Thursday, February 28, 2013

On Idolatry: What is Our Golden Calf?

Rabbi Mishael Zion Bronfman Fellowships | Text and the City | Ki Tisa 2013

The principal crime of the human race, the highest guilt charged upon the world, the whole procuring cause of judgment, is idolatry.  The idolater is likewise a murderer. Do you inquire whom he has slain? If it contributes ought to the aggravation of the indictment, no stranger nor personal enemy, but his own self. By what snares? Those of his error. By what weapon? The offence done to God. By how many blows? As many as are his idolatries.
[“On Idolatry”, Tertullian, 2nd Century Church father, Carthage

This week’s Parasha, Ki Tisa, with its Golden Calf and broken tablets, tells the tale of the biggest mistake the Jewish people ever made. Not too long after the wedding at Sinai is over, God finds his new wife, Israel, in bed with an adulterer –and a cow no less… In one of the fieriest moments in the Torah, Moses, having come down the mountain and broken the tablets, takes the hoofed object of the betrayal, melts it down, and forces the Jewish people to drink its molten gold. Through this scene, and many others, the Torah identifies its most serious enemy: Idolatry.
As a child I could never understand the draw of idolatry. Judging from the stories told in kindergarten, it seemed quite stupid. Why would people be drawn to worshipping “stones and trees”? If even Abraham could see that the statues in his father’s store were powerless – how could the rest of the world be so stupid? The idea that we, crazy Jews, were the only ones who saw the light on this issue was in itself suspicious. Years later I read that the rabbis agreed with me to some extent: “The desire to worship idols has passed from this world – it has now been given to all transgressions” they say in Sanhedrin 75a. Many pagans in late antiquity might agree (see “Did the Greeks Believe Their Myths?”). In the post-pagan world, where idolatry became the shared enemy of Judaism, Christianity and Islam, you might expect idolatry to stop acting as a useful category altogether.
Unsurprisingly, idolatry never died. The history of Idolatry is fascinating and ever relevant, for while it is no longer about idols and statuettes, it is every bit about defining what God and religion mean. Changing conceptions of God create different ideas about what is idolatry. Or to put it differently - the notion of the alien, or false, god, shapes the concept of GodAs Moshe Halbertal and Avishai Margalit put it in their monograph, “Idolatry” –
The prohibition against idolatry is the thick wall that constitutes the city of God, leaving the strange gods outside and marking the community of the faithful. [However] the location of that dividing wall is not fixed, rather opposing conceptions of idolatry define the outskirts of the city of God differently. It is essential for the self-definitions of non-pagans to share the general concept of idolatry, but they do not share a specific definition of what is idolatry and what is wrong with it. [Idolatry, pg. 236]
It is by knowing what idolatry is that we know what Judaism is, what a relationship with God is. It is by knowing what the act of “slaying one’s own self” as Tertullian describes it, that one knows what it is to live a meaningful life. Which leads me to the question I’ll be pondering this Shabbat: What are today’s idolatries? What is it that we would identify today as “the principal crime of the human race, the highest guilt charged upon the world”? What is our golden calf?
In the 19th and 20th century, idolatry was alive and well. Marx saw idolatry in fetishism, the fetishizing of money and price. The religious literature of the 1950’s saw idolatry in totalitarianism and fascism, the 1960’s saw idolatry in the military-industrial complex or mainstream bourgeois culture. For others it is liberalism and political correctness which is the great idolatry, and fetishizing of equality while losing the compass of the sacred. Common to all of these is the identification of group-think of various kinds as idolatry. What kind of God does this make for then? Obviously, the God of individual autonomous thought… (how American!)
Who today are contenders for the crown of idolatry? The destruction of the environment (or its conservation?), our addiction to consumerism or careerism? Our loss of sacredness, deification of the individual (or of the community?)? Or simply a life “lived without meaning”?
Some prophets have identified that “the principal crime of the human race” can be found in religion itself. If this is a cry against any kind of organized religion in the name of science – count me out. But if it a cry against fundamentalism and religiously-sanctioned-violence – I’m in. If we are not to throw out the baby with the bathwater, I would frame this in the following Jewish terms: the greatest idolatry of our times is the taking of God’s name in vain to justify un-godly actions, a hillul hashem.
I am sure there are others that I missed. There are more idols out there to identify. However – regardless of definition – it is the category of idolatry that I want to hold on to:that internal criticism that I might be deifying something that is not. If we are to live the life of service to our values, we must identify what the idolatrous golden calves which distract us are. We must identify them in order to melt them down in the fire of our passions, to bring upon us a better world.

