Listen to this morning's class, "מוליד - 'New Creations' on Shabbat & Yom Tov," here.
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Sunday, December 20, 2020
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Parasht Lekh Lekha: A Great Name
A Great Name
Thoughts on Parashat Lekh Lekha 2020
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At the onset of the parashah,
we read about God’s promise of blessing to Avraham for following His
command. In addition to wealth and progeny, God promised Avraham a “great name”
for going forth on a journey into the unknown (Bereshit 12:2). Reading this
story within its larger context, the relevance of a “name” is somewhat
predictable. Immediately prior to God’s call to Avraham, we read about the
builders of Bavel, whose misguided construction was driven by their will “that
we may make us a name” (11:4). That story was followed, in turn, by the
elaborate lineage of Noah’s son Shem – or “Name” (11:10-26). What is the relevant
lesson of this drawn-out story about names?
Let’s first
consider the initial acts of “naming” in the Torah. God named His creations
during the days of creation. He called the light Day and the darkness Night
(1:5), the vault (rakia) – Heavens (1:8), dry land – Earth, and the
gathering of waters – Seas (1:10). Following Adam’s creation on the sixth day,
God handed him the “power of naming”: “And whatever Adam called a living
creature was its name” (2:19).
Giving names
manifests our Godlike ability to reason. The name of any given entity
represents its uniqueness. To give one requires an elaborate knowledge of
the world and the ability to recognize its particularities by comparing the
similarities and differences of one thing to the others. It is for this reason
that the Torah later referred to distinguished individuals as “people of name”
(Bemidbar 16:2). Since a name represents the uniqueness of its bearer,
calling them “people of name” was effectively describing them as “unique
people.”
Our privilege to name began with God’s invitation to Adam to name the
animals. The people of Bavel wished to continue that legacy with an ambitious
building project to establish their own name. But God foiled their plan. He
taught that although it is natural to give names to others, it’s unhealthy to
name ourselves. A genuine name of distinction is not to be seized
through power or conquest, as the builders of Bavel then believed, but must
instead be received as a product of our accomplishments.
Fascinatingly, the mention of a name would soon again appear in the story
of Avraham. This time it had nothing to do with Avraham’s name, but that of
God: “And he built an altar to God and he called out in the name of God”
(Bereshit 12:8). Avraham then declared the singular existence of God by mentioning
his name. Indeed, the Rabbis taught that Avraham was the first human being
to refer to God as Adon, or “Master of the universe.”[1]
God’s very own name, then, didn’t emerge from His own pronouncement, but
was rather discovered by another.
God’s promise to Avraham of a “great name” contrasted with the prevalent
notion of that generation. It was a subtle lesson in how the builders of Bavel
misunderstood the merits of distinction.
God cautioned us from the attempt to “make a name for ourselves.” He
taught that we must, instead, receive a “great name” from others.
Running after a “great name” is a fruitless exercise. Receiving one from
others is the merit of a journey of faith.
Sunday, October 25, 2020
Sunday, October 18, 2020
Parashat Bereshit: Divine Creativity
Divine Creativity
Thoughts on Parashat Bereshit 2020
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The
Torah’s initial story of human engagement with God has long captured our minds
and imaginations. Adam and Hava’s eating from the ess ha-da’at is
consistently discussed in debates about human will, our tendencies and the
nature of our relationships. Searching the Torah for contextual clues regarding
the core lesson of this story, however, is somewhat puzzling. Immediately
before it detailed their eating from the tree, the Torah referenced Adam and
Hava’s unabashed nakedness (Bereshit 2:25). And just after their “eyes were
opened” after consumption, it told how Adam and Hava were ashamed of their
nakedness, sewing girdles to cover it (3:7). What is the relevance of nakedness
and clothing to the Torah’s story about the folly of its first human beings?
Let us begin with
the desire to eat from ess ha-da’at. The serpent revealed to Hava that
by eating from the tree, “Your eyes shall be opened, and you shall be as God, knowing
good and evil” (3:5). God had already shown His way of determining “good”
after each day of creation, when He consistently “saw that it was good.”
