Selichot and Strong Coffee: Writing the Book that is about to be Opened

The first café in Cairo opened in 1557, and it wasn’t long before the popular new drink, coffee, had swept the entire Ottoman Empire. Suddenly, waking up very early in the morning became that much easier. As one of the quirkiest articles in Jewish studies shows, the rising popularity of coffee catalyzed the popularity of soul-searching rituals by Muslims Sufis and Jewish mystics in the city of Safed. If staying up late at night is a time of bodily debauchery, early morning is the time of the pure soul. And it is the proliferation of coffee that is probably behind the proliferation of one of the most intense Jewish rituals: the waking up before sunrise for the recitation of Selichot.

The recitation of Selichot – literally, “Forgivenesses” – will commence in Ashkenazi communities this Saturday night and continue until Yom Kippur (Sephardic Jews have been saying them since the first of Elul…).

Brewing great coffee is one thing, but what is the work of Selichot? In a few short days the day will arrive in which “the books are opened, and all creatures are written in them, whom to death and whom to life” as the Talmud says of Rosh haShana (Rosh haShana 16b). These are the same books we sing about in uNetaneh Tokef: “On Rosh haShana we are written, and on Yom Kippur sealed.”

What is this book in which we are written? The Rabbis were fond of the book metaphor, and used it various ways. Rabbi Yehuda haNassi describes it in the following way:

Look at three things and you will not make a mistake: Know that which is above you: A watchful eye, an attentive ear, and all your acts are being written in the book. (Avot 2:1)

והסתכל בשלושה דברים ואי אתה בא לידי עבירה: דע מה למעלה ממך: עין רואה ואוזן שומעת וכל מעשיך בספר נכתבין. (אבות ב:א)

The books being read on Rosh haShana are the great record of life as written down by the ever watchful eye. The work of Selichot is pre-empting the grand reading of this book by assessing what was written in it. We collect our deeds, figuring out what we did this year, as we line up our defenses, confess and come clean, and hastily correct that which can be corrected – before the trumpet sounds and court enters into session.

As a child growing up, we used to wake up early and go to Selichot in the Ashkenazi synagogue down the road. It was an incongruous combination of chest-thumping, the guilty-Jewish kind, and hastily mumbled litanies. The center of the Selichot is the recitation of the viduy, the confession of sins, setting the stage for the grand confessions of Yom Kippur. I was asked to read out my list of sins from that year (“I lied, I betrayed, I disrespected my parents”) alongside sins that my pre-teen imagination was quite confused by. Once confession was over, the work of penitence was to begin, which seemed to be an ordeal by mumbling… The experience confirmed everything that modernists disliked about religion: cowering slaves in fear of being on trial by the all-knowing Lord, grasping onto the unintelligible and unending poetry of long deceased ancestors.

I resented the “book in which all is written”, and was alternately cynical and terrified of the existence of a “watchful eye and an attentive ear.” It seemed like the High Holy days were full of this ever-watchful God who – like the KGB or Facebook – has spies everywhere and knows what I am up to at all times. This panopticon approach to religion is exactly what makes so many people stay at home on the High Holidays: If that God exists, I’m not interested in playing; and if he doesn’t exist – no need for me to show up anyway…

But I soon discovered that this was far from the only experience of the High Holy Days. When I was 9, I was invited by my teacher to Selichot at his synagogue, Barashi, founded by Jews from Kurdistan. Here, Selichot were a different experience: cheesecake was served alongside the prayers, sweet tea accompanied the confession. The poetry was sung at a slow, loving pace, in beautifularab makams that showed all the vulnerability of the human condition and the yearning for the presence of the Divine: “Human being, why do you sleep? Rise and call out in supplication. Pour out your words, demand forgiveness, from the one who resides on high.” In the context of this modest Kurdistani minyan, the crisis was not that I had sinned – that was just part of being human. The bigger drama was that by fessing up I was taking ownership of what would be written in my book, and doing so in the compassionate presence of the “ever outstretched hand.”

Inspired by that experience, I’ve come to understand a different model for this “divine book keeping”. In the Selichot we promise to “search our ways, and investigate, and return to you” - נחפשה דרכינו ונחקרה, ונשובה אליך. Thus the first step of Selichot is the gathering of our deeds, our words and signs from the past year. As a seasonal Naomi Shemer song goes:

Gather your deeds / the words and the signs

like a blessed crop /too heavy to convey.

