Rabbi Zeitlin

I often describe Judaism as the “art of irrational optimism”.  By that I’m affirming belief in a Creator who is well-intentioned, who stacks the deck for our ultimate success.  This underlying structural directionality towards the eventual resolution of our world into it’s potential fulfillment often isn’t apparent, but it’s built into creation nonetheless.  It transcends our logic and empiricism and other isms.

With our western orientation, especially living in the United States, it’s easy to lose sight of this.  But spend just a day or two in Israel, and this reality becomes visceral.  Surrounded by genocidal neighbors, governed by self-defeating, chaotic and often corrupt leaders, chronically beset by drought, suffering devastating fires, sitting atop a seismically active earthquake fault, you know that there is no logical reason at all that the country survives even for a day.  But our logic is limited and there we, indeed, persevere.

Let’s take a more profound paradox.  We’re trained to see the world as an, at best, zero-sum game.  In other words, for every winner there is a loser.  There is a constant amount of matter/energy in the universe–i.e. the Laws of Thermodynamics upon which all science is based.  On an individual level, we are convinced that you can either take care of your own needs or dedicate yourself to others, but that it’s impossible to do both simultaneously.

Our tradition completely contradicts that last statement.  Remember, we understand the connection between the microcosm, each individual, and the macrocosm of the universe at large.  We’re given a set of actions and intentions, הלכות, (halachot) paths, to enable us to connect our finite, separate and individual selves to the Infinite, the One.  The fact that there are so many halachot, basically one for each moment of our daily life, is not meant to be intrusive in our lives and to make us angry and frustrated with being over-regulated and micro-managed, but rather to allow us the opportunity at each moment of each day, if we choose, to make that connection.

We’re not intended to live puritanical, grimacing lives of desperation.  There is a teaching that says that when we come to give our final accounting of our life, we’re held liable for each (permitted) pleasure we encountered but declined.  The flip side of this is that we’re given ברכות, berachot, blessings (perhaps better translated as acknowledgements) to recite before enjoying things in this world.  Of course we’re familiar with the ברכות before eating different types of food, but there are also berachot for seeing a wonder of nature, for seeing the ocean, for smelling a fragrant spice or a fragrant plant or flower.

In fact, this is a key insight because it reveals the mechanism that we can both please ourselves and bring further completion to the world by making the connection with the Divine with the same act.  We acknowledge God’s presence, benificence and love, thus “unifying the upper and the lower worlds”, bringing the Divine Infinite energy into our material world while lifting our world of physicality and the mundane into the realm of the spiritual.

It’s often a very fine line between enjoying the gifts of our lives and becoming selfish, arrogant and negative.  There is also a line, again sometimes hard to find, between using gratefully and abusing selfishly.  It’s not always easy, perhaps rarely easy at all, to find and live in this balance, but it is well worth striving for.

As we progress from the plateau of Pesach, becoming free from the oppression of Mitzraim and all that implies, and approach the culmination of our journey with Shavuot, merging with the highest state of awareness which we call Torah, we find ourselves in an eerie time.  As we refine ourselves using the Sefirot (seven general personality areas) through the process of Sefira — counting the days of the Omer (Sefirat HaOmer), Jews have traditionally refrained from weddings, at least until ל”ג בעומר (Lag B’Omer), the 33rd day of this counting, as well as from getting haircuts and buying new clothes.

These restrictions are generally grouped together as part of the mourning rituals we observe to commemorate the mysterious death of 24,000 of Rabbi Akiva’s students.  Indeed, the restrictions of marriage, or at least the festive chuppa ceremony, as well as refraining from buying new clothes does seem to directly relate to mourning customs. In fact, there is an elaborate rabbinic calculation (subtracting seventeen holy days in which the students did not die from the total of forty-nine days between the two holidays leaves thirty-two days which are then grouped together at the front of the period making ל”ג, the thirty-third the beginning of the period when these restrictions are dropped) to begin permitting celebrations after Lag B’Omer.

However, the mystical master, the Ari, the sixteenth century kabbalist, insists that the restriction on hair-cutting last all the way through the forty-nine day period because they are described as ימין דינין, days of judgement.  In his kabbalistic writings, he describes the hairs, some from the back of the head, some from the beard, of אדם קדמון, Adam Kadmon, the Primordial Man, as transmitting energies of חסד, chesed, mercy, which are necessary to counteract the strict application of judgement, דין.  As we alternate our awareness between the larger universe, אדם גדול (Adam Gadol) and the microcosm of each individual, עולם קטן (Olam Katan), we consider how our individual actions affect the greater world and thus refrain from any act which might limit the amount of mercy in the world, even though we don’t, can’t, quite understand this mechanism.

