Three Journeys, or, How I Learned to Find the Love in Jewish Text - Mattot-Masei 5775

I think that Mattot-Mas’ei is an ideal parashah for moving on, because (a) it's the end of Bemidbar, and (b) it's about journeys, especially Mas'ei. And so, as Judy and I are busy packing to go (the second most-stressful lifecycle event, BTW), I have been thinking quite a bit about my own journey, and how it fits into the context of our people.

There are different kinds of journeys: those of the body, those of the mind, and those of the heart. This parashah is about all three: the physical journey of the Israelites through the desert, and the mental journey, that of the mind, as they receive the Torah and struggle to live it and learn it; and the spiritual journey, that of the heart, as they endeavor to build a relationship, a berit / covenant, with their God.

A midrash about Mas'ei, about the journeys from place to place that we read today, where all the places are identified, is as follows. God recounts the names of each of these places to remind the Israelites where they were and what transpired along the way: “Here you needed water; here you were ill; and so forth. And from this we learn that we, as Israelites and as Jews, take note of our journeys.

Because we are all on a type of journey. We never really stop moving, even when we put down tent stakes and never pull up the tent for decades.

The journey is the interesting part. “Life,” as John Lennon once put it, “is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans.” I never expected to become a rabbi or a cantor. I never expected to be living on Long Island. I never expected to move to Pittsburgh. I never expected to be married to a ballet dancer who speaks Hungarian. I never expected to have a son who lives in Israel most of the year. I never expected to get to know all of you so well. I did not plan for any of these things. But they have all made my life very, very rich.

When I graduated from the Jewish Theological Seminary, I thought that the most important type of journey was that of the mind. In the seven years that I spent there, I put a sizeable spike on my knowledge curve in the area of Torah, halakhah, Jewish history, ritual, critical approaches to the Tanakh, etc.

But one thing that I have learned in my eight years here, and arguably the most important thing, is that the journey of the heart is much more important. The spiritual journey is the one we need to emphasize more.

There is a school of thought out there that believes that rabbis ultimately tend to give the same sermon over and over and over: the sermon that he or she needs to hear.

And it took me a few years, but I think I discovered the sermon that I needed to hear. In fact, you can very much trace my development as a rabbi from the first sermon I gave here, on my interview weekend in March of 2007. It was Parashat Ki Tissa, and I gave what I now understand to be a very heady sermon - an analysis of the language of the episode of the Molten Calf that was rooted in a close reading of one of the verses of the parashah.

Over the last eight years I have learned that it’s nice to appeal to the mind, and sometimes a rabbi has to do that. But an appeal to the heart is much more valuable, much more welcome, and much more likely to inspire people (i.e. you). I can give the most sophisticated, deep, self-impressed reading of Torah verses, and it might be greeted with a shrug at qiddush. But I have found that when I demonstrate that the Torah can be interpreted to help us live better lives as Jews and as people, I find that the message is far more likely to be heard, understood, and appreciated.

So, for example, looking at Parashat Mattot, which we read (earlier) today, we see that it opens with a detailed explanation of some of the laws surrounding vows, nedarim. Much of the detail of the law is lost on us today; most of it is irrelevant, some of it is offensive to modern people, and furthermore, we nullify personal vows in advance on Yom Kippur when we recite Kol Nidrei as a community.

However, you might make the case that the overarching message of the passage on vows is about the power of words: how they have the potential to do good or to do harm, depending on how they are used. What comes out of our mouths should be holy - it should build relationships and not destroy them. Our words should be pure, powerful and carefully considered to make sure that they are as effective as possible in repairing the world. To do anything less is to insult our God-given ability to communicate, to besmirch the sanctity of human relationships.

And that type of appeal to the heart is far more attractive, homiletically-speaking, then the most well-executed midrashic analysis that is delivered entirely divorced from the realities of our lives. The Torah is meant to teach us lessons about how to live better, not to be analyzed dispassionately in slices arrayed on sterile glass slides.

And that is the sermon that I needed to hear. JTS, bless her soul, is the Jewish ivory tower. I learned to think critically about Jewish text. I learned to review and interpret textual oddities by checking extant contemporary manuscripts. I learned about the evolution of Jewish law and custom through the lens of Jewish history. I learned to read and interpret high-minded Jewish philosophers like Buber and Heschel. I learned to read Akkadian in the original cuneiform. In short, I took a journey of the mind.

