The Woodcutter and the Carpenter

This evening, as Christians around the world are gathering to celebrate one of the most sacred days on their religious calendar, I find myself thinking about a particular historical figure. I wonder if you can guess who it is.

The person I’m thinking of was Jewish, and he lived about 2000 years ago in the land of Israel. He was a teacher, a preacher, and a sage -- a rabbi who inspired many students and raised up many disciples. He taught about the centrality of ethical behavior, and the importance of showing loving kindness to everyone you meet. He was famous for his open-mindedness, his patience, and his tolerance. And on account of all these qualities, he grew to become the most influential teacher of his generation.

If you thought that I was describing Jesus of Nazareth, whose birth Christians around the world are celebrating tonight, then you were not too far off. Indeed, this description does fit Jesus quite well. But in fact, the person I’m thinking about this Christmas Eve is not Jesus, but rather, is a different ancient teacher who also fits this description -- Jesus’s slightly older contemporary: the great Jewish sage, Rabbi Hillel. [1]

Although we might not immediately associate one with the other, there is much that Hillel and Jesus share in common. They lived in the same time and place, they practiced the same religion, and they preached a similar message.

Hillel was older than Jesus by two generations. At the time that Hillel died, Jesus would have been ten years old, and already fully initiated into the study of Torah. Hillel was the most influential rabbi of his generation, with an impressive network of disciples who all subscribed to his particular school of thought. It is hard to imagine that Jesus, as a young student of Torah, would not at the very least have heard of the revered older sage, Rabbi Hillel. It is entirely possible that Jesus might have been directly influenced by him.

Jesus, the Christian scriptures report, was a carpenter by trade. And Hillel, Jewish tradition teaches, earned his living as a woodcutter. There is something poetic about this unusual coincidence. Just as the carpenter builds upon the work of the woodcutter, so too, it seems entirely possible that Jesus may have built upon the work of his predecessor, Hillel.

And yet, despite the possible influence that Hillel may have had on Jesus, there is also a certain irony to how their story will eventually unfold. This evening, I’d like to explore that story -- the unusual tale of the woodcutter and the carpenter -- to see how they were alike, how they have been remembered so differently, and what that might mean for us.

Let us begin with what they share in common. Hillel is known for his pithy ethical maxims -- which, in substance and in style, are strikingly similar to what would become some of Jesus’s most well known teachings. Where Hillel said, “Do not judge your neighbor until you have stood in his place” (Avot 2:4), Jesus would later say, “Judge not, lest ye be judged” (Matthew 7:1). Where Hillel said “My humiliation is my exaltation” (Exodus Rabbah 45:5), Jesus would later say, “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth” (Matthew 5:5).

There is a story in the Gospel of Mark (Mark 12:28-31) in which someone asks Jesus to give his opinion on what is the single most important commandment in the entire Torah. In classic rabbinic form, Jesus is unable to pick just one -- so he narrows it down to two: the Shema (Deuteronomy 6:4), and the famous commandment from the Book of Leviticus, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19:18).

If you’ve studied a little Talmud, this story might sound vaguely familiar. In fact there are many [2] stories in the Talmud where different rabbis are asked to distill the essence of the Torah down to a single commandment. But Jesus’s answer is particularly reminiscent of a famous story [3] that is told about Hillel.

The story goes like this: Once, a young man who was not Jewish showed up unannounced at the house of study and demanded to speak with a rabbi. A certain rabbi came to the door. “What is it you want?” the rabbi asked. The young man replied: “Rabbi, I challenge you to a test! To prove whether you are indeed a wise and learned person, I challenge you to teach me the entirety of your Torah while I balance on one foot. And if you can accomplish such a feat, then I will convert to Judaism here on the spot.”

The rabbi immediately grew incensed at this outrageous request. How dare this young man suggest that the entirety of the Torah, the wisdom of which this rabbi had devoted countless years of his life to studying, could be summarized in mere minutes to a complete novice -- and meanwhile asking the rabbi to debase the sanctity of Torah study while the would-be convert simultaneously performed some frivolous acrobatic balancing act! And the rabbi angrily slammed the door in the young man’s face. 

Again, the young man knocked on the door -- and this time, it was Hillel who greeted him. Once again, the young man proposed his challenge: “To prove that you are learned, teach me the entirety of your Torah while I balance on one foot -- and if you can, I will convert to Judaism on the spot.”

And Hillel, with his characteristic patience and wisdom, quietly considered the young man’s challenge. After a few moments, he asked the young man to please balance himself on one foot, and then Hillel said: “That which is hateful unto you, do not do to your neighbor. The rest of the Torah is commentary. Now go and study it.”

This story bears a striking resemblance to Jesus in at least two ways. First of all, when asked to distill the entirety of the Torah down to its essence, Hillel and Jesus offer remarkably similar responses. They could have said nearly anything -- that the essence of the Torah is to observe Shabbat, or to keep kosher, or to remember that God redeemed the Israelites from Egypt. But instead, each of them offers a similar ethical teaching, that the essence of the Torah is to show concern for one’s neighbor -- with Jesus framing it in the positive, “Love your neighbor as yourself,” and Hillel framing it in the negative: “That which is hateful unto you, do not do to your neighbor. The rest of the Torah is commentary. Now go and study it.”

But there is also a second way in which this story about Hillel and the convert bears a striking resemblance to Jesus. Jesus was well known for having welcomed so-called sinners into his ministry (Luke 15:2). Similarly, this story about Hillel (which, I should mention, is just one among many such stories about him in the Talmud) [4] depicts Hillel as someone who was willing to open his door wide to even the unlikeliest of students. Where the first rabbi slammed the door in the young man’s face, Hillel welcomed him in. Where the first rabbi saw only a scoundrel, Hillel recognized a seeker.

We see here a portrait of two renowned Jewish sages, Hillel and Jesus: one slightly older, the other slightly younger, both of whom were famous for their pithy ethical maxims, both of whom distilled the essence of Judaism down to concern for one’s neighbor, both of whom opened their doors wide to even the unlikeliest of students -- the woodcutter, and the carpenter.

But here is where their stories begin to diverge. Although in their lifetime, Hillel and Jesus shared much in common, after their death, history would remember them in wildly different ways.

It is important to note that Jesus never intended to establish a new religion. He lived his entire life as a fully committed Jew. The Christian scriptures report that Jesus and his closest disciples practiced every aspect of Jewish life: they kept kosher (Acts 10:14), they believed in circumcision (Acts 15:1), they regularly prayed at the Temple in Jerusalem (Acts 2:46 and 3:1). In his famous Sermon on the Mount, Jesus reminds his followers about the importance of practicing Judaism. He says: “I have not come to abolish the laws [of the Torah], but rather, to fulfill them” (Matthew 5:17), and goes on to say that anyone who forsakes even the smallest detail of the Jewish tradition should not be counted as among his disciples.

It was not until after Jesus’s death that his followers began to take things in a different direction. Despite the protestation of many of Jesus’s most trusted disciples (Acts 15:1), the apostle Paul overturned Jesus’s insistence on following Jewish law (Galatians 2:21). And with that, Jesus’s loosely organized band of followers ceased to be merely a group of committed Jews, all of whom happened to feel devoted to one particularly charismatic rabbi -- and were instead newly transformed into a distinct religion unto themselves. Christianity was born.

There are many possible reasons why Paul might have decreed that Christians no longer needed to practice Judaism. On a purely practical level, it made Christianity more attractive. A would-be convert could join the new religion without having to take on the extra burden of keeping kosher or circumcision. And indeed, after Paul lowered the bar to entry, the ranks of Christianity swelled.

Paul’s religious revolution had a profound impact not only on Christianity, but also on Judaism. Over the centuries, our ancestors leaned into the religious practices that distinguished us from our Christian neighbors. They built a sense of group identity around the things that made us unique, the things that Paul had abandoned: things like keeping kosher, observing Shabbat, building a sukkah, or wearing a kippah.