כל המודה בעבודה זרה--כפר בכל התורה כולה, ובכל הנביאים, ובכל מה שנצטוו הנביאים, מאדם עד סוף העולם:  שנאמר "מן היום אשר ציווה ה', והלאה—לדורותיכם". וכל הכופר בעבודה זרה, מודה בכל התורה כולה; והיא עיקר כל המצוות, כולן.
רמבם הל' עבודה זרה ב:ז

Thursday, February 21, 2013

Being a Servant of Ahashverosh



Purim is a post-Zionist holiday if ever there was one. As the closing credits of the Megillah roll by, Mordechai and Esther stay happily situated in Persia, never batting an eye towards the land of Israel. The Esther story defies the traditional happy end of Biblical Judaism – and of most American tales – of finding redemption in the promised land.
The Book of Esther is belligerently acting outside the traditional Jewish paradigms of Exile vs. Redemption (or Zion vs. Diaspora, Old country vs. New land, dark past vs. bright future). Sure, there are a few throw away lines in the Megillah – traditionally sung to the tune of Eicha – that remind us of the exile tragedy in the background. But Purim offers something much more interesting than the simple dichotomy of Exile/Redemption. Purim is about living with the absurd, or in the language of the Talmud: “Being a servant of Ahashverosh.”
The Talmud in Tractate Megillah is troubled by the fact that Purim does not fit the traditional mold of redemptive Jewish holidays. This is manifested halakhically through the question of whether Hallel, that string of praiseful Psalms said on joyous occasions, should be said on Purim:
Purim commemorates a miracle –
shouldn’t Hallel should be said? […]
Rava said:
On Passover, Hallel can be said, for we recite there “Give praise servants of the Lord” – and not servants of Pharaoh!
On Purim however, can we really recite “Give praise servants of the Lord” – and not servants of Ahashverosh!? Why, now we indeed are servants of Ahashverosh!
Talmud Bavli Megillah 14a and Arakhin 10a

"פורים דאיכא ניסא לימא! [...]
רבא אמר:
בשלמא התם, הללו עבדי ה' - ולא עבדי פרעה,
הכא הללו עבדי ה' - ולא עבדי אחשורוש?
אכתי עבדי אחשורוש אנן".

תלמוד ערכין י ע"א

As Purim arrives this year, I hear Rava’s statement ringing in my ears. Are we indeed all servants of Ahashverosh?
Rava, might be making a simple claim: living in 4th century Babylonia under Persian Sassanid rule he is indeed a “servant of Ahashverosh” in the full political sense.
Reading this text today however, I can’t help but feel that the idea of being a “servant of Ahashverosh” has an existential edge to it which is ever so relevant. It is Rava’s focusing on Ahashverosh as the truly challenging aspect of Purim that might explain this better.

At first glance, the Purim story is about a face-off between bad-guy-Haman and good-guy Mordechai and Esther on the other. Haman tries to politically maneuver the King and the people to do his self-aggrandizing bidding, and Mordechai politically out-maneuvers him to protect his family and nation. Haman decrees to annihilate the Jewish body, and Esther cunningly using her own Jewish body in response, causing Haman’s to hang. Seemingly, it is the vanquishing of Haman that we are celebrating, a classic moral tale of the conquest of good over evil (The centrality of the body in the Purim story might also be an explanation for the many libations of the body celebrated on Purim, say some commentators).
Yet if Haman is dead and genocide averted, why is Rava not fully rejoicing? What is so terrible about being a “servant of Ahashverosh”?
In one of the most chilling lines of the megillah, Ahashverosh and Haman seem to be in full cahoots: “…the decree (of genocide) was proclaimed in the fortress of Shushan; the king and Haman sat down to drink; and the city of Shushan was dumbfounded(Esther 3:15). It is important however to acknowledge the difference between Haman and Ahashverosh. Haman is the instigator, the depraved mind who masterminds the whole affair. Haman represents radical evil, and the moral of this story is clear: it is up to us to become Mordechai and Esther’s, combating evil wherever we encounter it.
However it is Ahashverosh who is actually the scarier one here, for he is the one who blindly acquiesces to Haman. Ahashverosh is even scarier when he ends up acquiescing to Esther and protects the Jews, for equally random and superficial reasons. True, he is now in the service of “the good guys”, but without any sense of having seen the error of his previous ways. Ahashverosh even refuses to roll back his initial edict to kill the Jews, instead simply “allowing the Jews to defend themselves”. What is the moral of the story if we are to remain servants of Ahashverosh?
Ahashverosh, the giddy king of randomness, is deeply disturbing because he evades the dichotomy of good and bad. Like the devout drunkard on Purim, he makes no real distinction between “Blessed Mordechai and Cursed Haman”. Haman’s radical evil can be redeemed. Ahashverosh however, who acts the same whether in the right or wrong, undermines our hopes of a full redemption. Ahashverosh is the realm of the absurd, where morality has no foothold.

Rava, 1600 years ago or so, claimed he was a “servant of Ahashverosh”. How about today? In many senses, Zionism put an end to Rava’s claim. We are no longer the “court Jews” of Ahashverosh, stooping to debasing tricks of seduction in order to survive. We now have the power to decide our own history. Whether in the Israeli promised land of Zion or in the American promised land of “New Zion”, Jews exercise power as equal members of the national and international community. We are no longer in exile – we have been redeemed!

At the same time, however, who can claim full redemption? The promised lands are far from fulfilling their promise. We have come to a point – call it post-Zionist, post-messianic, or simply post-modern – where we realize that the dichotomy of exile/redemption no longer answers everything. For all of our political power, Ahashverosh is alive and well, and we are his servants: whether in the samsara of life and death, health and vulnerability; or through the constant disconnect between reward and merit. And that is even before we begin to unpack the dysfunction of our systems, the power of corporations or the misguided nature of our leadership structures. Where are the days where we could fight radical evil? The absurd is a much more challenging foe.

