Responding With All Your Might: A (Post-) Lag Ba'Omer Thought

Lag Ba'Omer*, the 33rd day of the counting of the omer (the 49-day period from Pesah to Shavuot), marks a joyous occasion in the midst of an anguished period of Jewish history. The Talmud (Bavli Yevamot 62b) tells us that this period was marked by a plague in the 2nd century CE which took the lives of 24,000 students of the great sage Rabbi Akiva. Only a handful survived, among them Rabbi Shim'on bar Yohai, considered by some to be the father of Jewish mysticism. As such, Lag Ba'Omer has become in recent years a celebration of Shim'on bar Yohai: tens of thousands of Haredim march from Tzefat, in northern Israel, to Mount Meron, where bar Yohai is traditionally thought to be buried, and light bonfires to honor his legacy.

I was once at the grave of Rabbi Shim'on bar Yohai, not on Lag Ba'Omer, and experienced there the most peculiar behavior that I have ever witnessed in the context of tefillah / Jewish prayer. It was an otherwise ordinary afternoon, and there was a standard pick-up minhah (brief afternoon service) going on nearby, attended by a handful of guys who seemed to be from the same Haredi sect.

They arrived at the end, and one of them began saying the Mourner's Kaddish, the prayer recited by those who have recently suffered a loss or are recalling the annual observance of a relative's passing. They came to the congregational response, usually similarly intoned in a spoken-word form - no music, marking the mourner's sadness. And then something truly wacky happened: all of the assembled began to SHOUT WITH ALL THEIR MIGHT, "Amen! Yehei shemei rabba mevarakh le'alam ul'alemei alemaya!" "May God's great name be praised throughout all time!"

I think I jumped. I had never heard anything like that.

A few years later, as I was studying liturgy seriously at the Jewish Theological Seminary, I encountered a real gem of Talmudic wisdom, and experienced a brief moment of revelation (Bavli Shabbat 119b):

אמר רבי יהושע בן לוי: כל העונה אמן יהא שמיה רבא מברך בכל כחו ־ קורעין לו גזר דינו

Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi taught: One who says, "Amen! Yehei shemei rabba mevarakh..." with all his strength, any [negative Divine] decree against him is torn up.

In other words, if you scream this line when responding to a mourner, you get a whole lot of Heavenly credit, and a guaranteed place in the world to come. I realized, in retrospect, that this is exactly what was going on during that otherwise ordinary minhah: they were taking this piece of wisdom literally.

I do not necessarily recommend shouting in synagogue. Depending on the congregation, the reactions by others might vary from discomfort to shock to bodily removing you from the building. But we might want to think, not only as we respond to those in mourning but throughout our tefillah, about Rabbi Shim'on bar Yohai, about the bonfires of the soul, and about pouring all our might into forming those words of prayer.

~
Rabbi Seth Adelson

* "Lag", ל''ג, is not a word but a number: the Hebrew letter lamed has a numerical value of 30 and the gimmel a value of 3.

Purim: An Opportunity to Lighten Up

Purim is, arguably, the only Jewish holiday with a built-in sense of humor. If the holidays gathered for a party, Tish’ah Be’Av would be sulking in a corner, Yom Kippur practicing self-denial in another room, and Purim would be a kibbitzing wise-guy, cracking one-liners and elbowing Pesah in the ribs. Not only do we dress in costume and behave raucously on Purim, but even the serious obligation of the day, the reading of Megillat Esther, is supposed to be rapid and funny. Some have the tradition of chanting the different characters’ lines in the story in silly voices. We fold the scroll like a letter, rather than respectfully rolling it. It is the holiday of anti-gravitas, a day of sheer silliness.

Purim 5775 at Temple Israel of Great Neck

And, as if to drive the point home, the climax of the story includes a line that mandates the tradition to lighten up on Purim. When Esther convinces Ahashverosh to issue an edict that the Jews may defend themselves, the response among the Jews is (Est. 8:16):

לַיְּהוּדִים, הָיְתָה אוֹרָה וְשִׂמְחָה, וְשָׂשֹׂן, וִיקָר

Layhudim hayetah orah vesimhah vesasson viyqar.

For the Jews there was light, happiness, joy, and honor.

