National Scholar Updates

Angel For Shabbat, Parashat Tsav

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

A popular Judeo-Spanish proverb teaches: Aze bueno y echalo a la mar. Do a good deed, and cast it into the ocean. The idea is: do what is right and don’t expect any thanks or reward. The motivation for doing good…is the doing good itself, not the anticipation of gratitude or benefit.

Nevertheless, deep down in our hearts, it is difficult not to feel hurt if our goodness is not acknowledged. In “Notes from the Underground,” Fyodor Dostoevsky’s narrator says: “I’m even inclined to believe that the best definition of man is—a creature who walks on two legs and is ungrateful. But that is not all, that is not his principal failing; his greatest failing is his constant lack of moral sense…and, consequently, lack of good sense.”

Ingratitude is related to a lack of moral sense, a lack of good sense. A person who receives benefit should naturally and spontaneously express appreciation to the benefactor. It is not merely good manners, it is simple decency. Although the benefactor should not expect thanks, the recipient should give thanks.

Yet, we all sense the truth of Dostoevsky’s definition of man as a creature who is ungrateful. We receive so much from so many; and yet do not always express appreciation. We may simply be careless or thoughtless, or we may feel we are entitled to things without having to say thanks. We certainly feel the callousness of people who do not thank us for our good deeds, but we also need to introspect to be sure that we ourselves are not guilty of the same shortcoming.

In the past, I have written about what I call the “paper towel syndrome,” where people are used and then unceremoniously cast aside. As long as a person is deemed “productive” or “useful,” the person is respected. But once the person has been fully exploited, he/she is put aside and forgotten, cast into the trash bin of human history. No one says thanks any longer; no one even gives him/her a second thought. Aze bueno y echalo a la mar: do a good deed, cast it into the ocean. There’s no point expecting gratitude or appreciation. Ingratitude is a hard fact of life. Do good…and that is its own reward.

This week’s Torah portion delineates offerings that were to be brought by the Israelites in their service to the Lord in the Mishkan (sanctuary). The various sacrifices in those days covered a range of themes: sin offerings, purification offerings, thanksgiving offerings. The underlying theme of the offerings was: to come closer to the Almighty, one must have moral sense, good sense…and a sense of gratitude. A Midrash teaches that in the Messianic future, all sacrifices will become obsolete…except for the thanksgiving offering. Thanksgiving will always be a necessary component of a healthy moral life. Being ungrateful is a serious moral deficiency.

At the root of ingratitude is a basic arrogance, a self-absorbed view of life—an essential lack of humility. Egotists think of themselves, not of others. They use others to advance their own goals, and they are quick to discard people once they are no longer of use to them. Egotists validate Dostoevsky’s observation that human beings are characterized by ingratitude, lack of moral sense, lack of common sense. The Torah teaches us to be grateful, to express gratitude, to live humbly, morally and sensibly. These are difficult virtues to attain and we need to work hard to attain them. If we lack these qualities, we need to improve ourselves. If others lack these qualities, we ought to pity them.

 Meanwhile: aze bueno y echalo a la mar.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Emor

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

People have made a wry play on the names of this and the previous two Torah portions: Aharei Mot Kedoshim Emor: After death…call them holy. This points to the practice of glorifying people after their deaths. Faults are ignored, virtues are magnified, eulogies turn ordinary people into saints.

But the phrase also has another meaning. When people have passed on, it seems that only then do we begin fully to appreciate their virtues. During their lifetimes, we took them for granted; or underestimated them; or didn’t demonstrate the love and respect they deserved. After death, we start to relate their holiness, their goodness, their wisdom.

Some years ago, I gave a lecture to health care workers in a hospital in Baltimore on my book, “The Orphaned Adult.”  The talk included discussion of the mourning process and how we remember our parents once they are no longer with us. After my lecture, lively discussion ensued among the participants.

One of them, a Catholic nun, related a story about when her mother was growing older and frailer. Instead of waiting to eulogize her at a funeral, the family called together relatives and friends to a party to celebrate the mother’s life…while she was alive! They shared memories, expressed love and appreciation, and all in an environment that was happy and uplifting. The nun told us how happy her mother was to feel the love, hear the kind words, and sense that her life had had so much positive impact.  Why wait for a funeral to express our love? Why not celebrate the lives of our loved ones while they are alive and when our words can validate their lives?

I have often thought that eulogies come too late. All the nice words of praise and appreciation come after the person has died. If the deceased person had heard these same words while still alive, it would have been a source of ineffable happiness.