Even today, we can still see the effects of Paul’s religious revolution. When you hear someone say, “I’m a bad Jew” (which, by the way, is a phrase that I do not endorse), what they usually mean is: I don’t keep kosher or I don’t observe Shabbat. Similarly, when you hear someone described as “very Jewish” (another phrase that I do not endorse), it usually means that that person does keep kosher, does observe Shabbat, does build a sukkah, or does wear a kippah.

But of course, the great irony is that none of these things that we label as “very Jewish” fit with Hillel’s definition of the essence of Judaism: “That which is hateful unto you, do not do to your neighbor.” By that measure, a person should be described as “very Jewish” not based on whether they keep kosher or wear a kippah, but rather, based on how they treat others. This is the great irony in the story of the woodcutter and the carpenter: Hillel likely influenced Jesus, but Jesus’s success likely marginalized Hillel.

This Shabbat, as Christians around the world are gathering to celebrate the legacy of the carpenter, I would encourage us Jews to try and reclaim the legacy of the woodcutter. We might ask ourselves, as Hillel famously did while his student balanced on one foot: what do we believe is the essence of Judaism? Should we lean into the religious rituals that make us uniquely Jewish? Or, should we focus our attention on the ethical values that we share with all humankind?

We remember Hillel for having prioritized ethics, saying: “That which is hateful unto you, do not do to your neighbor.” But let us not forget that he also added a second part to his answer, in which he affirmed the importance of Jewish rituals. He added: “The rest of the Torah is commentary. Now go and study it.”

Perhaps this is the true legacy of Hillel: that, unlike Jesus and his followers, Hillel held on to both -- ethics and Jewish rituals. Perhaps this is the most important lesson that Hillel ever taught: while his student stood upon one foot, Hillel taught us that the most important thing in life is learning how to balance.

_____

[1] This sermon is inspired by and draws upon Rabbi Joseph Telushkin’s incredible intellectual portrait of the sage, entitled Hillel: If Not Now When?

[2] See, for example, Jerusalem Talmud, Nedarim 9:4 -- “Rabbi Akiva says: the greatest principle in the Torah is ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself’ (Leviticus 19:18). Ben Azzai says: a more important principle is ‘This is the story of all humankind’ (Genesis 5:1).”

[3] Babylonian Talmud, 31a

[4] See also: the prospective Jew who challenged the validity of the Oral Torah (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 31a); and the prospective Jew who wanted to be High Priest (Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 31a).

The Dark Side of the Force

“A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…” 

With these iconic words, the filmmaker George Lucas introduced the world to Star Wars, arguably the most successful science fiction or fantasy franchise of all time. 

Over the past month or so, my wife, Leah, and I have binge-watched our way through much of the Star Wars saga -- and it must admit, it has been thoroughly entertaining. I say this as an admission because, before the pandemic, we were not all that into science fiction and fantasy. But over the course of the past 20 months, we have binge watched not just Star Was, but also five other SciFi and fantasy series -- collectively, many dozens of hours of movies, all of which we have really enjoyed. 

It didn’t take us long to realize that we were hooked on the genre. And quickly, we began to wonder: what is it about science fiction and fantasy stories that is so engrossing? Consider, for a moment, the sheer volume of blockbusters and bestsellers that this genre has produced over the past few decades: Star Wars, Harry Potter, The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, the Marvel Comic movies, The Hunger Games. The list goes on. What is it about science fiction and fantasy that has captured the imagination not just of me and Leah, but seemingly, of the entire world? 

I think that one part of the answer can be found in those iconic opening words at the beginning of every Star Wars movie. SciFi and fantasy allow us to be transported to an utterly different world -- to events that happened a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. That is to say: SciFi and fantasy provide us with a degree of escapism. They allow us to temporarily leave behind the real world, to forget about our own lives and problems -- and for a few hours, to inhabit a universe that is completely different from our own. Especially during the pandemic -- and in particular, during those first few months of the pandemic, when we were all stuck at home, unable to go anywhere, and our only contact with the outside world came through the bleak headlines that we read in the news -- we have all needed a strong dose of escapism. Science fiction and fantasy allow us, for the moment, to forget the problems of our world and instead be immersed in a world that is a galaxy away.

But these stories don’t merely provide a strong dose of escapism. More often than not, they also present us with a world that is neatly ordered and morally unambiguous -- where it is easy to tell the difference between good and evil, between heroes and villains. And although the heroes might sometimes experience a setback, or someone who we thought was good reveals himself to be evil, we know that in the end, before the final chapter comes to a close or before the credits roll, all will have been set right in the universe. The heroes always win; the villains are always vanquished; and the world is always restored to order.

Film critic Mallory Rubin has pointed out that Star Wars was the perfect film for its time. The original movie was released in 1977 -- as the United States was still recovering from the aftershocks of the tumultuous sixties, the Watergate Scandal, and the Vietnam War -- a period that challenged longstanding norms and traditions. And into that tumult, George Lucas introduced exactly the right balm: a fantasy world in which good could easily be distinguished from evil in clear and obvious binaries: with the Jedi Knights on one side, and Darth Vader, easily the most recognizable villain in all of film history, on the other; with the Galactic Rebellion on one side, and the evil Empire on the other; with the mystical power of the Force on one side, and the menacing Dark Side of the Force on the other.

As we descend into winter, and Chanukkah approaches, I have found myself thinking about the Dark Side of the Force. We often describe Chanukkah as our Festival of Lights -- at the coldest and darkest time of the year, our Jewish way of celebrating light. Of course it is not just the Jewish religious tradition that, come winter, goes to battle with the Dark Side of the Force. Christmas tells the story of a star that shined in Bethlehem -- a sign that God’s son had been born and brighter days were ahead. The Aztecs used to offer winter sacrifice to their Sun God -- in hopes that doing so might cause him to return soon.

But unlike these other religious customs, Chanukkah bears yet another striking resemblance to the world of Star Wars. It is not too hard to translate the Jedi into the Maccabees, Darth Vader into King Antiochus, and the Evil Empire, intent on ruling the galaxy with an authoritarian grip, to be translated into the Syrian Greeks, forcing their Hellenistic culture not only onto the Judeans, but also, onto every other unwilling kingdom in the ancient near east.

Like Star Wars, Chanukkah is the story of righteous rebellion. Like Star Wars, Chanukkah is presented as a battle between good and evil -- where there is a clear distinction between heroes and villains, where we trust that light will surely triumph over the Dark Side, and the universe will be restored to order.

But of course, we know that the world does not often work this way. Our lives are not neatly ordered and morally unambiguous. It is not always so easy to distinguish right from wrong, truth from opinion. Sometimes, the people we think of as heroes lose. More often than not, the universe isn’t restored to order. Science fiction and fantasy will always be exactly: only a fantasy -- the world as we might wish it to be, but not the world as it is.

Despite many of the movies being rated PG13, George Lucas has asserted that, in their essence, the Star Wars movies were intended for children. And indeed, the movies present a worldview that is very childlike and simplistic: where good and evil are clearly defined, and the heroes always win. Similarly, perhaps it is Chanukkah’s childlike and simplistic worldview that accounts, at least in part, for the holiday’s blockbuster popularity -- especially among children.

Science fiction and fantasy might allow us to escape to a galaxy far, far away -- but equally so, we need other powerful stories that enable us to grapple with the real world in all of its complexity. We need stories that help us to live with ambiguity and endure disappointment. And this week’s Torah portion provides us with exactly one such story.

It is one of the most famous stories in the entire Torah. We often refer to it as Jacob wrestling with the angel. But if we examine it more carefully, we will find that Jacob’s wrestling partner is anything but an angel. Recall that their wrestling match takes place in the middle of the night -- and that Jacob’s wrestling partner insists that he must leave before the sun rises. It seems that he is some sort of night creature, who gets his power from the dark. Recall also that, when he sees he is outmatched, Jacob’s wrestling partner resorts to fighting dirty -- and, according to one particularly evocative translation, punches Jacob in the groin. And yet, this dirty-fighting night creature, whom we might expect to be the very embodiment of the Dark Side, turns out not to be a villain, not a manifestation of evil, but instead, when their wrestling match has concluded, he offers Jacob a blessing.