This is a total reversal of where they had been - from mourning, sackcloth, ashes, and wailing to light, happiness, and joy. And these are things we all need a little more of. In fact, we invoke this line every Saturday night, year-round, as we bid goodbye to Shabbat during havdalah. Why? Because when Shabbat leaves us, we need a little lift, a reminder that although we return to work and the mundanity of the week, we carry a little light and joy with us.

Purim is, of course, the annual mother lode of joy. Megillat Esther, and really the entire holiday, remind us that we all run a regular deficit of joy and humor, and furthermore that we indeed have the capability of bringing those things into the world. Let this day of happiness and mirth remind us that we can bring those things to others every day, that we can share some of our own light, when we have a little extra to spare. Lighten up! It’s Adar.

~

Rabbi Seth Adelson

(Originally published in the Temple Israel Voice, Feb. 19, 2015.)

Heritage Trumps Hatred

As we begin the book of Shemot / Exodus and recount once again our descent into Egypt as a family and our ascent from slavery as a people, I am reminded by current events of the enduring value of peoplehood, and how it is a source of comfort in dark times. Within the first few verses of this book, the Egyptian pharaoh describes us as "benei Yisrael," the people of Israel (Ex. 1:9), the definition serving to set us apart as the other, as distinct from the native Egyptian population.

With today's hostage-taking episode in a kosher grocery in Paris, resulting in at least four dead and five wounded, our "otherness" was once again served to us in a particularly cruel stew of terror and hatred. On the heels of the killings earlier in the week at the office of Charlie Hebdo, it is evident that bad actors in this world include both Jews and free speech in the same cross-hairs.

In moments like these, when our inclination might be to respond in anger, I look to our tradition for strength. We are not a vengeful people; we are not bloodthirsty. Rather, tragedies such as these should be met with the same response that Jews have always had to anti-Semitic acts: to rally around our heritage, our tradition; to return to our mitzvot, our Torah; to remain stubbornly proud of who we are and who our God is. Our pride is more powerful than their hatred.

We mourn for those fellow Jews who fell at the hands of terrorists; our hearts go out to their families, to those of the French Jewish community who are feeling ever more besieged, and to all lovers of peace and freedom throughout the world whose hearts ache over the events of the past week. And we reach once again for the story of our national foundation, invoking as we do every time we finish reading the Torah the words of Eikhah / Lamentations (5:22): Hashiveinu Adonai eilekha venashuva, hadesh yameinu keqedem. Return us to you, O God, and we shall return; renew our days as of old.

Let this be a Shabbat shalom, a Shabbat of peace, for benei Yisrael.


~
Rabbi Seth Adelson

A New Year's Day Fast

For the first time in recent memory, the minor fast day of the Tenth of Tevet coincided this year with the first day of the new solar year, yielding an arguably odd integration of the secular and religious. This curious combination draws a few observations into stark relief.

While Judaism marks its new year, Rosh Hashanah, as a joyous celebration, one where families gather for prayer and meals and reflect on our hopes for the year to come, it is surely also a solemn time. Rosh Hashanah demarcates the beginning of the Ten Days of Penitence, the period of reflection and introspection leading to Yom Kippur. The former is clearly an introduction to the latter, a day on which we afflict our souls with the hope of achieving spiritual cleansing, when we appeal to the Qadosh Barukh Hu for another chance, for an opportunity to move forward with a clean slate even though we are not worthy.

Compare that with our modern conception of January 1st. How do Americans mark this transition? By celebrating with no higher goal than partying with abandon. Yes, there may be some who make resolutions for self-improvement, but one must wonder how deeply these resolutions penetrate the soul of the resolved.

Meanwhile the Tenth of Tevet, one of a handful of minor fast days sprinkled through the Jewish calendar, commemorates the beginning of the siege of Jerusalem at the hands of the Babylonian empire in 587 BCE. Nineteen months later, Nebuchadnezzar’s forces destroyed the First Temple, laid waste to the rest of the city, and exiled the Israelites to Babylon (today Iraq). But we live in a world with a Jewish state in the traditional land of Israel, a much-rebuilt Jerusalem under Jewish and democratic sovereignty. There are those that say that we ought to dispense with fasts related to Jerusalem laid waste; we are no longer lamenting like Jeremiah, or yearning like our ancestors did for 2,000 years. The flip side of the Tenth of Tevet, the Seventeenth of Tammuz, and the Ninth of Av is Hatikvah, the national anthem of the State of Israel.

