Rabbi Zeitlin

I often find it ironic that those of us who firmly believe in absolute morality based on the absolute reality of God, as a consequence of that very belief, acknowledges one’s own limitations (Only God is perfect, so everything else (including ourselves) is, by definition, imperfect).  By logical necessity, we’re obligated to admit that we might be wrong.

On the other hand, those who espouse relativism as a “reality” of “competing narratives” generally tend to vehemently argue that the truth of this “modern view” is absolute.  In other words, the only diverse narrative that isn’t allowed is that there is an Absolute!  Apparently, they’re never wrong.

The Torah praises humility and then describes Moshe, our greatest leader and teacher as “the most humble of men”.  In order to lead and to teach, Moshe, obviously, understood his own worth and the value of his wisdom.  But in spite of all that, he recognized that he was, in his foundation, a finite human being.

Perhaps our greatest challenge as Jews in the 21st century is that we host a number of denominations and separatist groups, each of whom is sure that their way is the only possible path to reality, whether they consider reality to be finite, as do secularists, or even infinite as do the religious.  But, among the religious there is often an additional layer of “certainty” that only their approach works.  This leads both to delegitimizing other styles, even those which equally observe Torah and Mitzvot, as well as to over-active Kiruv, proselytizing among other “less aware” Jews to join their sect or denomination.  The problem I see here is the underlying assumption that God, against all appearances and against everything we have been taught, is, somehow, too limited, chas v’shalom, to have created the 600,000 unique Neshamot (souls) that we, at the same time, affirm that he has.

Rosh HaShana is the act of acknowledging that only God’s complete, universal and infinite knowledge is capable of truly judging reality.

When my children were much younger, we would spend several days at the end every summer at Canon Beach on the Oregon coast (see harryzeitlin.com for many of the photographs I created there over the years).  Quite often, depending on the calendar, it would already be the Jewish month of Elul, the month which precedes Rosh HaShana, Yom Kippur and Sukkot.

An ancient practice, established by our sages, is to sound the Shofar, the ceremonial ram’s horn, every morning (except Shabbat) of Elul.  So, along with my tallit and tefillin, I would toss my shofar into my suitcase.  Looking back, I’m not sure if my children thought it was cool or were embarrassed, probably a little of both, when I would, wearing said tallit and tefillin, stand on the deck of our hotel room and blow the notes of the Shofar out to the beach.  It always felt a much more powerful experience to me than when I blew or merely heard it at home or in synagogue.

I often cite the teaching of the Meor Eynayim, the foundational text of Chernobler Chassidut, written by Rabbi Menachem Nachum of Chernobyl, where he writes that the real reason behind our travels is to find and redeem the holy sparks, the נצוצי הקודש, Netzutaei HaKodesh, that are uniquely connected to our individual Neshamot (souls). Moreover, when we find ourselves returning and returning to the same places, it’s because some of these Holy Sparks still remain for us to lift up.

I was in Canon Beach for a few days a couple weeks ago, just before Rosh Chodesh Elul.  While I didn’t of course, bring my shofar with me, I did bring my tallit and tefillin.  I did daven three times a day there, say berachot (blessings) over what I ate there, said the Shema morning and evening.  I guess that, for the time being at least, I no longer have any “shofar sparks” left there, but looking back, it was a privilege, a זכות, a zechut, to have had this assignment.  Perhaps this is what our sages mean when they taught שכר מצוה מצוה, Schar Mitzva Mitzva, that the reward for a mitzva is that mitzva itself.

It’s been a rough week for me.  Just before last Shabbat, I learned of the death of one of my very closest childhood friends.  Later in the week I had several shiva (the seven days immediately following a funeral have the strictest “restrictions”/protections of the mourning period and mourners and discouraged to leave their home during this period–thus, we visit them and even bring the synagogue, as it were, to them) visits to make.

I counseled one person about saying Kaddish (a simple meditation on God’s majesty, written in Aramaic, and the most commonly associated mourning liturgy).  The accepted custom is to recite it at every opportunity which, in practice, means davening with a minyan (a quorum of 10), three times a day where it is already built into the liturgy.  For many people this practice brings great comfort.  For others, it also can serve to return them to Jewish practice–spending a year going to shul almost every day has quite an effect.