And Hava likewise followed her desire to “be as God,” as she gazed at the tree
and “saw that the tree was good for food” (3:6). Fundamentally, though,
God’s determination of “good” after each of the first days represented His completed
creation. And so too, then, Adam and Hava’s desire to “be like God” was, as
Rashi wrote, “to craft worlds.”[1]
It was a desire to create.
Ironically, the
idyllic atmosphere of Gan Eden stunted the creative expressions of Adam and
Hava. They dwelled in the tranquility of a perfect world which was in no need
of human achievements. Adam and Hava were never confronted by challenge. But crafted
in the “image of God” (1:27), they wanted to create.[2]
And so, by determining the “goodness” of the tree, taking from its fruit to eat,
they willingly entered into the divine realm of creation.
And
they sewed fig leaves together and made themselves girdles. (3:7)
Predictably, Adam
and Hava’s first action after eating from the tree was a creation. The
purpose of that specific creation, though, was significant, as well. Nakedness
is shameful in a world that seeks the challenge of creativity. “The primal
experience of Adam and Eve was without time lag, in a direct spontaneous, and
uninhibited mode of desire,” Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg wrote, “hence, the
‘shameless’ quality.”[3]
The sheer revelation of one’s body to others is direct and poses no barriers of
obstruction. It is antithetical to the life that Adam and Hava sought. “Clothing, a human addition to nature, at
first hides the sexual from view,” Leon Kass wrote, “An obstacle is
symbolically presented to immediate gratification of lust.”[4]
It is no wonder, then, that clothing was their first creation in that new world
of creation.
Adam and Hava’s
subsequent banishment from Gan Eden continued their journey to divine
creativity. “A life of meaningfulness is marked by challenges and adversity,”
R. Zvi Grumet wrote, “In the Garden there is fruit ready to eat and no need for
shelter; outside the Garden people need to toil to produce food and find
shelter for themselves.”[5]
Outside of Eden, Adam and Hava were introduced to a world that was rich in
challenge: “Thorn and thistle shall it [the ground] sprout for you” (3:18).
Human beings were now faced with the task of creation “by the sweat of his
brow” (3:19). And their partnership with God – as creators – had begun.
Indeed, the Rabbis taught that our partnership with God is manifested with
the conception of babies – “There are three partners in [the creation of] a
person – God, father and mother.”[6] And it is in that light, then,
that we may understand the immediate response to banishment from the Garden: “And
Adam knew Hava his wife; and she conceived and bore Cain, and said: I have
gotten a man with God” (4:1)[7]
The story of Adam
and Hava’s eating from ess ha-da’at teaches about the innermost drives
of human beings. It reveals how each of us possesses an innate passion to
create. Distracted by the trappings of comfort and complacency, we risk the
surrender to a life a stagnancy and stunted growth. Properly focused, however,
our will “to be like God” can drive us to the creative overcoming of one
challenge after the next.
[1] Commentary of Rashi to Bereshit
3:5, s.v. ve-he’yitem.
[2] See, e.g., R. Hayyim of
Volozhin, Nefesh HaHayim 1:1-3.
[3] Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg, The
Murmuring Deep: Reflections on the Biblical Unconsciousness (New York, NY,
2009), pg. 15.
[4] Leon R. Kass, The Beginning
of Wisdom: Reading Genesis (Chicago, IL 2003), pg. 109.
[5] R. Zvi Grumet, Genesis:
From Creation to Covenant (New Milford, CT, 2017), pg. 54.
[6] Kiddushin 30b.
[7] Cf. Commentary of Radak ad loc. for an elaboration of this point.
Shemini Asseret: Rain
Rain
Thoughts on Shemini Asseret 2020
Click here to view as PDF
The Mishnah (Rosh
HaShanah 1:2) teaches: “On the Festival [of Sukkot] the world is judged for
water.” The Talmud (Rosh HaShanah 16a) elaborates, “Why does the Torah tell us
to pour water on the Festival [of Sukkot]? God said: ‘Pour water before Me on
the Festival, so that you be blessed with good rainfall during the year’.” And
the Rabbis (Ta’anit 2b) likewise suggested that a primary function of
the araba’at ha-minim is to appease God for water, demonstrating that
“just as these four species cannot exist without water, so too, the world
cannot exist without water.” Sukkot, then, is an appropriate time to reflect
upon the significance of rain and water to the life of a Jew.