More prosaically, we recall that these days are the precarious period while we await the first harvest (which coincides with Shavuot).  This is described as ימי דין על התבואה, Days of Judgement on the Produce.  Nonetheless, we try to walk a very fine line in order to not attract negative energy.

Another way of looking at this is that we are walking a very fine line, trying to carefully and precisely refine ourselves, to become a pure vessel for the ultimate reality contained in the Torah, to prevent ourselves from polluting it with our own ego-weaknesses.  Along this parameter, it doesn’t really matter if growing our hair has an empirical effect or not, it reminds us that, as we become physically scruffy, to not let our spiritual lives also become unattended.

Perhaps, however, an even more profound lesson comes from exploring the reluctance to buy new clothes which, as we look further, is really to deter us from saying the bracha  Shehechiyanu v’Kiymanu v’Higiyanu LaZman Hazeh, Who has sustained us and maintained us and brought us to this time (of thanksgiving and recognition of the Source of all).  This is also known as אמירת זמן (Amirat Z’man), the speaking or acknowledgement in time of the eternal presence of the Infinite.

One would think that, ideally, one should have this Shehechiyanu consciousness 24/7, that we be continuously aware and connect to the holy, the infinite, the divine, to God.  After all, isn’t that what our rituals are aimed at, our prayers, our good deeds and our study?

Perhaps, however, this teaches us that even when we’re on our holiest, most serious journey, aiming directly at the state we call receiving the Torah, it’s unreasonable, arrogant even, to consider ourselves capable of maintaining this awareness over a sustained time.  We’re shown that there are just times when being “in the moment” just is beyond us.

This parallels the almost burlesque narrative of Moshe just before he receives the Torah at Sinai.  He’s told to climb the mountain, to hurriedly return to the camp only to immediately climb again, to descend again….  King Solomon in Mishlei, Proverbs, reminds us that even a holy tzaddik falls (at least) seven times.  We can’t climb higher if we become so accustomed to our plateau that we consider it to actually be the summit!

So, perhaps, we combine mourning those who fell along the way, care in our own journey and humility in our own achievements.

…………the seventeen day of the Omer, Tiferet she’b’Tiferet, י”ז בעומר, תפארת שבתפארת, that balancing beauty of beauty and balance itself.

Racism is never acceptable.  Just as we, in America, evolved beyond a way of life where it seemed ok to say that black people were not allowed to live in certain neighborhoods of our cities, the world must evolve to be able to say that it is not acceptable that a Jew be forbidden to live anywhere of his choosing, be it a neighborhood in Manhattan, Berlin or Paris, Rio or Tokyo, one in any part of Jerusalem, one in Hebron or Bethlehem or even one in Amman or Riyad.

Racism is never acceptable.

I am walking alone in the rain on the seventh night of Pesach.  This is the day we cross the ים סוף, the Red (or Reed) Sea, in our final escape from Egypt.  The Torah describes a night of terror, of howling winds with the threat of פרעה, Pharoah and his army breathing down our necks.

We learn that although we were assured that if we just started walking, the waters would part and we’d cross safely on dry land, everyone was, rightly, afraid to start.  The Midrash teaches that נחשון בן אמינדב, Nachshon Ben Aminadav finally started to walk into the sea.  It didn’t part magically with his first step, nor did it when he was waist deep or even neck deep, but he continued to walk until, giving up on all logic, he was in over his head.  Only then did the miracle occur.

This is an old story that’s familiar to even most Sunday School children.  What I realized walking alone that night, just a couple days ago, was that everyone one of us is Nachshon, that each of us walks alone and needs to gather our own resolve.  The darkness and storms and heavy seas won’t part for us because of someone else’s courage, but we each need to make the personal decision to move forward.

In English, we call Pesach the Holiday of Freedom, but the Hebrew word, גאולה,  Geula actually means redemption.  שחרות Shichrut, which means freedom, is only seen incidentally, and not strictly in the Haggadah itself (rather in the song made from the paragraph that begins עבדים היינו  Avadim Hayinu, We were slaves, עתה אנו בני חורים Ata Anu B’nei Chorim, Now we are free people).