But what I did not learn is what I feel the Jewish world, and particularly the Conservative Jewish world needs. And that is a wee bit more heart. I was preparing to be too much the Scarecrow and not enough of the Tin Man.

But Rabbis, and Jews in general, should be talking about love. We should be talking about repairing the world. We should be demonstrating that our tradition teaches us how to live in a way that is better for us as individuals, better for us as a people, and better for the world as a whole. Because it is. We are Or Lagoyim, a light unto the nations. We have the potential to bring everybody the message that our bottom line is not measured in dollars or in trinkets or in how many degrees we have acquired, but in the quality of the relationships we build, within and without. As Paul McCartney once put it, “And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.” (Can you tell I'm a Beatles fan?) That’s what mitzvot are all about. We have the potential to increase the love in this world by acting in it, by reaching out beyond ourselves.

When we study Torah, we acknowledge that there are shiv’im panim latorah, seventy faces to the Torah, that is, seventy ways (at least) of understanding every passage, every word, every story, every mitzvah, and so forth. (OK, so maybe not seventy, but that’s just rabbinic-speak for “a whole bunch.”)

There are many ways of understanding our foundational text, and the way we approach this text, referred to rabbinically as “Talmud Torah,” we must take as axiomatic the idea that no single approach is the lone correct understanding. Talmud Torah includes the seventy faces. And among those faces are those of the heart and those of the mind.

So while it makes sense to study Torah from both the rational perspective, the cool, removed, just-the-facts-ma’am position, as well as from the spiritual perspective. We should not merely ask, “What does this mean?” but also, “What does this mean to us?” And this takes a whole lot more work. So while the standard commentators (Rashi, Ramban, ibn Ezra, etc.) usually try to resolve issues within the text by working through the challenging language, the midrashic approach seeks to humanize the text by telling stories. And Hasidic tales tend to go even further by seeking the personal angle - how might we learn from this to emulate the acts of piety and selflessness of which Hasidic lore often speaks.

It took me a long time to figure out that the journey of the heart is where it’s at, since my own inclination is to be analytical. (If my wife would let me I'd be going for my 6th degree in something...anything... I love that Ivory Tower.) But Talmud Torah for the modern audience has to hit us where we live: to answer questions like this:

• What do I want my children to learn about life?
• How do I make a difference in this world?
• Why is this world so much more complex than it used to be, and how do I navigate the complexity?

And so forth.

These are all essential questions that we might often overlook if they are not staring us in the face. And that’s why the most important mitzvah in Jewish life is Talmud Torah (see Mishnah Pe’ah 1:1, etc.). You can light all the Hanukkah candles you want; you can daven with passion while fasting on Yom Kippur; you can gorge yourself on matzah and sit in the Sukkah and make sure your boys are circumcized and your doorposts have mezuzot and on and on, but until you commit to learning the precious words of the Jewish bookshelf, you cannot fully appreciate the richness and value of our tradition. When I pray, I speak to God. When I study, God speaks to me.

Bottom line is that I learned here in Great Neck the value of the third, and most important, Jewish journey. And I am going to exhort you to step up to the plate: the beit midrash awaits.

Don't be afraid to take that journey. Embrace it. That is the way we move forward, the way that we discover who we are.

I found my voice here at Temple Israel. I found my stride, my legs. I discovered my hands, and the good works that I could do for others. My true passions were revealed to me here.

This stuff actually works.

Talmud Torah keneged kulam. The study of Torah weighs more than all of the other mitzvot combined. Keep learning, and asking “What does this mean to us?” You are not taking a physical journey like we are (though Pittsburgh is a great place to visit - just sayin'). But I hope you will all keep moving forward, and work hard to bring everybody else in this community along with you. Keep moving.


~
Rabbi Seth Adelson
(Originally delivered at Temple Israel of Great Neck, Shabbat morning, 7/18/2015.)

Tune Out the Hatred - Mas'ei 5774

July has been a challenging month, to say the least. It has reminded me, among other things, that my Jewish identity depends not only on how I define myself, but also on how others define me.