Unsurprisingly, the
first mention of rain in the Torah follows Creation:
On
the day God made earth and heavens, no shrub of the field being yet on the
earth and no plant of the field yet sprouted, for God had not caused rain to
fall on the earth and there was no human to till (la’avod) the soil.
(Bereshit 2:5)
Rashi explained
that God hadn’t yet caused rain because without a living human there was “no
one to recognize the utility of rain.” He explained that the job (avodah)
of human beings is to realize the vitality of rain and pray for its downfall.[1]
Reading the next pasuk, however, raises a difficulty:
And
the wetness would well from the earth to water all the surface of the soil. (Bereshit 2:6)
If the “wetness”
watered the surface of the soil, why didn’t it remove humans from this process,
filling the role of sprouting the fields? Why didn’t God allow for the wetness
itself to grow the trees and plants?
The Gaon of Vilna
clarified the difference between that mist which rose and the fall of rain by
paralleling them to the divided “upper waters” and “lower waters,” which came
into being on the second day of creation. He explained that the wetness which
wells from the earth comes from the natural “lower waters,” as opposed to the
rain, which is produced from the divine realm of the “upper waters.” The Gaon
explained that human beings are tasked with transcending the limits of our
lower realm to forge a unity between the “upper” and “lower” dimensions of
existence. We must seek out and find God in this world, and our prayer for rain
completes this mission.[2]
It emerges, then, that although the rising mist could indeed cause growth in a
natural fashion, we are to opt instead for an ideal world wherein we pray to
God for the merging of heaven and earth through the showers of rain.
The choice is
yours. You can, on the one hand, choose a life of relative ease, collecting
from the “lower waters” and bypassing the difficulty of establishing a
connection with God. You might in fact achieve financial success in your life’s
endeavors and then safely turn inward to focus on your continued stability. By
avoiding the challenge, however, you’ll lose out on the potential for a
relationship. Learning from the lesson of rain, we know that developing a bond
with God is no easy feat. It’s inspired by a genuine search – a “prayer for
rain” – which necessarily accepts our own insufficiencies. But it’s worth it.
Consider, in this
context, HaRambam’s opinion that the arba’at ha-minim represent the
natural growth of the land of Israel, which then focuses us on its agricultural
successes.[3]
At the end of his life, Moshe compared the land of Israel to that of Egypt. He
warned the Nation of the difficulties that lay up ahead:
For the land into which you are coming to take hold of it
is not like the land of Egypt from which you went out, where you sow your seed
and water it with your foot like a garden of greens. But the land into which
you are crossing to take hold of it is a land of mountains and valleys. (Devarim
11:10-11)
He then explained
the positive side of those hardships:
From
the rain of the heavens you will drink water – a land that God seeks out
perpetually, the eyes of God are upon it from the year’s beginning to the
year’s end. (Devarim
11:12)
Put in other words,
Egypt was agriculturally sustained by the “lower waters” of an overflowing
river and an elaborate irrigation system. Its society was built upon the stable
foundations of self-sufficiency and predictability. The mountainous land of
Israel, in contrast, was dependent upon the “upper waters” of heavenly
rainfall. As Robert Alter noted: “The geographical fact, then, that the land of
Israel is dependent on rainfall…is both a blessing and a curse.”[4]
The fear of drought and challenge of helplessness inspire us to prayer for the
“upper waters” of rain. They are the catalysts for a relationship with God.
Raising the arba’at
ha-minim in our hands on each of the seven days of Sukkot, we are forced to
reconsider our relationship with God. The four species remind us of the
difficult yet worthwhile challenge of seeking the “upper waters” of Israel. And
just as we conclude that first holiday, we enter the next with the courage to step
forward and demand more from our relationship with God. We begin Shemini
Asseret with the prayer for rain.