Rebbetzin Hadassah Gross,
master of overturned categories
Does Purim also offer a redemptive way to survive being a “servant of Ahashverosh”? I believe it does. Maimonides himself describes Purim as the only holiday to stay relevant in a post-messianic, unredeemed world. True, we cannot say a full-mouthed Hallel, but we can counter the absurd through humor, joy and parody; through disguises and costumes and overturning categories; and through telling history as a tale of meaning rather than as a dark absurdist story.
Most importantly, however, we flourish despite Ahashverosh through cultivating community. The radical evil of Haman is driven out with the arm of Mordechai-ian politics, but we fend off Ahashverosh by small acts of camaraderie. The mitzvoth of Purim bring these to bear: It is a day of sharing food with friends (mishloach manot) and giving money to the poor (matanot la’evyonim). It is those small face-to-face encounters which hold the seeds to redemption. Having gone too deep into the realm of the absurd, perhaps the only way out is by returning to the small – but through small acts of friendship and compassion. It is in those small acts that the greatest meaning can be found. This is where Maimonides leaves off in his “Hilkhot Megillah” in the Mishna Torah:
16. One is obligated to distribute charity to the poor on the day of Purim… We should not be discriminating in selecting the recipients of these Purim gifts. Instead, one should give to whomever stretches out his hand (Jewish or not…). Money given to be distributed on Purim should not be used for other charitable purposes.

17. It is preferable for a person to be generous in his donations to the poor than to be lavish in his preparation of the Purim feast or in sending portions to his friends, for there is no greater and more splendid joy than gladdening the hearts of the poor, the orphans, the widows, and the converts.
One who brings happiness to the hearts of the unfortunate resembles the Divine Presence, who seeks "to revive the spirit of the lowly and to revive those with broken hearts."

18. All the books of the Prophets and all the Holy Writings will be nullified in the Messianic era, with the exception of the Book of Esther. It will continue to exist, as will the five books of the Torah and the halachot of the Oral Law, which will never be nullified.
Although all memories of the difficulties endured by our people will be nullified… the celebration of the days of Purim will not be nullified, as Esther 9:28 states: "And these days of Purim will not pass from among the Jews, nor will their remembrance cease from their seed."