When I was in college, a friend of mine had a cousin who was killed in a gang war in the Bronx. At the Shiva home, family members reminisced about the dead young man: yes, he was tough, but he had a good heart; he got mixed up with the wrong people, but he had so much good in him; he was respectful to his parents and kind to friends and neighbors. Everyone seemed to find something good to say about him. My friend stood up and said with great emotion: if he had heard these things from you while he was still alive, maybe he would still be alive! All I ever heard you say about him was that he was a no-good hoodlum, a bad person, a violent person. There was a great hush in the room. Indeed, that young man's self-image and self-esteem might have been very different if he had heard loving words of praise during his lifetime.

Sometimes people go through life without ever knowing how much others love them, admire them, see virtue in them. I have been at many funerals where mourners have said: I wish I would have told him how much I loved him; I wish I would have done more for her; I wish I had let him/her know how much I cared.

Why don't we realize how powerful words of praise can be and how painful words of condemnation and ridicule can be? Words of sincere appreciation can change a human life. A loving hug, a pat on the back, a smile, a genuine compliment--these things can give joy and meaning to those we love, respect and admire.

We ought not wait for eulogies at funerals to express our feelings. We ought to live as loving, thoughtful and sharing human beings who honestly cherish and value our family and friends--and who let them know how much they mean to us.

Book Review

Shabuot: Insights from the Past, Present, and Future (The Habura, 2023)

By Rabbi Hayyim Angel

          The Habura (www.TheHabura.com) has become a veritable force for high-quality Torah learning since their inception in 2020. Rabbis, scholars, and students learn and teach, primarily over Zoom. The Habura now has published its third holiday companion, in time for Shavuot.

          The Habura promotes the inclusion of Sephardic voices and ideas in Jewish discourse, coupled with an openness to the broad wisdom of the Jewish people and the world. In this regard, their work and values strongly dovetail ours at the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals.

          Their Shavuot volume contains an array of eighteen essays. The first two are by Sephardic visionaries of the 19^th and 20^th centuries, Rabbis Abraham Pereira Mendes (1825-1893, Jamaica, England, and the United States) and Ben Zion Uziel (1880-1953, first Sephardic Chief Rabbi of the State of Israel). The rest of the book is divided between contemporary rabbis and scholars, and younger scholars who participate in the learning of The Habura.

          The essays span a variety of topics pertaining to Shavuot in the areas of Jewish thought, faith, halakha, and custom. As in my reviews of their companion volumes for Sukkot and Pesah (see https://www.jewishideas.org/article/book-review-sukkot-companion-habura; https://www.jewishideas.org/article/book-review-haburas-passover-volume), I will summarize a few of the essays I personally found most enlightening.

          Rabbanit Dr. Devorah Halevy explores the fundamental differences in curriculum between the classical Ashkenazic and Sephardic models. Although the true obligation for a religious education lies with a child’s parents, most contemporary parents outsource that religious education to institutions. These institutions must be . equipped with the wisdom from the Sephardic world to enhance their impact on students.

          Rabbanit Halevy characterizes the classical Ashkenazic curriculum as being fairly insular, focused primarily on Talmud and theoretical halakha, and far less on Tanakh, Jewish Thought, or general wisdom. In contrast, she characterizes the classical Sephardic curriculum as being broader, encompassing a fuller knowledge of all Jewish areas, and also general wisdom. There also is a greater emphasis on arriving at practical halakhic conclusions. Rabbanit Halevy therefore calls for the integration of the broader, Sephardic model into yeshiva education, insisting that contemporary Jewish students would find this mode of education far more compelling and inspiring.

          Although I fully agree with this vision of a broader curricular approach within Jewish education, it appears misleading to make a sweeping Sephardic vs. Ashkenazic generalization. Rabbi Benzion Uziel, who indeed championed a grand religious worldview, was alone within his own Sephardic Yeshivat Porat Yosef in Jerusalem. Most of his colleagues focused more narrowly on Talmud and halakha. When the Sephardic Rabbi Eliyahu Benamozegh (1823-1900, Leghorn) published his Bible commentary Em LaMikra, which incorporated archaeology and other contemporary disciplines into his analysis, other Sephardic rabbis in Jerusalem and Aleppo, Syria called for the commentary to be burned as heretical.

           Our conversation is more effective when we highlight those rabbis of all backgrounds who espoused grand religious worldviews, such as Rabbis Shimshon Raphael Hirsch, Avraham Yitzhak Kook, Joseph Soloveitchik, Benzion Uziel, and Haim David Halevi, to name a few. The Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals hails and promotes such figures as representing the very best of what Judaism offers.

          Freddie Grunsfeld returns to classical rabbinic sources to define the principle of following the majority rule in halakha. Basing himself on Rambam’s writings, it appears that the majority rule principle applies only when rabbis sit physically together and actually deliberate. Therefore, rulings of the Great Sanhedrin in Temple times, or local rabbinic courts, indeed follow the majority.