And so, on this particular fast day, we may recall the opportunity for a second chance that the Jewish New Year promises, an added foil to the debauchery engendered by the secular new year. As we look toward Tu Bishvat and Pesah, which the Mishnah (Rosh Hashanah 1:1) identifies as two of the four Jewish new year dates, we remember that we do not live from party to party, but from milestone to milestone and season to season as we continue to rebuild.

Kavvanah: Thanks For All Those Micro-Miracles

Miracles may be divided into two categories: macro- and micro-. The Torah speaks of macro-miracles. But micro-miracles are those that maintain the equilibrium of the universe, and they indeed attend us daily, hourly, and may even be measured in infinitesimally small bits of time and space. The laws of thermodynamics, of subatomic particle physics, of gravitational attraction, of the entire range of mystical, seemingly-magical forces that guarantee the consistent functioning of our world in a predictable, safe and comforting way, those are the points where God's fingerprints may be found. These tiny miracles sustain all of us from moment to moment, but even our greatest human thinkers struggle to explain them. Yet they add up to the macro-reality of our world. So breathe, jump, and watch the sun “rise”: for all these micro-miracles, we are grateful.

~
Rabbi Seth Adelson

(written for the Conservative movement's forthcoming Siddur Lev Shalem, anticipated publication date in 2015)

In Search of Understanding, or, MAVEN Blasts Off

There was a petite news blip I heard some time over the past week, nestled into the din about the government shutdown and the debt ceiling, that caught my attention. The Mars Atmosphere and Volatile EvolutioN orbiter, a NASA project, is supposed to take off on November 18. But as NASA has been mothballed, along with a whole bunch of other “non-essential” government agencies as part of the shutdown, it seemed the the program would miss its window of proper alignment between Earth and Mars. The next window will not arrive until 2016.

Congress, however, managed to create an exception for the program, which is generally referred to by its acronym, “MAVEN.” And so, the MAVEN will indeed be blasting off on-schedule.

To anybody who is familiar with common Eastern European-American Jewish culture, the word “maven” (or, according to its official YIVO Institute transliteration, meyvn) lands on our ears with a knowing wink. It comes from Hebrew, meivin (accent on the second syllable), via Yiddish. There is a sarcastic sense about this word: a “maven” is somebody who thinks he knows a lot.

In modern Hebrew, the common phrase, “hameivin yavin,” literally means, “the one who understands will understand.” It’s a way of saying, “I’m not saying something explicitly, but those who can read between the lines will get what I’m saying.” In other words, something said with a wink for those who are in the know. Those who are in the know are having a good chuckle over the name of this particular NASA program.

But in a greater sense, the idea of this maven headed off toward Mars offers an ounce or two of inspiration. As a reminder of why we pay taxes that fund such government programs, MAVEN will be blasting off to continue the ongoing human project of understanding Creation and our role within it. But also, the mission and its Yiddish/Hebrew nickname offer a reminder that it is our obligation to seek understanding throughout our lives: understanding of ourselves, understanding of others, so that we may continue to build relationships and repair the world.

Shabbat shalom!

Tish'ah Be'Av and the Egyptian Connection

My summer travels have found me gallivanting through multiple airports, and while trying vainly to find a wi-fi signal in Ataturk International (i.e. Istanbul, where a violent anti-government protest was in progress, although thankfully nowhere near Gate G-11), it occurred to me that if Israel is ever at peace with all of her neighbors, Ben Gurion Airport could be an international hub that rivals the big European airports. Peace produces prosperity.

Meanwhile, the drama in Egypt has been working up for a few weeks now, and I must confess that I am following it with slightly more interest than I would the average Middle Eastern uprising. I suspect that instability in Israel’s largest and most powerful neighbor is, at least in the short term, good for the Jewish state. First, the Egyptian military is interested in maintaining peace, and honoring prior agreements is the best way to do so. Second, the leaders of this coup are mostly former allies of Hosni Mubarak, the deposed president, who (despite his many failings) did keep those agreements during his tenure. Third, we can be sure that just about any ruling party that will succeed the Muslim Brotherhood and now-deposed president Mohamed Morsi will be better for relations with Israel. But in the long term, stability will be far more valuable.

