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.)

Why Is This New Year Different From All Other New Years? - Tuesday Kavvanah, 3/27/2012

On Shabbat afternoon at minhah / the afternoon service, I had just concluded my private recitation of the Amidah when I looked over my shoulder and noticed the tree outside the chapel in full spring bloom.  Having just passed one of the four New Years of the Jewish year — the Mishnah (Rosh Hashanah 1:1) calls the first day of Nisan, the first month of the Jewish calendar, "Rosh Hashanah limlakhim velirgalim," the New Year for kings and festivals* — I am reminded that this is the more sensible choice for the beginning of the year.  Spring is the time of renewal: cleansing rain, cheery flowers, the scents of wet sod and decaying leaves.

There is a berakhah / blessing to be recited upon seeing trees in bloom for the first time in the spring:

ברוך אתה יי אלהינו מלך העולם, שלא חסר בעולמו דבר, וברא בו בריות טובות ואילנות טובים להנות בהם בני אדם

Barukh attah Adonai, Eloheinu melekh ha'olam, shelo hissar be'olamo davar, uvara vo beriyot tovot ve'ilanot tovim lehanot bahem benei adam.
Praised are You, Adonai, our God, who rules the universe, which lacks nothing; for God created fine creatures and pleasant trees in order that humans might enjoy them.

As we recited this berakhah together, my thoughts returned to the coming festival.  Pesah is heralded by the Earth's return to life, like the royal trumpets that would have been sounded long ago at this time.  The trees explode in colorful harmony, and a new year has begun.  Happy spring!


~
Rabbi Seth Adelson



* So called because for Jewish kings, the next year of their reign always begins on Nisan 1, even if they ascended to the throne a day earlier, and it is also the deadline for fulfilling a vow to bring a dedicated item to the Temple in Jerusalem.  Neither reason is applicable today, of course; there has been no functioning Temple since 70 CE, when the second one was destroyed by the Romans, and there has not been an Israelite king for nearly 2600 years.

Where There's a Will: A Tu Bishvat Wish

You might be aware of a problem in halakhah / Jewish law related to marriage - that a woman cannot initiate divorce.  The difficulty arises when a man is unable or refuses to grant a divorce to his wife, and as such there are a couple hundred women in North America (according to a recent survey by the Jewish Coalition Against Domestic Abuse) that are called “agunot” - literally, chained women.  They are unable to divorce and therefore forbidden from marrying others, and are likely stuck without financial support as well.

The problem has been addressed successfully by the Conservative movement with a couple of different solutions; perhaps the best known is the “Lieberman Clause” that appears in ketubot used by our rabbis.  Modern Orthodoxy too has effective ways of resolving the agunah problem; for much of the Jewish world, 20th-century outcry by those affected led to rabbinic solutions.  As Blu Greenberg famously put it, “Where there’s a rabbinic will, there’s a halakhic way.”

If only that were the case with climate change.  I recently saw two sets of relevant statistics.  The first was that 2011 was the 11th-warmest year on record, with an average worldwide temperature of 57.9 degrees Fahrenheit.  Now that does not sound so terrible, it’s true, except that this temperature is almost a full degree over the average of the 20th century, and marks the 35th year in a row that worldwide temperatures have been above average.

The second statistic was poll data that showed that while in 2001, 75% of Americans believed that human production of greenhouse gases contributes to global warming, only 44% do so today.  

Regarding the second statistic, one might say, “So what?”  If fewer people believed that the Earth is an oblate spheroid, would it become flat?  But the difficulty is that it is ultimately public outcry that will move the hands of politicians to find solutions; in this national election year, it seems that nobody in America is talking about the climate.  If we do not care, nothing will change; the solution required is too great to be led by individual efforts, and there is probably only a narrow window of a few years before irreparable damage is done to our environment.

The Mishnah (Rosh Hashanah 1:1) tells us that Tu Bishvat, the 15th day of the month of Shevat (which coincides this year with February 8), is the New Year for the trees.  In recent times, Tu Bishvat has become a day to remember our planet and our obligations to it.  If I had a Tu Bishvat wish, it would be that we remember not just the trees, but the soil in which they are planted, the rain and sun that nourish them, and the air that we all share.  Public interest may be on the wane, but as the mercury continues to rise and global weather disasters unfold at even greater rates, now is the time to act.  Let’s find that environmental will.