Gather the blossoming /which has since become a memory

of a summer that ended / too soon. (listen to it here)

What happens when we gather our deeds? This is not an actuary act of “taking stock” or “judging ourselves.” It is an act of storytelling: “all your acts are written in a book”. By gathering ourselves the past year, we weave together our own story, our autobiography as we would like it to be told. We take authorship of the book of our lives. Having busily re-written our own book during those early mornings of Selichot, we present it for “divine reading” on Rosh haShana – and await review by Yom Kippur.  If in the Ashkenazi selichot of my childhood God felt like a harsh judge, in that small Kurdistani synagogue I met a God who is more of a compassionate editor: calling us out on the places we fudged it, demanding we snip out certain pieces, but all in all a collaborator on the joint project which is our life story. The watchful eye and the attentive ear are not waiting for me to trip up, but rather act like a sharp editor who is as invested in the outcome as I am.

Seeing the process of Selichot as re-telling the narrative of lives is engaging in what philosopher Jerome Bruner calls “life-making”. Human beings are by nature storytellers, says Bruner. He quotes Jean-Paul Sartre:

"A man is always a teller of stories, he lives surrounded by his own stories and those of other people, he sees everything that happens to him in terms of these stories and he tries to live his life as if he were recounting it" (Sartre, "The Words").

All your acts are written in a book…

Indeed, we are constantly telling and re-telling our own story. Never has this been true as in the Facebook-era we live in, where we are constantly documented on a “timeline” for all the watchful eyes and attentive ears to “like.” Scrolling down the “newsfeed” gives a strong sense of being “surrounded by [one’s] own stories and those of other people”.

Facebook aside, the stories we tell of ourselves each year are too often concerned with external achievements (“What did I achieve and conquer and win?”) and the narratives that other people have written for us. Selichot is about taking ownership of our story as we would like it to be, refocusing it on a realm of internal attainment (“Who was I this year? How did I behave?”). Israeli psychologist Mordechai Rottenberg calls this “Midrashic Autobiography” and uses it as a therapeutic tool. Selichot create the setting for us to gather our deeds and write our own midrashic autobiography.

The act of self-storytelling can be a very self-involved work. Yet returning to Rabbi Yehuda haNasi’s saying with new eyes might serve as a corrective: “Know that which is above you: a watchful eye, an attentive ear, and all your acts are being written in a book.” The season of Selichot invites us to write a book that is aware of “that which is above you”. Perhaps we are no longer living in a world of divine “watchful eyes and attentive ears”, but as much as we love our independence and autonomy, we also yearn to be a part of something larger than ourselves. That something from above – call it an “organizing narrative”, a “higher power” or a “larger project” – can serve as the sharp editor we need as we inscribe our story into the book of life.

Selichot is just as much about ensuring the future as it is revisiting the past. Bruner, being the constructivist that he is, makes a further point: when we are telling our story, we are not only reconstructing the past, but also setting the schemes and routines of the future. By telling the story of the past year as we would like it to be told, we are setting up the story that we will find ourselves weaving in the year to come. Indeed, such “world making” is the principal function of mind: we do it all the time, we might as well be purposeful about it.

And yes, this is best done by waking up early in the morning, making a strong cup of coffee and taking in our lives. In the quiet before dawn, with the smartphone still asleep and the stories the rest of the world tells of us not yet awakened, we can slowly gather our deeds, the words and signs, and retell the story as we would like it to be told, before the summer ends too soon; before the books are opened up and read for another year.

May we be written in the book of life, blessing, peace and prosperity;

we, and the entire house of Israel.

בספר חיים, ברכה ושלום, ופרנסה טובה נזכר ונכתב לפניך

אנחנו וכל עמך בית ישראל

Rabbi Mishael Zion | Bronfman Fellowships | Selichot / Ki Tavo | Text and the City

Obstacles and Illusions: Korach, Kafka and Nachman

On the way to the Promised Land, the obstacles overtake the mission, inspiration dries up and despair sets in. That’s the feeling one gets when reading the book of BaMidbar – in the desert – as it is aptly called in Hebrew. In that desert, the Israelites become mired in a universe of obstacles: complaints, delays, calamities and mutinies. This reaches a boiling point in this week’s Torah portion, Korach, when numerous groups come together to question the leadership of Moshe and Aharon.

I was thinking of these obstacles as I was reading two parables written by Reb Nachman and Franz Kafka. Both of them wrote a lot about obstacles, using similar images – but arriving at very different conclusions. Below are two such parables, for your reading pleasure:

Franz Kafka | A Message from the Emperor, 1917; translation by Mark Harman

The emperor—it is said—sent to you, the one apart, the wretched subject, the tiny shadow that fled far, far from the imperial sun, precisely to you he sent a message from his deathbed. He bade the messenger kneel by his bed, and whispered the message in his ear. So greatly did he cherish it that he had him repeat it into his ear. With a nod of his head he confirmed the accuracy of the messenger’s words. And before the entire spectatorship of his death—all obstructing walls have been torn down and the great figures of the empire stand in a ring upon the broad, soaring exterior stairways—before all these he dispatched the messenger.