Unlike the world of science fiction and fantasy, this is a story that is rich with complexity -- where even the Dark Side has a blessing to offer. Unlike George Lucas’s galaxy far, far away, Jacob’s wrestling match might remind us of our own world, which is neither neat nor orderly: where good things sometimes emerge in the dark, where people who we thought were our enemies sometimes turn out to have something to teach us, where the disappointments and anxieties that keep us up all night wrestling in the dark might sometimes lead to a blessing.

This year, as our Chanukkah candles burn down, perhaps we might permit ourselves to linger by the menorah for a few moments longer than usual -- in order to behold not just the beauty of the light, but also, to wait and see if there might be a blessing that is waiting for us in the quiet stillness of the dark. The candles will burn out -- but in their place, the musky scent of the smoke will arise: a sweet aroma that we otherwise might have missed, a gift to us from the Dark Side.

Something's Coming

Leonard Bernstein once wrote that of all the art forms, musical theatre, in his opinion, is the most powerful medium for storytelling. Musical theatre combines all the best elements of other art forms -- the score is one part symphony, the dialogue is one part play, the songs are one part opera, the dance is one part ballet, the costumes, sets, and lighting are one part visual arts -- all combined together into a unified artistic work to form something that none of those creative disciplines can achieve on their own. When it comes to storytelling, Bernstein argued, musical theatre is art at its best. 

In many successful musicals, there’s a particular storytelling device that is often key component. It is called the “I want” song. It’s that song, usually sung relatively early on in the musical, where the protagonist articulates the thing that they deeply want. It is a moment of self-revelation, where the audience comes to understand something important about the protagonist -- the deepest yearning of their heart, the dream that they have for themself, the world that the protagonist would like to inhabit. And typically, after the “I want” song, the rest of the musical unfolds around that character’s quest to achieve the thing that they want. 

 A classic example comes from a musical composed by none other than Leonard Bernstein himself -- the masterpiece West Side Story. After the overture has concluded, after we are introduced to the rival gangs of the Jets and the Sharks, the second song in the musical is an “I want” song. Tony, one of our protagonists, sings the song “Something’s Coming” -- revealing to the audience his feeling that life has more in store for him than his daily humdrum routine. Here are a few of the lyrics: “There's something due any day. I will know right away, soon as it shows. … It's only just out of reach -- down the block, on a beach, under a tree. … Something's coming. I don't know what it is -- but it is gonna be great.” Now that we’ve seen the deepest desire of Tony’s heart, the rest of the story can unfold in all its tragic beauty. 

This moment -- the “I want” song, in musical theatre -- can also be traced onto other powerful forms of storytelling. The famous scholar of mythology, Joseph Campbell, described the literary pattern known as “the hero’s journey.” One element of the hero’s journey is “the call to adventure” -- that moment in the story when the protagonist realizes that the world they have always known is somehow too small, and begins to feel the pull towards something different, something new, something unknown. It might be Tony in West Side Story singing “Something’s Coming,” or Ishmael in Moby Dick, feeling “the damp November in [his] soul” and feeling it high time that he set off to sea, or Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, grown tired of sepia-toned Kansas, where “all the world is a hopeless jumble,” imagining a life that is “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” These are people dreaming of a life that is as yet unknown, an existence that is just beyond the horizon. “It’s only just out of reach -- down the block, on a beach. … Something’s coming.” 

In this week’s Torah portion, we meet a character who also feels that something’s coming -- who also dreams of a world that is beyond everything that she has ever known: our matriarch, Rebecca. In the Torah narrative (Genesis 24), Rebecca’s story is told from the perspective of her soon-to-be father-in-law, Abraham. It goes something like this: Abraham, we might recall, is ready to find someone for his son Isaac to marry. And so Abraham sends the chief servant of his household back to the old country, back to Mesopotamia, where Abraham had grown up, to try and find a suitable mate for Isaac. Upon his arrival in the old country, the servant happens upon Rebekah drawing water from the town well. When he asks her for a sip, she not only draws water for him, but also for all of the camels in his caravan. From this gesture, the servant sees that Rebekah is someone who is generous and giving -- and feels that she is the kind of person Abraham had sent him to find: a perfect match for Isaac. 

When Rebecca’s story is told from this perspective, the primary character traits that come across are her generosity, her caring, and her kindness. And indeed, these are praiseworthy qualities. 

But when we tell the story from Rebecca’s point of view, a very different picture of her emerges. Let us imagine it now: Rebecca has lived her whole life as part of a small and tight-knit family in Mesopotamia. One day, a stranger arrives from far away Canaan. While the other villagers see him as a dirty, foreign beggar, Rebecca sees in him an interesting outsider to whom she is naturally drawn. His caravan of camels is laden not just with goods and provisions, but also with stories of far away places. He comes on a mission, on a quest. And when this voyager eventually proposes that Rebecca leave behind her family to accompany him on a long journey to an unknown place, where she will marry a man she’s never met before, who worships an invisible God -- Rebecca immediately accepts. Eileich, she says in Hebrew. “I’ll go.” 

Told from her perspective, Rebecca’s story is not only about generosity and kindness, but also, is about bravery, the call to adventure, the search for something more than the daily humdrum life that she has always known. We might imagine Rebecca, moments before she meets this voyager, quietly humming to herself the words that Tony sings in West Side Story: “Something’s coming. … I don’t know what it is -- but it is gonna be great.” 

Our sages have long noted that, in many ways, it is not Abraham and Sarah’s son, Isaac, who serves as the next link in the chain of tradition, but rather, it is their daughter-in-law, Rebecca, who inherits their spiritual legacy. Abraham and Sarah established this religion by famously heeding the call to adventure, when God said to them Lech lecha -- go forth from the place of your birth to a land that I will show you. Rebecca, one generation later, does the very same thing -- saying eilech, “I’ll go,” leaving behind her family and the home she has always known, her eyes gazing towards the horizon. Also in the next generation, Jacob, Rachel, and Leah will go forth on a journey. Of all our founding fathers and mothers, it is only Isaac who never once leaves the place of his birth. He is born in Canaan, he will spend his whole life in Canaan -- and there, he will die and will be buried. 

We note this, not to speak ill of Isaac; there are plenty of good reasons why he never left the place of his birth. Rather, the point is that a central element that links all three founding generations is an eye that gazes towards the horizon, a feeling of spiritual restlessness, the willingness to leave behind the familiar. This, it seems, is a core insight of the Jewish spiritual tradition: the feeling that there is something more out there, something beyond the humdrum existence of our everyday lives, the feeling that “Something’s coming.” 

This is what the act of prayer is all about -- to help attune us to the wisdom of our tradition, a wisdom put forth by Abraham and Sarah and carried on by Rebecca: the wisdom that our life and our world can be so much more than meets the eye. Prayer is not the act of reciting ancient words, in a foreign language, in hopes that they might somehow please an invisible God. Rather, prayer is the act of getting in touch with the yearnings of our heart, of keeping our gaze towards the horizon, of dreaming of a world that is as yet unknown. If we listen carefully, we just might hear the song that is embedded deep within the human soul, telling us that there is something “only just out of reach -- down the block, on a beach, under a tree. … I don't know what it is -- but it is gonna be great.”

Yizkor: A True Kindness

My first encounter with death was as a young child, in early elementary school. A close family friend of ours, at whose house we used to gather every year to break the fast at the end of Yom Kippur, died of AIDS. I didn’t even know he was sick. I vividly remember parking our car outside the hospital, and my parents telling me and my siblings that they were going in to visit him, and that we were to wait in the car -- but I had no idea the nature of the visit. Even a few days later, when they told me he had died, I didn’t fully comprehend. I must have been seven or eight years old. Even after all the eulogies in the sanctuary, even after seeing his bereaved husband weeping over the casket, even after seeing the casket lowered into the grave -- I could tell that something very sad was happening, but I couldn’t quite understand it. 

