabbis of any stripe outside of Israel must be recognized by the State for purposes of immigration and citizenship.  But, that has left a lot of Jews, especially immigrants from the Former Soviet Union in limbo.  Though they are recognized as Jewish citizens of Israel, they are not Jewish for purposes of marriage, divorce, and burial in Jewish cemeteries (because all of these areas are controlled by the chief rabbinate).  A Member of Knesset named David Rotem originally drafted this bill in an attempt to make the conversion process easier on the largely Russian supporters of his Yisrael Beiteinu party.  But, once it got into committee, MKs representing religious parties amended the bill to give unprecedented power to the Chief Rabbinate which will allow them to impose a strict standard for conversion and give them the power to invalidate conversions they deem un-kosher, even for purposes of immigration.   Earlier this year, PM Netanyahu indicated he would oppose the bill, but he now appears to be wavering.  This has leaders of the non-Orthodox movements very worried and they are lobbying hard to persuade Netanyahu to put an end to this legislation. 

            Please understand that I am vocalizing this rebuke as someone who deeply loves and cares for Israel.  I think that because of the very real and scary threats to Israel’s security, we’ve conditioned ourselves not to be critical of the Israeli government (even when the issue doesn’t concern foreign policy).  But if we love Israel and care about its future and the future of the Jewish people, we must not be afraid to rebuke when rebuke is warranted. When we lovingly express our concern about something going on in Israel, it doesn’t weaken us or give fuel to our enemies.  It demonstrates that we care enough to want Israel to do better. 

              As American Jew who know the value of religious freedom; and as Conservative Jews who stand to lose if that freedom is denied us in Israel, we need to be speaking up about this issue.  Many of you probably saw my blog and facebook postings on the Rotem conversion bill.  If you haven’t, I urge you to learn more about the issue of religious pluralism in Israel.  I hope you will join me in lovingly rebuking the Israeli politicians who are allowing the haredi minority to grab even more power than they already have.  

            Finally, we have to do much more than send letters.  We need to put some substance behind our concern for religious freedom in Israel.  There are a number of things we can do.  We can support financially the small but vibrant Masorti Movement (which is what Conservative Judaism is called in Israel).  Instead of visiting the ultra-Orthodox neighborhoods like Me’a Shearim and spending our tourist dollars in Haredi shops, whose owners distain our practice of Judaism, we should visit Masorti communities like the one our good friends Holly and Phil Seigel just moved to in Kfar Vradim.  We should be careful not to donate to Israeli and American organizations who work to undermine religious freedom and diversity.   And, likewise, we need to urge Federation and other large organizations and philanthropists to direct their funds to Israeli organizations that promote freedom and democracy in Israel. 

            There’s a lot we can do if we’re not afraid of being critical - as long as our critical support is motivated by our love and concern for Israel.

Shabbat Shalom.