There are others, however, for whom it can become a real burden.  The idea of going to shul daily, even the obligation of davening three times a day, can become counterproductive, eventually even giving rise to anger and resentment.  Many in today’s world find it an ordeal to daily demonstrate, publicly, their lack of skill or even familiarity with Hebrew, let alone Aramaic.

In order to defuse this potential problem, I often explain to some people that Kaddish really isn’t that important.  The preferred method to support a loved one’s neshama (soul) after life is to study even a little bit of  Torah in their name every day.  Our sages realized that this avenue is only available, however, to people who have reached the age of being able to study Torah.  For younger children, who still wanted to honor and support the memory of their parent, our sages created a short declaration of God’s greatness and mercy, written in the English of their day, Aramaic.  It was never intended to be a tongue-twister and it was never intended to become the primary expression of mourning.  Therefore, I counsel some people to, yes, go to synagogue when they can and to stand up and say Kaddish when they do, but to choose a book in the world of Torah and Jewish learning to reserve for those days when they can’t for any reason, bring themselves to saying Kaddish.  In fact, this study will be even more “powerful” than the mere recitation of Kaddish.

Although it’s been more than two decades since I lost my own parents, and I daily pray that I’ll never be forced to mourn my children, the death of my friend brought me to a very similar emotional state to what I felt when my parents died.  I feel bereft and alone, a stranger in this new world which no longer contains my late friend.

This led my thoughts back to Kaddish, that “prayer” that was designed for a small child.  I realized that when we lose someone we loved so much, we’re faced with, among other things, our own powerlessness to have prevented that death.  We do, indeed, regress to that aspect of our childhood, although now we’re feeling abandoned as well as powerless.

From Rosh Chodesh Elul until Shemini Atzeret, we add Psalm 27, לדוד ה” אורי, to our daily prayers.  It contains the verse (10), כִּי־אָבִי וְאִמִּי עֲזָבוּנִי וַה” יַאַסְפֵנִי, Even when my father and mother have abandoned me, God will gather me in”.

In other words, especially when we lose a loved one, we need to be reminded that although we feel like and abandoned child, we still have an אבינו שבשמים, Avinu Sh’B’Shemayim “Father in Heaven”.  Perhaps it’s more than worth the inconvenience, even the pain and aggravation and humbling that often accompanies the daily obligation to attend services, to be reminded that, in the words of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai, the author of the Holy Zohar, in relationship to God, the Infinite, we’re all children.

Of course, when we engage in Torah studies and confront the infinite knowledge that we’ll never understand, rather than feeling frustrated or inadequate, we should celebrate this reminder of our place in the universe.  So, do try to say Kaddish when you can, but rely on the other avenues to bring you to the same place.

If you begin, as I do, with the assumption that the Torah is, indeed, divine, that it is a manifestation of the Infinite into our finite world, the questions are no longer “are these words true?” nor “what did they mean in their past, contemporary context?” nor “doesn’t this prove that our ancestors were ignorant savages?”.  In fact, the only question is “What is the Torah telling me, as a unique Jew, at this specific moment of my life?”

This isn’t such an easy question to answer.  For one thing, it takes many years of training to even begin to decode the meaning in words that have been repeated so many times by so many people in so many situations. Much of that training comes from Talmud study, not because of facts or even background the Talmud provides, but because of the years of practice and skill developing to think as fully as we can, transcending the merely empirical without, at the same time, getting lost in the purely speculative.  We also develop these skills by “building our other Jewish muscles” through the often hard-to-rationalize/understand Mitzvot (commandments).