Redemption does assume freedom, but freedom doesn’t require redemption.  Furthermore, we traditionally see גאולה Geula as ongoing and not yet completed.  Or, at least, our redemption from Egypt isn’t the final redemption we still await.

The lives of our ancestors created a template for the future of our people.  The exile, גלות Galut and slavery in Egypt sets the pattern for our historical exiles, just as this גאולה Geula teaches us of our historical and future redemptions.  To this end, the Torah uses for different words to describe God’s redeeming us: הוצאתי Hotzeiti, I removed you, הצלתי Hatzalti, I rescued you, גאלתי Ga’alti, I redeemed you and לקחתי Lekachti, I took you (to myself, i.e. selected).  Of these, perhaps only Hotzeiti, I removed you, and Hatzalti, I rescued, refer to “curing” or freeing us from slavery.

Our ambition on Pesach, then, is much more than “merely” escaping from slavery to freedom, although that’s a necessary first step.  But if it were our final status, why would we be called to enact this process every year?  Perhaps Geula, redemption, is a work in process, a state of awareness and sensitivity and purpose we need to continue to strive for.  And don’t forget that we must encounter Lekachti, we must be selected (or select ourselves?), somewhere on the way.

I’m not sure what it all means.  It’s what it should be, a work in progress and that means we have to experience this upcoming Pesach in order to have something to process and reflect on and to grow with.

Chag Sameach

I’m a guitarist.  When I’m not playing my own music, my favorite piece in the whole world is the Prelude from Bach’s first Cello Suite.  Technically, it’s not overly difficult to play, but each note is so rich with potential beauty, both in itself and as it follows from and leads to all the other notes.  It’s a simple, yet complex balance of beauty, and every guitarist has his unique approach and insights.

Nonetheless, I rarely get through it without a hitch.  Even if I don’t hit any wrong notes, there are always hesitations, weak tones, misses slight or greater.  And even though it’s pretty short, each time I play it there are always notes and phrases I like better than others.

Knowing all that, I never pick up my guitar with the intention to only play every other note, or only the notes that appeal to me that moment.  I’m in it for its integral beauty.  I tell myself that it isn’t that hard and each time, knowing I’ll never get there all the way, I start out aiming for perfection.

I’m pretty sure you can see the link to Shabbat.  Its tapestry of observances and restrictions, familiar foods, words and melodies weekly allow us an opportunity to attempt an ever more beautiful expression.  I might miss a note or two, forget myself or forget the holiness I’m surrounded by, but I begin each Shabbat hoping to play it just right.

I wasn’t yet nine when President Kennedy challenged the American people “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.”  I’m saddened and actually a little surprised that so many people who grew up with that inspiration not only lost it themselves, but failed to pass much of it on to their children.  Perhaps a lot has to do with the coronation of greed in the 1980s, perhaps with exhaustion from the unending state of war the United States has been in throughout my lifetime and Israel for even longer.  Perhaps we’re all so conditioned by today’s micro-marketing which actually does aim every appeal directly to us (or at least to our “demographic”) that we think everything really is about us.

Despite various self-congratulatory proclamations which occasionally come out of the ba’al tshuva, newly orthodox, movement, at least in America, Jewish involvement in Judaism is plummeting across all the denominations (including the orthodox).  Although I haven’t lived in Israel for years and might be totally off-base, it seems that except for an aggressive birthrate, and even they have many dropouts, among the ultra-orthodox, traditional Judaism is highly challenged there as well.

Much of what I read from synagogues, federations, hillels and denominations boils down to marketing.  How do we appeal to the young, to the unaffiliated, the disaffected?  Without an organization that supports or pays me, in other words, even though I’m not looking for new members, nonetheless, I am passionately devoted to passing our tradition into the future, so I also find myself thinking in terms of marketing.  (I guess I’m not excluded from my times either….)

One thing I find conspicuously lacking in Jewish Marketing these days is an appeal to be part of the chain.  Oh yes, there are plenty of opportunities, especially in today’s orthodox world, to pretend to be a link from far back, to be part of nineteenth century and earlier eastern Europe.  (Forgive me for saying it, but if it weren’t for the horror of the Nazi holocaust in the twentieth century, that period would have stood out as the worst our people have gone through!)  But appealing to a bowdlerized nostalgia is not inviting folks to join the chain, rather it’s just an invitation to play make-believe.  And while you might cure your loneliness with a group of fellow-players, are you really bringing Judaism into the future?  Really being part of our chain involves receiving wisdom and tradition in good faith rather than skepticism, honestly processing them in our very real lives, and passing that, our processed Jewish experience, to our children, always moving forward.

