In the Talmud, A Weirdly Sobering Voice from My Own Not-So-Distant Past

Each chapter of the Talmud ends with some beautiful words from the editor: הדרן עלך / Hadran Alakh / “We will return to you.” It’s a reminder that the massive volumes of the Talmud are not read like any other books, but rather are something to be reviewed and revisited. When you come back to a certain chapter, you discover insights that you never noticed the first time around, because you’ve presumably grown and changed and are reading the words in new and different ways.

So with the tradition of Hadran in mind, I often write notes to myself in the margins as reminders for the next time I’ll be back on this page.

All of which is to say, this morning, I found a note to myself that was a sobering signpost of where we are in the world.

Some context: I learn the Talmud in two ways. I’m one of tens of thousands who are doing Daf Yomi, the one-page-a-day cycle of reading the Talmud which takes 7+ years to navigate (we just marked the two-year anniversary of this cycle!). I approach Daf Yomi as a spiritual discipline each morning, before I read the news or email or the day’s responsibilities; I give it 45-60 minutes and often simply plow through sections that are especially dense or obscure.

I also have been learning Talmud with a chevruta (study partner), Rabbi Ben Levy, which we’ve been doing for over 20 years! And our approach is the exact opposite of Daf Yomi: we read closely and meticulously, and give ourselves plenty of opportunity for reflection and free association. It sometimes takes us years to finish a single volume of the Talmud.

So, this morning I’m reading the Daf Yomi, Megillah 31, which Ben and I studied more intensively in the past. The page discusses the liturgical readings from the Torah that the Rabbis selected for the various holidays throughout the year. And in that discussion, we find this paragraph:

תַּנְיָא, רַבִּי שִׁמְעוֹן בֶּן אֶלְעָזָר אוֹמֵר: עֶזְרָא תִּיקֵּן לָהֶן לְיִשְׂרָאֵל שֶׁיְּהוּ קוֹרִין קְלָלוֹת שֶׁבְּתוֹרַת כֹּהֲנִים קוֹדֶם עֲצֶרֶת, וְשֶׁבְּמִשְׁנֵה תוֹרָה קוֹדֶם רֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה. מַאי טַעְמָא? אָמַר אַבָּיֵי וְאִיתֵּימָא רֵישׁ לָקִישׁ: כְּדֵי שֶׁתִּכְלֶה הַשָּׁנָה וְקִלְלוֹתֶיהָ

It was taught: Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar said: Ezra enacted for the Jewish people that they should read the Torah portion of the curses that are recorded in Leviticus (Lev. 26:14-46) before Shavuot, and the Torah portion of the curses that are recorded in Deuteronomy (Deut. 28:15-69) before Rosh Hashanah.

Why? Abbaye (4th C sage in Babylonia) said—and some say it was Resh Lakish (3rd C sage in the Land of Israel) who said it: In order that the year, and its curses, should come to an end!

(The next paragraph explains that Shavuot, at the beginning of the summer, can also be considered a “New Year,” just like Rosh Hashanah.)

There’s lots to say about those words. But what leapt out at me was a note that I had written in the margins when I last read this page with Ben. There I wrote: “I’m reading this on 12/30/2020, the year of the Covid-19 pandemic.” Look how naïve I was! I figured that it was unique that I was studying this text on the cusp of a New (secular) Year, and it resonated with me. Because surely when I would return to this page in the future, the curse of the pandemic would be a sorrowful memory of a lousy time.

My own voice from the past, in a private message to my future self.

Like so many others, I’m so tired of all of this—of irresponsible responses to the virus, of the stupid politicization of public health policies which should be one thing all of us have in common, of these frigging masks, and of people I care about being sick or dying or in mourning. Tired of it—but trudging forward and determined to do the right and responsible behaviors, for the sake fo those who are most vulnerable.

 Today I wrote another note in the margin of Megillah 31b: “And again, on Daf Yomi 1/12/22, while Covid still endures.”