It was not until I found myself standing in a line at the cemetery that slowly wound its way up towards the grave, and I reached the front of the line, and my parents pointed to a shovel that was firmly stuck in a mound of earth, and gestured that I should take it and offer a shovelful of earth into the grave, and I did so -- only then, as I watched the clods of earth break apart as they fell from the shovel, separate in the air as they seemingly endlessly tumbled into the grave, landed with a loud thud on the lid of casket, and broke apart into pieces -- only then, did it hit me. He was gone, and he wasn’t coming back. 

Is there any ritual more vivid than this one? It has often been said that different religions have their different strengths -- and that Judaism is particularly strong when it comes to our rituals around death and mourning. In the immediate aftermath of bereavement, when it is hard to know exactly what one ought to say or to do, our tradition provides a detailed script: we gather with friends, they bring us food, we sit on low chairs, we cover our mirrors, we do not shave, we light a candle that burns for seven days, we speak the words of the mourner’s kaddish. But among all these rituals of grief, perhaps none is more stirring or striking than the ritual of literally helping to bury the dead, by offering a shovelful of earth into the grave. 

Rituals are powerful experiences. There’s a whole academic field known as ritual studies. It is a multidisciplinary field, combining elements of religious studies, anthropology, philosophy, and aesthetics. The field of ritual studies seeks to explain what exactly constitutes a ritual, compared to, say, a routine -- and more importantly, seeks to explain why and how rituals achieve their effects. It is a complex field of study, which is beyond our purposes this morning -- but suffice it to say that a ritual is a physical expression of an idea. Experiencing a powerful ritual gives us access to our truths that are usually just beyond the horizon of our consciousness. A powerful ritual serves as a bridge or a gateway, allowing us to gain access to thoughts and feelings that we do not usually have at front of mind in our day-to-day existence. 

For me as a child, at my first ever funeral, as I offered a shovelful of earth into the grave, the thud of the earth as it landed on the casket activated something deep inside of me -- told my heart and my brain that death is final. It spoke to me in a language that was deeper than visiting the hospital, deeper than hearing the eulogies, deeper than seeing our friend’s bereaved husband weeping over the casket. It was, by all measures, a powerful ritual. 

A few years ago, standing with a WRT funeral at the graveside of their loved one, the power of that ritual only grew deeper for me. The sons of the deceased, one of whom is our congregant, both delivered stirring eulogies, about how much their father had done for them in their life: from the time they were children, and their father worked two jobs in order to feed and clothe them, through their young adult years, when their father helped to pay for college and get them each started in business, and even into his final decade, helping them to navigate the complexities of marriage and raising children. 

We had already recited the words of 23rd Psalm, “The Eternal One is my Shepherd,” had already sung the Memorial Prayer El Malei Rachamim, had already spoken the words of the Mourner’s Kaddish. The graveside ceremony was drawing to a close, and we had but one ritual left to perform -- to help to bury the dead. 

In rabbinical school, they teach us what each ritual means -- where it comes from, why we do it. And if you’re lucky, you have good mentors who can help you find a meaningful way to explain a ritual before it is undertaken. And so, at this point in the ceremony, I relied on what I learned from my teachers and my mentors and said something like what I usually say during that part of the service. I will often say something like: Our tradition calls this act of helping to bury the dead a chesed shel emet -- which means a “true kindness.” We call it a “true kindness” because we know that the person we are doing this for will never be able to repay the kindness and do it for us. 

Then, one by one, the mourners lined up, and each offered a few shovelsful of earth into the grave. It was a particularly hot afternoon, and we had been baking in the hot sun for more than 45-minutes -- so as the final mourners took part in the ritual, and the crowd’s focus began to turn towards greeting the family, I expected that we would soon grab an icy bottle of water from the cooler that the family had brought, and make our way back to our air conditioned cars. 

But then, as the crowd was dissipating, our congregant, the son of the deceased, took the shovel in his hand again, and continued shoveling. Although I knew that it was customary in some Jewish circles for the mourners themselves to fill the grave to the top, this was the first time I had actually seen someone choose to do so. He took off his suit jacket, and sweating through his white dress shirt, and dirtying his black dress shoes, he began to vigorously fill the grave. His brother came over and joined him, and together, they worked at completing the task -- stopping at several points to catch their breath, wiping the perspiration from their brows, saying nothing to each other, as their spouses, children, and friends, watched in profound silence, until the earth that covered the casket was level with the grass, and their knuckles were white from exertion, and they wiped their sweaty palms on the legs of the pants and rubbed their calloused fingers.

There is no class in rabbinical school, no book explaining the meaning of Jewish mourning rituals, that could ever give that be so profound a teacher. Here were these two sons who, only moments ago, had spoken about how much their father had done to help them -- and now it was they who were helping him. Just as they could not feed and clothe themselves as babies, so too, now their deceased father could not lay himself to rest, could not fill his own grave with earth. And so these children demonstrated at a very deep level the meaning of the phrase chesed shel emet -- that to help to bury the dead is a true kindness, one that we do knowing full well that the person we are doing it for will not be able to return the favor. But on this particular day, it was not a favor that needed returning. Their father had already paid them so many kindnesses, with his own sweat and calloused hands. And now, it was they who repaid the kindness unto him. 

Of course, not all bereavements are alike -- and not all people will experience the ritual of burying the dead in the same way. But it is my hope for all of us who are gathered in this moment of Yizkor, this moment of remembrance, that we might each, in our way, whatever the shape of our sorrow, that we might experience a ritual that touches our soul and helps us to live with our grief. 

Even though we may fill the grave with earth -- in our hearts, we never completely bury our dead. They are with us always in our lives, even if just beyond the realm of our day-to-day consciousness. 

Rituals are powerful experiences. They give us access to truths that are usually just beyond the realm of our consciousness: to me as a young boy, the finality of death; to these two bereaved sons, the many kindnesses their father had paid them. May this moment of remembrance help us reach beyond our day-to-day existence -- and in turn, be reached by those whom we have loved and lost. 

Amen.

East of Eden

It happened late last fall, in that most stressful part of the pandemic -- when everybody was on edge, and every day felt as if we were living in a pressure cooker. We could not see many of the people we love or do the things that bring us joy -- and without those familiar comforts, we began to no longer recognize ourselves. For many of us, the boundary between work and home completely disappeared -- and we ran ourselves ragged trying to keep up the pace. With infection rates skyrocketing, and the promise of a vaccine still several months away, it seemed, during those dark and dreary days, as if this exhausting ordeal might never come to an end. And it was in that incredibly stressful context that I did something I am not proud of -- the moment from this past year that I most regret. 

The particular thing that I did is almost irrelevant. The point is that we all have done things that we are not proud of. We all likely have a moment from this past year that we most regret. And I wonder: what is yours? 

It might make us feel uncomfortable to talk about such things. In our religious idiom, there is a word we use to describe the things we are not proud of. We call them “sins.” But it is not only the word that might make us feel uneasy. The whole topic makes us feel uneasy. We prefer the friendlier spiritual practices, like cultivating gratitude or noticing beauty. We do not like to dwell too much on the things we have done wrong. 

And yet, wrongdoing is one of our most distinctively human traits. There is no other animal that is conscious of wrongdoing -- no other creature on earth that has the capacity for feeling guilt.[1] Sin is a uniquely human problem. 

If it does nothing else, Yom Kippur asks us to get more comfortable with this particularly uncomfortable topic. It asks us to claim the things we have done wrong -- to acknowledge our own participation in the uniquely human problem of sin. 

It has been said that the Hebrew Bible is not primarily a work of theology, but rather, is a work of religious anthropology.[2] That is to say: it is not primarily a book about God, but rather, it is a book about what it means to be human. It is a book in which flawed human characters struggle to make sense of their lives. They rise and fall, try and fail -- doing things that they likely would not be proud of, filling the scroll with stories that they likely would rather we forget. 

To help us achieve our task on Yom Kippur, let us look at two different stories from the Hebrew Bible that, when taken together, present us with two contrasting views of sin. Let us start our examination as the Bible does. Let us start: “In the beginning….” 

