Wrestling with Contradiction

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Our People’s Contradictions

Humans both love and lose. God is both knowable and unknowable. Bad things do happen to good people. “Jewish” is both a religion and a people. The State of Israel is both Jewish and democratic. The Diaspora is both flourishing and unstable. Judaism is obligated to both the past and the future. Jewish life requires both learning and doing.

Cultural Contradiction: Inside Outsiders

[2] Sarah died in Kiryat-Arba—now Hebron—in the land of Canaan; and Abraham proceeded to mourn for Sarah and to bewail her.

[3] Then Abraham rose from beside his dead, and spoke to the Hittites, saying:

[4] “I am a stranger resident (ger v’toshav) among you; sell me a burial site among you that I may remove my dead for burial.” […]

[9] Let him sell me the cave of Machpelah.

 Genesis 23:2-4, 9

The Double Cave

          “The cave of Machpelah.” Rav and Shmuel disagreed about the meaning of the cave’s name. One sage said: there are two caves, one inside of the other. And the other sage said: there are two caves, one on top of the other. The sage who said “one cave on top of the other” is justified—hence, the name Machpelah [caphal = “double”]. And for the sage who said “one cave inside of the other,” how would we justify the name Machpelah? By saying that the cave contained multiple [caphal = “multiplication”] couples (see Gen. 49:29ff.).

          “Kiryat Arba.” Rav Yitzhak said: The city of the four [arba] couples—Adam and Eve, Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebekah, Jacob and Leah.

Babylonian Talmud, Eruvin 53a

Two Ways of “Knowing”: Reason and Revelation

The double cave is a metaphor for the two spiritual paths. The first path, utilizing human intelligence and reason, is exemplified by Adam and Eve. The first man and woman were created with the highest level of refinement. With their robust mental faculties, they embodied the use of native intellect and reasoning for spiritual advance. The Patriarchs and Matriarchs, on the other hand, were the origin of the Jewish people, paving the way for the Torah’s revelation at Sinai. They represent the second spiritual path, that of the Torah. The double burial cave of Machpelah combined together these two paths. One room contained Adam and Eve, the pinnacle of natural intellectual capability. The second room hosted the Patriarchs and Matriarchs, the progenitors of the Torah. The name of the city, Hebron, comes from the word hibur (“connection”), hinting at the combination of both paths.

Rav Abraham Isaac Kook (1865–1935), Gold from the Land of Israel, p. 55

Existential Contradiction: Permanent Impermanence

          Strangers resident (gerim v’toshavim) you are with Me (Leviticus 25:23).

          If they are “strangers,” how can they be “residents?” And if they are “residents,” how can they be “strangers?”

          The simple answer is: you and I are always in a relationship of Resident and Stranger. If you feel yourselves in this world to be Strangers, that this world is for you only a corridor, and your dwelling here is only a temporary dwelling, like a guest who stays the night, then I will be like a Resident with you—and I will dwell among you. But if your behavior in this world is like that of Residents, like permanent dwellers, consuming without care, then I will be like a Stranger with you. For “strangers resident are you with Me”—such that we are always changing, one of us the Stranger and one of us the Resident.

 The Maggid of Dubno (c.1740-1804, Belarus)

The Vision and the Way

Paradoxically, Judaism affirms both the dream and the reality, both the perfect, redeemed world to be brought into being by human effort and the imperfect, unredeemed world of today. However, it is extraordinarily difficult to live in the dialectical tension of the dream and the reality. The greater the power of the dream, the more it seizes the imagination. The more its fulfillment is postponed, the more it generates dissatisfactions that tear people apart.

The way to cope with the tension is live dialectically, which is the biblical way. This means, first, to accept the world, affirm its sanctity, participate in it fully and enjoy it. At the same time, the divine ideal prods the people to fundamental criticism of society’s status quo. By living in the world while at the same time offering a testimony of hope to redeem it, the Jews have become the prophets of permanent dissent, demanding a messianic perfection and insisting that it is not yet here. In the rabbinic, halachic style, this permanent revolution moves in ceaseless steps, acting in the best way possible in each moment until the final goal is achieved.

Yitz Greenberg (b. 1933), The Jewish Way, p. 128

The Carousel of Light and Dark

In prayer, we seek to unite the left and right sides of our brain, our critical and creative minds. And no prayer does this better than Maariv Aravim.

Maariv Aravim acknowledges the line between science and poetry is indeed thin:

that when our ancestors saw goleil or mipnei choshech—

the slow fade of light into dark,

they saw not only the changing of the hours

but a wheel in the sky, rolling day into night like a cosmic carousel.

Around and around we ride,

and the organ music is intoxicating,

and the carousel operator is old but friendly.

And occasionally, like in the old days at Coney Island,

someone reaches out to try and grab the brass ring,

to try and touch what is just beyond reach,

to brush one’s fingers, if only for a moment, against that brass ring,

unable to fully grasp it, unable to pull it from its post.

We ride and ride again—

goleil or mipnei choshech, v’choshech mipnei or—

and the organ music is intoxicating,

and the carousel operator is old,

but wise,

and friendly.