The messenger set out at once; a strong, an indefatigable man; thrusting forward now this arm, now the other, he cleared a path through the crowd; every time he meets resistance he points to his breast, which bears the sign of the sun; and he moves forward easily, like no other. But the crowds are so vast; their dwellings know no bounds. If open country stretched before him, how he would fly, and indeed you might soon hear the magnificent knocking of his fists on your door. But instead, how uselessly he toils; he is still forcing his way through the chambers of the innermost palace; never will he overcome them; and were he to succeed at this, nothing would be gained: he would have to fight his way down the steps; and were he to succeed at this, nothing would be gained: he would have to cross the courtyard and, after the courtyard, the second enclosing outer palace, and again stairways and courtyards, and again a palace, and so on through thousands of years; and if he were to burst out at last through the outermost gate—but it can never, never happen—before him still lies the royal capital, the middle of the world, piled high in its sediment. Nobody reaches through here, least of all with a message from one who is dead.

–You, however, sit at your window and dream of the message when evening comes.

This translation by Mark Harman was featured in the NYRB last July.It was put to music by Martin Bresnick.

Reb Nachman of Breslov | Likkutei Moharan vol.II 46

Know, that the obstacles that every person has in living a spiritual life, doing Avodat HaShem... to every person it seems, as if their obstacles are greater than that of their fellow, and it is so hard to bear them. But know, that every person's obstacles are according to their powers, as much as they can take and withstand if they wish to. And in truth there are no obstacles, for even in the obstacle there is the Blessed One cloaked within the obstacle.

And this is like the parable from the Baal Shem Tov which they tell:

A parable of a king, that placed a treasure in a certain place, and created an illusion of many barriers upon barriers around this treasure, so that when people arrived at these walls, they seemed like actual walls, and it was hard for them to break through them. Some people returned immediately, and some broke through one wall and arrived at the second wall and could not break it, and some broke through more but could not break them all,

Until the King's son arrived, and said: "I know that all these walls are only illusions, and that in truth there are no walls at all", and he walked safely until he passed them all.

And from this will the wise person understand the parable easily – that all of the obstacles and the temptations and the distractions, which are like walls that surround the treasure of a relationship with God, are really illusions. Rather, the essence is to have a strong and brave heart, and then a person has no obstacle whatsoever, and especially the obstacles that derive from the material world, such as finances, or his wife, children, in laws or parents, etc., they are all null and void for a person whose heart is strong and courageous towards the Blessed One.

The stories are as striking in their similarity as in their differences. For Kafka the King’s interest in “you” is random, baffling, a mystery (and all the more romantic for it). For Reb Nachman the relationship is not random at all. His assurance does not come from the outside world, rather his assurance comes from an internal certainty: I am a child of the King. In existential terms (as opposed to ethno-particularistic terms) that would translate into “I know I am desired.” The King has your best interest in mind. That realization allows Reb Nachman to break through the obstacles.

Is the difference between them rooted in the fact that one inhabited a religious world and one a secular world? Since one of them mentions parenthood, I wonder what these parables teach us as parents, what is it was should and can supply for those we seek to invest in?

One of the most powerful differences between the stories is in the perspective. In Kafka’s parable, the protagonist, “you”, are a passive spectator waiting by the window, while the King is both naïve and irrelevant (dying). For Reb Nachman, the King is absent as well, but far from uninvested. The King is a distant parental figure, but a savvy one – offering both love and distance in a complex formula that seeks to empower (even at the risk of alienating). It is the protagonist that is the focus though: fully active, scaling walls and breaking through barriers. Focusing on what they know to be true, not just what they see, the beloved child can break through even the greatest obstacles on the way to achieving the promise.

Rabbi Mishael Zion | Bronfman Fellowships | Korach | Text and the City

When Gossip is a Mitsvah: Causing an Uproar over Abuse (Gossip Part 2)

This piece was originally written for the Huffington Post’s On Scripture site, and I humbly offer it as this week’s dvar torah.

We are living through a moral revolution. Sexual abuse by those in power – a topic that has long been kept under wraps – is no longer easily covered up. The ethics of speech around abuse have changed, and they are shifting how we think about gossip, privacy, and truth-telling.

In just the last month, two articles regarding sexual abuse were reported in the front pages of the New York Times: one about the prestigious Horace Mann private school in the Bronx and the other about Ultra-Orthodox Jewish communities in Brooklyn. While these cases are different in many ways, both articles delineated how a culture of silence developed in the face of complaints and how a concern for privacy and protection from malicious gossip in these close-knit communities were used to cover up abuses, whether through legal or religious means. If we are to truly revolutionize our approach to the reporting of sexual abuse – and we must – we need to seriously consider our ethics of speech.

“You can destroy a person’s life with a false report,” said one authority figure quoted in the Times pieces. Indeed, the need to be careful with our speech has never been greater. We live in an age in which our personal information has become a commodity in the public online square. While there is a lot of public conversation about the need for corporations to be careful with our information, how careful are we with details of other people’s lives?