However, after the abolition of the Sanhedrin, there is no concept of majority rule for individual halakhic decisions. Each local rabbi or court must make decisions for local communities, rather than determining a greater consensus from various books of rabbis who lived centuries apart. If one is unsure, one should tilt more strictly for Torah law and more leniently for rabbinic law. The process has nothing to do with counting later published rulings and taking a virtual poll.

          In light of this analysis of the primary sources, it is surprising that Grunsfeld’s search of the halakhic literature on the Bar-Ilan Responsa Project turned up over 2000 references to rov posekim (the majority of decisors), demonstrating the ongoing popularity of the “majority” approach even after the Sanhedrin. Grunsfeld explains that this approach is inconsistent with the primary sources.

          Aside from the lack of basis for counting decisors in the classical sources, Grunsfeld observes the additional difficulties in such an approach: Who is to be included in this virtual poll? What about opinions of scholars whose rulings were never published? Without face-to-face interaction, one cannot apply the majority rule principle. Rabbi Ovadiah Yosef rules this way, as well (Yabia Omer 2:17). In short, local rabbis and courts must make decisions based on their halakhic understanding, and their decisions form the halakhic policy over their local communities.

          There are many other informative and thought-provoking essays in this volume. Rabbi Yoni Wieder explores the Second Temple controversy between the rabbis and sectarians on the proper date of Shavuot and the religious significance of the rabbinic position we adopt. Building off of the Hasidic master Rabbi Zadok HaKohen of Lublin, Rabbi Wieder highlights the central role of the Oral Law and the development of halakha on Shavuot. Rabbi Yitzhak Berdugo surveys rabbinic and Karaite responses to the biblical passages that suggest widespread ignorance of the Torah in the times of Josiah and Ezra and how that relates to our understanding of the continuity of our tradition. Sina Kahen focuses on the great revolution of the Torah against its ancient Near Eastern backdrop. These and so many other essays will give us food for thought for Shavuot, and for our ongoing religious growth and development beyond.

*****

          I have had the privilege to give five Zoom classes at The Habura, co-sponsored by the Institute for Jewish Ideas and Ideals. You may see them on our YouTube channel:

Understanding the Akedah: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5cxbQ9daWqY&t=11s

Understanding Biblical Miracles:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GUKbGmKJsB0&t=2s

Torah and Archaeology:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dN1XAtia_x0&t=57s

Torah and Literalism:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K__jp8V9sXY&t=25s

Torah and Superstition:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PD68xZ4J4M8&t=17s

We look forward to many other opportunities to partner in promoting our shared ideas and ideals.

Angel for Shabbat--Behar/Behukkotai

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

Recent news programs featured stories that are stark reminders of problems facing humanity. One story described the abject poverty in south Sudan, where flooding has destroyed farmlands and where starvation is everywhere. Children with distended stomachs cry for sustenance. Another story spoke of athletes who were signing contracts for hundreds of millions of dollars…just to play baseball, basketball or football.

What kind of world tolerates horrific poverty, while rewarding athletes and entertainers with staggering amounts of money?

Another news item described New York City as the richest city in the world. Yet, when I walk the streets of New York I daily see homeless people and beggars. While some New Yorkers have millions and billions of dollars, others don’t have a decent place to live and don’t know where their next meal is coming from.

A society—and a world—which has such vast gaps between the wealthy and the poor has a deep moral problem along with the deep economic problem.

The Torah legislation on behalf of the poor and oppressed is highlighted in this week’s Torah reading. Farmers are obligated to leave portions of their fields unharvested, allocating it for the poor. Lenders are not allowed to charge interest on their loans to fellow Israelites. Society has an obligation to protect widows and orphans and all others who are vulnerable and unprotected.

On each seventh year, debts are cancelled. On each fiftieth year, land was returned to the family which originally owned it. The result of these laws was to prevent chronic poverty within families. The younger generations did not inherit an overwhelming burden of debts from the older generations; and a family could look forward to a definite time when their property--which they may have had to sell in desperation--would be returned to them.

While inequalities in income will always exist, the gap between the rich and the poor must not be allowed to undercut moral responsibilities. Those who have more are obligated to help those who have less. The goal for a society is to ensure the wellbeing of all, not the enrichment of a privileged few while masses of people go hungry.

When we see the shocking inequalities in our world, we must recognize a fundamental moral/spiritual component.  The Torah emphasizes social responsibility; when the religious/idealistic   aspect is removed, people tend to focus only on themselves, on how they can amass more money, more entertainment, more personal pleasures.