As we are now into the Nine Days of the month of Av, the somber lead-up to Tish’ah Be’Av, I am reminded that uprisings and their aftermath tend to come during the hot summer months (think the Fourth of July, or Bastille Day, July 14th, in France). True, the Jewish rebellion against the Romans had been raging for three years, only to be crushed on the ninth day of Av in the year 70 CE with the destruction of the Second Temple; the Babylonian destruction of the First Temple on the same day in 586 BCE followed a siege that may have lasted the better part of a year. But the dramatic conclusion in both cases on the same day suggests that Av is the season for rebellion.

As Israeli strategists try to divine what all of this might mean for border security and concerns for the viability of long-term peace in the region,* we should not forget the Egyptian people, with whom the people of Israel have a relationship that stretches back at least 3000 years. Let us hope that whatever stumbling blocks they face as a more-ideal democracy unfolds on the Nile River valley will be minimal, so that Egyptians can soon go about their worldly pursuits with some modicum of safety and security. In the long run, a stable democratic government that empowers the Egyptian people will afford them better lives and greater satisfaction, and satisfied citizens do not wage reckless wars against their neighbors.

After the destruction of the Second Temple, Judaism was fundamentally changed, and for the better. Scholars of ancient Judaism tell us that it took several hundred years of commentary and learning and debate for normative rabbinic Judaism to emerge as the standard of Jewish practice, but it is worth noting that this model is far more democratic with respect to our individual relationships to God than the sacrificial Temple cult that preceded it. May the Qadosh Barukh Hu help raise the democracy quotient in Egypt, speedily and in our days.

 

~

Rabbi Seth Adelson

(Originally published in the Temple Israel Voice, July 11, 2013.)

* An update from this column as it appeared in the Voice: The Wall Street Journal reported on July 11, 2013 that

Israel's military plans to downsize its conventional firepower such as tanks and artillery to focus on countering threats from guerrilla warfare and to boost its technological prowess, in a recognition that the Middle East turmoil has virtually halted the ability of neighbors to invade for years to come.

  It seems that Israel's borders are safer now than they have been for a long time. Good news!

On Being Holy

קְדֹשִׁים תִּהְיוּ, כִּי קָדוֹשׁ אֲנִי יְהוָה אֱלֹהֵיכֶם

Qedoshim tihyu, ki qadosh ani Adonai Eloheikhem

You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy. (Leviticus 19:2)

The first 18 chapters of the book of Vayiqra / Leviticus, which we have been reading since before Pesah, can be challenging for modern Jews. The Torah spends a luxuriously extensive amount of time on the (frequently gory) details of the ancient sacrificial cult, the form of worship that our ancestors practiced prior to the destruction of the Second Temple in Jerusalem at the hands of the Romans in 70 CE. But of course none of this applies to us today - we are fortunate that we communicate with God directly through the words of prayer, without a priestly intermediary.

And suddenly, Vayiqra opens up into another, seemingly more relevant way of interacting with God, a kind of counterpoint to the beginning of the book: rules of how to conduct ourselves with respect to others. Holiness may not only be achieved through sacrifice; it may also be attained by honoring one’s parents, paying a laborer his fair wages at the end of the day (rather than the following day), and not placing a stumbling block before the blind. The principles enumerated in this passage, to which scholars typically refer as “the Holiness Code,” are mitzvot / commandments of the sort that not only make for a healthy society, but also give us a basis for understanding that God’s demands of us are not merely personal or ritual in nature; they also require derekh eretz, respect in all our dealings with others. Holiness is not only achieved through coming to synagogue or singing Shema Yisrael with your children at bedtime -- it is also found in commitment to placing the needs of others high on your list of priorities, and sometimes above your own needs.

The Talmud tells us that several of the agricultural laws identified in Leviticus 19 must be taught to converts to Judaism, including leaving the corners of your fields un-harvested and not picking up fallen fruit, both for the benefit of the needy in your town. The message of these laws, the very essence and literal meaning of derekh eretz (“the way of the land”), is that we are obligated to take care of one another -- to feed the hungry, to house the homeless, to clothe the naked. As we are far removed from the land itself and often cushioned from the sight of hungry and homeless people, the Torah’s challenge to us today is to pro-actively find ways to fulfill these mitzvot.

It is through providing for those in need that we may rise to the holiness that God expects of us. Qedoshim tihyu - you shall be holy.


~
Rabbi Seth Adelson

The Rest of Pesah: An Opportunity for Self-Improvement

The leftovers are in the fridge, the matzah is growing tiresome, and the haggadot have been put away for next year. So why do we need six more days of Pesah?