 

***

 

We likely all know one of the Bible’s first stories: in the beginning, Adam and Eve are placed in the luxurious Garden of Eden, where all of their needs are met, where no effort is required of them.[3] Trees of every kind, which they did not plant and need not tend, are always ripe with fruit -- with plums, cherries, mangos, and avocados ready for the picking and always in season. Only one tree, at the center of the garden -- the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil -- is off limits to them. But of course, because they are human, the one tree that is off limits is the one tree that most captures their interest. A talking snake convinces them to eat the forbidden fruit -- and the rest, we might say, is human history. 

This story describes not only the creation of human beings, but also, along with them, the creation of original sin and the fall of man. For classical Christian thinkers, in particular, the story of Adam and Eve shows that sin is so inextricably a part of human nature that we are completely powerless over it.[4] Our only available defense, in the Christian worldview, is for God to take on human form in order to save us from our sinfulness. 

But even outside of this religious context, we might recognize other parts of our culture that similarly view human beings as powerless. In the world of literature, for example, we talk about the hero’s fatal flaw -- that narrative device where a protagonist is stuck with a character defect that, try though they might, they are never able to overcome, and will ultimately lead to their downfall. Whether it is Achilles’s heel, Medea’s thirst for vengeance, or Hamlet’s indecisiveness -- great writers throughout history have depicted a human nature in which we are doomed to failure, and the final, insurmountable obstacle is ourselves. 

We might sometimes see ourselves this way. Each of us has our Achilles’ heel. Whether it is with anger, sarcasm, anxiety, or perfectionism, each of us might sometimes feel as if we are on the losing end of a lifelong battle -- that we are powerless over some character defect that is always leading us astray, always causing us to do things that we are not proud of. 

Well, what did we expect? We are, after all, the children of Adam and Eve. 

***

The idea of original sin might be prevalent in our culture -- but Judaism has always been a force for counter-culture. The late Rabbi Dr. Eugene Borowitz has argued that the core disagreement between Judaism and Christianity is not Hebrew Bible versus New Testament, not the supposed Jewish focus on actions versus the Christian focus on faith, as it has so often been described -- but rather, Dr. Borowitz argues, the core disagreement on which the others stand is that we Jews do not believe in original sin.[5]

If we look carefully at the Book of Genesis, we will find that the word “sin” does not appear even once in the story of Adam and Eve. That word does not make its first appearance in the Bible until one story later[6] -- until after we have left the luxurious fantasy world of Eden, until after we have entered the harsh reality that waits for us outside the Garden. We Jews trace the origins of sin to Cain. 

***

His story is short, only 16 verses -- and yet, it is perhaps one of the most well-known stories in all of Western literature.[7] While his parents enjoyed the sumptuous Garden of Eden, where their every need was met and nothing was required of them, Cain must learn to survive in the unforgiving conditions of the real world. To earn his food, he must become a farmer -- laboring for his own meals with his own muscle and sweat. When, at last, his efforts bear fruit, he is grateful for his hard-earned success -- and decides, at his own initiative, to offer a sacrifice of thanks to God, who had helped him bring forth bread from the earth. And his brother, Abel, recognizing a good idea when he sees one, copies Cain’s initiative, and also makes a sacrifice to God. 

But here is where the reality outside of Eden begins to show how truly harsh it can be. For reasons that are never fully explained,[8] and despite the sacrifices having been Cain’s idea in the first place, God delights in Abel’s offering, and completely ignores Cain’s. And it stings, this act of rejection. It hurts down deep to the core -- humanity’s first encounter with the pain of feeling unloved, unwanted, invisible. 

How well do we know this feeling -- the pain of feeling unseen? Even while we condemn the violent reaction that we know is coming, in our gut, we might be able to identify with Cain’s painful feeling of being invisible. We spend every free minute helping our child, with rarely so much as a thank you. We grind at our job to the point of exhaustion, but someone else gets the promotion. We burn ourselves out trying to take care of others, but no one, it seems, ever thinks to take care of us. 

And feels unfair. It hurts in a way that defies reason. The pain of feeling invisible runs down deep to a place in the human soul that is beyond all rational thought -- down to the primal pit of raw and conflicted feelings, where we are at once both shy and fierce, at once both bruised and on the attack. 

And it is from this place beyond reason that Cain commits an act beyond reason. Although it was not his brother who had caused the hurt, although it does nothing whatsoever to redress his grievance, Cain goes out and kills his brother, Abel -- and the Bible records its first sin. 

This is a serious crime -- much more extreme, I imagine, than the moment from this past year that any of us most regrets. But even if our misdeeds are drastically less severe than Cain’s, we nevertheless share more in common with him than we might realize. Like Cain, we never had the luxury of the Garden of Eden. Like Cain, we have always been forced to contend with the harsh conditions of the real world -- where we are susceptible to great pains, and find ourselves capable of grave misdeeds. 

***

These two stories present us with two contrasting views of sin: one that traces the origin of sin to Adam and Eve, the other that links sin to Cain; one that believes that sin is our inescapable fate, a cruel legacy over which we are powerless -- the other that believes that sin arises from the harsh conditions of the real world, a reaction to the overwhelming pains that come with being human. 

To help us see the differing implications between these two ideas, the ancient Rabbis created a midrash[9] -- an imaginary scene that they invented, which does not appear in the Torah. The ancient Rabbis imagined a reunion between Adam and Cain, to see how life might eventually unfold for each of them -- a reunion that might have some wisdom to offer us in our observance of Yom Kippur. 

***

Many years have passed before father and son meet again. Cain is no longer an explosive teenager, and Adam has, by now, become a grizzled old man. They have not seen each other since the fateful day that Abel died. And although they have spent the intervening decades physically estranged, they have, in ways they do not recognize, shared more in common than they know: each of them expelled from his home and forced to wander the earth, each of them forever searching for the meaning of his guilt -- one who ate a forbidden fruit, the other who rose up and killed his brother, but each of them forever filled with regret over the singular mistake that had so profoundly shaped each one’s life. Like parent, like child. 

They are surprised to see each other. And quickly, Adam is filled with bitterness and rage. Seeing Cain’s face stirs up something painful in Adam. It reminds him not only of his son’s bitter crime, reminds him not only of the anguish of losing one child by the hand of the other, reminds him not only of the insatiable fury at his son he has carried for all these decades -- not only this, but also, on some deep level that he does not quite understand, seeing Cain’s face reminds Adam of his own feelings of guilt. He sees in his son the consequences of original sin, the proof of the fall of man -- an inescapably sinful person, condemned to a life of wrongdoing. He always knew that Cain would be a failure. And now, standing face to face with his son, he is filled both with rage and with guilt. 

But then, something unexpected happens. Something quiet. Something gentle. “I’m sorry,” Cain says softly. “I was my brother’s keeper.”[10] 

What Cain has learned in the intervening years -- and his father, Adam, has not -- is that we human beings are more than just our sins. An idea like the fall of man might help to explain why we are so prone to error. But it also creates a problem. It causes us to feel guilty not only for what we have done, but also, for who we are. It causes us to feel not only guilt, but also shame. 

On Yom Kippur, we confess not to the sin of being bad people, but rather, to the sin of having done bad things. And with that comes the promise that we do not have to be forever defined by our own worst action. There is some core part of us that always remains unscathed,[11] some better part of ourselves to which we always can return. 

Jewish tradition teaches that through the act of repentance, willful sins from our past are transformed -- and are accounted as if they had been merits.[12] This is a bold, if counterintuitive, idea. It means that the things we have done wrong do not need to be sources of shame, but rather, can be transformed into opportunities for pride. This does not mean that we are pleased by our misdeeds. Rather, it means that we can feel deeply proud of ourselves when we learn to overcome them. 

This is why our hearts are so powerfully stirred when we hear stories of people who stumble and recover: the father who has struggled to show his emotions at last telling his children how much he loves them; the friend who has wrestled with substance abuse celebrating the achievement of a decade of sobriety; the siblings who have not spoken to each other in more than twenty years slowly finding ways to warm the icy waters between them. Or Cain -- admitting to his guilt, apologizing to his father, realizing that he was, in fact, his brother’s keeper. 