When we see children dying of starvation while athletes are paid hundreds of millions of dollars, we are witnessing a serious social disease. When we ourselves pay more money for tickets to sports or entertainment events than we contribute to charity, we are part of the problem.

In his book, The Moral Consequences of Economic Growth (Vintage Paperback, 2006), Professor Benjamin Friedman of Harvard University points out that economic life and moral life are intertwined. When economies grow for general society, people tend to be more generous, tolerant, and considerate of the needs of others. But when large portions of the population feel that they are losing ground economically, the foundations of a stable, moral society are shaken.

The Torah teaches us that society is best served when all of us look out for each other; when the poor, the widow and orphan are not left behind; when we realize that we each have a role to play in creating a fairer, more moral and idealistic world.

  Elie Wiesel (1928-2016) won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1986. Actually, it was against all odds that he should have been alive, let alone become a powerful voice for world peace. When he was only fifteen years old, he—along with all the Jews in his town of Sighet—was rounded up by the Nazis and shipped to concentration camps where most of them were murdered. His mother and younger sister perished in the gas chambers of Auschwitz. His father died before war’s end. His two older sisters survived. The young Elie Wiesel—a religious, pious young man—was spiritually scarred for life by his traumatic experiences in the hell of Nazism’s death camps.

           After the war, he was sent to France, along with other orphans. He could not then find words to describe the Holocaust. The pain was too raw and too deep. He found work as a journalist. In the early 1950s he interviewed the Nobel Prize-winning French novelist François Mauriac, who encouraged Wiesel to write about the concentration camps and to bear witness for the millions whose lives were snuffed out by the Nazis and their collaborators. This led to Wiesel writing an extensive work in Yiddish, later edited down and published in French in 1958, and in English in 1960: The Night. That book was widely read and acclaimed; and Wiesel went on to write many more books, win many awards, teach many classes, give thousands of lectures.

           Upon moving to the United States in 1955, his career as writer and teacher flourished. He held professorial positions at the City University of New York, Yale University, and Boston University. He received numerous awards for his literary and human rights activities, including the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the United States Congressional Gold Medal and the Medal of Liberty Award. President Jimmy Carter appointed Wiesel chairman of the United State Holocaust Memorial Council in 1978. Shortly after receiving the Nobel Peace Prize, he and his wife established The Elie Wiesel Foundation for Humanity.

            Elie Wiesel, a survivor of a Nazi concentration camp, was not only to be a voice and a memorial for the murdered millions. His life’s mission was to serve as a conscience to the world, to remind humanity of the horrors of war and mass murder, to help humanity understand that there should never again be concentration camps, genocide, ruthless and merciless tyranny.

            Throughout his life, Elie Wiesel was a religiously observant Jew; but his faith in God—and humanity--was conflicted, sometimes angry; in spite of his grievances, though, he sought to remain optimistic.  “I belong to a generation that has often felt abandoned by God and betrayed by mankind. And yet, I believe that we must not give up on either…..There it is: I still believe in man in spite of man” (Open Heart, pp. 72, 73). 

            Wiesel’s approach found expression in his description of biblical Isaac, the son of Abraham who was brought to the mountain to be sacrificed to the Lord. At the last moment, an angel appeared to Abraham and commanded him not to put the knife to Isaac’s throat.  In Hebrew, the name Isaac (Yitzhak) means: he will laugh. Wiesel asked: “Why was the most tragic of our ancestors named Isaac, a name which evokes and signifies laughter?” And he provided his answer: “As the first survivor, he had to teach us, the future survivors of Jewish history, that it is possible to suffer and despair an entire lifetime and still not give up the art of laughter. Isaac, of course, never freed himself from the traumatizing scenes that violated his youth; the holocaust had marked him and continued to haunt him forever. Yet, he remained capable of laughter. And in spite of everything, he did laugh” (Messengers of God, p. 97).

            Wiesel’s religious worldview was strongly influenced by the Hassidic movement. He wrote much about Hassidic masters and drew heavily on their teachings. A central element of Hassidism was the role of the Rebbe, the rabbi and teacher, who was—and was expected to be—a tzaddik, a truly righteous person who was deemed to have great powers.

            The Hassidic movement began with Rabbi Israel Baal Shem Tov (1700-1760), born in a small town in the Ukraine. The Besht, as he came to be known, brought a message of hope to the poor and oppressed Jews. A man of humble origins, he taught that the less fortunate were beloved by God, “that every one of them existed in God’s memory, that every one of them played a part in his people’s destiny, each in his way and according to his means” (Souls on Fire, p. 25).  The simple, unlearned Jew could serve God through piety, joy, song, love of nature. What God required was a sincere and pious heart. When people criticized the Besht for associating with lowly individuals, he replied: “A small Tzaddik loves small sinners; it takes a great Tzaddik to love great sinners” (Somewhere a Master, p. 65). This was a basic principle of Hassidism: love for our fellow human beings must resemble God’s love; it reaches everyone, great and small.