~

Rabbi Seth Adelson

(Originally published in the Temple Israel Voice, January 26, 2012.)

We Will Seek No Rain Before Its Time - Wednesday Kavvanah, 12/7/2011

Coming to the end of the second rainy day in a row, this rabbi wonders if it might not be sheer coincidence that two nights ago we began the seasonal addition of "veten tal umatar livrakhah" ("and grant dew and rain as a blessing") into the sixth baqashah / request of the weekday Amidah.  Of course, says my rational side, God does not really work that way, and anyway the request is for Israel, not here.

Meanwhile, the very idea that we make this request at all is curious.  The obligation to do so is described in Mishnah Ta'anit, accompanied by an explanation for its timing:


אין שואלים את הגשמים, אלא סמוך לגשמים
They only ask for rain when it is close to the rainy season. (Ta'anit 1:2)

Israel, though located in the Fertile Crescent of the Middle East, does not receive any rain at all from roughly March to October.  One might think that we should ask for rain year-round, because every little bit helps.  And given how important rain was to the livelihoods of our agricultural ancestors, it might be expected to be a consistent theme in daily prayer.

But there is also a rabbinic principle that we should only tell others what they are ready or willing to hear, and extending that logic to prayer, we should only make requests are within the realm of possibility.  There is no point in asking for rain in the Israeli summer, because it simply isn't going to happen.  By the time we start adding this to our weekday tefillot, there is a good chance that rain might fall.

So regardless of how wet it might be in New York, now is absolutely the time to pray for rain.  Stay dry!


~
Rabbi Seth Adelson

Tuesday Kavvanah, 4/5/2011 - Agreement of Mouth and Heart

I am currently studying the first order of the Mishnah, Zera'im ("seeds"), and wading through vast swathes of ancient agricultural laws - what may be harvested during the shemittah (Sabbatical) year, for example, and what qualifies as tithed produce - complicated by a range of botanical Hebrew vocabulary that never came up in ulpan.

However, last night I came across a rabbinic gem. If one vows to donate a certain portion of produce, and accidentally called it the wrong type of offering,

לא אמר כלום, עד שיהא פיו וליבו שווין.
Lo amar kelum, ad sheyehei piv velibo shavin.
He has not said anything valid until his mouth and heart are in agreement. (Terumot 3:8)

How often is it that our mouths and hearts are in true alignment? Don't we often say things that we do not mean, whether accidental or on purpose? Is it even possible to expect such harmony?

The Mishnah is pointing to a fundamental feature of the human psyche - that we are complicated, and that our words do not always reflect our intent, such that we cannot even necessarily assume the validity of the vows of another. Of course, we already know this about ourselves. To assume this of others, on occasion, may help us to understand better those around us.

Wednesday Morning Kavvanah, 3/9/2011 - Directing Your Heart

What is kavvanah, anyway? Why do we need it?

Tefillah is hard to do right. It is difficult when you do not know the language or the melodies, but it is even more difficult, arguably, when you know it so well that it becomes rote. So we all need a focal point, something that helps us make the tefillah meaningful and valuable. Kavvanah, literally "intention" or "direction," can be that focal point.

Here is something from the Mishnah, perhaps the first mention of the concept of kavvanah:

היה רוכב על החמור, יירד; אם אינו יכול לירד, יחזיר את פניו. אם אינו יכול להחזיר את פניו, יכוון את ליבו כנגד בית קודש הקודשים.

If one is riding on a donkey [and the time comes to recite the Amidah], he should get down off the donkey. If one cannot do so, he should turn his face [toward Jerusalem]. If one cannot do this, then he should direct his heart toward the Holy of Holies [of the Temple in Jerusalem]. (Berakhot 4:5)

In some sense, we are all so distracted that we are figuratively riding on donkeys. And even though we might be praying while actually facing Jerusalem and the Holy of Holies, the direction of one's heart is even more important. Kavvanah is the way to direct your heart.