On the other hand, the aspiration to create a gossip-free discourse must not be used as a cover for greater evils. Reporting abuse is not gossip. How to walk the fine line of proper speech and ethical responsibility has been a source of debate within Jewish texts and communities for centuries and merits revisiting, particularly in this age of social media and instant global reach.

Jewish texts have developed a rigorous discourse about the dangers of “evil speech” – lashon ha’ra. This week’s Torah portion, Sh’lach  (Numbers 13:1-15:41), tells of the twelve spies Moses sends to scout out the land of Israel. Upon their return, they bring back a disheartening report to the Israelites about their ability to conquer the land. The people revolt and are consigned to wander for 40 years in the desert as a punishment for their disloyalty to God.

Somewhat surprisingly, our rabbinic sages arrive at the following conclusion from this painful biblical episode: “One who speaks with their mouth is more detrimental than one who does a deed; for we have found that our ancestors were only decreed to wander in the desert for forty years because of the act of malicious speech” (Mishnah Arakhin 3:5). This statement is the epitome of the Rabbinic project – placing the stress on the verbal over the physical.

What a community we would be if we all avoided speaking maliciously of other people, in person or on our screens, and navigated the vast sea of information now available to us with a desire to avoid accepting gossip.

However, we must not let our desire for positive speech to cause us to conceal important truths. An ethics of speech must also include directives about when to speak up, not just when to stay silent.

This past year people in the highest echelons of society have been identified as sexual predators, from a trusted college football coach to international political leaders, despite extensive cover-ups. Attempts to dismiss or suppress legitimate reports of abuse are particularly shameful in religious contexts, be they in the Catholic Church, in New Age spiritual communities, or in Jewish schools or synagogues. While these acts happen in all sectors of society, when “people of faith” protect predators, preventing the truth from being uncovered and justice served, they are aligning Divinity with their world of lies, desecrating God’s name in the process.

Throughout the generations, voices from within Jewish tradition have had the courage to set the record straight, not allowing the ideal of avoiding gossip to become a fig leaf for silencing painful truths. Whenever I am in doubt, the words written by Rabbi Yisrael Isser of Vilna in 1875, ring in my ears:

All of the books of Ethics make an uproar about the prohibition of gossip. I want to make an uproar about the opposite behavior – one that is a far greater wrong and that is also much more widespread – the withholding of information when it is necessary to communicate it in order to save a victim from his oppressor. This is like a person who sees a stalker about to attack his friend – will he not cry out to inform his friend about the potential attacker? Would this [his warning of his friend] not be a fulfillment of the commandment, “Do not stand idly by the blood of your fellow” (Leviticus 19)?

Now where shall we set the boundary and the limit, to say “up to this point speak, but no more”? It is an issue given to the heart of each person to discern. If they are speaking out of maliciousness about the person being discussed it is “evil speech”, but if they are speaking for the benefit of the other person, to save and protect the individual, it is a great mitsvah, a righteous deed [Pitchei Teshuvah OH: 156].

It is easy to doubt our ability to speak out effectively against abuse and other wrongdoings and easy to be cynical about our ability to change our own speech practices. The aforementioned slanderous spies also underestimated their power to change reality: “We were in our own eyes like grasshoppers” (Numbers 13:33) they said upon returning from their scouting mission. In so doing, they not only weakened the resolve of the people of Israel, but also slandered against themselves.

We must strive to create a healthy culture of speech, one in which we seek to curb gossip and to speak out when abusive behavior is apparent. In contrast to the band of doubting spies stands the figure of Caleb, the spy who did not engage in malicious speech but rather said, “Let us go up, yes, up and possess it, for we can prevail, yes, prevail against it” (Numbers 13:30)! Similarly, we have the spiritual and ethical resources to create a culture of honest and judicious speech, guarding against gossip yet speaking truth to power.

Rabbi Mishael Zion | Bronfman Fellowships | Beha’lotcha | Text and the City

Our Information as Commodity: Gossip and False Intimacy (Gossip Part 1)

We live in an age where speech has as instantaneous global reach and our private information is being peddled in the public square. The intimacy of face to face conversation has become rare, for we do most of our “speech” in front of screens instead of faces. With speech so deeply transformed and information so disembodied a discussion of the ethics of speech is most necessary: how do we sensitize ourselves to use speech and information wisely?

These questions of speech and intimacy are explored in a short story at the end of Parshat Beha’lotcha: Miriam and Aaron “speak” about Moses behind his back. God reprimands Aaron and Miriam for speaking about Moshe, inflicting Miriam with leprosy. Moshe prays for her to be healed, but Miriam is still forced out of the camp for seven days.