One of the hardest to understand passages of the entire Torah is presented in this week’s parsha, Ki Tetze.  It’s call בן סורר ומורה, Ben Sorer u’Moreh, An Unmanageable Son.  In short, this passage commands parents, when a son is literally impossible to civilize, to bring that son in front of the judges to be condemned to death!  This is just the sort of passage that embarrasses many “modern” liberal Jews who see this, at best, as a remnant of an earlier, uncivilized period in our history.  But, assuming again that the Torah is eternal and has a vital message for every time and place, at best, again, that approach only generates the trivial and superflous lesson, “Aren’t you glad that we’ve evolved and become more civilized than our shameful ancestors?”  We need to look deeper.

Our classical commentators looked in a much different direction and derived a very different lesson.  They talked about this mitzva, if taken and practiced literally, is actually a radical example of חסד, Chesed, loving-kindness.  At first thought, that’s going to be a pretty hard stretch to explain, but the idea is that in some, absolutely extreme situations, it’s better to intervene early in order to prevent a person from creating even more evil and destruction as they become more capable.  Although such finality would only take place in a situation so rare that the Talmud assures us that it never has AND never will occur, the principle of pro-active intervention (while certainly not to this extreme), is one of the most difficult challenges of parenthood and is, really, based on a deeper love.

However, that lesson has already been taught.  While it remains valid and important to this day, if the Torah is, indeed, infinite, there are more lessons to derive here.

In the midst of the most negative and hate-filled national political campaign I’ve witnessed in America, I see partisans of the different candidates and their different views for America’s future not merely disagreeing with each other, but viciously belittling, dehumanizing and invalidating each other.  I never seen as polarized a situation here of people so smug in their own opinions that they feel license to absolutely hate their rivals.  I worry just how far some people might become willing to go to demonstrate their arrogant certainty.

My early mentor, family friend, teacher and rabbinic inspiration, Rabbi Daniel Goldberger zt”l, has a yahrzeit this Shabbat, the 13th of Elul.  On my first go-around to attempt earning smicha, many years ago, he cautioned me that while, like all men, he wasn’t immune to luxury, the one luxury he never afforded himself was 100% certainty.  While confidence is absolutely required, arrogance is absolutely to be shunned.

Our parsha, rather than instructing us to actually kill our own offspring, chas v’Shalom, if they stray too far from our foundation, forces us to confront ourselves and ask if disagreement, even total disagreement, is so unbearable to us that we would actually kill to defend our ideas.  Or, in a more home-based setting, can a child or a sibling or a spouse or a parent ever become so despised that we really think the world would be better without them?

These days, after reliving the national destruction and exile of Tisha B’Av, leading up through tshuvah, resetting our aims and values, to the Yomim Noraim, the Days of Awe, are days in which we, always working from the inner core outward, need to dissolve our anger and animosity first to those closest to us, then, spreading outward, first to our Jewish people, and then to our greater communities and nations.  If there is no other resort, yes we must decisively confront evil.  But when it’s merely a matter of disagreement, even profound disagreement, we need to remind ourselves with the Torah’s lesson, that our need for each other far exceeds our differences.

From time to time, I’ve helped a friend lead a Mussar worksop.  This week we’re discussing the Middah, personality trait, of Shetika, silence.  The following are some thoughts I gathered for this meeting.

Mussar Midot and Mitzvot

Shetika (Silence)

Don’t bear tales  “Lo Talech Rachil”

And you should serve The Lord  (daily prayer)  “V’Avadatem”

לֹא־תֵלֵךְ רָכִיל בְּעַמֶּיך

(ויקרא י”ט: ט”ז)

“Don’t bear  tales among your people”

(Vayikra 19:16)

וַעֲבַדְתֶּם אֵת יְהוָֹה אֱלֹהֵיכֶם

(שמות כ”ג: כ”ה)

“And you should serve the Lord your God”

(Shemot 23:25)

*   *   *   *   *

 Silence can be expressed both in terms of what we refrain to say and when we choose silence itself as a modality.

Our spiritual tradition associates the final ה in the Divine Name with the five organs of speech: the throat, tongue, palate, lips and teeth.  If we seek to destroy, our easiest and most convenient weapon is our words, employing slander, gossip, lies, insult and innuendo.  We literally destroy the Divine Unity overseeing our world by wrenching this final letter from His Name.