Baruch Atah YHVH, ha-Ma’ariv aravim.

The Sinai Memory Project

More impressive than the entirety of human knowledge at our fingertips, more astounding than the ability to video chat with family in Los Angeles or friends in Tel Aviv, more remarkable than the convenience of depositing a check without having to go to the bank—the greatest achievement of the age of smartphones is the ability to capture, store, and share thousands and thousands of photos.

My brother and his wife just had a baby? I get a notification any time there are new photos of the little fella. My best friend runs a marathon? I get to see the look of achievement on his face as he crosses the finish line. Leah and I take a trip to Sequoia National Park? Now, any time I’m stuck underground on the F Train, I can be transported back to California and stare up in wonder at the 300-foot tall General Sherman Tree and remember how small I am, how old is our planet. Our smartphones allow us to carry our memories with us.

In this week’s parashah, we find the Israelites working to carry their memories with them. They’ve spent many weeks at the base of Mount Sinai. They’ve experienced the thunder and the lightning, the shofar that grew louder and louder, the voice of the universe uttering the words “I am.” But soon it will be time to journey onward. And so, they’ve been working to build a Tabernacle, a portable sanctuary, a smart-technology by which they can capture and carry the memory of Sinai.

It is a massive undertaking. But at long last, after weeks of drawing up blueprints, gathering supplies, weaving linen curtains and constructing wooden altars, finally in this week’s parashah, Moses puts the finishing touches on the Sinai memory project. And as Moses finishes the work, vay’chas he-anan et ohel mo’ed, u-ch’vod YHVH malei et ha-mishkan, “the Cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the Presence of God filled the Tabernacle.” As if with the touch of a finger, the Israelites—like an awestruck visitor to Sequoia National Park—capture the electricity of Sinai, forever able to access that Sinai feeling.

There’s a certain comfort in carrying our memories with us. I know that my baby nephew’s adorable little face, though I see it in person only occasionally, is just a touch screen away, as near as my pocket. I can imagine that for the Israelites—who, unbeknownst to them, are about to spend nearly 40 years wandering through an unfamiliar desert—there is great comfort in the ability to tap in, any time, into the familiarity of that Sinai feeling. This is what the Tabernacle is for: to remind us, even in the most mundane of places, that sparks of holiness are everywhere—as near as our pocket.

The final verses of the Book of Exodus tell us that the Presence of God sometimes filled, and sometimes was absent from the Tabernacle. When the Presence filled the Tent, the Israelites would set-up camp. And when the Presence was absent from the Tent, the Israelites knew it was time to move on, time to continue along their journey.

Now, we might expect that the absence of God would lead to an absence of faith among the Israelites—a forgetting of the holy, a failure of the Sinai memory project.

But exactly the opposite is true. As the Hasidic master Rabbi Ya’akov Aryeh of Radzimin taught: the Tabernacle, when vacant of God’s presence, becomes a symbol of human longing—a candle waiting to be lit, a cup of opportunity wanting to be filled. God’s absence doesn’t cause the Israelites to forget the holy; it causes them to want it even more. And after all, we’re driven to greatness not from the places in which we’re fulfilled, but rather from the places in which we yearn for something more.

So maybe I’ve led us all astray. Maybe the Tabernacle shouldn’t be called “the Sinai memory project.” Maybe it’s not like an iPhone after all, not a technology by which we carry our memories with us. The Tabernacle is not about what we carry from our past; it’s about what we yearn for in our future. It transforms Sinai from a mountain into a horizon.

Building the Future: a Theory of Jewish Education

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Building the Broken

[11] Unhappy storm-tossed one, uncomforted!

I will lay bright red gems as your building stones

And will make your foundations of sapphires.

[12] I will make your battlements of rubies,

Your gates of precious stones,

The whole encircling wall of gems.

[13] And all your children [banayikh] shall be disciples of the Eternal One,

And great shall be the happiness of your children.

 (Isaiah 54:11-13)

Children, or Builders?

          Rabbi Elazar said in the name of Rabbi Hanina: Students of Torah increase peace in the world. As it is said: “And all your children [banayikh] shall be disciples of the Eternal One, and great shall be the happiness of your children” (Is. 54:13).

          Read not: “your children” [banayikh]; rather: “your builders” [bonayikh].

 (Babylonian Talmud, Brachot 64b)

Of Kashrut and Kugel

In the modern era, we see a transformation: from a community in which practice is learned through the imitation of one’s parents and peers (a “mimetic community”) to a text-based community, where practice is primarily determined by canonical legal texts.

In a traditional, mimetic society, practice is handed down as a whole from one generation to the next, and the distinction between halakhah (biblical and rabbinic law) and minhag (communal custom) is glossed over. In a text-based society, the differences between halakhah and minhag come to the fore.

Franz Rosenzweig (1886-1929, Germany) aspired to replace what he deemed to be the traditional, somewhat dismissive attitude toward minhag (“it’s only a minhag”) with one that would give it the same status as law. He believed that the traditional dishes handed down from mother to daughter—minhag—should be as irreplaceable as the legal requirement of separation of meat and milk—halakhah. To paraphrase: Kugel is as important as kashrut.