This episode leaves many questions for the reader to explore: Why is only Miriam punished? What exactly were these siblings saying about their brother? Why leprosy, and what is it about gossip that its retribution is banishment?

Norman Rockwell, The Gossips (1948)

Following this story and other biblical verses, Judaism developed a rich discussion about ethical speech. Two terms are used in this discussion: Lashon haRa, malicious speech, or literally “evil tongue”, this term put an emphasis on the intent of the speech: such speech is unethical because its purpose is simply to harm others. The other term in Hebrew holds a different nuance: Rechilut, gossip, which evokes the Hebrew word for peddler – rochel. As the Yerushalmi Talmud notes: “You should not be like a peddler who peddles one person's goods to the other, and the other person's goods to the first” (Peah 4b). In this image, what makes gossip unethical is that it is the peddling of information, turning it from its organic context where it bears a controlled meaning, to a commodity which can be used and interpreted (“sold”) by others for their own interests.

Tractates about gossip can often become a moralistic exercise in finger-wagging. But the Talmud in Tractate Arakhin invests an effort in the definitions of Lashon haRa not in order to prohibit all speech, but rather in order to sensitize the learner to the dynamics of social interactions. This deeper awareness in turn would engender a more careful approach to the use of speech and information about others. We’ll look at three highlights from this discussion, in an attempt to glean some useful insights:

1 - What constitutes Lashon haRa?

Rabbah said: For example [to say]’There is heating in the house of So-and-so.’

Said Abaye: What does such talk do? It is merely giving information! Rather Lashon haRa is only when one utters those words in a malicious fashion: ‘Where else should there be heating if not in the house of So-and-so? There is always meat and fish…’.

Rabbah said: Whatsoever is said in the presence of the person concerned is not considered Lashon hara. Said Abaye to him: But [saying something in their presence about them] is even worse: rudeness and Lashon haRa! Rabbah answered: I hold with R. Yosi, for R. Yosi said: I have never said a word and had to look behind my back.

Rabbah son of R. Huna said: Whatever is said in the presence of three is not considered Lashon haRa. (Talmud Bavli Arakhin 15b-16B)

For Abaye, information must be used with a malicious intent to be problematic, no matter the context – Lashon haRa. For Rabbah, it is not the intent, but the simple fact of talking about people behind their back, the peddling in people’s information with impunity - Rechilut. The key for Rabbah is the absence of the other. Looking at the text of the Biblical story of Miriam and Aaron’s gossip, we can see how the theme of the bond of two versus three is stressed:

“Miriam spoke, and Aaron, against Moshe …Suddenly the Lord called to Moshe, Aaron, and Miriam: “Come out, you three, to the Tent of Meeting.” So the three of them went out. The Lord came down in a pillar of cloud, stopped at the entrance of the Tent, and called out, “Aaron and Miriam!” The two of them came forward. (Numbers 12)

In the choreography of the scene, the Torah shows how the exclusion of the third person here, Moshe, is at the root of the problem. Rabbah son of Rav Huna (quoted above - similar name, different guy), takes Rabbah’s idea one step further, with a splendid Talmudic counter-intuitive statement: That which is said among more than two people is not Lashon haRa. Why? For Rabbah the issue at the heart of Lashon haRa is one of intimacy. When two people are gossiping, a powerful intimacy is created – one that cannot occur in a crowd. Gossip is essentially the creation of an “us” and a “them”, a “normal” and a “not normal”. Two people gossiping about a third person, creates an intimate bond. However, this intimacy is a false intimacy – it is a relationship that is rooted in the disgrace of another, in the flouting of boundaries of privacy and respect  which are inherent to an ethical society.

The game of in and out, two and three, becomes clearer when leprosy is considered by the Talmud as the retribution for gossip:

2 - R. Samuel ben Elnadav asked of R. Hanina[…]: Wherein is the leper different that the Torah said: “He shall dwell alone; without the camp shall his dwelling be?“ Because he [by his gossip] separated a husband from his wife, a man from his neighbor, therefore the Torah said: ‘He shall dwell alone’. (Talmud Bavli Arakhin 15b-16B)

Gossip is an act of separation and banishment from the normal, splitting up other people’s intimacy and creating a new intimacy with yourself at the center. Gossip is so satisfying because it creates a new intimacy and bond. The punishment of leprosy reverses this act: it is not the target of our gossip who is scaly and contagiously disgusting – it is we who bear the sign of shame. We tried to forge a false intimacy, and are instead banished ourselves from relationship. Ouch.