This holiday is something of an endurance test, and not just for your gastro-intestinal tract. Pesah is a challenge: eight days of limiting yourself to a hametz-free existence, and if you have family origins in Eastern Europe, it is even more limited than that. (We Ashkenazi vegetarians are particularly hard up during Pesah - without soy, mealtimes are particularly meager, although the recent availability of quinoa, which is acceptable for Pesah, has proven to be a real blessing.) This is about mind over matter, about conquering the stomach’s dominion over your life.

And there is no question that doing so every once in a while is good for you. Our 24/7 culture with its constant availability of all sorts of food, much of it unhealthy, rarely forces us to think twice about what we are putting into our bodies. But Pesah upends the food equation; for eight days of the year, I have to rethink my dietary choices, to refocus my relationship with food.

Although we spend the first two nights of Pesah recalling our journey from slavery to freedom, from the physical distress of Mitzrayim (Egypt) to the spiritual satisfaction of receiving the Torah and claiming God’s Promised Land, the remainder of the festival is about the discipline that freedom warrants. So before you hoist that matzah sandwich to your mouth, or test the edibility of that kosher-for-Passover “cookie,” try to remember that setting limits builds strength of character. And maybe some fresh fruits and vegetables would be better for you, anyway. Hag sameah!

~

Rabbi Seth Adelson

(Originally published in the Temple Israel Voice, 3/28/13.)

Hodu Ladonai - Invoking God on Thanksgiving

To regular readers of this blog, it may be obvious that I do not eat turkey (or anything that was born with legs), and so as the appointed Thanksgiving chef chez Adelson, I served a gorgeous eggplant parmesan with all the trimmings (roasted sweet potato, asparagus with lemon and olive oil, orange-cranberry sauce, and our favorite butternut squash soup; the squash, as well as the tomatoes in the main course, were from our garden). Before we made motzi (the blessing over the bread, which was in this case a pumpernickel bagel), we all expressed gratitude for the most important things in our lives. My three-year-old, in a moment that I now regret not capturing on video, gave thanks for "silly things."

This quintessentially American holiday is nominally about gratitude, but as it is a secular occasion, we do not tend to associate our giving thanks with God. In fact, many of us refer to Thanksgiving (somewhat ironically) as "Turkey Day," removing the thematic element altogether and limiting the festivities to the merely physical.

Judaism is rife with opportunities to be grateful. Jewish liturgy in particular is saturated with variations on the theme of thanks; hodayah / thanks is one of the five major modes of tefillah / prayer. Each Amidah (the silent prayer recited while standing at the three statutory services every day) includes standard "thank-you" language toward the end, and many of the Psalms include themes of gratitude. One of the warm-up passages of the morning service (Pesuqei Dezimra / verses of song) opens with the following (I Chronicles 16:8):

הוֹדוּ לַיהוָה, קִרְאוּ בִשְׁמוֹ, הוֹדִיעוּ בָעַמִּים עֲלִילֹתָיו

Hodu ladonai qir'u vishmo, hodi'u va'amim alilotav

Acclaim Adonai; invoke God's name / Make God's deeds known among all people.

The word here translated as "acclaim" might also be translated as "thank," thus rendering the verse as a statement of gratitude for those things that God has done for us. When coupled with the curious fact that the Hebrew word for turkey is "hodu," one might suggest that this verse is the perfect Jewish encapsulation of Thanksgiving: giving thanks for the good things that God has given us.

When you celebrate Thanksgiving, don't forget to mention God. Happy digestion!


~
Rabbi Seth Adelson

Rainbows and Remorse - A Kavvanah for Shabbat Noah

One of the most appealing berakhot / blessings in the Jewish liturgical canon is the one that is recited upon seeing a rainbow:

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה ה' אֱ-לֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, זוֹכֵר הַבְּרִית וְנֶאֱמַן בִּבְרִיתוֹ וְקַיָּם בְּמַאֲמָרוֹ

Praised are You, Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, who remembers and is faithful to His covenant and maintains His word.

The covenant to which this berakhah refers is the one that God makes with Noah in the wake of the flood in this week's parashah / Torah reading. The symbol of this covenant is the rainbow (Genesis 9:13), and as such, whenever we see a rainbow we recall God's promise never again to destroy all the living things on Earth.