The other major appeal I often see, which I find at least as empty, is essentially the promise of a safe, legal psychedelic experience–some sort of kaballistically-inspired “spiritual” high which somehow skates around inconvenient things like obligations and mitzvot and discipline.  This is often accompanied by the opportunity for the self-satisfied conviction that you’re on “the right side” of all the “important” issues: the environment, world peace, “inclusion” and other clichés of today’s liberal agenda.  It’s all about making yourself feel good, righteous and “holy”.

Well, I hate to be the party-pooper, but that’s not what it’s all about either.  Our tradition values responsibility more than privilege, hard work rather than play.  About being an adult and leaving childhood to the children.  Truly imitating the Creator by giving rather than taking, doing right rather than feeling righteous.

Although it can be difficult to distinguish between our real responsibilities, the mitzvot, and the make-believe pieties (chumrot), even the chumrot place you in the right ballpark.  Rather than following your own whims and desires, you’re trying to please a beloved, God.   There is an explicit assumption that taking oneself out of the equation, putting God in the center of the universe is a positive thing to do.  Although it’s far from always reliable, we do assign a higher truth-value to our accumulated wisdom than we do to our individual analysis and intuition.  We accept our fallibility and don’t insist on reducing everything to our own imaginations.  We realize that our vision is limited and even our empirical knowledge will always be more incomplete than it is complete.

None of this contradicts a stake in world peace, in a safe and healthy environment, in justice and in helping all people live safe, healthy, free and fulfilling lives.  We do advocate a different modality, a different approach of how to achieve these goals, however.  I invite each of us to open our minds to the possibility that what we often see as direct action might actually be counterproductive and that what might appear arbitrary, archaic and irrelevant, such as fulfilling mitzvot and otherwise following our tradition, might, in a way we, with our limited vision, can’t personally perceive, actually be a much more effective method.

Everybody likes to feel good about themselves and there’s nothing wrong with that.  Over and over, Chassidic writing reminds us of the balance that even though we are limited beings and, compared to the Infinite, insignificant, each of us, in our uniqueness, is an entire universe.  When we take the spiritual to heart, not just as an easy high, but as the source of many truths, we can learn to see beyond our ego-limited, empirical-only blinders and have the courage and the strength to at least try what our tradition teaches really can make the world better for all life.  Perhaps we can market our tradition as Tikkun Olam rather than marketing Tikkun Olam as a substitute of our tradition.

In a rather technical discussion about civil marriage and whether its dissolution requires a get, a formal religious divorce, a friend pointed out that historically, different communities had different readings of the weight of civil marriage and, thus, different decisions on this point.  That insight made me see just how much the world of halachic authorities has changed.  Not that long ago, local rabbis had the courage to make psak (a ruling) for their communities.  Another rabbi down the road or in another town or another country would also have the self-confidence to give rulings for his community.  This mechanism was predicated on each rabbi realizing that while they had authority, they weren’t the exclusive judge and that others were equally empowered.

Today you’ll find very few local rabbis, no matter how well qualified, willing to make a public decision.  They’re frequently afraid someone else will criticize them for being too lenient.  A distortion has come into the system when stricter rulings and observance are somehow thought to be better, holier, more serious and more religious.  Beyond the fact that there is absolutely no established halachic basis for this (and quite a bit of text contradicting it), this fear of being delegitimized has shrunk the seventy faces of Torah within the orthodox world down to one.

The real problem, of course, is the implication that the Infinite Torah, and by extension the Infinite Creator, is no more complex than the limited imagination embodied in one opinion.  This is balanced, don’t you know, by the opposite trend and equally disastrous conclusion that all opinions are equally valid, there is no halacha and no authority, that anything goes and, by implication, the no-longer-infinite, chas v’shalom, Creator is too limited and impotent to devise order out of chaos.

The combination of confidence and courage, balanced with humility and humanity, too rare today, is desperately needed.

In the midst of the parshiot of building the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary in the desert, once again I’m enjoying the insights of the Malbim, a unique nineteenth century sage and leader.  In these sections he reveals especially deep meanings underlying the Mishkan and its various vessels.