It may be true that sin is a uniquely human problem. But it is equally true that these moments of triumph are also uniquely human -- these moments of recovery, a summit so high that they cannot be reached by any other creature on earth.[13] 

This is the reason why we Jews do not trace the origins of sin to Adam and Eve. We believe that when our mythic ancestors ate the forbidden fruit, they did not curse us with original sin. They did not induce the fall of man. Rather, when they ate the fruit of that tree -- the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil -- they gifted us with a uniquely human ability.[14] They blessed us with the capacity to distinguish right from wrong, to know when we have made a mistake, to feel a sense of regret -- and thereby, to do the most human thing of all: to change. 

***

On Yom Kippur, we observe a fast, to help us focus our attention on the things we have done wrong this past year. As the hours go by, and our bellies begin to cry out in hunger, perhaps in place of food, we might instead find sustenance by eating from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. 

Then, although our bellies will still be empty, we will have nevertheless filled our hearts with insight. Although we will be newly conscious of all the many moments from this past year that we regret, we will nevertheless have no reason to feel ashamed. After all, we cannot change the things that we have done. The only thing that we can change is ourselves. This is what makes us human. And what could be more beautiful than that?

__________

[1] https://blogs.scientificamerican.com/thoughtful-animal/do-dogs-feel-guilty/: “There is plenty of evidence for what scientists refer to as primary emotions - happiness and fear, for example - in animals. But empirical evidence for secondary emotions like jealousy, pride, and guilt, is extremely rare in the animal cognition literature.” | Rabbi Lawrence Hoffman, Ph.D., We Have Sinned: Sin and Confession in Judaism, p. 14: “Back in 1899, when psychology was still in its infancy, Kaufmann Kohler, the rabbi of Temple Emanu-El in New York, … defin[ed] sin as ‘the power of evil dwelling in no other being but man.’ It is a part of human (and only human) nature. ‘The angel, as we conceive him, who cannot do wrong, and the animal, which cannot be good in a moral sense, are both free from sin.’” | John Steinbeck, East of Eden, ch. 22, p. 269: “The human is the only guilty animal.”

[2] Alan L. Mittleman, Human Nature & Jewish Thought: Judaism’s Case for Why Persons Matter, p. 18: “This is a book about philosophical anthropology, not theology per se. (Pointedly, the modern Jewish thinker Abraham Joshua Heschel called the Bible a book about human beings, not about God.)”

[3] Genesis chs. 2-3

[4] The Apostle Paul argues that because we are all descended from Adam and Eve, we have all, as a matter of lineage, inherited their sinful nature (Romans 5:12-21). Saint Augustine later adds that, because of original sin, even newborn babies enter the world already tainted by wickedness (Saint Augustine, On Marriage and Concupiscence, Book II, Chapter 24, “What Covenant of God the New-Born Babe Breaks”).

[5] Eugene Borowitz, Choices in Modern Jewish Thought, p. 125: “The general Jewish view of humankind differs radically from that of Christianity and many scholars consider this difference the root disagreement between them. For Judaism, sin is heinous but not the central reality of humanity’s relation to God. The classic Jewish sources reveal no more than an intellectual flirtation with the doctrine of original sin.”

[6] Genesis 4:6-7: “And the Eternal One said to Cain, “Why are you distressed, and why is your face fallen? Surely, if you do right, there is uplift. But if you do not do right, sin (chatat) couches at the door; its urge is toward you, yet you can be its master.” | See also the entry on “chatat” in Avraham Even-Shoshan’s New Concordance of the Hebrew Bible.

[7] Genesis ch. 4

[8] Nahum Sarna, JPS Torah Commentary: Genesis, comment on 4:1-16 (p. 31): “This narrative has often been interpreted as a reflection of the traditional conflict between the farmer and nomad, and its supposed bias in favor of the later is seen as representing a nomadic ideal in Israel. This is unlikely. The evidence for such an ideal in biblical literature is extremely flimsy. Further, there is not the slightest suggestion in the text of any comparative evaluation of the vocations of Cain and Abel, nor is there the slightest disparagement of the tiller of the soil. On the contrary, agriculture is regarded as the original occupation of man in the Garden of Eden as well as outside it. … Finally, the three pillars of seminomadic culture, as set forth in verses 20-22, are actually said to have originated with the descendants of Cain. The narrative, which is extraordinarily terse and sketchy here, gives no explicit reason for the unacceptability of Cain’s offering.” | While the text does say that Cain brought only “an offering” (4:3) and Abel brought “the choicest” among his flock (4:4), no reason is explicitly given to Cain (as Sarna notes) for God’s rejection of Cain’s offering and acceptance of Abel’s; at best, the reason can only be inferred.

[9] Genesis Rabbah 22:13

[10] A faithful translation of the midrash is provided by Rabbi David Flatto, https://images.shulcloud.com/727/uploads/sermons/RDF/RDFBereishitSermon5767.pdf: “‘And Cain departed from before the Eternal One’ (Genesis 4:16) … Adam encountered Cain, and inquired ‘What was your punishment?’ Cain responded, ‘I repented and settled [with God].’ Adam shuddered and exclaimed, ‘So potent is repentance, and I knew it not!’ Thereupon Adam arose and proclaimed: ‘A song for the Sabbath: it is good to confess unto the Eternal One!’ (Psalm 92:1-2).” | The biblical/textual evidence for Cain’s repentance is threefold: (1) See Cain’s comment to God, “My punishment is too great to bear” (4:13), which, according to Sarna (JPS Commentary, comment to 4:13, p. 34), could also faithfully be translated as: “Is my sin too great to be forgiven?” (2) Flatto argues: “Cain’s very communication with God after sin is in itself a form of restoring their relationship after it has been ruptured.” Flatto directs us to Rashi’s comment on Genesis 3:9: “God said Adam: ‘Where are you?’ (3:9) -- God knew where Adam was, but God asked this in order to open up a conversation with Adam, that he should not become confused in his reply if God were to pronounce punishment against him all of a sudden. Similarly in the case of Cain, God said to him: ‘Where is Abel thy brother?’ (4:9).” (3) Flatto adds: “Cain’s repentance is manifest in his absolute determination to not be destined to doom. Instead of dying the murderer’s deserved death, he secures a promise of life from God; instead of living a nomadic existence, he builds a city; instead of extinguishing more lives, he creates life. In this same vein, the midrash adds, instead of defiling others with sin, he lifts his father with spiritual inspiration.”

[11] Mittleman, p. 68: “The assertion [in the daily morning prayer Elohai N’shama] that the soul is pure (tehora) is usually understood to be a rejection of the Christian claim that all souls are corrupted by original sin. The daily return of a pure soul allows one to confront the moral choices and challenges of the hours ahead.”

[12] Babylonian Talmud, Yoma 86b, in an aphorism attributed to the sage Reish Lakish -- who, appropriate to his aphorism, spent his adolescence as a bandit and a gladiator, before eventually devoting his life to Torah study.

[13] Hoffman, pp. 31: “We have seen above how another nineteenth-century advocate of Enlightenment Judaism [Kaufmann Kohler] defined sin as ‘the power of evil dwelling in no other being but man.’ Nobility is its opposite, for, as [Kohler’s older German contemporary, Rabbi Gotthold] Salomon tells us, nobility too is distinctively human. Admission of one entails admission of the other.”

[14] For a similar argument, see Rachel Naomi Remen, Kitchen Table Wisdom, “Grandmother Eve,” p. 275: “Eating the apple made possible an enormous change in Grandmother Eve’s lifestyle. She no longer needed to live in God’s house in the nursery to be safe. She was able to leave this protected environment because she carried God with her. She could hear Him if she was willing to listen. When she ate the apple, she became an adult, and gained the freedom of an adult to go out into a world of complexity, adventure, responsibility, and change. To have her own life and make her own choices.”

Golden Apples

A story, for Rosh Hashanah

Hope

Last week, on one of those gorgeous mornings when it was starting to feel like spring, I had a brief but memorable conversation in the WRT parking lot with another parent who was dropping off his kid at our preschool. We made small talk -- and I casually asked how he and his family were doing, expecting the usual response that you get these days: we’re managing. But instead, he told me that his parents had been vaccinated, that they were making plans to see them for Passover -- and gesturing at the warm, spring-like air, he told me that he was, for the first time in many months, beginning to regain the feeling of hope. 

