Awakening Balance: Bar/Bat Mitzvah

This source sheet is based on a teaching by Jeffrey Spitzer (Gann Academy, Boston)

[PDF version]

The Aggressive Inclination and Good Inclination [Yetzer HaRa and Yetzer Tov]

“God saw all that God had made, and found it very good. And there was morning, and there was evening, the sixth day” (Genesis 1:31). Nahman said in Rabbi Shmuel’s name: “Very good” describes both the Aggressive Inclination and Good Inclination. Is it possible that the Aggressive Inclination can be “very good”? Without the Aggressive Inclination, one would not build a house, marry, have children, or engage in business.

- Midrash Genesis Rabbah 9:7 (ca. 400 CE, Land of Israel)

The Birth of Good Inclination

The Aggressive Inclination is 13 years older than Good Inclination. While still in the womb, the Aggressive Inclination begins to develop in a person. If a person begins to violate the Sabbath, or commit murder, or goes off to do another sin, nothing stops him/her.

But 13 years later, Good Inclination is born. When s/he violates the Sabbath, it rebukes her/him, “Airhead! Don't you know our tradition says ‘Everyone who violates it will surely be put to death’ (Exodus 31:14)?” If s/he is about to commit murder, it rebukes her/him, “Airhead! Don't you know it says ‘Whoever sheds a human’s blood, by humankind will his blood be shed’ (Genesis 9:6)?” If s/he is about to engage in a sexual sin, it rebukes her/him, “Airhead! Don't you know it says ‘Both parties of adultery will surely be put to death’ (Leviticus 20:10)?”

- Avot d’Rabbi Natan 16 (c. 800 CE, Babylon)

Good Inclination: A Poor and Wise Child

“It is better to be a poor and wise child than an old and foolish king who no longer has the sense to heed warnings.”

- Ecclesiastes 4:13

“A poor and wise child”—this is Good Inclination.

“Poor”—because Good Inclination is less powerful than the Aggressive Inclination.

“Wise”—because it gives a person intelligence to follow the good way.

“Child”—because it is younger than the Aggressive Inclination, entering a person only at age 13.

“An old and foolish king who no longer has the sense to heed warnings”—this is the Aggressive Inclination.

“Old”—because it enters a person at birth. As it is written of Cain: “Sin couches at the door” (Genesis 4:7).

“Foolish”—because it misleads a person to follow the bad way.

“King”—because it has the power to rule over the limbs.

“Who no longer has the sense to heed warnings”—because it has become old and does not accept reproof.

- Rashi (1040-1105, France)

Coming Out of Egypt, Moving Towards Sinai

For the first 13 years of life, one rebels. But in the 14th year, the light of intelligence appears, and one becomes bat/bar mitzvah and subject to the punishment of a human court. Similarly, our sages, of blessed memory, hinted at this when they said, "On the evening of the 14^th of Nissan, we search for hametz [leaven] by the light of a candle" (Mishnah Pesachim 1:1).

- Rabbi Isaac Arama, (1420-1494, Spain)

Vision Statement

My vision for my rabbinate is based on the following statement of faith: A Judaism with God at the center (1) invites us to know that our lives matter and (2) impels us to do the right thing in the world. This is the meaning of our Jewish story, that God freed the people Israel from Egypt so that we could be bearers of Torah.

“God freed the people Israel from Egypt”—our lives matter to God. Through Jewish ritual, God sends to every Jewish person a personally addressed invitation to feel God’s closeness. Here, in our hearts, we meet the God of feeling.

“So that we could be bearers of Torah”—God impels us to do the right thing in the world. We have an ethical responsibility—regardless of how we might feel in our hearts—to participate in advancing the human project. Here, in our minds, we meet the God of reason.

When our heart and our mind collaborate—when we recognize that the human being is an integrated whole—we encounter the God of feeling and of reason. In this encounter, “kindness and truth shall meet” (Ps. 85:11)—that is, we’ll know that our lives matter to God and we’ll feel impelled to do the right thing. With heart and head collaborating, we discover that our lives and our world can be more with Judaism than without it.

I envision my rabbinate standing on three pillars: teaching, preaching, and praying. I believe that Erev Shabbat worship is the bread-and-butter of what a congregational rabbi does. I believe that if Liberal Judaism isn’t serious about prayer, then Liberal Jews won’t be serious about Liberal Judaism. Through prayer, we continue to discover that our lives matter to God. When we address God in the second-person (atah), we may hear the Allness of Universe (God) address us in the first-person (Anochi)—a moment of Revelation. The following comparison may be helpful: the deepest part of our soul—where our detached self is still connected to its Source—is like a clear white light. Prayer is the practice of putting many colored gels over the clear light (blue for one prayer, green for another) so that by isolating individual colors, we may more easily identify the clear white Source. At its best, communal prayer enables the worshipper to connect not only to the clear white Source within him/herself, but also to the clear white Source that is within all things. This experience connects us to the Allness of the Universe (God), reminding us that our lives matter.