(Lawrence Kaplan, “Kashrut and Kugel”)

Pre-modern	Modern
Mimetic (imitational) learning	Text-based learning
Halakhah (written law) equal to minhag (unwritten custom)	Halakhah (written law) preferenced over minhag (unwritten custom)
Kashrut alongside kugel	Kashrut over kugel

The Jewish Neighborhood Experience (mimetic learning)

The best [Jewish supplemental] schools intentionally develop a community among their students, staff, and parents. They begin with the assumption that leaning cannot be separated from context, and that to a large extent the school’s most important message is embedded in the culture and relationships it fosters. Hence, they devote much time to building a community that attends to the needs of individual children; embraces them in an environment where their classmates become their good, often their best, friends; and connects them to the larger congregational body. … The best schools believe: “If your kids know the alef-bet before everyone’s name in the class, everyone gets an F.” They strive “to create a Jewish ‘neighborhood’ experience, which no longer exists in the places where the students actually live.”

(Jack Wertheimer, Learning and Community, pp. 347-348)

Paradigm Shift (reclaiming minhag)

The prevailing paradigm of Jewish identity in America is preoccupied with the question “How Jewish are American Jews?” in contrast to what we could be asking, which is “How are American Jews Jewish?”

(Bethamie Horowitz, as cited in Charmé and Zelkowicz, “Educating for Jewish Identities: Multiple and Moving Targets")

Children AND Builders

This is the very basis of our communal and individual life: the feeling of being our fathers’ children, our grandchildren’s ancestors. Therefore we may rightly expect to find ourselves again, at some time, somehow, in our fathers’ every word and deed; and also that our own words and deeds will have some meaning for our grandchildren. For as we are, as Scripture puts it, “children” [banayikh]; we are also, as tradition reads it, “Builders” [bonayikh].

I can think of no better description of what it means to be a mimetic community.

(Franz Rosenzweig, “The Builders”)

Purim: A Diaspora Holiday

The holiday of Purim celebrates the Diaspora.

It takes place in Shushan, the capital city in the ancient Kingdom of Persia. Like the Joseph narratives in the Book of Genesis, it is the story of a court Jew: it features the rise of a Jew/Hebrew to the uppermost stratum of royal leadership, a position which s/he will need to save her/his people. The Book of Esther is a secular story, never once mentioning God (except for one possible oblique reference in 4:14 -- "deliverance will come to the Jews from makom akheir / another place"); moreover, it is not at all concerned with traditional (Jerusalem-centric?) forms of Jewish religious practice, such as the observance of Shabbat, the keeping of kashrut, or Temple sacrifice. It is a story in which Jewish safety is threatened, in which the Jews have no national military recourse for protecting themselves. It is a story in which the Jewish characters have two names: Esther is also known as Hadassah (2:7), much like the secondary "Hebrew names" given to Jewish babies throughout the Jewish Diaspora. The story highlights the ambiguity as to whether a Jew is visibly (externally) recognizable as Jewish: Esther goes many months in the King's palace before her Jewishness is discovered (Esther "passes"); by contrast, in the mayhem of Chapter 8, many non-Jews choose to "act Jewish" (8:17 -- translation following Dr. David Sperling), indicating that they adopted some behaviors and mannerisms that were externally identifiable as Jewish. Finally, Haman makes the (classic anti-Semitic) assertion that the Jews of Persia are a fifth column: "their laws are different than all peoples', and they do not follow the king's laws" (3:8).

Taken together, these many observations demonstrate the high import of Diaspora to the Purim story.

The questions raised by the Book of Esther are relevant still today for Diaspora Jewry. Below, a list of questions (geared towards teens, to be answered in the style of a human thermometer: stand on one side of the room if you totally agree, on the other side of the room if you totally disagree, or somewhere in the middle if you're ambivalent) arising from the contemporary Diaspora Jewish experience and the Book of Esther.

• I plan to wear a costume this Purim.
• I love hamantaschen.
• I am more drawn to Purim than to Yom Kippur (the silly or the sublime; the cultural or the religious)—if such a spectrum existed.
• I think it’s important for American Jews to understand (at least parts of) the Torah and prayer book.
• I think keeping Kosher is an important Jewish practice.
• It is important to me to marry someone who is Jewish.
• I think it’s important for all Jews in the world to know Hebrew.
• As a Jew, I sometimes feel like an outsider in American society.
• I feel that I am often recognized (visibly, from the outside) as a Jew.
• I think that anti-Semitism is a problem in the US.
• I think it’s important for American Jews to visit Israel.
• I think it’s important for Israeli Jews to visit the US.
• I could see myself making aliyah to Israel.
• North American Jewry needs Israel more than Israel needs North American Jewry.
• “Jewish” is a religion more so than a culture/people.
• I believe that America is a safe place to be a Jew.
• I believe that the world at large is a safe place to be a Jew.
• I believe that Israel is a safe place to be a Jew.
• My sense of identity is primarily American more so than Jewish.