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Five Big Hartman Ideas


Rabbi Prof. David Hartman, 1931-2013
By Mishael and Noam Zion
originally published at The Times of Israel
If you walked into his class, you were probably going to get yelled at. The most boring thing you could say to him was “I agree with you.” His sharpness – and fallibility – managed to revive the Talmudic Beit Midrash, bringing students, intellectuals and politicians to his door.
Our teacher David Hartman, who passed away this week at age 81, was more Socrates than Plato. He challenged young and old alike on their sacred presuppositions. Yet he sought not to condemn self-righteously, but to engage in dialogue. The educational process he nurtured was based not on Shammai’s disdain of fools but on Hillel’s acceptance of his students at their own starting point without predetermining the outcome of that process. While he was with Hillel in seeking a big tent of social peace, he was with Shammai in never compromising his truth-telling.  He was a fiery personality whose thirst for questioning his tradition – Jewish and Western – was never quenched. He challenged his people - and all people - to reimagine themselves, through a true encounter with text, people, and reality. While we will no longer get to encounter him inspiring humanity, we have only begun to play out his ideas and questions.
In his honor, we offer five of his most influential ideas enshrined by the provocative catch-phrases he often used to describe them.
“Sinai or Auschwitz?” – In the 1970’s, the Holocaust came to dominate the strategies for enhancing Jewish identity in Israel and America. Hartman was sharply critical of what he saw as a “Holocaustization” of Judaism. Without detracting from the calamities of the Shoah, the center of Jewish experience must be Sinai, not Auschwitz, he claimed. Sinai is the blue print for a living community which seeks to embody in practice a world of justice, solidarity and service. Dwelling on the indignities of the past will not renew our passion for a just life – rather the creation of a vibrant future-oriented discourse must be the basis of our identity. Hartman loved teaching a passage in Maimonides which addresses a seemingly ritualistic question: The Candle of Hanukkah and the Candle of Shabbat, which candle takes preference? In Hartman’s keen reading, this was a question of philosophy, not blind ritual: What takes precedence - commemorating heroic wars and the defense of God and the Jewish people, or conserving shalom bayit and the intimacy of a candle-lit Shabbat dinner? Maimonides resoundingly subordinates Hanukkah to Shabbat, which to Hartman was a call to subordinate historical memory and messianic dreams for the joy of a Shabbat meal and the vibrancy of family life. As his teacher Rabbi Joseph Dov Soloveitchik said: “The Jewish people were not put in this world simply to fight Anti-Semitism.”
“From Sinai to Zion”, from Children to Adults –Hartman’s book A Living Covenant was translated into Hebrew as From Sinai to Zion. For many Jews, Sinai represents the moment that God forced Israel to accede to his commandments, a God of paternal authority who threatens to destroy those who do not obey him. Instead, David Hartman’s theology emphasized God as a loving parent who gradually steps back. A wise parent creates room for his child to grow into an adult and make his own mistakes. Loyalty to God’s is tested by constantly reinterpreting God’s living covenant: If in the Bible the Jewish people are children in the desert who need God to miraculously intervene in everything, they grow into a self-defending and self-governing people when they enter the Land of Israel under Joshua and later David. The Rabbinic project continues God’s ceding of responsibility to a preponderance of human wisdom in the partnership of God and Israel. Hartman made Rabbi Joshua’s cry – “it is not in Heaven” into the canonized text of all liberal minded Jews. God’s self-ironizing response: “My sons have out-argued me!" is the supreme expression of Hartman’s notion that Torah education is a millennial process of making Jewish children take on the adult responsibilities of shaping the Divine law in human hands. Zionism was the final stage in this movement, where the Jewish people took on not only law, but also history.
But where others saw messianic redemption in the State of Israel as the achievement of Judaism’s vision on earth, Hartman saw it as only the expansion of a challenge that puts our Jewish adulthood to the supreme test. The Jewish state in Zion with its empowerment over all aspects of society is the laboratory to test the Jews capability of fulfilling the desert vision of Sinai in a real world without miracles. But it is also a test-tube for Judaism to see if it has matured enough to provide not just idealistic sermons in the synagogues of the Diaspora, but to guide a modern democratic Torah-inspired state with a concern both for human rights and for security, for democracy and for Jewish identity. Hartman had a profound faith that Judaism can offer constructive wisdom for the modern world and that if Rabbinic visions compete in the marketplace their ideas could prove relevant and realistic. Yet he was equally fearful that Rabbinic Judaism as developed so far in the era of the long exile was not yet ready for that challenge. He created the Hartman Institute’s Advanced Studies Center to meet that challenge by identifying insightful strengths and terrifying weaknesses in Talmudic texts and medieval Jewish philosophers. He knew as he passed away that the outcome on the grand experiment in an adult Judaism with political and military power in the State of Israel was still in doubt.
There is just as much a Jewish morality as there is a Jewish science!” – Hartman had no patience for the self-congratulatory discourse of an essentialist “Jewish ethics”, and enjoyed counting the reasons why: First, he recalled that historically Jews in all generations held a myriad of opinions and that the gap between even their best moral maxims and the actual communal behavior was often appalling. In this way, he was a student of the Biblical prophets who have pointed this out in every generation. Second, the strength of Jewish thought is not in celebrating a common core but in revisiting the grand debates of Judaism. His books engaged in a series of living dialogues: the Bible versus the Rabbis, Maimonides versus Nachmanides and HaLevi, Rabbi Kook versus Yeshayahu Leibowitz and Rav Soloveitchik. Judaism is not a monolithic tradition, but a series of grand debates and fiery revolutions. Third, “the God of Sinai is still the God of Creation,” and any other claim is a desecration of God’s name. Jewish ethics is first a universal ethics based on the creation of all human beings in the image of God. Human dignity is not divisible and the chosen people cannot preach their own intrinsic superiority, discriminating against others in the name of becoming a holy people. Hartman loved to cite the story of a Talmudic rabbi who was urged to use a legal loophole to justify cheating a nonJew in the purchase of his donkey. The Rabbi retorts: “What, shall I become a Babrbarian?!”. That Jewish law, like other systems, cannot prevent one from being a barbarian, was one of his most profound lessons. Hartman’s most uncompromising diatribes against venerable Jewish wisdom were his angry dismissals of the racist presuppositions he found in Kabbalah, Chabad or Rav Kook…
 “Out of the Bathtub of the Shulkhan Arukh!” – Hartman sought to hold two poles – the ghettoized and the cosmopolitan. On one hand there was Torah study as an all-encompassing passionate practice, such as he experienced in the Lakewood yeshiva  among the great scholars of Lithuania who escaped the Holocaust. In Lakewood, just as since the destruction of the Temple all God has is the four ells of halacha, thus today all a Jew needs is the four walls of the Beit Midrash. IN many ways, Hartman never left that Beit Midrash.  On the other hand Torah is meant to be a torat hayim – a guide for life in all aspects of human endeavor. He loved to quote Maimonides who cited Aristotle’s Ethics to illuminate Pirkei Avot: “Accept truth from whomever has spoken it”. For Hartman this meant that Jewish scholars must come out of their intellectual ghettos to seek a critical dialogue with Western thinkers and with other religions.  Hartman could be sharply critical of liberal Judaism for neglecting deep Jewish learning in quality and quantity, even though he honored their commitment to adapting Judaism creatively. On the other hand Hartman, whose parents and siblings would today be called Haredi, would often lash out at the Orthodox community for what he saw as a turning of the “Talmudic Sea of Halakha” into the sordid “Bathtub of the Shulkhan Arukh”. Halakhic Judaism had become obsessively concerned with libido – kosher eating, kosher sex and kosher dress. The Shulkhan Aruch avoided pursuing the Talmudic discussion of capital punishment, the ethics of war or statecraft. Following in the footsteps of his “patron saint” Maimonides, Hartman sought to revisit and renew a Jewish discourse of political thought. Statehood was the opportunity to return Judaism to the cosmopolitan sea of conversation, bringing Jewish texts back into a true engagement with the street and the marketplace, not just the synagogue and the kitchen.
 “What can I say? I love my people…” - David, whose name means lover, loved both the Torah and the Jewish people. He abhorred those who used Halakha to degrade the ordinary Jew’s failure to reach its ideals. Yet he never promoted a facile, apologetic Judaism to pander to Jews seeking a self-congratulatory religion. He loved the Jewish people with a passion, but wanted them to be a sea of raging intellectuals, a yeshiva where all Jews and indeed all seekers of truth could sit, study, and argue. He loved Rabbinic Judaism precisely because it preserves and engenders perennial ongoing debates about conflicting values. His heart was made of many rooms, but these were not neatly distanced conference rooms for polite toleration of difference, rather it was one big Beit Midrash with many dueling study hevrutas. Rather than a return to the pristine days of old, Hartman celebrated the living covenant of Sinai, where each generation applies a constant reinterpretation to the ancient texts. In this way Judaism is not a community of shared beliefs or values, but rather a community of interpretation – where different readings of shared texts create the boundaries of the community.
Rabbi Nachman of Bresov, who David Hartman had very little patience for, once taught that since the essence of a person is his or her da’at, their unique wisdom or attainment, therefor “a person should leave after themselves a blessing – a child or a students – so that their da'at [wisdom, attainment, uniqueness] will remain down here even when they have risen from this world… For when a person's da'at remains through children and students, it is considered as if that person itself is still in this world.” (Likutei Moharan II:8).  
David Hartman’s da’at was unique and powerful. He is no longer around, but his da’at will continue to do his work for many years to come.