Teaching, preaching, and praying are all tools to remind us that our lives matter, but they are not ends in and of themselves. Knowing that our lives matter must impel us to do the right thing. Our tradition holds that “study is greater [than action], because study leads to action.” Action is the ultimate goal; study (and, by extension, prayer) enables us to discover why we must act. Study without action is meaningless; but similarly, action without study becomes a substitute faith, reducing the whole of Judaism to only ethics. Often, my Reform upbringing substituted ethics for Judaism. I was raised to care about particular issues—gun control, gender equality, Darfur, hunger—and although I dutifully rallied for these causes, I quickly lost enthusiasm for the stale explanation to do tikkun olam. As an adult, I have discovered that action is impelled by faith—that I stand not for a particular list of causes, but for a world in which “kindness and truth shall meet.” In this way, “study [and prayer] leads to action.” Study also enables us to discover how we might most effectively act. Study and prayer are the practice of noticing; by noticing how we show up in the world, we can learn to participate in our world more productively.

Judaism is unique in that it is both a people and a faith. I imagine two concentric circles, with Jewish faith at the center of the Jewish people. Many are content to identify only with the Jewish people; it is a synagogue’s role, and a rabbi’s role in particular, to help Jewish people also identify with Jewish faith—that is, to knowing that our lives matter to God and to doing the right thing.

Paradoxically, the secular State of Israel represents—among other things—a gateway through which Jewish people may come to identify with Jewish faith. I believe that Israel matters because: whatever Jewish is, it is in Israel—not to the exclusion of other places, but uniquely so in Israel. In many places around the world, particular aspects of Jewish life are thriving—religion, spirituality, culture, ethnicity, history, community. Only in Israel do all of these aspects cohere, plus the additional aspects of politics, power, and sovereignty. In Israel—and only in Israel—all these aspects of “whatever Jewish is” are by the very definition of a Jewish-democratic state forced to be in constant conversation with each other. The conversation centers on the question: to what extent should Jewish religion play a role in the governance of the State? And in this conversation, the Jewish people—who, outside of Israel, may easily choose the outer of the two concentric circles, the circle of identifying only with the Jewish people—must come face-to-face with the inner of the two concentric circles, the circle of identifying with Jewish faith (even if they believe that Jewish religion should have a minimal role in the governance of the State). In this way, Israel is—among other things—a tool for clarifying “what’s Jewish” about one’s Jewishness.

These are the contours of my vision of my rabbinate—that your life and your world can be more with Judaism than without it, because Judaism is the story of God freeing the people Israel from Egypt so that we could be bearers of Torah. As I continue to grow in experience and learning, I expect that this statement will continue to grow along with me.

Contradictions of the Kotel

The following originally appeared on the Gateways and Tents blog.  

When the American students spent an hour unpacking their experience of the kotel (the Western Wall), we heard a few common themes. One theme was the experience of cognitive dissonance—that is, the contradiction that occurs when your heart is telling you to feel one thing, and your brain is telling you to think a different thing.

On one level, this contradiction is confusing and troubling. Our head and heart want to be in sync. On another level, this contradiction may be a perfect reflection of the kotel—a place that is itself full of contradiction.

Here are a few of the kotel’s contradictions.

First, the kotel is a symbol that unites the Jewish people. Go into any synagogue around the world, and you’re likely to find a picture of the Western Wall. The site has become the icon of Jerusalem, the defining image of the city towards which Jews all over the world pray. And yet, thekotel is also a symbol that divides the Jewish people. The struggle over who has authority at the Western Wall is the example par excellence of the challenge of pluralism. In this public arena, competing Jewish value-systems literally go nose to nose to try and answer the question: What does it mean to be Jewish?

Second, the kotel is a holy site. Thousands of years ago, there stood the First and Second Temples, the sacred center of the Jewish people, where families from all over the Jewish world would come three times annually to offer sacrifices to God. Since the Temple’s destruction, the kotelhas remained a pilgrimage site—except now, the Jewish people go there to commune with God not through sacrifice, but through prayer. And yet, the kotel is also a secular site. The Western Wall itself never was holy. Rather, it was a retaining wall that held up the earth upon which the Holy Temple stood. It is less like the sanctuary of Shaaray Tefila and more like sidewalk outside the 79thStreet entrance.