I will return to you, Megillah 31. And, G-d willing, when I return to you, the curses of this damned pandemic will have come to an end, a distant memory.

Greens in Salt Water: Our Second Covid Passover

הָשַּׁתָּא עַבְדֵי, לְשָׁנָה הַבָּאָה בְּנֵי חוֹרִין
This year we are slaves. Next year we will be free people.  —Passover Haggadah

 
Last year at this time, we were all adapting to what it meant to conduct a seder via Zoom, physically distant from our loved ones. And, to some degree or another, we made the adjustments. Even if those seders weren’t the greatest of our entire lives, most people agreed that technology made it 70%, or 43%, or 29% successful. 

At that time, we figured that this was a temporary gesture. Within a few weeks (remember?), we said to ourselves, this will all be over, and we’ll remember how strange and different the Seder of 2020 was. Surely we’ll be “free” by summer.

Now we’re preparing for our second Pandemic Seder. Almost 540,000 Americans have died from Covid, let alone the victims all over the world. We’ve learned how to adjust our behaviors, adapt our daily rituals, and act responsibly for our own sake and the sake of others. (Well, most of us—except for the most obtuse and irresponsible among us—have learned how to do so.)

This year’s Pandemic Seder will feel different. The availability of vaccines has made it possible for some people to be with each other; we don’t live in mortal terror for our parents, grandparents, and the elders of our community quite so much. There is a feeling that even if we are having socially-distanced seders now, there is hope on the horizon that we’ll be liberated from these narrow, confining spaces very soon.  And that hope, it seems to me, is very “Kosher for Passover.”

Early in the seder, we observe a ritual involving two symbols. We take up a green vegetable—“Karpas”— a symbol of springtime’s renewal. A Hasidic commentary reminds us that Pesach is also Chag Ha-Aviv, the Festival of Springtime, and after a long, cold winter, the world is slowly renewing its warmth and vitality. Even though we have just passed through winter, this holiday endows us with renewed energy for Life.[1]

We take the Karpas and dip it into a dish of salt water, which symbolizes the tears of suffering.

Each symbol thus has a distinct meaning—but what does it mean to dip one of these symbols into the other?

It means that our lives are almost never entirely joy or entirely sorrow. Real life is a mixture of those two elements, one dipped in the other. Our celebrations include a reflection of those who are no longer with us. By contrast, our bereavements are tempered by sweet memories and love that endures.

Dipping the Karpas into the salt water is a timely and powerful ritual. Because this year, as much as ever, we know the symbolism of hope mixed with tears. As our world opens up, it is crucial that we do not lose sight of the fact that there has been so much death and sorrow all around us for these many months; social distancing hasn’t just been about inconveniencing ourselves, it’s been about minimizing the danger to ourselves and others. So much loss is contained in the seder’s salty waters.

But in that loss there is hope. The green vegetable promises us that we’ll emerge and from this and new life will blossom—soon. The winter has passed. The vaccines are here; they’ll be available to everyone in the near future. Soon we’ll be out of this, if we can just hold on a bit longer. And when we emerge, our freedoms should be to us sweeter than ever; our relationships should be even more precious; and our empathy to those who hurt should be so much deeper.

From our pains, we learn the preciousness of life. Passover promises liberation from all forms of enslavement. Its hope, as ever, is born from salty tears.

[1] In The Chassidic Haggadah, Rabbi Eliyahu Touger, 1988.

One Year's Passing Since "That Day"

.וְכָל הֵיכָא דְּאָמְרִינַן ״בּוֹ בַּיּוֹם״, הַהוּא יוֹמָא הֲוָה
Anywhere in the text where we simply say “That Day”—it’s referring to that day.
(Talmud, Berachot 28a)

March 10 is an auspicious and melancholy anniversary. It’s the date in my mind when everything changed for us.