Thankfully, our Talmudic discussion ends with a redemptive outlet:

3 - R. Hama b. Hanina said: What is the remedy for gossipers? If they are scholars, let them engage in the Torah, as it is said: “The healing for a tongue is the tree of life”. (Talmud Bavli Arakhin 15b-16B)

Learning and scholarship are the reversal of gossip because learning is also about peddling information, taking information out of one context and placing it in a new context where it will thrive and grow in value. However the goal of disseminating scholarship is see the infinite possibility in creation, not to maliciously see the limitations in those that surround us. It is about creating bonds of presence, not in order to push others out, but in order to create a world where intimacy is valued and relationships can be based on trust and mutual respect.As our ability to peddle in information – our own and others – becomes so greatly available to us, we must sensitize ourselves to the delicate nature of intimacy, and use our ability to spread information in a way that creates a tree of life.

These ideas were germinated by a comment my teacher, Moshe Halbertal, made seven years ago about gossip and false intimacy. My havruta overheard the comment, and “gossiped” it to me. For a year we peddled in this information, studying about gossip (and occasionally partaking in it too). These ideas are the joint outcome of these discussions.

For those who are interested, I’ve appended the verses themselves:

Miriam and Aaron Gossiping | Numbers Chapter 12

Now Miriam spoke, and Aaron, against Moses, on account of the Cushite wife that he had taken-in-marriage, for a Cushite wife had he taken. They said, “Has the Lord spoken only through Moses? Has He not spoken through us as well?” The Lord heard it.  2Now the man Moses was exceedingly humble, more so than any other human on the face of the earth.  3Suddenly the Lord called to Moses, Aaron, and Miriam: “Come out, you three, to the Tent of Meeting.” So the three of them went out.  4The Lord came down in a pillar of cloud, stopped at the entrance of the Tent, and called out, “Aaron and Miriam!” The two of them came forward; 5and He said, “Hear these My words: When a prophet of the Lord arises among you, I make Myself known to him in a vision, I speak with him in a dream. 6Not so with My servant Moses; he is trusted throughout My household. 7With him I speak mouth to mouth, plainly and not in riddles, and he beholds the likeness of the Lord. How then did you not shrink from speaking against My servant Moses!” 8Still incensed with them, the Lord departed. 9As the cloud withdrew from the Tent, there was Miriam stricken with snow-white scales (tzaraat)! When Aaron turned toward Miriam, he saw that she was stricken with scales. 10And Aaron said to Moses, “O my lord, account not to us the sin which we committed in our folly. 11Let her not be as one dead, who emerges from his mother’s womb with half his flesh eaten away.”  12So Moses cried out to the Lord, saying, “O God, pray heal her!” 13But the Lord said to Moses, “If her father spat in her face, would she not bear her shame for seven days? Let her be shut out of camp for seven days, and then let her be readmitted.”  14So Miriam was shut out of camp seven days; and the people did not march on until Miriam was readmitted. 15After that the people set out from Hazeroth and encamped in the wilderness of Paran.

א וַתְּדַבֵּר מִרְיָם וְאַהֲרֹן בְּמֹשֶׁה, עַל-אֹדוֹת הָאִשָּׁה הַכֻּשִׁית אֲשֶׁר לָקָח:  כִּי-אִשָּׁה כֻשִׁית, לָקָח.  ב וַיֹּאמְרוּ, הֲרַק אַךְ-בְּמֹשֶׁה דִּבֶּר ה’--הֲלֹא, גַּם-בָּנוּ דִבֵּר; וַיִּשְׁמַע, ה’.  ג וְהָאִישׁ מֹשֶׁה, עָנָו מְאֹד--מִכֹּל, הָאָדָם, אֲשֶׁר, עַל-פְּנֵי הָאֲדָמָה. ד וַיֹּאמֶר ה’ פִּתְאֹם, אֶל-מֹשֶׁה וְאֶל-אַהֲרֹן וְאֶל-מִרְיָם, צְאוּ שְׁלָשְׁתְּכֶם, אֶל-אֹהֶל מוֹעֵד; וַיֵּצְאוּ, שְׁלָשְׁתָּם.  ה וַיֵּרֶד ה’ בְּעַמּוּד עָנָן, וַיַּעֲמֹד פֶּתַח הָאֹהֶל; וַיִּקְרָא אַהֲרֹן וּמִרְיָם, וַיֵּצְאוּ שְׁנֵיהֶם.  ו וַיֹּאמֶר, שִׁמְעוּ-נָא דְבָרָי; אִם-יִהְיֶה, נְבִיאֲכֶם--ה’ בַּמַּרְאָה אֵלָיו אֶתְוַדָּע, בַּחֲלוֹם אֲדַבֶּר-בּוֹ.  ז לֹא-כֵן, עַבְדִּי מֹשֶׁה:  בְּכָל-בֵּיתִי, נֶאֱמָן הוּא.  ח פֶּה אֶל-פֶּה אֲדַבֶּר-בּוֹ, וּמַרְאֶה וְלֹא בְחִידֹת, וּתְמֻנַת ה’, יַבִּיט; וּמַדּוּעַ לֹא יְרֵאתֶם, לְדַבֵּר בְּעַבְדִּי בְמֹשֶׁה.  ט וַיִּחַר-אַף ה’ בָּם, וַיֵּלַךְ.  י וְהֶעָנָן, סָר מֵעַל הָאֹהֶל, וְהִנֵּה מִרְיָם, מְצֹרַעַת כַּשָּׁלֶג; וַיִּפֶן אַהֲרֹן אֶל-מִרְיָם, וְהִנֵּה מְצֹרָעַת.  יא וַיֹּאמֶר אַהֲרֹן, אֶל-מֹשֶׁה:  בִּי אֲדֹנִי--אַל-נָא תָשֵׁת עָלֵינוּ חַטָּאת, אֲשֶׁר נוֹאַלְנוּ וַאֲשֶׁר חָטָאנוּ.  יב אַל-נָא תְהִי, כַּמֵּת, אֲשֶׁר בְּצֵאתוֹ מֵרֶחֶם אִמּוֹ, וַיֵּאָכֵל חֲצִי בְשָׂרוֹ.  יג וַיִּצְעַק מֹשֶׁה, אֶל-ה’ לֵאמֹר:  אֵל, נָא רְפָא נָא לָהּ.  יד וַיֹּאמֶר ה’ אֶל-מֹשֶׁה, וְאָבִיהָ יָרֹק יָרַק בְּפָנֶיהָ--הֲלֹא תִכָּלֵם, שִׁבְעַת יָמִים; תִּסָּגֵר שִׁבְעַת יָמִים, מִחוּץ לַמַּחֲנֶה, וְאַחַר, תֵּאָסֵף.  טווַתִּסָּגֵר מִרְיָם מִחוּץ לַמַּחֲנֶה, שִׁבְעַת יָמִים; וְהָעָם לֹא נָסַע, עַד-הֵאָסֵף מִרְיָם.  טז וְאַחַר נָסְעוּ הָעָם, מֵחֲצֵרוֹת; וַיַּחֲנוּ, בְּמִדְבַּר פָּארָן.