Third, the kotel is a religious site. And yet, it is also a political site. The division of life into separate categories, such as religion and state, is an entirely modern invention.The Temple was the seat of religious and political authority in ancient Israel. It was not only a center for ritual and sacrifice, but also for adjudicating civil law and social policy. Bible scholars refer to the Torah as the “constitution of the ancient Jewish nation.” So too, the modern State of Israel is often described as the “Third Temple.” Israeli law defines the State as both “Jewish and democratic.” The tension between these two values is evident not just in the struggle for pluralism at the kotel, but in every aspect of Israeli society. (This tension is perhaps most evident inissues of personal status—marriage, divorce, conversion, and burial—currently under the authority of the rabbinate).

These three contradictions—unity and division, sacred and secular, religious and political—are at the heart of kotel. And somehow, each contradiction coheres.

So when I hear our students expressing cognitive dissonance—that their head thinks one thing and their heart a different thing—I am at once empathetic that they do not feel more whole, and at the same time believe that they are right where they should be. Their experience is a reflection of the kotel itself. And because of these contradictions, no two visits to the kotel will ever be the same. It is my hope, therefore, that each of our teens will come back and visit for a second, and a third, and a tenth, and a two-hundredth time, knowing that on each visit, the contradictions will express themselves differently.

It is said that one sign of genius is the ability to hold two contradictory truths at the same time. May we be able to hold all these truths for ourselves, and may the kotel—with all its capacity for contradiction—be able to hold a space for each of us.

A Thread of Hope

The following originally appeared on the Gateways and Tents blog. 

Earlier this fall, the Israeli author Etgar Keret wrote in The New Yorker: “we have to believe that hope is not just another word in Israel’s national anthem but rather is a powerful force that can lead to change.”

 

On Sunday, we asked Anat Hoffman, executive director of the Israel Religious Action Center: “In light of the many challenges you’re fighting, what gives you hope?”

 

She pointed out that the first time that the Hebrew word for “hope,” tikvah, appears in the Bible, it appears in reference to a thread of string (see Joshua 2:18). She reminded our group that hope doesn’t come off the spool already wound into a rope, or a cord, or a thick, robust cable. Rather, hope comes from the tiniest of places—even as narrow as a bit of thread.

 

That evening, as our group gathered at the Western Wall, we wound ourselves in a circle around one of our female group members who wished to be wrapped in a tallit. As she put on the fringed garment—itself a visual reminder that whole cloth is woven only of loose stings—we tied together our own of little thread of hope. HaTikvah—not just the title of Israel’s national anthem, but a powerful force that can lead to change.

Cutting Through the Darkness

This post is by Leah

Every morning I walk six-minutes to the train. And every day on that six-minute walk, I pass blocks of twinkling lights, Vermont trees for sale, and figurines of snowmen, Santa Claus, and nativity scenes. At some point during the day someone will ask me what my plans are for Christmas. I’ll catch myself humming “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” or any number of Bing Crosby’s other Christmas treasures. I welcome the joy of the season and wish others “Happy Holidays.” On my walk home, I pass the blocks of twinkling lights, Vermont trees for sale, and figurines of snowmen, Santa Claus, and nativity scenes. And for the past two nights, I’ve walked into my apartment, decorated as it always is, save a silver menorah sitting on the window sill.

For eight nights every winter, in the darkest month of the year, I light candles in my window and say the same blessings that have been said for thousands of years. And with this small action, with a few flames flickering in a window, I am making a conscious choice to say, “This is a Jewish home. This is a home guided by a deep and historic need to bring light into the world.”

I walk through the world as a white woman. When most people see me these days, I am wished a Merry Christmas. I, and many white Jews of my generation, have achieved the American assimilation that Phillip Roth could have only dreamed of as a child. Yet it is this very assimilation that is causing, for me, a crisis of identity. How does my whiteness interact with my Jewishness? How do I reconcile my white privilege and my deeply internalized Jewish oppression? And moreover, what is my social ethical responsibility as a white woman, as a Jew, and as a human being? How can I engage my experiences of oppression as a tool for empathy building and as inspiration for action in solidarity with others who carry their own historic oppressions?

For thousands of years there have been those who believed that Jewish lives don’t matter. I am profoundly blessed to be living in a pocket of the world where the value of my Jewish life is not questioned. And there is certainly no one questioning whether or not my white life matters. Yet, there are systems in place that behave every day as if black lives don’t. And that is a problem. I believe that it is my responsibility as a Jew to stand up and say that all lives matter, especially those that are persecuted and marginalized. Today, it is my responsibility to say that Black Lives Matter; because if I don’t raise my voice and take to the streets to pray with my feet, than I am not living up to the moral imperative of my people.  

Tonight I am going to walk home past the blocks of twinkling lights, Vermont trees for sale, and figurines of snowmen, Santa Claus, and nativity scenes. Tonight I will light four candles in my window and I will say the blessings that Jews have said for thousands of years. And tonight as I light the Hanukkah candles, I will also say that Black Lives Matter. Because light, even if just a few flames flickering in a window, is the only thing that will cut through this darkness. 