Growing up in idyllic Western Massachusetts, the fabled Berkshires, I was not really exposed to anti-Semitism. I say, “not really,” because when a high-school friend used the idiom “to Jew you down,” in conversation with me, I knew that she did not really understand the import of the phrase, and she certainly did not connect it to any actual Jews (like the one she was talking to). And when I chose in 6th grade to wore a kippah every day to my small-town public elementary school, and an assortment of kids amused themselves by knocking it off of my head just to see me pick it up and kiss it (I now know that you do not have to kiss a kippah if it falls, but I did not know that in sixth grade), I knew that that was just ordinary kid-teasing, not anti-Semitism per se.

And really, for my entire life, having grown up decades after the Shoah, in a free country that is Israel’s greatest ally, I have had only limited exposure to classic anti-Semitism. Having lived in Great Neck for seven years, I am certain that virtually all of our children on this peninsula are accustomed to the idea that hatred of Jews is something that happens far away, if at all.

And I must confess that there have been times in recent years that I have watched the anti-Israel activism around the world, and even on US university campuses, and drawn a distinction in my head between anti-Israel and anti-Jewish.

But no more. I think that it is undeniable that we are seeing a rising tide of anti-Semitism around the world. Let me give you a few examples from the past week:

In Boston: http://www.timesofisrael.com/jewish-students-extracted-from-boston-anti-israel-die-in/

In Los Angeles: http://www.jewishjournal.com/los_angeles/article/la_pro_israel_rally_interrupted_by_violence

In Paris: http://forward.com/articles/202404/french-jews-fight-back-against-anti-israel-mobs-at/

http://www.tabletmag.com/scroll/180022/anti-israel-protests-make-the-case-for-israel

In Berlin: http://www.tabletmag.com/scroll/179842/berlin-protesters-chant-jew-jew-cowardly-pig-come-on-out-and-fight

http://www.ibtimes.co.uk/israel-gaza-crisis-german-protesters-chant-gas-jews-anti-israel-rallies-1457714

In Calgary, Alberta:

http://freebeacon.com/national-security/israel-supporters-attacked-by-crowd-shouting-kill-jews-in-canada/

Anti-Jewish sign appearing in a cafe in Belgium. The Turkish reads, "Dogs are allowed in this establishment but Jews are not under any circumstances."

Read more: http://www.nydailynews.com/news/world/belgian-cafe-posts-sign-banning-jews-entering-store-article-1.1879839#ixzz38VlKpYpE"

Now consider this:

There are several armed conflicts going on around the world. Ukraine is in the news lately, primarily because of the Malaysian plane that was shot down by a missile last week. But what about the civil war in Syria? Estimates of total dead range from 120,000 to 160,000, including tens of thousands of non-combatants, and hundreds of children, and, get this, 2,000 Palestinians. That’s right! Nearly three times as many Palestinians have been killed in Syria at the hands of Syrians in the past three years than in Israel’s current incursion in Gaza.

So where is the international outrage over Syria? Where are the students holding “die-ins”? Where are the riots on the streets of Paris? Why are no Berliners chanting, “Gas the Syrians!”?

The only conclusion that can be reached is this: nobody cares about Arab deaths, unless they are at the hands of Jews. Why? I can only point to one thing: hatred of Jews and all things Jewish. (Jeffrey Goldberg, writing in the Atlantic, makes the same observations, but sidesteps the question of anti-Semitism.)

Because, let’s face it: we’ve done pretty well, despite the dramatic challenges we have faced in the last century or so. Israel is a modern miracle, a near-impossibility that has not only come into existence, but thrived despite all of the challenges she has faced: an unfriendly agricultural climate; geographical separation from much of the world; 66 years of war; terrorism within and without her borders; and so forth.

And Israel is, we hope, the final stop on a long and at times unpleasant journey. This morning in Parashat Mas’ei, we read about the wanderings of the Israelites in the desert. By my count (and I could be wrong), the Torah identifies 43 different locations where the Israelites camped on their way from slavery in Egypt to freedom in Israel. We are a nation that emerged from wandering in the desert, and we have carried that trait with us across centuries and continents. We are a people that has constantly been on the move.