            The Besht’s successor was Rabbi Dov Baer, the Maggid of Mezeritch. He drew hundreds of students and thousands of followers. To the more erudite, he taught the hidden truths of the faith. To the simple, he explained that their mere recital of the Sh’ma Yisrael prayer with proper devotion would make them worthy of redemption. The Maggid inspired loyalty. He was an excellent strategist and administrator and succeeded in spreading Hassidism throughout Eastern Europe. Although the Besht was the first leader of the Hassidic movement, it was Rabbi Dov Baer who established the role of the Hassidic Rebbe as a Tzaddik.  “As he saw it, the Tzaddik had to combine the virtues and gifts, as well as fulfill the roles and obligations, of saint, guide and sage. Spokesman for God in His dealings with man, intercessor for man in his dealings with God” (Souls on Fire., p. 66). An essential role of the Tzaddik was to encourage Hassidim never to consider themselves as being useless, abandoned, or neglected by the Almighty.

            As Hassidism grew and spread, new Rebbes emerged, each with his own distinctive style. The common denominator, though, was that each had to be a Tzaddik, a righteous person who could connect the people with God, and God with the people. Some Tzaddikim were ascetic and humble; others enjoyed a degree of luxury. Some were compassionate in the extreme, while others were more remote, less personally involved with the individual struggles of their followers. Some were expected to be wonder workers who could perform miracles; others were respected for their insistence on individual responsibility.

            Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berdichev (1740-1809) was known for his unlimited love of each Jew, even the most sinful and ignorant among them. The notables of Berdichev chided him for associating with people of inferior rank. Rabbi Levi Yitzchak replied: “When the Messiah will come, God will arrange a feast in his honor, and all our patriarchs and kings, our prophets and sages will of course be invited. As for myself, I shall quietly make my way into one of the last rows and hope not to be noticed. If I am discovered anyway and asked what right I have to attend, I shall say: Please be merciful with me, for I have been merciful too” (Ibid., p. 99).

            A Tzaddik of a later generation, Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk (1787-1859), was known for the rigorous demands he made on himself and others. He sought no compromises with truth, no short cuts, no evasions. Wiesel describes him as “the angry saint, the divine rebel. Among the thousands of Hassidic leaders great and small, from the Baal Shem’s time to the Holocaust, he is undeniably the most disconcerting, mysterious figure of all. Also the most tragic” (Ibid., p. 231). The Kotzker always seemed to be yearning, to be reaching for something beyond. He once explained that the serpent in the Garden of Eden was punished and had to forever crawl in and eat the dust. It has been asked: why is eating dust a punishment? In fact, this makes it very easy for the serpent to eat without having to search for its sustenance. The Kotzer replied: “That is the worst punishment of all: never to be hungry, never to seek, never to desire anything” (Somewhere a Master, p. 101). The Kotzker spent the last years of his life as a melancholy recluse. Yet, his sharp wisdom and keen erudition made him a sainted figure among his followers, and one of the most quoted Hassidic Rebbes through modern times.

            Elie Wiesel was especially drawn to those Tzaddikim who were torn by internal conflict and doubts. Rabbi Pinhas of Koretz (1728-1791) taught that even if some questions are without answers, one must still ask them. Doubts are not necessarily destructive, if they bring one to a Rebbe. One must realize that others have gone through the same sorrow and endured the same anguish. “God is everywhere, even in pain, even in the search for faith” (Ibid., p. 12). 

            The Tzaddik invariably lives a double life. He must at once be a humble soul, aware of his limitations—and he must be a seemingly perfect person in the eyes of his followers. If he is too humble, he cannot gain their trust. If he thinks he indeed is perfect, then he is a deeply flawed human being. “A saint who knows that he is a saint—isn’t. Or more precisely, no longer is. A conscience that is too clear is suspect. To ever be clear, conscience must have overcome doubt. As Rebbe Nahman of Bratzlav put it: No heart is as whole as one that has been broken” (Ibid., p. 59).

            Elie Wiesel was drawn to Hassidic masters who were epitomes of religious faith and leadership…and who had their own questions, self-doubts, feelings of melancholy. In spite of personal internal struggles, the Tzaddik had to be available to his followers with a full and loving heart. “Just tell him that you need him and he will receive you. Tell him that you are suffering and he will be your companion. Tell him you need a presence and he will share your solitude without invading it. This may seem unusual today, but in those days many Hassidic Masters treated their followers in that way, with similar compassion” (Ibid., p. 142).