What is especially striking about this covenant is that God realized that the flood has been a mistake, that the destruction wrought had been in vain, because humans (in particular) were quite likely to transgress again, and as if to prove God's point, Noah does so almost immediately. God expresses regret over the flood in Genesis 8:21:

וַיֹּ֨אמֶר יְהוָ֜ה אֶל־לִבּ֗וֹ לֹֽא־אֹ֠סִף לְקַלֵּ֨ל ע֤וֹד אֶת־הָֽאֲדָמָה֙ בַּֽעֲב֣וּר הָֽאָדָ֔ם כִּ֠י יֵ֣צֶר לֵ֧ב הָֽאָדָ֛ם רַ֖ע מִנְּעֻרָ֑יו וְלֹֽא־אֹסִ֥ף ע֛וֹד לְהַכּ֥וֹת אֶת־כָּל־חַ֖י כַּֽאֲשֶׁ֥ר עָשִֽׂיתִי׃ 

God said to Himself: "Never again will I doom the earth because of man, since the devisings of man's mind are evil from his youth; nor will I ever again destroy every living being, as I have done."

Leaving aside the question over "evil from his youth," about which much of rabbinic tradition disagrees, the essence is clear: God felt remorse, and learned from what might be called a mistake. 

Just like God, we learn from our mistakes as well. We change, we grow, we mature. The rainbow (and its berakhah) therefore remind us not only of the covenant, but also our ability to transcend errors of the past and improve ourselves.

~

Rabbi Seth Adelson

Teshuvah for the Explicit and Implicit -- Lessons Learned on the First Day of School

Two days ago, my daughter started kindergarten. As we were walking home together, I asked her how the day went.

"OK, Abba," she said cheerily, "but I don't think I learned that much."

"Well," I said, "it was just the first day. But didn't you learn where your classroom is, and who your teacher is, and who the other students in your class are, and how to find the bathroom and the lunchroom, and what to do if the fire alarm goes off?"

"Hmm," she said. "OK, maybe I learned a little."

Everyone who is involved with education knows that teaching includes not only the explicit curriculum -- the lesson-planned, syllabus-ified, expert-reviewed and committee-approved class material -- but also the implicit: the atmospheric, unstated, not-necessarily-obvious principles that dictate how we interact with others and our surroundings.

So too with our worldly behavior. When looking back over the past year in preparation for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur 5773 and considering what we could have done better, perhaps we need to reflect not just on what we said or did, but also the things that we did NOT say or do, yet were essential pieces of the picture of our lives.

Teshuvah / repentance is meant not just for the explicit, but for the implicit as well.  Shanah tovah!

Kavvanah: The Accidental Reset and the Elul Moment

A curious thing happened to me a few nights ago.  I was re-installing some software on my computer, and my media player program suddenly decided that we were back in 2010.  After syncing (I know, that looks funny; do you prefer "synching"?) my mp3 device, I noticed that all of the podcasts were two years old.  I had what you might call an "Elul moment": Where am I?  What year is this?  Am I the same person I was two years ago?  Have I been replaying the same material for all of this time?

After some technical tinkering, I was able to convince my gadget that it was now 2012 (or maybe the end of 5772), and all was right again.  But lingering from the sudden bout of reflection was a kind of gratitude, a reassuring acknowledgment that in fact, no!  I am not who I was two years ago.  I have two more years of growth and change in my internal personnel files.

We grow incrementally, such that we often do not notice the ways in which we have changed.  But that is what the month of Elul is for -- reflection, evaluation, inventory.  How have you changed since last Elul?  Is it for the better?  If not, what can you do about it?


~
Rabbi Seth Adelson

Scouting Out Your Life - Thursday Kavvanah, 6/14/2012

The Torah tells us this week in Parashat Shelah Lekha that Moshe sent out twelve men on a reconnaissance mission to the land of Canaan.  Their assignment: to survey the situation and report back.  Ten of them return fearful and pessimistic; only two, Caleb and Joshua, are hopeful.  But the negative report had already sown concern and despair, and as a result God decides that the Israelites are simply not ready to inherit their land.

One might say that this does not work out so well for the Israelites, freed slaves who are desperate for their own homesteads.  Forty years in the desert is a punishing sentence.  But we might find here an important personal message: that occasionally we have to scout ourselves out.