Truth be told, much of that movement was due to the very same, ancient hatred that we have seen expressed in the past week. Most of our relocations have been, historically, to allow ourselves to live better somewhere else. And with the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948, perhaps we were deluded into thinking that having a home base would bring that wandering to an end, and perhaps lessen the hatred to boot. (Hence the recent wave of French emigration to Israel.)

In the middle of the 20th century, it was widely known that a rabbi had two major subjects to address in every sermon: the Shoah (Holocaust) and Israel, and the implication that was reinforced every Shabbat in synagogues like this all over North America was, Israel is the answer to anti-Semitism.

That may be true. It is certainly a good thing for the Jews to have a homeland.

But the downside of this formula was that it sent the message that the reason to return to synagogue each week was to be reminded about how everybody hates us; that the reason to stick together, to stick to Judaism, was because the non-Jews of this world would never let us join their clubs.

Well, we are past that. One only has to glance at the rate of intermarriage in this country to see that the barriers to full membership in non-Jewish society have been lifted. We are free to be who we want to be, and that can mean to be Jewish or not Jewish or whatever.

But the rising tide of anti-Semitism (actually, anti-Semitic acts are decreasing in the United States even while they are on the rise abroad) threatens to cause us to do something that I have always repudiated: to be defined by those who hate us. Our identity should be positive, not negative. We should be defined by who we are, not by what others say or feel about us. We are not Jews by virtue of prejudice; we are Jews because we embrace our heritage. And in today’s climate of infinite choice, we have to emphasize the positive reasons to choose Judaism (And I’m not talking about potential converts; I’m talking about born Jews. We are all Jews by choice.)

So what are those features of positive Jewish identity? What does it mean to be Jewish? Help me out here:

Torah / study / learning / law

customs / holidays / rituals / prayer

foods / music / prayer / art

etc.

These are all features of our positive Jewish identity. And there are so many of them!

My challenge to all of us, the strongly affiliated and the not-so, is to look at the hatred that is being directed at Jews around the world.  And then ask yourself:  what does it mean to ME to be Jewish?  For some of us, being Jewish is an essential part of who we are. For others, it matters, but we may not know why beyond a nagging feeling that it ought to matter.  

Whatever the nature of your connection, I challenge you to dig deeper and qualify how and why you are and need to be part of a community.  If you do not have an answer to this question, then you will only be letting those who hate us - whether they know you personally or not - define you.  

Knowledge and love and personal connection are what has sustained Jewish civilization for centuries, through times of oppression and genocide and the constant uprooting and relocation that has always been a part of Jewish life.

And though I would certainly never talk anyone out of becoming more observant, what I am advocating here is not that.  I am suggesting that we each take a moment, or several, to determine how you fit in and belong to this greater cousins’ club known as Am Yisrael.

Why is this important? Because we need to be equipped to defend ourselves and our tradition. When an angry mob in Germany (!) chants, Jude, Jude, feiges Schwein, komm heraus und kämpf allein, / (Jew, Jew, cowardly pig, come on out and fight), we may be frightened, angered, disgusted, shocked, and so forth. But, like Israelis, who have managed to live with terrorism and fear and constant political pressures inside and out, we have to try to tune that stuff out, and arm ourselves with all of the positives of being Jewish. We have to equip our children with pride, so that they can saunter out into this world and face the mis-informed mobs on college campuses and speak with quiet confidence about the richness of our ancient tradition.

This week has left me fundamentally changed. Never again will I doubt that anti-Semitism lingers under the surface of much of humanity. Never again will I separate anti-Zionism or anti-Israel activism from anti-Semitism; I am now certain that they are one and the same.

We conclude Bemidbar / Numbers today, and whenever we get to the end of one of the five books of the Torah, we stand up and proudly declare, “Hazaq, hazaq, venithazzeq!” Be strong, be strong, and we will be strengthened.

We can fear the anti-Semitism, and but that would be exactly what the terrorists want us to do. Or we can be strong: strong in our beliefs, strong in our pride, strong in our commitment to Israel and Jewish living and learning, and thereby strengthen one another. That is the formula that has worked for two thousand years, the secret to a strong community, and it will continue to work for us as well, as we continue the Jewish journey.

Shabbat shalom.

~

Rabbi Seth Adelson

(Originally delivered at Temple Israel of Great Neck, Shabbat morning, 7/26/14.)