Noam Zion has been a member of the Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem almost since its founding. Rabbi Mishael Zion studied and taught at the Hartman Institute in Israel and North America and is now the co-Director of the Bronfman Fellowships. Together they are the authors of “A Night to Remember: The Haggadah of Contemporary Voices” and the Hebrew Halaila Hazeh haggadah, which are sequels to Noam Zion’s bestselling “A Different Night: The Family Participation Haggadah”, popularly known as “The Hartman Haggadah”. www.haggadahsrus.com


Sunday, February 10, 2013

Remembering Rabbi David Hartman z"l (1931-2013)


When a sage dies – all are considered his relatives. All tear, all remove their shoes, all eulogize, and all partake of the meal of comfort, even in the public square
. (Tosefta Moed Katan 2:17)

מורי ורבי Rabbi David Hartman z”l passed away this morning in Jerusalem.
David was a teacher and rabbi to many, spawning new thinking across denominations, from North America to Israel, from secular Israelis to American Modern orthodox synagogues, from Reform Temples to Jewish Day Schools. He was a Rabbis’ rabbi, a philosophers’ philosopher, and undoubtedly an acquired taste. He was a critic rather than a constructer, a fiery personality whose thirst was never quenched. But above all he was a teacher – constantly teaching us to demand more: from people, from texts, from God. Indeed, in Hebrew –“to demand” means lidroshלדרוש, like “midrash”. In his presence, the Beit Midrash became a “house of demanding”. Arguably his most important act was working to bridge the various parts of the Jewish community by placing the Beit Midrash, the house of learning, at the center of the Jewish experience. Where others placed the synagogue, the secular Jewish state, the federation or – most often – whatever the lowest common denominator that could bring Jews together – at the center, Hartman championed learning as the place where Jews can meet… not in order to agree, but in order to argue! Arguing is the first sign that we care about eachother. Critique, loving critique, was the highest compliment. And oh, did he critique…
I had the privilege of growing up in the “Hartman community”, although we never called it that, because each of his students was encouraged to carve out their own community. It was a community where you were never examined for what you did or did not do, but rather how seriously you took the endeavor of Judaism. My father, Noam, was one of his earliest students in Jerusalem in the 1970’s and has worked at the Hartman Institute his whole life. The Judaism in our home was a constant extrapolation of his teachings. As a teenager at the Hartman Highschool, I satirized him on stage at our graduation, spewing Maimonidean gibberish - I remember him cracking up despite himself. As an adult I got to read Rambam and Fromm and McIntyre with him. My Sinai is a mountain that he built, even when I am choosing a different path. When I last saw him in Jerusalem a few months ago, he bugged me “But are you still learning, really learning?” I’d like to believe I am.
Tomorrow morning his funeral will take place in Jerusalem. I happen to be in Jerusalem, and hope to perform the hesed shel emet – the act of true compassion – of accompanying him on his last path. It is too early to summarize or eulogize, but a teaching from the Talmud which I first opened in his Beit Midrash is fitting.
The Talmud debates the appropriate response for the loss of a teacher is. It is a sticky situation: he is not your relative, yet the Talmud says that “Anyone who teaches a person even one letter, it is considered as if they gave birth to that person.” The Tosefta (quoted above) describes that “When a sage dies – all are considered his relatives. All tear for him, all eulogize him…” The Talmud continues to debate this tension:
Our Rabbis Taught: And these are tears that are never mended: One who tears for his father, for his mother, for his teacher who taught him Torah, for the leader of the community… for a Torah that is burnt, for the cities of Judah, for Jerusalem.
It then asks where we learn that one tears for his father, mother and Rabbi who taught him Torah? It then quotes from the story of the Prophet Elijah’s death as he was walking with his student, Elisha:
“As they kept walking and talking, a fiery chariot with fiery horses suddenly appeared and separated one from the other; and Elijah went up to heaven in a whirlwind.
Elisha saw it, and he cried out: “Oh, father, father! Israel’s chariots and horsemen!” When he could no longer see him, he grasped his garments and rent them in two.” (Kings 2, 2:11-12)
Says the Talmud:
“Father! Father” – this refers to tearing for his father and mother.
“Israel’s chariots and horsemen” – this is his teacher who taught him Torah.
(Bavli Moed Katan 26a)
 רכב ישראל ופרשיו!
May the Hartman family find consolation. May the tears in our society, which David Hartman pointed out so well, be mended soon. May we all see in the rebuilding of Jerusalem, city of learning, city of Peace, soon. May his life be bound up in the bind of the living.
Mishael