Rosh HaShanah: Noticing
Noticing
Thoughts on Rosh HaShanah 2020
Click here to view as PDF
I remember the
first time that I noticed someone coughing. I was praying Shaharit on a Monday
morning shortly after Purim and the man sitting to my right let out a weak
cough. I instinctively stopped reading and looked up at the man. Several
minutes later, a man to my left cleared his throat. This time I kept my head
down, but I became distracted, stumbling over the next few words that came out
of my mouth.
Coronavirus has
forced us to notice. Today we notice the people around us in unprecedented
ways. We’ve also become more aware of the physical spaces we inhabit, paying
careful attention to exactly where we walk, sit and stand. And, on a deeper
lever, we’ve developed a heightened sensitivity to our personal feelings of
fear and vulnerability.
Avraham Avenu is
the Torah personality we focus upon most during Rosh HaShanah. We consistently
invoke his memory and actions in our prayers as a source of inspiration
and merit. Avraham’s life centered around two seemingly different endeavors: hesed
to other people and a deep connection to God. These actions were drawn
together, however, by his unique way of noticing. Avraham’s hesed began
with his sight of people in need: “And he lifted up his eyes, and behold, three
men stood nearby” (Bereshit 18:2). And
his discovery of God was much the same: “On the third day, Avraham lifted up
his eyes and saw the place afar” (Bereshit 22:4). Avraham was the paradigmatic noticer.
His sensitivity to the world and people around him was the driving force behind
his remarkable life.
The Rabbis taught:
“God is my light (Tehilim 27:1) – This is Rosh HaShanah.”[1]
Rosh HaShanah is a day of light. It is a time of noticing. Indeed, HaRambam
wrote that the very function of the shofar is to awaken us from our
spiritual slumber, directing our focus to the matters of life which are truly
significant.[2]
Surprisingly, though, Jewish mystics designate night as the time of divine
judgment (din). It would make sense, then, to associate Rosh HaShanah –
“The Day of Judgment” (Yom HaDin) – with the darkness of night. The
Rabbis likewise taught: “Blow a shofar at the New Moon, at the covered time
for our holiday (Tehilim 81:4) – Which is the holiday on which the moon is
covered? You must say that this is Rosh HaShanah.”[3]
How can Rosh HaShanah be a time of “light” and noticing, while at once existing
as a time darkness and concealment?
The story is told about two men who were each given the task of identifying
their friends in the darkness of night. One was given a flashlight, and he
easily recognized his acquaintances by shining the light at their faces. The
other, however, never got a flashlight, and was therefore forced to identify
those around him by carefully listening to the sounds of their voices and
footsteps. Predictably, the first person performed best in the challenge, as
the sight of people’s faces is far more revealing than audial clues. The second
individual, however, acquired a skill that would last him long into the sun-lit
hours of daytime. He had developed a sensitivity akin to that of a blind
person; he could identify his contacts in any future situation – even if his
vision was blocked.[4]
The challenge of concealment brought forth the opportunity to notice.
I underwent a
related experience several years ago. Following a severe virus, I lost my sense
of taste for a period of over a year. Surprisingly, though, I discovered that I
naturally developed a new skill in that midst. Without actually tasting the
food or drink in my mouth, I could still identify exactly what it was. Several
of my students put me to the test. They created different concoctions of water,
soda, grape juice and other beverages, handing me the cups to drink while I was
blindfolded. Judging the drinks solely by their texture – how they felt in my
mouth, on my teeth and tongue, and down my throat – I scored a perfect score on
the “taste test.” It was the “concealing” nature of my lost taste that enhanced
in me the ability to notice.
Rosh HaShanah is a
time of mysterious din. It pushes us into the hidden realm of the
Divine. The challenge is daunting, as the fear of stumbling in the darkness is
real. But the opportunity is ripe, as well. We can choose to falter or we can
decide to notice. We can accept the darkness or we can discover the light.
Following in the
ways of Avraham Avenu, we too must notice. Ironically, coronavirus has actually
made the task easier to fulfil. So, pay attention to your surroundings. Find
God’s presence in the world around you. Raise your eyes above the masks of
others. Gaze into their eyes and notice them. And embrace those difficult
feelings of fear and vulnerability to notice yourself.