Every now and then, it is essential to take stock of where you are: what have you accomplished, what is your current outlook, where are you going?  Had I not been open to that more than a dozen years ago, I would not have left engineering, ultimately to become a cantor and a rabbi.  Today I am much happier and more fulfilled where I am, and I would not have arrived here without some serious introspection.  Our post-Exodus ancestors needed to investigate themselves just as much as the Land of Israel, and while the land was found to be flowing with milk and honey, the people's state of mind warranted two generations of waiting.

Perhaps this is the time to ask yourself, "Do I need to perform some internal reconnaissance?"  Send out the scouts.  Behatzlahah!  Good luck.

Shabbat shalom!


~
Rabbi Seth Adelson

A Slow Boat to Change - Thursday Kavvanah, 5/16/2012

A particularly inspiring story broke this week.  Gac Filipaj (pronounced "Gahtz Filee-pie"), an immigrant from the former Yugoslavia, graduated from Columbia University with honors.  This might be unremarkable, were it not the fact that Mr. Filipaj has worked at Columbia for the last 19 years as a custodian, where he was entitled to take a certain number of courses free each semester.  It took him seven years to learn English, and then 12 years of full-time work and part-time school, but he earned a Bachelor's degree in Classics this past week.

His tale is one of change -- long, slow, arduous change.  What is so beautiful about Mr. Filipaj's story is not necessarily the "bootstrap" experience, raising himself up in accord with the great American myth, but rather the idea that we all have within our powers the ability to change ourselves, our status, our mindset, our lives.

Of the 13 baqqashot / requests found in the weekday Amidah, recited three times daily, we find that the first is for personal knowledge:

חָנֵּנוּ מֵאִתְּךָ דֵעָה בִּינָה וְהַשכֵּל. בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה ה', חונֵן הַדָּעַת

Honnenu me'itekha de'ah binah vehaskel.  Barukh Attah Adonai, honen hada'at.

Grant us knowledge, wisdom, and discernment.  Praised are You, Adonai, who graciously grants us intelligence.

Why is this the first on our list of baqqashot?  Because it is only through intelligence that we discern the right choices, the ones that enable us to become better people and to change ourselves.

~

Rabbi Seth Adelson

A Little Rain, A Lot of Humility - Wednesday Kavvanah, 5/2/2012

Yesterday morning as I was preparing to leave for morning minyan, it was raining quite heavily.  Our gutters have not yet been cleaned of the spring debris, and so the water was spilling out of them, flowing down the windows, and leaking into the dining room, where a small puddle was gathering.  Hmm, thought I.  No matter how great the structures we build around ourselves, no matter how much we try to seal ourselves off from the forces of nature, Creation always manages to find its way in.

As regular readers of this blog know, I am a scientific person.  I cannot deny that for this world to make sense, the laws of physics dictate that (for example) the Earth is about 4.5 billion years old, and the universe 14 billion or so.  I am wary of theologies that mandate checking the intellect in favor of blind faith, or even those that attempt to square science and religion where they seem to conflict.

But certain poetic / midrashic approaches always appeal to me; creative ideas about the ways through which God enters our rationality, just as the rain finds its way into the rabbi's parsonage.  It is indeed possible to clothe ourselves in logic, in academic scaffolding, and thereby ignore the still, small voice of the Divine.  However, even those of us whose understanding of the world seems waterproof occasionally find ourselves dripping wet, and particularly in the context of loss or joy or life's milestones.  Those are the times that we are most likely not only to seek friends and family, but also to let God in. 

In every morning service, just after the morning berakhot / blessings, we read (or more likely mumble) the following:

הֲלא כָל הַגִּבּורִים כְּאַיִן לְפָנֶיךָ וְאַנְשֵׁי הַשֵּׁם כְּלא הָיוּ וַחֲכָמִים כִּבְלִי מַדָּע וּנְבונִים כִּבְלִי הַשכֵּל

Compared to You, all the powerful are nothing, the famous, insignificant; the wise lack wisdom, the clever lack reason.

This brief passage, stuck in the middle of a great deal of text, deserves more attention than it ever gets.  A little dose of humility in the morning, a reminder of the long view, helps us to see that no matter what we achieve or own or create, there are even greater things, and this is an invaluable principle to carry with us into the day as we work, learn, and love.  Sometimes we need that rain.

~

Rabbi Seth Adelson