It was on March 10, 2020—it was the afternoon of Purim in the Jewish calendar—and I was sitting with a group of students, planning an upcoming Holocaust-education program for our community.  It was late afternoon, and of course we were all aware of the encroaching pandemic and the murmuring that college campuses were closing down. And then it happened:  we all received the email simultaneously from the university President that informed us that Babson was shutting down, too.

Remember how young and innocent we all were back then? The initial outreach from the school encouraged students to take all their stuff with them when they left campus in a few days; it was Spring Break. The hope was that we would all be able to return in two or three weeks. Certainly, we figured, we would be back by Passover. Okay, by May 1. Okay… by graduation?  And everything kept getting pushed back by a week, then a month, and so on…

None of us imagined then that we’d be marking the one-year anniversary of staying-at-home, social distancing, and Zoom fatigue. Let alone well over a half-million Americans dead, due in no small part to the incompetent machinations of a self-serving federal government.

But here we are. And while some have told me that it’s “depressing” to mark such an anniversary, it is not my intention to be a downer. While I yearn for the physical presence of my friends and family as much as anyone, I draw inspiration from the remarkable resilience that I’ve seen from many people.

The role of technology in our lives has been incredibly valuable; just imagine the strain of staying at home if it were just a few years ago, before videoconferencing technology was as smooth and effective as it is now. For me, personally, this has been especially true. I had cochlear implant surgery in August 2019, and can actually hear with 90% clarity for the first time in many years. If the pandemic had struck just two years ago, I would have been rather hopeless in all of my Zoom classes, meetings, and interactions. I would have been much more isolated. I would have been in terrible trouble.

The anniversary is a useful time to reflect on “that day” – the moment when everything changed in our lives, and all of our responses and behaviors seem to be re-oriented around those changes.

The Talmud has a “that day”—it was the moment of a political shakeup that occurred among the Tanna’im in the 2nd century, when Rabban Gamliel was deposed (temporarily, it turns out) from community leadership and the entire structure of the Academy was democratized. On “that day,” new books were written, new rules were put into place, and new leadership (Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah) was installed.

But if a moment in Israel 1800 years ago is too esoteric, consider that each of us has a “that day” as well, depending on what generation we belong to:

The JFK assassination, of course. The murder of Yitzhak Rabin. 9/11, G-d knows. A diagnosis, a car accident…

And probably good things as well: weddings; births; b’nai mitzvah, certainly.  New jobs, new loves, moving to a new home…

Days when everything changed, for better or for worse.

Someday soon, G-d willing, these newly acquired Covid-behaviors will recede. We’ll be in the company of friends and even strangers again. The masks will come down, or at least loosen up. We’ll hug our distant family members. We’ll travel without reservation. There will no longer be daily Corona tolls in the media.

And when that happens, I hope we’ll remember the lessons that we’ve learned since “That Day.” Lessons about caring for the most vulnerable among us; about using technology for good; about how precious it is to be in the presence of people we care about. If it’s true that “everything will be different,” let’s pray that those differences will be to make us better, and that they will be for blessings.

Do you have a “That Day” in your life? You’re invited to tell us about it in the comments section below.

A Day of Communal Compassion and Grief

As of 7:13 this morning, 132,237 Americans have died from Covid 19.

Five of the past nine days, including yesterday, have set records for new cases of the virus—so that number of deaths is certain to rise. 

And of course, this isn’t just in America—the devastation is happening in countries the world over, and especially in developing nations, as my friends from Tevel b’Tzedek report from the frontlines.

Today, the Boston Jewish community will pause for a communal day of reflection and mourning to mark all of this. The program will be broadcast live on YouTube from 12:00-12:15 EDT (and of course it is available for viewing later as well). At the centerpiece of the program will be the unveiling and dedication of a memorial that will stand for generations to come, in the heart of one of Boston’s largest Jewish cemeteries, marking the massive amount of loss in this year of pandemic.