            Wiesel writes nostalgically, especially about the early Tzadikkim of Hassidism. But as the movement grew and expanded, it also lost some of the initial energy and idealism of its founders. Many different and competing groups emerged, each with its own Rebbe/Tzaddik.

To the outside observer, Hassidim appear to be cult-like groups blindly devoted to their charismatic Rebbes; they dress in distinctive garb, follow distinctive customs, and speak primarily in Yiddish rather than the language of the land. Yet, Hassidim are living testimony of the power of survival. Vast numbers of Hassidim perished during the Holocaust. Their communities in Europe were decimated. Yet, the survivors did not lose faith. They rebuilt communities in Israel, the United States and elsewhere; a new generation of Rebbes emerged, attracting thousands of adherents. Elie Wiesel’s emotional connection to Hassidism and Hassidim are an expression of his faith in humanity’s ability to overcome horrors…and survive with renewed vigor and optimism.

                                                *     *     *

          When it was announced in 1986 that Elie Wiesel won the Nobel Prize, many (including me) supposed it was the prize in literature. After all, he was a famous author of numerous highly acclaimed books. But the prize was not for literature, but for peace.

            Apparently the Nobel committee thought that his universal messages relating to peace were more important than his literary production. Some have felt that Wiesel’s writing is overly emotional, sometimes pretentious; it tries too hard to appear profound. While his books will be read for many years to come, his role as a conscience for humanity was deemed most significant.

                       In presenting the Nobel Peace Prize, Egil Aarvik, chair of the Nobel Committee, said this about Wiesel: “His mission is not to gain the world’s sympathy for victims or the survivors. His aim is to awaken our conscience. Our indifference to evil makes us partners in the crime. This is the reason for his attack on indifference and his insistence on measures aimed at preventing a new Holocaust. We know that the unimaginable has happened. What are we doing now to prevent its happening again?”

References

Conversations with Elie Wiesel, E. Wiesel and Richard D. Heffner, Schocken Books, New York, 2001.

Messengers of God, Simon and Schuster, New York, 1976.

Night, Bantam Books, New York, 1960.

Open Heart, Schocken Books, New York, 2012.

Somewhere a Master, Schocken Books, New York, 1982.

Souls on Fire, Random House, New York, 1972.

The Talmud (Hagiga 12b) records an enigmatic statement by Rabbi Yosei: “Woe unto people, who see but do not know what they see; who stand, but do not know on what they stand.”

This passage came to mind as we observe the 75th anniversary of the State of Israel.

We often see Israel without realizing what we are actually seeing. The State of Israel is an amazing historical phenomenon. It is the unique story of the Jewish People, robbed of sovereignty, plundered and exiled by the Romans nearly 2000 years ago. It is the story of a people who never gave up hope of return to their historic homeland. It is the story of faith and heroism rarely if ever matched in human history. Many people see Israel but don’t know what they are seeing: the State of Israel is a modern day miracle.

We often stand for Israel but don’t know on what we stand. The State of Israel stands on foundations established in the Bible, in God’s promises to Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and their descendants. Israel stands on the prayers of millions of Jews in hundreds of lands spanning twenty centuries. Many people see Israel as just another country; they do not know the foundations upon which Israel stands.

In its 75 years of statehood, Israel has absorbed millions of new immigrants from around the world; it has become a first rate power in culture, science, agriculture, medicine, the arts, the military and so much more. It has created a dynamic, vibrant democracy. It has accomplished really amazing things in spite of ongoing Palestinian terrorism, boycotts, threats from Iran etc.  It has forged ahead with remarkable diplomatic achievements in the Arab world, in Africa, and with many nations throughout the world.

And yet, in spite all these many reasons to feel joy and pride on Israel’s 75th anniversary, we also feel uneasy. The ugly divisions within Israeli society have been rocking the country. Animosity between the extremes on the left and right has been seething. Tensions between religious and secular extremists are heart-breaking. The situation has become so volatile, that the Prime Minister of Israel felt compelled to pull out of a speaking engagement in Tel Aviv, sponsored by the Jewish Federations of North America. Fears of demonstrations and rowdiness cast a pall on the occasion.

As Israeli society tears itself apart, its enemies are heartened. The Palestinian terrorists become emboldened. Iran makes ominous threats and works to arm Israel’s enemies. Anti-Israel media rejoice in slandering Israel in every possible way. Anti-Israel politicians add their hatred and lies to the ongoing campaign to vilify and isolate Israel.