To learn more of David Hartman life and teachings, read his Wiki, hear him speak on PBS, or read his recent book “The God who Hates Lies”.


Thursday, January 31, 2013

I Myself Wrote and Delivered: The Hidden Poem in the Ten Commandments


This installment of “Text and the City” will most probably fail. It is an exploration in three languages spanning texts from three millennia. The first (Hebrew) word in the Bible’s most famous text is unpacked into a Talmudic (Aramaic) acronym and is interpreted by a 19th Century East European commentary. Can we discuss this Hebrew-Aramaic pun in English without losing the elegance and simplicity of the text? Probably not, but let’s try anyway…
אנכי - I am the Lord your God who redeemed you from Egypt…” – The famous opening of the Ten Commandments, broadcast in this week’s Parasha, Yitro. Generations have debated if this is a prescriptive or descriptive statement: a preamble to the constitution or a commandment to believe in the God of the Exodus. But the literarily inclined will ask: Why open with the “I”? God’s first word spoken to the Israelites at Sinai has been powerfully branded by Ten Commandments sculptures across the world (some claim this is a specifically American phenomenon), but what is its meaning?

Rabbi Yohanan said: How do we know the Torah contains hidden acronyms?
For it says: “I am the Lord your God” - “אָנֹכִי ה’ אֱלֹהֶיךָ
 אָנֹכִי - A’NoKI stands for Ana Nafshi Ktivat Yahavit, I My-self Wrote and Delivered.
Talmud Bavli, Shabbat 105a
אמר רבי יוחנן:... מניין ללשון נוטריקון מן התורה?
שנאמר  "אָנֹכִי ה’ אֱלֹהֶיךָ " – אנא נפשי כתיבת יהבית
תלמוד בבלי מסכת שבת דף קה.

In the hands of Rabbi Yohanan the opening word of the Tan Commandments is discovered to contain a hidden Aramaic acronym, which becomes the Talmud’s shortest poem:
אָנֹכִי - אנא נפשי כתיבת יהבית
Anokhi - Ana Nafshi Ktivat Yahavit
I My-self Wrote and Delivered
In Rabbi Yohanan’s midrashic world, if you open up the words of the text, you’ll hear the ars-poetic voice of the author. The author of the Torah is offering here a most personal preface: These words you are about to hear, this entire book perhaps, - “I Myself Wrote and Delivered” it.
What does this poem mean? In the early 20th century, in his commentary Torah Temima, Rabbi Baruch Epstein, offers the following  interpretation:
“I My-self Wrote and Delivered” - it as the popular wisdom goes that one knows the personality of a person, or the value and depth of their wisdom, from their writings.
The poem claims that the very essence of the Holy Blessed One – the will, dignity, magnitude and humility – can be observed and understood from the Torah. And this is the meaning of “I my-self” – my deepest self, my essence – “has been written and Delivered” - I have ensconced my deepest self in this text, allowing a pathway to know and perceive Me through my writings, through my Torah.
"אנא נפשי כתיבת יהבית" – יש לומר על דרך לשון בני אדם שאומרים שמכירים תכונת איש פלוני או מדת וערך חכמתו מתוך כתביו וספריו, ואמר בזה, דמהות הקב"ה כביכול דהיינו רצונו וכבודו וגדולתו וענותנותו נראים ונכרים מתורתו... וזהו עניין אנא נפשי – ר"ל תכונת נפשי, כתיבת יהבית – נתתי לדעת ולהכיר מתוך כתבי, דהיינו מתורתי. )תורה תמימה על שמות כ:א(