Why now, while the pandemic is sure to continue? Two reasons:

First, we undertook this effort because of the astonishing absence of empathy and compassion coming from the highest office in the land. 132,237 dead Americans—and yet there has been no national reflection or words of comfort?

And, for that matter, there are all those who have lost loved ones in the past few months not due to Covid—but who have been restrained or limited in their mourning rituals because of the necessary distancing. For many, this is a terribly lonely time. Real leaders need to acknowledge that. In the national vacuum of compassionate leadership, we’ve had to take it on ourselves.  (No, the Boston program will not say any of this. The political commentary is strictly my own observation.)

Second, in the Jewish calendar, today is 17 Tammuz, a minor day of fasting and solemnity, commemorating events that led up to the Tisha B’Av fast three weeks from now. Here’s what I’ll say at the Boston commemoration:

In the Jewish calendar, these Three Weeks are known as Bein Ha-Metzarim: the tight period in between narrow straits.

And Bein Ha-Metzarim is surely how so many of us feel at this time. All our Jewish instincts feel so constrained. We desire to reach out and be present for one another. And it’s so hard to do at this time of distancing and quarantine.

G-d willing, someday soon we will be liberated from these narrow straits. When that day comes, I pray we’ll carry forward the lessons we’ve learned during these trying times about compassion, empathy, and love.

Where is the Pandemic in the Seder? Lots of Places—But Please, Not in the 10 Plagues

וְכָל הַמַּרְבֶּה לְסַפֵּר בִּיצִיאַת מִצְרַיִם הֲרֵי זֶה מְשֻׁבָּח

The more you embellish the Passover story,
the more commendable you are. (Passover Haggadah)

Where are the connections and lessons about Coronavirus in the Passover Haggadah? Lots of places, naturally. But please—not in the “Ten Plagues!”

This year’s Seder will be unlike any that we have experienced in our lifetimes. Seders will be small and isolated; some people with whom we share every Pesach will only be able to participate through videoconferencing; and many of us will find it a challenge to do the typical food shopping and preparation that we’re accustomed to at this season.

But there are certain truths with which we’ve already become acquainted during this strange time of physical distancing, and many of them are germane to Seder Night:

1.     Pikuach nefesh / preserving life takes precedence to virtually every Mitzvah;

2.     We must learn resilience and adaptability from our accepted routines;

3.     We have to build bonds of community and love in creative ways when we can’t be physically close to one another;

4.     It is imperative to care for the most vulnerable among us;

5.     Things we’ve long taken for granted can be amazingly fragile.

Where might we encounter these ideas in the Seder? Lots of places. Here are some preliminary thoughts:

·      URHATZ/RACHTZA: WASHING YOUR HANDS! – There have already been lots of internet memes about this in a humorous vein. But it is notable that at a time of crisis, one of the first lines of defense is to wash our hands constantly, many times throughout the day. In my Seder, the handwashing has always been a section we passed over quickly, to get to more substantial sections. But perhaps this year we should do it more methodically, and ask: Why this ritual? What does it have to do with the preparations of freedom?

And we note that in the 19th century, Dr. Ignaz Semmelweis (1818-1865) noticed that doctors were going directly from working with cadavers to treating their patients; he urged them to wash their hands. Dramatically, the number of deaths—especially among women giving birth—plummeted. And now? Can you imagine medical professionals scoffing at washing their hands? Can you imagine anyone (cough, cough) mocking the consensus of the medical community about the precautions we need to observe to stay safe?

·      YAHATZ – As we break the middle matzah in half, we should pause and reflect on the fragility of things we’ve taken for granted for so long; and how easily shattered our daily routines can be by an unexpected crisis.

·      KOL DIKHFIN / “LET ALL WHO ARE HUNGRY COME AND EAT, LET ALL WHO ARE IN NEED COME AND SHARE THE PESACH MEAL” – Will this line just be bitterly ironic this year? I hope not. Perhaps our observance—and our inconvenience—can remind us of those who are perpetually hungry (and not just for food). Perhaps our Seder at this point should pause while we make a group commitment to Tzedakah that supports the most vulnerable people in our midst.