Many people—Jews and non-Jews alike—see Israel, but don’t know what they are seeing. They make stands for or against Israel without knowing upon what Israel stands. When Israel is viewed through the lenses of vitriol, extremism, hatred, idealization or self-righteousness, the real Israel is not seen. When the historic and spiritual foundations of Israel are not understood and respected, then the State of Israel is not properly appreciated.

Everyone needs to calm down, take a step back, and realize what is at stake for the State of Israel.  Hatred and extremism are our real enemies and we must confront them with wisdom and courage.

We have confidence that the State of Israel will overcome the many challenges it faces. It is an amazingly creative and resilient nation.

“Woe unto people, who see but do not know what they see; who stand, but do not know on what they stand.” Blessed are those who see the greatness and promise of Israel, who see clearly and stand firmly with the State of Israel.

“When the Lord turned back the captivity of Zion we were as in a dream. Then was our mouth filled with laughter and our tongue with joyous song” (Psalm 126).

Angel for Shabbat--Aharei Mot/Kedoshim

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

The Sifra on Vayikra 19:18 records a debate between Rabbi Akiva and Ben Azzai. Rabbi Akiva states that the verse, "and you shall love your neighbor as yourself" is a great principle of the Torah. Ben Azzai, while agreeing with Rabbi Akiva's basic point, suggests that another verse contains an even greater principle of Torah: zeh sefer toledot adam, zeh kelal gadol mizeh (This is the book of the generations of man--this is an even greater principle). This verse, drawn from Parashat Bereishith, includes the words that God created human beings in His image. Thus, we are called upon to respect all human beings--regardless of their particular backgrounds. Ben Azzai, is offering a universal vision of inclusiveness and commitment to humanity in general, not just to our own friends and neighbors. This is an even greater principle than loving one's neighbor as oneself, in the sense that it enlarges our perspective, and helps us view ourselves as part of the greater human family.

But how do we balance the particular commitment to our family and faith with a recognition of the universal value of all human beings?

Some years ago, I read a parable in the writings of Dr. Pinchas Polonsky that helped me clarify my thinking. Imagine that you have carefully studied a painting day after day, year after year. You know every brush-stroke, color, shadow… you know every detail of the painting and you understand it to the extent humanly possible. And then, one day someone comes along and turns on the light. You then realize that the painting you had studied to perfection is actually part of a much larger canvas. As you stand back, you realize that you need to re-evaluate your thinking. The segment of the canvas that you have studied all these years has not changed; you still know every detail; it is still absolutely true. Yet, you must now study your truth in context of a much larger canvas.

Each faith, at its best, has a very true understanding of its piece of the larger canvas. But when the lights go on, each faith must come to realize that it represents part of the picture but not the whole picture. A grand religious vision must necessarily entail a grand perception of God: God is great enough to create and love all human beings. God sees the whole canvas of humanity in its fullness.

One of the great challenges facing religions is to see the entire picture, not just our particular segment of it. While being fully committed to our faiths, we also need to make room for others. We need, in a sense, to see humanity from the perspective of God, to see the whole canvas not just individual segments of it.

Religious vision is faulty when it sees one, and only one, way to God. Religious vision is faulty when it promotes forced conversions, discrimination against “infidels,” violence and murder of those holding different views. How very tragic it is that much of the anti-religious persecution that takes place in our world is perpetrated by people who claim to be religious, who claim to be serving the glory of God.

While religion today should be the strongest force for a united, compassionate and tolerant humanity, it often appears in quite different garb. Religion is too often identified with terrorism, extremism, superstition, exploitation…and hypocrisy. People commit the most heinous crimes…and do so while claiming to be acting in the name of God.

The authentic religious voice should be one that fosters mutual understanding; we should remind ourselves and our fellow religionists that God loves all human beings and wants all human beings to be blessed with happy and good lives. There is room for all of us on this earth. We need to foster a religious vision that is humble, thoughtful, and appreciative of the greatness of God.

Angel for Shabbat--Tazria/Metsora

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

The Torah describes a certain ailment known as tsara’at. While this word has often been translated as leprosy, Maimonides wrote that we do not really know what it means. It seems not to be a medical condition at all, but rather a physical sign of a spiritual blemish.

Rabbinic tradition has connected tsara’at with the sin of lashon hara—slander, evil gossip. Obviously, tsara’at does not manifest itself today in all those who utter negative comments about others; if it did, almost everyone would be afflicted with it. However, the moral intent of the rabbinic tradition is important; it relates to an affliction of the soul rather than the body.

The Torah teaches that one who contracts tsara’at is sent into isolation “outside the camp.”  Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz comments: “When one is isolated with tsara’at, one remains alone and only then can one truly ponder one’s own faults. Only after one is told that he is beset with faults and is isolated with them can he begin to grapple with them until they disappear” (Talks on the Parasha, p. 224).