It’s always a lot harder to repair damage than it is to have prevented it in the first place.  Refraining from irresponsible and hateful talk, while it can be challenging in the heat of strong emotion, is always easier than trying to apologize, soothe hurt feelings and prevent reciprocal and compounding hatred from worsening any situation.

Related to Shetika, silence, is “Shmirat HaLashon”, self-supervising our speech.  This is the title of the classic Mussar book on Lashon Ha’Ra by Rabbi Yisrael Meir Kagan, the famous Chaftetz Chaim, in 1876. The Torah specifies the mitzva of “Lo Talech Rachil”, emphasizing its importance.

The Amida or Shemona Esray (literally eighteen, although the prayer actually contains nineteen blessings!) is known as the Silent Prayer.  Recited three times a day, in combines praise, requests for our personal and communal needs and, finally, acknowledgement and thanks.  So important, the prayer now completely fills the functions of the animal sacrifices during the Temple era (and, thus, is structured in their templates).  Just as the Temple ritual was referred to as Avoda, Holy Labor, prayer is described in the Gemara (Ta’anit 2a) as Avoda She’B’Lev, Holy Labor within the heart.

Normal halachic rulings say that we should recite these prayers very quietly, giving just enough voice that we, ourselves, can heard each word.  In fact, we learn this from the story of Hanna who prays in complete silence for the birth of a son who turns out to be Shmuel HaNavi, Samuel the Prophet.  Eli, the Cohen, priest, who merely sees her lips moving but hears no sound mistakes her for being drunk!

The mystical tradition, however, teaches that, indeed, it can be an even higher and stronger prayer when it is completely silent.  This, however, depends on the kavana, the inner dedication/intention of awe and awareness that God can listen even in complete silence, to the cries and songs within our heart–He transcends the need of sound in order to hear.

At the very least, however, approaching silence is a way of preventing extraneous distractions from fighting for our attention when we’re involved in serious spiritual practice.  This silence, or at least near-silence sets the stage and frames our direct, thrice-daily encounter with the Divine Infinite, the Holy One Blessed Be He.  Another kavana, intention, we think of before entering the Amida is to reunify God’s Holy Name, partially by rededicating our ה, our five organs of speech, to our individual, unique holy missions in life.

The Meor Eynayim, Rabbi Menachem Nachum of Chernobyl, repeatedly emphasize the Ohr, the great spiritual light and energy, that infuses every word of Torah and Tefilla.  He discusses the meaning at the word level, at the individual letter level, at the level of the nikudim (vowel points), ta’amim (musical notes), tagim/kitrot (crown-like decorations on select letters).  By utilizing our vocal ability, classically considered the differentiating characteristic between humanity and the rest of the animal kingdom, for only our highest purposes is a spiritual journey of bringing our best selves to our Avoda, our Holy Labor, especially within our hearts.

New technology puts a telephone in your hand no matter where you are.  We developed a culture where many of us are willing to let an intrusive phone ring summon us out of our present context in order to talk with whoever is calling.  And with uneven cell-coverage, we’re willing to put up with terrible connections, drop-out and interrupted conversations. Add the technology of a built-in speaker phone and the sound quality deteriorates even further.  But we’re all, most often, more than eager to try to communicate.

It’s Friday afternoon here in Seattle, about four hours (it’s summer) from Shabbat.  An hour ago I was walking my dog in an off-leash dog park, speaking on the phone with a friend on the east coast, three hours closer to candle-lighting, bustling about the kitchen with the phone on speaker.  The wind is blowing, water is lapping at the rocks and dogs are barking.  I’m confident of hearing less than 80% of the conversation and am constantly asking, “What did you just say?  Can you hear me?”

And I’m happy to do it!

Humans seem to be hard-wired to constantly seek connection.

Which brings me to Tefila, prayer.  I know what a struggle it can be, even for someone as motivated as I am, to take advantage of the built-in structure embedded in the halachot of davening and to even make a cursory prayer three times every day.  Davening with full kavana, concentration and intention, is an almost unreachable dream.