[2] HaRambam, Mishneh Torah, Hilkhot Teshuvah 3:4.
[3] Rosh HaShanah 8a.
[4] R. Yisshak Hutner z”l mentioned this parable in an entirely different context in Pahad Yisshak: Purim (Brooklyn, NY, 2004), Inyan 34. The essay was translated into English in Pinchas Stolper, Living Beyond Time: The Mystery and Meaning of the Jewish Festivals (Brooklyn, NY, 2003), pg. 299-302.
Rosh HaShanah: Yom Teruah
Yom Teruah
Thoughts on Rosh HaShanah 2020
Click here to view as PDF
At the start of a
year which we hope will restore a sense of normalcy to our lives, Rosh HaShanah
will be anything but normal. This year we won’t be sounding a shofar on
the first day of the holiday, in deference to the rabbinic restriction
of shofar on Shabbat.[1]
How can we appreciate a day whose very essence is the sounds of the shofar without
a shofar? How may we approach the “Yom Teruah” (Bemidbar
29:1) without a teruah?
Imagine the scene
of an orchestra which experiences unexpected technical difficulties just as it
prepares to play. The instruments were wrongly arranged and it will take hours
to properly assemble them. The conductor turns to face the audience and
embarrassedly announces that the show is postponed until the instruments are
fixed.
Now imagine a
different scene. A band takes the stage in a concert hall. And just as they
tune up their instruments and begin to play, the room turns dark and the
electricity goes out. As the people in the audience begin to nervously shuffle
in their seats, the band leaders step aside from their instruments, walk to the
edge of the stage and begin to sing with all their might. The crowd erupts in
applause, spontaneously joining in with the chorus and reveling in every second
of the unique experience.
Why is the outcome
of these two scenarios so different? Why can’t the orchestra adjust to the
situation in a way similar to the band at the concert? The answer, of course,
is that an orchestra can’t play as an orchestra without instruments. Its
function, by definition, is to make music with instruments. The function
of a band, in contrast, is to sing songs. And although they generally do so
with the accompaniment of instruments, the truly skilled group can adjust to
sing even without. Pouring their hearts into the singing, the band may even
seize that opportunity to raise the situation to a new level, generating a
unique experience for their listeners in the absence of any sound from an instrument.
What does “Yom
Teruah” actually mean? Okelos translated it as “Yom Yebabah” – a
“Day of Crying.” The essence of Rosh HaShanah, then, lies not in the sound of
the shofar per se, but in the cries that we raise up to God on the day –
with or without a shofar. It’s no wonder, then, that the Hakhamim determined
the calls of shevarim and teruah by comparing them to the cries
of the mother of the fallen general Sisera.[2]
The shofar plays not as our “orchestra,” but as the “musical
accompaniment” to our band of prayers to God.[3]
This year will
begin differently than usual. The first day of Rosh HaShanah will present us
with the challenge of realizing the “Yom Teruah” as a “Day of Crying” without
a shofar. The electricity will go out and we will be forced to
decide between postponing the concert or stepping forward and singing our
hearts away. So, go ahead. Take a deep breath and step forward in prayer. Find
the courage within to replace the external sounds of the shofar with the
genuine cries to God that lay dormant in your heart.
[1] Rosh HaShanah 29b.
[2] Rosh HaShanah 33b.
[3] Cf. R. Yeruham Olshin, Yerah LaMoadim: Yamim Noraim vol. 1 (Lakewood, NJ, 2014), ma’amar 37, for the well-known halakhic opinion of R. Yisshak Zev Soloveitchik z”l that the shofar plays an integral role to the tefilah of Rosh HaShanah. See, as well, R. Joseph B. Soloveitchik, Blessings and Thanksgiving: Reflections on the Siddur and Synagogue (New Milford, CT, 2019), pg. 103.