Rabbi Mishael Zion | Bronfman Fellowships | Beha’lotcha | Text and the City

A Palace built on Boats: Seeking Unity amid Diversity

Open up the book of “Standard Sermons for the holiday of Shavuot”, and you’ll undoubtedly find a sermon along the following lines:

Exodus 19, the chapter which describes the giving of the Torah at Sinai, opens with a beautiful – and rare - image of Jewish unity: “Israel encamped there opposite the mountain” (Exodus 19:2).

Noticing the singular form of the Hebrew וַיִחַן Rashi expounds:

and Israel encamped there:  as one person with one heart

ויחן שם ישראל:  כאיש אחד בלב אחד

Torah can only be revealed where unity exists. Truth can only be revealed in loving community. We must become like one person, with one heart, in order to regain the power of Sinai and the existence of Divine truth among us.

Hearkening back to this mythical unity, the sermon will ask us to set aside our differences in order to be subsumed by the corporate identity which is the Jewish people.

This is a moving message, but I find myself shifting uncomfortably in my seat whenever I am asked to suspend difference in favor of sweet smelling unity.

I was thinking of this discomfort the other day when a Bronfman alumna shared the following story:

This weekend, an old friend asked to meet me for a drink.  After a few, he told me why he'd called me: his mother had casually mentioned that her mother and her mother's parents were Jewish.  He was, needless to say, shocked, having been raised a Christian. When he found out what matrilineal descent meant, he felt violated by the Jewish people who were "making' him be Jewish." While he knew that this wasn't personal or malicious, my friend felt he had lost his autonomy. He asked me if he's suddenly a bad Jew. He asked if he could still celebrate Christmas. He asked if he could still eat bacon.  Drinks were on me that night.  

Her story reminded me of the often overlooked fact that when the Israelites received the Ten Commandments, they didn’t openly embrace the close encounter with God, rather they ran the other way: “And all the people perceived the thunderings, and the lightenings, and the voice of the shofar, and the mountain smoking; and when the people saw it, they trembled, and stood afar off.” (Exodus 20:14). Rashi describes this “rush to the exit” at Sinai: “They recoiled backwards twelve miles… and the ministering angels came and tried to push them back…”

What made the Israelites run far away from God at Sinai? What makes our young friend so livid at the discovery of his ancestral identity? Why did many of us feel a deep discomfort at discussions of Jewish unity? Perhaps there is a shared theme to these very disparate discomforts.

At the core of all these experiences is a deep loss of autonomy, without recognizing the individual’s right to define themselves on their own terms. A pervading paternalism is insinuated: I know better than you the meaning of your own life.

Whenever people start talking about the need for “more unity”, I feel like all the air had been sucked out of the room. The insinuation is usually: “everyone should be united – around my understanding of (fill in the blank): Judaism/politics/human rights etc.” It is the turning of Sinai into the Tower of Babylon, a time when “the entire land was one language and few words” (Genesis 11:1).