Over the past 12 months of this crisis, among the many familiar comforts that have vanished, perhaps none has been more painful than our collective loss of hope. When every day looks the same as the last; when ordinary activities like going to school or shopping for groceries have become a health risk; when jobs have disappeared with no clear idea as to when or if they’ll ever return; when we’ve been isolated, for months on end, from the people that we love -- it is easy to understand why our sense of hope has gone. 

In a year that has been full of distress, how are we to maintain our hope? In a world where despair would be so easily understood, how do we find the courage to believe that hope is always warranted? 

Hope has always been one of the Jewish people’s core principles. Israel, the only Jewish country in the world, has as the title of its national anthem Hatikvah, “the hope” -- boldly declaring that despite the many tragedies that have befallen our people over the millenia, od lo avdah tikvateinu, “still, our hope is not lost.” If we look to our religious tradition, we find that when the medieval Spanish philosopher Maimonides, widely considered to be the greatest Jewish sage of all time, set out to articulate a concise statement of the central tenets of Judaism, he listed among his Thirteen Articles of Faith the belief that, no matter the circumstance, hope is always warranted -- writing in his own religious idiom: “I believe with a perfect faith in the coming of the Messiah, and though he may delay, I will wait every day for his coming.” 

But among all our stories and symbols, there is perhaps no greater statement of the Jewish commitment to hope than the holiday of Passover. Consider the story: the Israelites are in direst of circumstances -- first, they are forced into slave labor, and just when they think that their situation couldn’t be more dehumanizing, all of their newborn baby boys are torn from their mother’s arms and drowned in the Nile River. Upon seeing his people’s suffering, Moses flees to the desert. Out there, he has a vision of God: a bush that is on fire, and yet somehow is not consumed by the flame. Taking this vision back with him to Egypt, Moses inspires the Israelites to believe that, like the Burning Bush, our suffering does not have to consume us. Even in the depths of degradation, the human spirit can endure. 

It is far from a given that we should be inclined towards hope. If anything, a clear-eyed assessment of the world might logically lead to despair. There is so much in life to contend with, so many forces that would tear us down. We humans must not face only our vulnerability, but also bear the psychological burden of being conscious of our vulnerability. When we take a logical view of the world, it would be easy to fall into nihilism -- the feeling that life is meaningless, that nothing matters, that hope is foolish. It makes sense to find ourselves asking the question: “To be, or not to be?” -- or feeling, as the humorist has cynically put it, that “life is full of misery, loneliness, and suffering… and it's all over much too quickly.” 

But we should note that hope is not the opposite of cynicism. The opposite of cynicism is naivety. Cynicism is the belief that everything will go wrong. Naivety is the belief that everything will go right. Hope, by contrast, straddles them both: at once acknowledging that everything might go wrong, and nevertheless believing that something could go right.

Hope is not guided by logic. It is guided by something that is beyond logic -- some intuition, some non-rational wisdom that is embedded deep within the human spirit. We cannot logically explain how the human spirit withstands even the direst of circumstances. We cannot demonstrate by scientific proof why, in the words of one Holocaust survivor, “a person can live for three days without water but cannot live three minutes without hope.” [1] Hope operates beyond the laws of science. It requires a different sort of explanation. 

 

Over the past week, I have been in search of that different explanation -- in search of the intuition, the lived experience, the deep human wisdom that, despite our better judgement, inclines the human spirit towards hope. For guidance, I had conversations with a dozen WRT congregants, where I asked each of them the following question: Do you believe that, no matter the circumstance, hope is always warranted -- and if so, what it is that gives that you sense? 

It’s a question to which I sincerely would be interested to hear your response -- and I invite everyone who is joining us tonight to please reach out and share your responses with me. I would love to hear from you. The question, again, is: Do you believe that, no matter the circumstance, hope is always warranted -- and if so, what it is that gives that you sense? 

The dozen conversations that I had over the past week were with congregants ranging in age from 9 to 89 -- and the responses were equally wide-ranging. I’ll share now just a few of those responses, as a composite portrait of hope. 

One congregant said: After my husband died, I thought that I’d never be happy again. But then, two years later, my daughter got married. The weekend of the wedding, of course we all missed my late husband -- but still, I was happy. It wasn't the same kind of happiness that I had known when my husband was alive; it was a different and new kind of happiness that had grown within my grief. That is how hope works. It is like a seed that is buried deep underground. Even when it is covered under thick layers of mud, slowly it grows -- until one day, it bursts through the surface: a flower, blossoming in the dirt of life. 

Another congregant said: I am grateful for the support system that was there to catch me when I needed it: my family, my friends, my community, even the everyday kindness of strangers -- the grocery cashier who wishes you a good day, and means it; the taxi driver who wants to make friendly conversation. These small kindnesses remind me that no one is alone, that humans are essentially good -- that when terrible things happen, we can count on one another. 

Another congregant said: hope is like a crutch -- and I mean that in a good way. Crutches help us to get around when we can’t walk on our own. When my brother was sick, I prayed every day that he would get better. Prayer was something I could lean on for hope. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to get better, my prayer shifted, to include not only a hope for a miracle cure, but also, for a cessation to his suffering. It was a different kind of hope, but a hope nevertheless -- something firm on which I could rest, until I was strong enough to stand on my own. 

One congregant said: in the AA program, one of the most important steps is to “acknowledge a power that is greater than ourselves” -- that is, to admit that there are some things that are beyond my control. The illusion of control is what causes our anguish when things don’t work out the way we might have hoped. And anguish leads to the destructive behaviors: the drinking, the drugs, the gambling, the rage. If instead, when things go wrong, we acknowledge a power that is greater than ourselves, we can learn to accept the things we cannot change, and find a more productive way to get through them. 

Another congregant said: I think of hope as having two layers -- the day-to-day, and the exalted. Day to day, we hope that we can make it through. My husband is frail, and I am his primary caregiver. What will he need from me today? Will I have the strength to persist from morning until night -- caring for him, preparing the meals, doing the laundry, paying the bills? And then, there is the layer of hope: the lofty, the exalted. These are my hopes not just for today, but rather, my hopes for my life, for the impact I’d like to make in the world -- my hopes for humanity. I find that having some hope in the exalted helps me to get through when I lose my hope in the day-to-day. If you believe that there is a Promised Land, then it is easier to endure 40 years of wandering in the desert. I take a swim in the pool. I gaze at the ocean in wonder. My husband says something that is cute, or sweet, or wonderful -- and I remember the love that we’ve shared for almost 70 years. These moments of beauty, these glimpses of the Promised Land, give me the strength I need to get through. 

***

On Passover night, we will gather around our seder tables and ask the age-old question: Why is this night different from all other nights? And of course, we will recount all the familiar reasons that are recorded in our haggadah. 

But if we are attuned to it, then we might discover that there is another important way in which Passover is different from all other nights. On all other nights, we might feel as if we will forever be stuck in this global crisis. On all other nights, we might give in to cynicism, to doubt, or despair. 

But not on this special night. Because on this night, we do things differently. On this night, we reach down deep into the human spirit. On this night, we affirm an intuition that defies all reason. On this night, we declare that hope is always warranted.

_____

[1] The late Holocaust survivor and Reform Rabbi, Rabbi Hugo Gryn, quoting his father. As presented in Michael Marmur’s article in Reform Judaism Magazine, “Lifeline to the Future” (Summer 2009) -- quoting Gryn’s book Chasing Shadows: Memories of a Vanished World (2000)

Advocating for the Less is More Bill

The following remarks were presented at a meeting between the New York State Senate Democractic Caucus and leaders of the Less is More Coalition (the Katal Center, We Are Unchained, A More Just NYC, Columbia Justice Lab, the Robinhood Foundation, and RAC-NY).

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To the members of the New York State Senate Democratic Caucus -- thank you for taking the time to meet with us this morning. 