Covenant = Partnership

The following source sheet was prepared for adults in the MASA Family Learning Program at Temple Shaaray Tefila, Manhattan.
[PDF version]

Opening Thoughts

“Whatever was created in the first six days of creation needs further preparation.”

-Genesis Rabbah 11:6 (c. 500 CE, Land of Israel)

“To be both created and yet creator is the heart of Jewish religious consciousness.”

–Leo Baeck (1873-1956, Germany)

“There is only one way to define Jewish religion: Life is a partnership of God and humankind.”

-Abraham Joshua Heschel (1907-1972, Poland and USA)

Covenants with Noah and with Abraham

“God blessed Noah and his sons and said to them: ‘Be fertile and increase and fill the earth. … Every creature of the earth shall be yours to eat, and also the green grasses. You must not, however, eat flesh with its lifeblood in it. …  Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed. … I hereby establish my covenant with you and your offspring to come: never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth.’”

-Genesis 9:1-11

“God spoke to Abram, saying: ‘This is My covenant with you: You shall be the father of a multitude of nations. And you shall no longer be called Abram, but Abraham shall be your name. … I assign the land you sojourn in to you and your offspring to come, all the land of Canaan, as an everlasting holding. I will be their God. … Every male among you shall be circumcised. … Thus shall my covenant be marked on your flesh as an everlasting pact.’”

-Genesis 17:3-13

Who was more righteous?

“Noah was a righteous man, blameless in his generation. Noah walked with God.”

-Genesis 6:9

“The Eternal said to Abram: ‘Walk in my ways [lit: ‘before me’] and be blameless.”

-Genesis 17:1

  

Noah was blameless “in his generation”

Some of our rabbis interpret this to Noah’s credit. How much more righteous would Noah have been had he lived in a righteous generation! Others interpret it to Noah’s discredit. Noah was righteous in comparison to his generation, but had he lived in Abraham’s generation he would have been considered as naught.

-Rashi (1040-1105, France)

Abraham responded to Distress

When God told Abraham what God that God was planning to punish the citizens of Sodom and Gomorrah, “Abraham stepped forward and said: ‘Will You sweep away the innocent along with the righteous?’” (Gen. 18:23). Whereas when God said to Noah, “I have decided to put an end to all flesh, because the earth is filled with lawlessness” (Gen. 6:13), Noah remained silent and did not intercede.

-The Zohar (13^th century, Spain)

Revisiting the question of who was more righteous

Rabbi Yehudah said: It may be compared to a king who had two sons, an older and a younger one. The king said to the younger one, “Walk with me,” and to the older one, “Walk before me.”

Rabbi Nehemiah said: Noah may be compared to the king’s friend who was walking in the mud. The king looked and saw him and said: “Before you sink into the mud, walk with me.” Thus God said to Noah: “Before you drown in the flood of wickedness, build for yourself an ark.”

Abraham may be compared to a king’s friend who saw the king walking through a dark alleyway. When he saw the king, he began to shine a light for him through the window. When the king looked up and saw him, he said to him: “Before you give me light through the window, come and walk in front of me and give me light there.” Thus God said to Abraham: “Before, you gave me light in Mesopotamia; now, come before me and give me light in the land of Israel.”

-Genesis Rabbah 30:10

Small But Mighty

Every Chanukkah since I was three years old, my dad has written a Chanukkah play. On the Saturday night of Chanukkah week, 30 families from our small Jewish community of Tallahassee, FL would cram into my parents’ house for our annual Chanukkah party. And while the parents schmoozed downstairs, the kids would go upstairs to learn and rehearse the Chanukkah play that my dad had written that year.

The plays would retell the story of Chanukkah—but instead of an epic battle between the Jews of ancient Israel and their Hellenizing neighbors, these retellings would focus on the small-but-mighty Jewish community of Tallahassee, trying to maintain their identity as a cultural minority in the South. The plays were full of corny jokes and puns (“groaners,” we used to call them), and rewritten songs from classic Broadway musicals. The plays were invariably cheesy, and as we kids grew older, we grew more and more embarrassed about performing in them.

But when I look back on those Chanukkah plays, I recognize that they were not only about a small-but-mighty Jewish community trying to retain its identity, the plays helped to enable that community’s identity to form and grow.

After the play was over, all the families would go out onto the back porch and light our menorahs—one for each person that was there. And for one night in Florida’s panhandle, the light of all those candles and the sound of all those voices singing the blessings helped to illuminate the dark. Like the Maccabees, like their oil that shouldn’t have lasted—we may have been small, but my, were we mighty.