But I am equally uninterested in the opposite, the anti-Tower of Babel, where everyone walks off to their separate ways. Is there a way to talk about unity and solidarity without overriding diversity?

In a midrash, Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai offers such an image. He moves from your standard “unity metaphors” into an image that creates room for individuals and communities independent standing:

רבי שמעון בן יוחי אומר משל לאחד שהביא שתי ספינות וקשרם בהוגנים ובעשתות והעמידן בלב הים ובנה עליהם פלטרין. כל זמן שהספינות קשורות זו בזו פלטרין קיימים פרשו ספינות אין פלטרין קיימים (ספרי דברים שמו)

Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai says: This is like a person who brought two ships and anchored them together and placed them in the middle of the sea and built upon them a palace. As long as the ships are tied to each other – the palace exists. Once the ships separate from each other – the palaces cannot exist. (Sifre on Deuteronomy, #346)

A Palace Built on Boats: The Taj Lake Palace in Udaipor

How different this vision is from the tower of Babel. Both attempt to build towers in the sky, but the latter is built as a second floor upon a foundation of diversity. Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai talks about two boats, but I imagine this palace being built upon many boats. Each person, or each group, is valued here as an independent entity, with their own boundaries, their own conceptions of truth. This is the way God created the world, full of diverse human beings with independent minds, a myriad of languages and opinions.

And yet, each boat is asked to give up some of the freedom that an autonomous boat was built for, and tie themselves alongside the others. Why would we do such a thing?

Perhaps because we realize that life is not solid ground but rather a rocky ocean; that one boat alone in the vast ocean is too vulnerable. Perhaps because we are tired with life in the marina – full of fancy big boats, each with their own agenda, but without the cumulative power of the collective. Perhaps because while we yearn to live our own truth and are wary of being subsumed, we also realize that life receives meaning when it transcends the day to day and tries to build a palace in the sky.

There is something deeply tolerant about this vision of unity. The inherent paradox of tolerance is that despite the fact that I think you are wrong, I seek to empower you. Tolerance is the opposite of paternalism: I respect you on your own terms – because I believe enabling your opinion is crucial for my own ability to arrive at the truth. Perhaps our floating boats building a palace in the middle of the ocean are disparate truths which are willing to be tied to each other in order to allow for the creation of a larger palace.

This image allows us to return to revelation at Sinai with fresh eyes. While some hold that the revelation at Sinai was in one divine voice, given to a people unified with one heart, a famous midrash disagrees, claiming that the revelation at Sinai was a multi-vocal (pluralistic) experience, in which each person was recognized as an individual, experiencing not only a personally relevant revelation, but also hearing their own version of the Torah:

א"ר לוי נראה להם הקב"ה כאיקונין הזו שיש לה פנים מכל מקום, אלף בני אדם מביטין בה והיא מבטת בכולם. כך הקב"ה כשהיה מדבר כל אחד ואחד מישראל היה אומר עמי הדבר מדבר, אנכי י"י אלהיכם אין כת' כאן, אלא אנכי י"י אלהיך. א"ר יוסי בר' חנינא ולפי כוחן של כל אחד ואחד היה הדיבר מדבר עמו. ואל תתמה על הדבר הזה, שהיה המן יורד לישראל כל אחד ואחד היה טועמו לפי כוחו, התינוקות לפי כוחן, והבחורים לפי כוחן, הזקנים לפי כוחן. (פסיקתא דרב כהנא פסקא יב)

R. Levi said: The Holy One appeared to them as though He were a statue with faces on every side, a thousand people looking at her and she is looking at them all. So, too, when the Holy One spoke, each and every person in Israel could say, "The Divine word is addressing me." Note that scripture does not say, "I am the Lord your God" (אלהיכם), but "I am the Lord thy God" (אלהיך). Moreover, said R. Yosi ben R Hanina: The divine word spoke to each and every person according to their particular power. And do not wonder at this, for when the manna came down for Israel, each and every person tasted it in keeping with his own power... (Pesikta DeRav Kahana, 3rd Century Midrash, Land of Israel; Piska 12 pg 249)

If God is a God who holds many truths (“These and those are the words of the living God”), and the Torah was revealed in many voices, than a vision for Jewish unity must be one that takes into account people’s individual truths, accepted on their own terms. And yet, the plurality of Judaism (or of American public discourse, for example) should not be a moment where we simply give up on a vision of the wider collective, and allow each boat to sail independently off to sea. This Shavuot, I pray we can build a community where our independent boats are recognized in their diversity, yet anchored together in service of a grander vision, a palace of truth we can build together in a world that is a stormy ocean. 

Rabbi Mishael Zion | Bronfman Fellowships | Bamidbar / Shavuot | Text and the City