Tuesday, September 29, 2020
Parashat Ki Tavo: Return to Origins
Return to Origins
Thoughts on Parashat Ki Tavo 2020
Click here to view as PDF
As Moshe began to
mention potential blessings and curses to Am Yisrael, he said:
This
day
Hashem your God charges you to do these statutes and these laws… (Devarim 26:16)
And several sentences later, he
stated:
This
day you
have become a people to Hashem Your God. (27:9)
The description of
these events occurring on “this day” is puzzling. The missvot and berit
with God were established long before these final words of Moshe! Why, then,
did he describe them as happening “on this day”? Rashi explained that by
referring to “this day” Moshe was instructing the people to continuously return
their hearts and minds to the original moments of receiving the commandments
and establishing a covenant with God.[1]
In a well-known
passage, the Rabbis envisioned every experience of talmud Torah as
one of “return.” R. Simlai taught that the embryo is taught the entire Torah as
it crouches in its mother’s fetus. As soon as the baby sees light, however, an
angel comes and slaps it on the mouth, causing it to forget the entire Torah.[2]
“When a Jew studies Torah, he is confronted with something…familiar,” R. Joseph
B. Soloveitchik z”l explained, “because he has already studied it and
the knowledge was stored up in the recesses of his memory.”[3]
Strikingly similar to the Platonic theory of knowledge as recollection, R.
Simlai taught that we return to our origin every time we study words of Torah.
This lesson of
“continuous return” is perhaps latent in the game of baseball, as well.
Beginning with their stance at “home,” baseball players then circle the bases with
the goal of getting back to “home.”
The 20th
Century poet T.S. Eliot memorably wrote about the irony of a life-long “journey
to return”:
We
shall not cease from exploration
And
the end of all our exploring
Will
be to arrive where we started
And
know the place for the first time.[4]
But it was long
before, in God’s words to Adam and Hava after sin, that He mapped out our life
trajectory as circular in motion, ending just where it began:
By
the sweat of your brow shall you eat bread until you return to the soil, for
from there were you taken, for dust you are and to dust shall you return. (Bereshit 3:19)
Moshe’s words to
the people, then, represent a broader perspective regarding our life’s
direction. He taught that although we spend most of our time marching forward
to the beat of innovation and progress, we will inevitably return to our humble
place of origin at some point. Each of us will retreat to our “true” self, coming
back to the time we first received the missvot and committed ourselves
to God.
R. Adin Steinsaltz z”l
pointed to Daniel Pearl’s final words as evidence of our innate drive to
return. Pearl, an assimilated Jewish journalist who was kidnapped and murdered
in Pakistan in 2002, famously said in his final moment alive: “My name is
Daniel Pearl. I am an American Jew. My father is Jewish, my mother’s Jewish.
I’m Jewish.”[5]
The current global
pandemic has had me thinking more and more about our individual and collective
return to beginnings.
The threat of
coronavirus has spurred a mass movement out of the fast-paced, human-built
cities and into the idyllic space of the primordial countryside. Young adults
have returned from college campuses to live in the childhood quarters of their
parents’ homes. And many men and women are now spending their daytime hours outside
of the workplace inside their homes. Though I’m aware that these changes
probably won’t last long after the discovery of a vaccine, I’ve nonetheless
seen this time as an important “reality check” for us all. It has caused a
widespread return to origins.
The lesson of
“return” is particularly relevant to Jews during this period of the year. Teshuvah
signifies a circular motion. “When one finds oneself on the circumference
of a large circle, it sometimes seems that the starting point is becoming
farther and farther removed,” R. Soloveitchik remarked, “but actually it is
getting closer and closer.”[6]
Our current lives
have forced upon us Moshe’s lesson of a continuous return to origins. Opening
our eyes to this reality will provide direction for a successful journey of teshuvah
in the weeks and days ahead.
[1] Commentary of Rashi to
Devarim 26:16, s.v. ha-yom, and 27:9 s.v. ha-yom.
[2] Nidah 30b.
[3][3] R. Joseph B. Solovetchik, Confrontation and
Other Essays (New Milford, CT, 2016), pg. 81.
[4] T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets (Orlando,
FL, 1988), pg. 59.
[5] R. Adin Even-Israel
Steinsaltz, The Soul (New Milford, CT, 2018), pg. 38.
[6] R. Joseph B. Soloveitchik, On Repentance (New Milford, CT, 2017), pg. 33.
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