“My deepest self – I have written and delivered” – here is an image of God painstakingly fashioning his deepest self into a text, pouring his “self” into his writings, seeking (desperately?) to be known, to be perceived, by us – the addressee of this package. The God who “delivered from Egypt” is now being delivered by his readers.
“My deepest self – I have written and delivered” – and it is accessible every day of the year, through the study of Torah. In the hands of the Torah Temima, heir to the Lithuanian tradition of intellectual Torah scholarship, the endeavor of learning Torah becomes an experience of first hand revelation. As the midrash claims: “The voice goes forth from Sinai every day” – and the place to encounter it is in the study of God’s writings. How does one evoke this experience from the text? Perhaps it involves the magic of Hevruta – the dialogic experience of Self-Text-Other. Perhaps it is encountered when creating hiddushim – intellectual novelties which evoke Divine sparks of creativity. For some it is in only possible in the constancy of a daily communion with the text, for others in the mystical mumbling of mantric words. For me it is found in the fire of a havurah mining a text together in a midrashic jam session of ideas.
Rabbi Yohanan’s acronym is not just about how to read Torah, it also suggests a powerful model for creative action. If we are to “walk in the paths of God”, performing “imitatio Dei” – then the booming voice of אנכי is a call to human beings to follow suit in performing “my deepest self – I have written and delivered”. Not just in text and writing, but in any endeavor אנכי commands us to embed our deepest self and then deliver it, up close and personal, to those who can receive. Whether in the building of institutions, the creation of change, the sharing of an ethic, the raising of children. We are commanded to write our deepest self into our endeavors. And it is our work to mine other endeavors – from God’s text to fellow human’s endeavors – for their deepest selves, allowing them too to be known in the world. Just as God’s אנכי could not have been discovered without the work of Rabbi Yohanan or the Torah Temima, so it is our collaborative endeavor to mine the texts of our inheritance and of our peers for the deeper selves that are peering from between the words.
And all this, tightly packed into one word: אָנֹכִי - אנא נפשי כתיבת יהבית. Anokhi - I My-self Wrote and Delivered
Shabbat Shalom,
Mishael

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Shabbat Shira: A Shabbat of Poetry

Rabbi Mishael Zion Bronfman Fellowships | Text and the City | BeShalach 2013
In honor of the “Shabbat of Song,” named after the Song of the Sea read this week, I offer three poems. The Parasha, BeShalach, describes how a terrified nation of refugees, redeemed miraculously through a split sea, break out into song. They attempt to give communal language to their redemptive experience. The midrash describes that the Children of Israel actually “saw” God, with even the simplest of Israel achieving an experience higher than the greatest mystical prophets of the Bible.
What does it mean to see God in the 21st century? These poems offer two bold contemporary visions, and one ancient one. All three describe an encounter with God, but all are quite far from the standard language we usually see. At times I wonder if in between these lines are the building blocks of speaking about God in a Secular Age.

I. INSTALLING YOU MY LORD / Admiel Kosman 

The search to describe an encounter with the Divine is always a search for metaphors. Here Kosman turns to the metaphors of the day: computers, information technology, bandwith. This poem is part of a series written in English using Hebrew letters. While translating it back into English loses some of the effect, reading the text with a fake Israeli accent revives the feeling. The Hebrew text is attached at the bottom.

Installing You my Lord, in da middle of the night.
Installing You and all Your programs. Up and down
da night goes, in my Windows, slows, installing You and
da kruvim, installing you and da srafim, installing all
da holy crew, until da morning
come.

Installing You my Lord. Installing all my questions. All
da darkest night. Installing all debates. Installing
all relations. Troot. Installing all
pretending actions.

Installing lite, installing life, installing you
with love, with awe. Installing all da night long below
until da end, my Lord.

Would we
finally be dead.
Installed together.

© 2007, Admiel Kosman, from: Alternative Prayerbook
© Translation: 2010, Lisa Katz and Shlomit Naor
 

II. The Manifest Name Chava Pinchas Cohen

Referring to the שם המפורש, the explicit, ineffable name of God,the poet describes her alternative experience of God’s manifest revelation at Sinai. This Israeli feminist poem is best compared to the American feminist “We all Stood Together” by Merle Feld.

They’ve all gone to the mountain to wait
To wait and see, most quietly they wait,
Against their nature even donkeys, even camels
in this quiet a bird did not chirp
even children on their fathers’ shoulders,
the quiet too much to bear as if before a matter
so awesome and great but I still wished
to first finish hanging the laundry
to make time for myself, to refresh my aroma
and I warmed the baby’s milk, lest he be hungry,
lest he cry, perish the thought, at an improper
moment, how much longer till it ends. The expectation
that the laundry will dry and the baby, what.
No one knew
But I saw a light wind, like the breath of a person asleep, pass
Through the laundry and inflate the middle
Of my shirt and the Sabbath tablecloth
Was a white sail in the middle of the wilderness
And we went from there on azure
Far to the place where

we’ll split open pomegranates and devour their juice
to the place where
love has
a manifest name.

Havva Pinchas-Cohen, Journey of the Doe (1994), 7. Translation based on “Creator are you listening? Israeli Poets on God and Prayer” by David C. Jacobson

III. Seeing God in Heikhalot  Literature
This text, by an anonymous author who lived sometime in late antiquity (4-7 CE) somewhere in the Byzantine Empire, is a strange and bold description of God. Mystical “travelers” would ascent to the heavens and describe the wondrous visions experienced there. Maimonides’ hated these texts, but it is the experience behind them which animates prayers like “Anim Zemirot” and provide the theological underpinnings for “Psukei deZimra” and “Yistabach”.



The Shema in a Kabbalistic siddur

Lovely face, majestic face,
face of beauty, face of flame,
the face of the Lord God of Israel when He sits upon His throne of glory,
robed in praise upon His seat of splendor.
His beauty surpasses the beauty of the aged,
His splendor outshines the splendor of newly-weds in their bridal chamber.