Jewish tradition teaches us of the holy energy embedded not only in every word of Torah and Tefila, but in every letter, even in every vowel.  R. Menachem Nachum of Chernobyl, the Me’or Eynayim, among others, encourages us to take advantage of these opportunities and to bind ourselves, as much as we are able, to the very letters of Torah and Tefila as one of the most direct modes we have to communicate with God, the be connected with The Creator.

A phrase that appears frequently in the Oral Torah is עד כמה וכמה, ad kama v’kama.  It’s best translated as “how much more so!”  My thinking after my less than optimal phone experience was that if I’m willing to put up with such ridiculously bad call quality just in order to feel connected with another person, ad kama v’kama should I feel motivated to connect with The Creator.

I have the power, as we all do, to determine the depth and quality of those communications.  The door is always open.  Therefore I should feel an overwhelming motivation to do so with all my heart. May I, and all of us together, soon reach that level of direct connection, free from interference and distraction, with as direct a connection we’re able to handle.

I was taught a short piece of the Meor Eynayim (Menacham Nachum of Chernobyl) more than thirty years ago this week, Parshat V’Etchanan and it became a major foundation of my understanding of Torah and my purpose in life.  I’ve relearned it each year and I’m always struck with the radical empowerment it mandates.

He begins by reminding us of the teaching that there are six hundred thousand unique souls which comprise the Jewish people.  Then he develops the concept of the holy fallen sparks of reality, the netzutzot, which are each assigned to specific neshamot.  Each of us has a unique set of these netzutzot we’re given to find, extract from the background and to then lift up to their highest roots in the spiritual realms.  In fact, one can sum up each of our ultimate purposes in life on this basis.

Next he addresses the “what am I doing here?” feeling each of us experiences from time to time.  In fact, as we are better able to develop a sense of constant wonder and freshness, that feeling can become our frequent companion.  Rather than feeling displaced, alienated and unable to function, he advises us that, in fact, God has intentionally brought us to each moment and situation just because there is one of these holy sparks awaiting us.  We can live our fullest, most significant and meaningful life by finding these sparks in each situation, redeeming and lifting them up to their Holy Source.  He goes so far as to say that the very taste and pleasure we enjoy, for example, from food and drink are these selfsame netzutzot!

Ultimately, we’re supposed to fully engage, but in our own unique ways, each moment of our lives.  We’re to search out and engage in that spiritual work which only we, individually, are empowered to do.  We see each moment as a new opportunity, intentionally and uniquely presented to us.

This is the true meaning of tikkun olam, repairing the world.  By each of us performing our unique soul-missions we re-align both ourselves, Olam Katan (the small world) as well as the greater universe, Adam Gadol (the great Man).  There is no “one-size-fits-all” mission, no “one-size-fits-all” method.  Rather we each called by our unique neshamot.

This parsha is always read the week after Tisha b’Av, the day we should most be aware of our all-too-human tendency towards Sinat Chinam, untethered, baseless hate of others which, we’re taught, was the cause of the destruction and exile that began that day.  We are only able to hate people if we first devalue them.  But if we maintain in our constant awareness the realization that each of our fellow Jews, and by extension every person, has a critical and unique mission in life that needs to be done and that only they can achieve, we’re forced to value each and every one.  This, in turn, should bring us to appreciating and loving, Ahavat Chinam, people for who they are and how they are needed in this great adventure that is infinitely beyond the ability of any single one of us.

It’s often pointed out that just as there are six hundred thousand Jewish souls, there are six hundred thousand letters (some temporarily invisible) in the Torah.  If even one letter is missing, the entire Torah scroll is pasul, defective and unusable.  If even one of us would, chas v’shalom, cease to be, the goal of partnering with God to complete Creation would be impossible and the world would be doomed to eternal defect.  Just as some letters are close to some and distant from others, our personalities can be so divergent that it’s, indeed, a challenge to even accept, let alone love everyone.  But just because it can be difficult doesn’t, in any way, relieve us of the obligation.