And this is one of many points in the Seder when we can appreciate how we’ve learned to use contemporary tools, such as Zoom technology, to bring together virtual communities during this crisis.

·      MAH NISHTANA / “WHY IS THIS NIGHT DIFFERENT FROM ALL OTHER NIGHTS?” – All of our days and nights are so different now than they were just a few weeks ago! And yet, there is a spiritual truth uncovered by being disrupted from work and school: Take nothing for granted, so much of life can change in a heartbeat. This is a good time to ask: How have we learned resilience and adaptability from our routines?

·      RABBI ELAZAR: “Here I am, like a man of 70…” A lot of people who thought of themselves as fit and healthy have suddenly discovered that they are considered “at-risk.” Who at the Seder has taken extra-special precautions? What have we learned?

·      THE FOUR CHILDREN:  Let’s note that the chacham, the wise one, asks specific questions and receives specific answers—as all wise citizens will do to make reasonable, sober decisions during the pandemic. But it’s the rasha, the wicked one, who says, “What is this to you?” and writes himself out of the story, as if there are no interconnections between us, as if his behavior couldn’t possibly affect another person, and vice-versa. We know that Covid-19 has been spread by fools who don’t consider the possibility that their behavior could carry the virus to others. It seems to me that a whole lot of evil comes into the world because of this attitude.

·      MIRIAM’S CUP:  Miriam teaches us a profound lesson about caring for the sick. When she was stricken with tzara’at, a terrifying biblical disease, she was quarantined outside the camp of the Israelites. But the text (Numbers 12:15) is careful to note that the camp doesn’t move on until Miriam is readmitted. Can we say the same – that our society will not neglect or abandon those who are most stricken? (Not sacrificing MY elders to the economy!!)

·      PESACH AL SHUM MAH? / WHAT DOES THE SHANKBONE REPRESENT? When we consider the story of the Destroyer passing over the Jewish homes, we recall how the Torah demanded of the Israelites, “…None of you shall go outside the door of his house until morning” (Exodus 12:22). The first example of physical distancing at a time of pandemic!

·      ELIJAH: Why is Elijah at our door at this time of distancing? Because he’s a symbol of hope, that things will get better. And because someday in the near future we’ll show we learned our lesson by flinging our doors wide open to anyone in need.

Or is it because Elijah, in the rabbinic imagination, tends to the sick and hurting? He’s the first responder and the frontline health care professional. And this is a moment in the Seder to remember those who put themselves at risk to make sure that all the rest of us are as safe and secure as possible.

In other words, ANYWHERE IN THE SEDER—BUT PLEASE, NOT THE 10 PLAGUES!

It’s not that coronavirus isn’t a plague—it certainly is. But linking it to the so-called 10 Plagues is a superficial, failed analogy. Here’s why.

The so-called 10 Plagues are called in Hebrew ‘eser makkot, “10 strikes.” The word “plague” is only used by the Torah in regard to the 10th (Exod. 11:1), the slaying of the Egyptian first-born, and it’s the exception that proves the rule.

These were the tools of divine deliverance that brought us from slavery to freedom. They are the “signs and wonders” to which the final words of the Torah (Deuteronomy 34:11) allude when eulogizing Moses. They were the tools of battle in G-d’s war with Pharaoh, who would not let the people go. They were miracles from G-d that were the tools of redemption.

Coronovirus isn’t that. It’s indeed a real plague, and a challenge to each of us individually and as a collective society. Pesach is a reminder of all the ways in which we are gloriously free, and the manner in which all of us are hopelessly (or hopefully) interconnected, and that we’re only as free as the most vulnerable among us.

The pandemic has amplified those messages—and the Seder can and should be a spiritually uplifting reflection on how we’re different this year, and how we will be liberated from these narrow straits as we have in the past.