Whoever looks at Him is instantly torn;
whoever glimpses His beauty immedi­ately melts away.
Those who serve Him today no longer serve Him tomorrow;
those who serve Him tomorrow no longer serve Him after­wards;
for their strength fails and their faces are charred,
their hearts reel and their eyes grow dim
at the splendor and radiance of their king's beauty.

Beloved servants, lovely servants,
swift servants, light-footed servants,
who stand before the stone of the throne of glory, who wait upon the wheel of the chariot.
When the sapphire of the throne of glory whirls at them
when the wheel of the chariot hurls past them,
those on the right now stand again to the left,
those on the left now stand again to the right,
those in front now stand again in back,
those in back now stand again in front.

He who sees the one says, 'That is the other'.
And he who sees the other says, 'That is the one'.
For the visage of the one is like the visage of the other;
and the visage of the other is like the visage of the one.

Happy the King who has such servants!
and happy the servants who have such a King!
Happy the eye that sees and feeds upon this wondrous light - a wondrous vision and most strange!

Heikhalot Rabati Chapter 10:1-2, Israel, 3-7 Century (Talmudic Era), Translated by T. Carmi in The Penguin book of Hebrew Verse

























 
שֵׁם מְפורָשׁ - חוה פנחס-כהן


כֻּלָּם כְּבָר הָלְכוּ אֶל הָהָר וּמְחַכִּים
מְחַכִּים לִרְאוֹת, בְּשֶׁקֶט רַב מְחַכִּים,
שֶׁלֹּא כְּמִנְהָגָם גַּם הַחֲמוֹרִים, גַּם הַגְּמַלִּים
בַּשֶּׁקֶט הַזֶּה צִפּוֹר לֹא צִיְּצָה
גַּם יְלָדִים עַל כִּתְפֵי אֲבוֹתֵיהֶם,
וְהַשֶּׁקֶט רַב מִנְּשׂא כְּמוֹ לִפְנֵי דָּבָר
נוֹרָא וְגָדוֹל וַאֲנִי עוֹד רָצִיתִי
לְהַסְפִּיק וְלִתְלוֹת אֶת הַכְּבָסִים
לַעֲשׂוֹת זְמַן לְעַצְמִי לְתַקֵּן רֵיחוֹתַי
וְחִמַּמְתִּי אֶת הֶחָלָב לַתִּינוֹק, שֶׁלֹּא יִרְעַב
שֶׁלֹּא יִבְכֶּה חָלִילָה, בָּרֶגַע הַלֹּא
מַתְאִים, כַּמָּה זְמַן עַד כְּלוֹת. הַצִּפִּיָּה
שֶׁתִּתְיַבֵּשׁ הַכְּבִיסָה וְהַתִּינוֹק מָה.
אִישׁ לֹא יָדַע
וַאֲנִי רָאִיתִי שֶׁרוּחַ קַלָּה, כְּמוֹ נְשִׁימָתוֹ שֶׁל אִישׁ יָשֵׁן, עָבְרָה
בַּכְּבָסִים וְנִפְּחָה כְּרֵסָהּ
שֶׁל כֻּתָּנְתִּי וּמַפַּת הַשַּׁבָּת
הָיְתָה מִפְרָשׂ לָבָן בְּאֶמְצַע הַמִּדְבָּר
וְיָצָאנוּ מִשָּׁם עַל הַתְּכֵלֶת
הַרְחֵק לַמָּקוֹם בּוֹ 

נִפְרֹט רִמּוֹנִים וְנֹאכַל עֲסִיסָם
לַמָּקוֹם בּוֹ
לָאַהֲבָה
שֵׁם מְפֹרָשׁ

Havva Pinchas-Cohen, Journey of the Doe (1994), 7.


 
,פנים נאים, פנים הדורים
,פנים של יופי, פנים של להבה
פני ה' אלהי ישראל כשהוא יושב על כסא כבודו
.וסלסולו מתוקן במושב הדרו.
,יפיו נאה מיפי גבורות,
.הדרו מעולה מהדר חתנים וכלות בבית חופתם.

,המסתכל בו מיד נקרע
.המציץ ביפיו מיד משתפך כקיתון
המשרתים אותו היום שוב אין משרתים אותו למחר,
והמשרתים אותו למחר שוב אין משרתים לפניו – כי תשש כחם והושחרו פניהם
תעה לבם ונחשכו עיניהם
.אחר הדר יופי הדר של מלכם

!משרתים אהובים, משרתים נאים, משרתים ממהרים, משרתים קלים
;העומדים על אבן כסא הכבוד והנצבים על גלגל המרכבה
-- כשאבן כסא הכבוד מחזר עליהם, כשגלגל המרכבה מחטיף אותם
;העומדים לימין, חוזרים ועומדים לשמאל
;והעומדים לשמאל, חוזרים ועומדים לימין
;והעומדים לפנים, חוזרים ועומדים לאחור
.והעומדים לאחור, חוזרין ועומדין לפנים

.הרואה את זה, אומר: זה הוא זה
;והרואה את זה, אומר: זה הוא זה
.וקלסתר פניו של זה דומה לקלסתר פניו של זה

,אשרי המלך שאלו משרתיו
.ואשרי משרתיו שזהו מלכם
אשרי עין הנזונת והמסתכלת
באור המופלא הזה.

(בעריכה של ט. כרמי