I’m Rabbi Daniel Reiser, and I’m a member of the clergy team at Westchester Reform Temple in Scarsdale. I’m here today on behalf of the Religious Action Center of New York, which is the social justice arm of the Reform Jewish Movement -- the largest Jewish denomination in the country, where in New York State alone there are 99 Reform Jewish congregations comprising 150,000 Reform Jews. 

Jewish tradition teaches that the very fabric of our universe is compassion. An ancient Jewish legend imagines that before creating this world, God had previously tried to construct a universe that was made purely of justice -- where every wrongdoing, big or small, malicious or benign, was swiftly and methodically punished. But God soon discovered that such a world was uninhabitable. And so, God set out to create the universe again: this time, building the world purely of compassion -- where even the most horrifying of behaviors were met by a warm embrace. But again, God soon discovered that such a world was uninhabitable. And so, God had to create the universe a third time -- at last, mixing one part justice with two parts compassion, to create the world in which we live today. 

A world in which compassion ever so slightly outweighs justice is a world that is designed for human flourishing. It is a world that affirms the human capacity for good -- that at once acknowledges our fallibility, and yet believes in our ability to learn and grow from our mistakes. 

Reform Jews in New York State believe that the Less is More Bill will help us to build our society in God’s image -- a society in which compassion ever so slightly outweighs justice. To do so, we rely not on God, but on one another -- and in particular, on you, our elected officials. Together, we can build a society that affirms the human capacity for growth. If we do so, then we will look upon our world and be worthy of speaking the words of our ancient myth -- words from the Book of Genesis, the words with which God finishes the act of creation: hinei tov me’od -- “behold, the world we have created, for it is very good.” Amen.

Martin Luther King Day

This weekend, our country remembers and celebrates the life of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. -- a truly singular figure in American history. In so many ways, Dr. King holds a unique position in our national collective memory. Among all the monuments that stand on the National Mall in Washington, DC, the King Memorial is the only one that honors someone who wasn’t a president. Among all the federal holidays that we observe on our national calendar, Dr. King’s birthday is the only one that celebrates an individual. 

Martin Luther King Day almost never came to be a federal holiday. The idea was initially voted down in the House of Representatives. But popular support for establishing the holiday grew after organizers commissioned Stevie Wonder to write an anthem for their campaign -- his now well known song: “happy birthday to ya, happy birthday.” The holiday was finally established in 1983. 

In our national consciousness, MLK Day carries many layers of meaning. For some, it is simply a day off -- when schools, banks, and government offices are closed. For others, it has become a day for community service -- what some organizers have cleverly branded as not a “day off,” but rather, a “day on.” Indeed, many families in our own community will use the time away from school and work to volunteer this coming Monday, and help combat hunger in our area by packing boxes of non-perishable food. 

And of course, for others, Martin Luther King Day is a time for remembering Dr. King’s legacy, and celebrating the successes of the Civil Rights movement. It is often easy to forget just how much our country advanced in the 1950s and ‘60s. But as a student in WRT’s preschool recently reminded me: when Dr. King was a child, people with different color skin had to use different water fountains -- a fact that she learned here in our Early Childhood Center. 

In older segments of the American Jewish community, our remembrance of the Civil Rights Era is more sophisticated. We remember the lunch counter sit-ins and the bus boycotts, Brown vs. Board of Education and the March on Washington. And in particular, we recall the specific role that members of the American Jewish community played in advancing the cause of racial justice: Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel marching with Dr. King; the young Jewish activists Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner who were tragically abducted and killed while helping to register Black Americans to vote; or, of particular pride to Reform Jews, that the part of the text of the Voting Rights Act was drafted in the conference room of our movement’s own Religious Action Center in DC. 

All of this, we celebrate and remember on Martin Luther King’s Birthday. And yet, if we are being honest with ourselves, we know that our commemorations only scratch the surface of Dr. King’s legacy. If we take history seriously, we know that Dr. King symbolizes something bigger than our observance of MLK Day might suggest. 

Social commentators Jenna Wortham and Wesley Morris help us understand why. They point out that MLK Day celebrates Dr. King’s birthday. But Dr. King’s birth is only part of his story. Equally historic was Dr. King’s death. King was only 39 when he was killed. As he himself famously said on the night that he was murdered, his work was not yet complete. Wortham and Morris ask: how might MLK Day look different if it took place not in January, as a celebration of his birth, but rather, in April, as a lamentation of his death? Perhaps in addition to celebrating Dr. King’s accomplishments, we might also be better attuned to all of the work that he left unfinished.

A helpful comparison comes from this week’s Torah portion. We find ourselves in the thick of the Exodus narrative -- the story of our people’s escape from slavery in Egypt. Like Martin Luther King Day, this foundational story of the Jewish people carries with it many layers of meaning. 

On its most basic level, it is a story of freedom. After being enslaved in Egypt for more than 400 years, Moses, Miriam, and Aaron lead the Israelites out from the cruel hand of bondage. On this most basic level, the Exodus is a story of the triumph of good over evil -- a story of hope, a reminder that no matter how dire our circumstances, change is always possible. 

But there are layers deeper still than this. As any careful student of Hebrew Bible will tell you, the Book of Exodus does not end after the Israelites have been freed from Egypt. They journey onward to Mount Sinai, where they receive the Ten Commandments. They take upon themselves the responsibility to lead ethical, humane lives -- to remember the pain of slavery, and use their lived experience in service of the oppressed. At this next layer, the Exodus narrative is not only about hope, but now is also about obligation. 

But there is still a third layer of meaning to the Exodus story -- a layer that might help us to understand what is missing from our observance of Martin Luther King Day, a layer of meaning that, appropriately enough, is found in the writings of Abraham Joshua Heschel. [1] Heschel suggests that, for all its success, the Exodus was never fully completed. Yes, the Israelites were freed from bondage, and yes, they accepted the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai -- but even these were only just part of the goal. In order for the Exodus to be completely fulfilled, Heschel teaches, not only the Israelites, but also their Egyptian taskmasters, and even Pharaoh himself needed to go out from Egypt, the house of bondage, and stand at the foot of the mountain. In order for the Exodus to be completely fulfilled, not only the enslaved, but also the enslavers would need to be set free -- set free from their own degradation. In order for the Exodus to be completely fulfilled, Israelite and Egyptian alike must take upon themselves the obligations of Mount Sinai -- the responsibility to live ethical, humane lives. Until that day, the Exodus will forever remain incomplete. 

So too in our country. We have made tremendous strides in the work of racial justice, even just in the 39 short years of Dr. King’s life. And still, the work remains incomplete. There are countless ways in which Black and Brown Americans continue to bear a disproportionate burden in our country -- from income inequality to the spread of the pandemic, issues that members of WRT’s Racial Justice Working Group are learning about and fighting against together. And if that weren’t enough evidence of the work we have left to do, we need only consider the widely circulated photographs of the Confederate Flag, and plenty of anti-Semitic paraphernalia as well, being subversively paraded through the halls of the Capitol a week ago Wednesday. 

 It is good to celebrate all that Dr. King achieved. We should be proud that Heschel marched alongside him. Proud, but not complacent. If they were alive today, King and Heschel without a doubt would be preaching and marching against inequity. We must remember that for all our contemporary adulation of Dr. King, he was, in his own time, despised, and eventually, murdered, for being on the cutting edge of social change. His work was left unfinished. 

This Martin Luther King Day, let us not take a day off. Let us not only recall the successes of the Civil Rights Movement. Let us not only celebrate the day of Dr. King’s birth, but also lament the day of Dr. King’s death -- and remember how much unfinished work he left for us to do. Unless we carry it forward, the Exodus remains incomplete.

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[1] In Heschel’s essay “The White Man on Trial,” published in Insecurity of Freedom: Essays on Human Existence, p. 103: “The tragedy of Pharaoh was the failure to realize that the exodus from slavery could have spelled redemption for both Israel and Egypt. Would that Pharaoh and the Egyptians had joined the Israelites in the desert and together stood at the foot of Sinai!”