The principal concept is that of עולם, Olam, world or universe.  He teaches that there are two primary universes, עולם קטן, Olam Katan, the small world, which is each individual person, and עולם גדול, Olam Gadol, the greater universe, which can also be called אדם גדול, Adam Gadol, the greater man.  These are actually equivalent in that they can be isomorphically mapped into each other.  Between the two, also isomorphic to both, is the משכן, Mishkan, literally the dwelling place, where our ritual acts connect the two, enabling the vital, life-giving flow of energy from the Divine Infinite into the secular and finite, as well as enabling our otherwise limited actions to benefit the world at large.

Contemporary Judaism is so deeply divided between these two worlds that each side has great difficulty finding any value in the other.  Each, both the religious and the secular, is increasingly dominated by its extremists, with all the resultant problems that implies.  Instead of the worldly and the religious spheres enhancing each other, all too often they’re at war.

One specific area that this drama plays out is תיקון עולם, tikkun olam, the repair, or better, the rebalancing and re-tuning of the world.  The liberal denominations have lately come to claim social justice and ecological awareness as their very own, often substituting these values completely for the ritual observance of mitzvot.  The extreme, perhaps dominant wings of today’s orthodox world dismiss those concerns as narishkeit, foolishness and place total emphasis on ever stricter, many would argue needlessly strict, ritual observance.  In doing so, each rejects and delegitimizes the other, destroying the fabric of  עם ישראל, the Jewish People.

The fact of the matter is that both are vital.  Mitzvot and halacha largely are the technology of  תיקון עולם קטן, repairing the inner, individual person, the microcosm.  They connect us to the divine energy and the divine wisdom which empower us to work effectively, not just make useless, feel-good gestures, to bring real improvement to the  עולם גדול, the greater, macrocosm world.

This double-layered תיקון, completion, is our mandate as Jews and our opportunity to partner with The Creator in putting the finishing touches on the world.  It’s sad enough when we overlook one side or the other of our task, but it’s outright tragic when we self-righteously reject one or the other because we don’t like the folks “on the other side” advocating it.  Only by reaching out to, honoring and learning from each other will we return the שכינה, the Holy Divine Presence to visibility in this dual-scaled world.

I probably see at least several headlines a week talking about our growing addiction to social networking on the internet.  In the past year, Facebook has become the web’s most-visited domain.  Experts regularly pontificate on how to cure ourselves or our children from this obsession.

To me, this isn’t very mysterious.  At no time in the past have people been more disconnected from each other.  Of course we want relationships–we’re programmed to be social beings.  We’re often so desperate that we’re willing to substitute superficial “chats” for real conversations, status updates for actually being together.

I don’t believe for a minute that if we’d just get offline and go outside we’d find the people and relationships we need.  We’re often surrounded by strangers and far from those we’ve loved.  It takes time and courage, sometime also hard work, to be a friend and lover and fewer and fewer of us have the time to share just being with another person.  Having broken off most of our direct contacts with the family and friends we grew up with, not because we fought, but because of our relentless mobility, we’re too often afraid that we now lack what it takes to attract and develop new friendships.  We fear that we’re alone because we deserve it.  Pleasantries with fellow workers, a friendly exchange with a waitress or a checker or with a client or a customer don’t penetrate the surface of either relationship or our need.  We need real people, real friends, and, sadly, internet connections might just be the best we can get.

Rather than blame the victims, we should address the underlying issue.  Our mystical tradition teaches us that the our strongest spiritual desire is to reconnect with the Creator, the One.  Actually, we’re never disconnected, but a consequence of our material existence is the limiting of our perceptions.  We have eyes and hearts of flesh, so, unless we actively focus on it, we quickly lose sight that we already and permanently are “hard-wired” into God.

Yes, we do have the Torah which acts as a guide, especially giving us rituals, a technology which restores one aspect of the awareness of the relationship  But we’re also given our desire, our capacity to love and join with other people.  It’s not one or the other, but both–we’re not one-dimensional beings, but each, rather, our own unique, infinitely-textured and layered microcosms.

Many early Chassidic masters taught that our desire to merge with another person is really our desire to merge with God, as expressed in the language of physical being.  No wonder this is our strongest desire!

Rather than decry some people’s dependence on software substitutes, better to open ourselves to real-life people.  We have to relearn, if necessary, awkward and embarrassing as it often is, the skills to make and be a friend.  We need to believe in our own worthiness to be a friend, a lover.  We need the courage to try, even if it means getting rejected from time to time.

We simply need each other.

Doing without, we’ll merely continue to self-medicate with one proxy or another as best we can.