Today is Tu b’Av, the fifteenth of Av, one of the two most joyous days described by our sages.  It celebrates love and was, historically, a day for matchmaking and weddings (quite a relief, especially after the three-week prohibition against marriages immediately preceding Tisha b’Av).  May we take the lessons of this week and may we never have to fast and mourn again on Tisha b’Av, having learned to love and treasure each other, thus removing the only thing that keeps us in this oh-so-long, oh-so-painful, exile.

The three weeks immediately preceding Tisha B’Av, the anniversary of the destruction of both Holy Temples, each time leading to painful exile, has a number of prohibitions mandated.  There are restrictions on bathing (for pleasure), buying new things, laundry and wearing fresh clothes, celebrations and weddings, festive music and hair cutting.

I admit to not being that frum with all these restrictions.  Part of that I justify by recognizing that we do have, admittedly not yet complete, Jewish national sovereignty for the first time since these restrictions were originally enacted.  Jerusalem, although still a work in progress, is no longer in complete ruins and close to half of worldwide Jewry now lives in Israel!  I also justify my own laxness with thoughts that our generation is, spiritually, a very weak one, and that rather than properly focusing on what these restrictions are intended to make us think and feel, all too often they only make us irritated and complaining as we focus no further than our personal discomfort and inconvenience.  I’m also just not so frum, even when, perhaps, I should be stricter with myself. Thus, if I can find a kula, an established rabbinic leniency, I generally embrace it enthusiastically!

Although I’m pretty much Ashkenazi, I like to see myself as at least somewhat an honorary Sephardi on the basis of some very close friendships, as well as my admiration of Sephardi learning.  When I recently learned that, at least according to the Ben Ish Chai,  the revered 19th century Iraqi authority, that some restrictions, including hair-cutting, only come into effect the week of Tisha B’Av itself, I felt very relieved.  You see, I only realized last Shabbat, the 17th of Tammuz itself, the beginning of the three-week period, that I forgot to get a haircut on Friday and I was feeling a bit shaggy.  After younger decades of hair to my shoulders and a full, untrimmed beard, I’ve recently kept my beard and hair a lot shorter if for no other reason than to de-emphasize the white which now predominates….  So, I thought very seriously to take advantage of the Ben Ish Chai‘s opinion and go to the barber.

But as I thought more about this, I was struck that perhaps the usual point of reference for these restrictions, the restrictions during the mourning process, might not be the entire story.  Of course, we’ve been in an almost two-millennia state of mourning, alienation and exile, and it is appropriate to emphasize that during this period.

But, I started to feel another parameter underlying these traditions, a sense of empathy with our ancestors who actually experienced this horror.  They were surrounded with massacre and destruction, starvation and homelessness to a degree that I, honestly, can’t even begin to imagine.  Their world really was ending, crumbling around them.  These survivors were in no position to enjoy a warm bath, a family celebration, clean clothes or a sense of being decently-groomed.

I have begun to see my own deprivations, minor as they are, giving me just the tiniest sense of the pain and terror they experienced.  Not only that, it reminds me that, comfortable and secure as I am now in 21st century America, given the very real, existential threats that Israel, and by extension every Jew, faces every day, it’s not impossible that I and/or my children could, chas v’shalom, find ourselves in the very same straits.  It scares me to death, as well it should!

My thinking is that if I’m commanded to remember my own and my people’s vulnerability, I should proceed to do every thing I possibly can to prevent that from ever happening.  Which brings me to examine the causes of that original disaster, which, our sages tell us, was sinat chinam, senseless hatred and pettiness towards our fellow Jews.  And the remedy for that, we’re taught is achdut and ahavat chinam, Jewish Unity and unconditional love for our fellow Jew (which, of course, does allow for disagreement–I’m not suggesting uniform conformity to any particular mandate).

So this year, as I surmount feeling sorry for myself because I’ve gotten so old and grey, I’ll remind myself to go out of my way to show my love and support for my fellow Jews.  And, hopefully, I can continue this even beyond Tisha B’Av, hoping that this will be the final year we still have even a vestige of exile and hoping that my actions bring us all even a tiny bit closer to our ultimate geula, redemption.