Being isolated gives one an opportunity for self-reflection and for honest thinking about moral shortcomings.

But isolation provides something else.

It is natural for people to compare ourselves to others. Yes, I have made sins…but others are much worse than I am. Yes, I’ve spoken slander and gossip…but hardly as much as many people I know. Consciously or subconsciously, we tend to evaluate ourselves favorably in contrast with others.

When one is isolated, there’s no one there to compare oneself against! The isolated individual suddenly realizes that he/she must self-judge without the advantage of having anyone to look down upon.

One of the root causes of slander and gossip is comparing ourselves to others. People often see themselves in a general competition. If others have more or better, the tendency is to want to cut them down to size, to find faults, to speak disparagingly about them. If others have less or worse, the tendency is to gloat and publicize their shortcomings in comparison to ourselves. Lashon hara stems from lack of self-esteem. In order to bolster one’s ego, one seeks to compare others unfavorably to oneself.

That is the source of the moral blemish of tsara’at and that’s why isolation is a suitable cure. Isolation helps one to realize that making negative comparisons to others is a sign of personal weakness. We shouldn’t be comparing ourselves to others; we should be comparing ourselves to our ideal selves, to what we can be. It is a way to develop the inner poise and strength of character so that we don’t feel a need to run others down in order to bolster ourselves?

Today, we don’t have the physical manifestations of tsara’at and we don’t punish anyone by sending them into isolation. However, we can each find occasion to make private time for self-reflection. The goal is to enable us to rise above the pettiness of lashon hara. We aren’t better when we demean others; we actually demean ourselves when we do so.

Angel for Shabbat, Parashat Shemini

by Rabbi Marc D. Angel

“For I am the Lord your God; sanctify yourselves therefore and be holy, for I am holy…” (Vayikra 11:44).

This week’s parasha delineates the laws about which animals may and may not be eaten. In doing so, it calls on us to make a separation between the impure and the pure. Holiness is identified with separation, making distinctions between what is permissible and what is forbidden.

Just as God is holy/separate, so we are instructed to sanctify ourselves by making distinctions between the holy and the profane, the pure and the impure, the permissible and the forbidden.

What is at stake is not merely a technical process of following the dos and don’ts of the rules. Holiness/separation is essentially a call for a particular worldview.

The havdallah service at the conclusion of Shabbat illustrates the point. For a secular person, the seven days of the week are simply seven twenty-four hour periods of time without any objective difference among them. For a religious Jew, though, Shabbat is not just another day, but is sanctified. The havdallah blessing notes the separation between Shabbat and weekdays, between the holy Sabbath and the regular workdays. A religious person literally feels the sanctity of Shabbat; it is qualitatively a different kind of time from the other days of the week.

Religious people view things very differently from secular people. Not only is time sanctified through Sabbath and festivals; but space and objects are viewed from a perspective of sanctity. A synagogue, for example, is not just another building; it is the dwelling place of God, a sanctified space that puts us in context with the divine. When a religious person experiences a sanctuary it is an altogether different experience from that of a secular person who enters the building.

Mircea Eliade, a thoughtful historian of religion, has noted that religious people view things as manifestations of God. “The existence of the world itself means something, wants to say something….For religious man the cosmos lives and speaks” (The Sacred and the Profane, p. 165). The sense of the sacred endows life with meaning, hope, spiritual goals. Lacking the sense of the sacred, people are deprived of a unique vision and perspective on life.

Modernity has done much to undermine the sacred. Secularization has robbed existence of ultimate meanings, divine whisperings, qualitative distinctions between the sacred and the profane. It is said: it was once the holy Sabbath; then the Sabbath; then Saturday; and now the Weekend. The depreciation of the sacred has not led to a happier, better humanity.

In Judaism, we have a wide range of halakhot that govern all aspects of our lives. Even our mundane activities are sanctified through blessings, through an awareness of fulfilling God’s directives. Eliade has noted that “for nonreligious man, all vital experiences—whether sex or eating, work or play—have been desacralized. This means that all these physiological acts are deprived of spiritual significance, hence deprived of their truly human dimension” (ibid., p.168).

When the Torah calls on us to be holy, it is not asking us to remove ourselves from the ongoing flow of life. Rather, it is calling on us to view our lives with a divine perspective. It challenges us to live on a deeper plane, to experience sanctity in all aspects of our world and our lives.

When the holy Sabbath is transformed into the Weekend, life itself is desacralized. When holy buildings and objects are treated as though they are just physical entities like all other physical entities, a vital spiritual dimension is lost.

To separate between the holy and the profane is not a mechanical task. It is a spiritual challenge encompassing the very way we view our lives and the world.