Lag BaOmer: The Day the Curve Flattened

Today is Lag BaOmer, the 33rd day in the 50-day stretch between Passover and Shavuot.

Lag BaOmer has always been shrouded in mystery. Why are these days, when spring is sprouting, considered to be a time of semi-solemnity? And why is there a little oasis in this melancholy time—the 33rd day—for joy and celebration? 

The Talmud only speaks about this with riddles. Apparently there was some sort of enigmatic plague that struck the students of Rabbi Akiva in the 2nd century CE, at the time of the Bar Kokhba revolt against Rome. The nature of the plague is obscure (askara, says the text: croup, or diphtheria), leading some commentators to speculate about whether or not it was a literal plague (i.e, that the Romans were the plague):

אמרו שנים עשר אלף זוגים תלמידים היו לו לרבי עקיבא מגבת עד אנטיפרס וכולן מתו בפרק אחד מפני שלא נהגו כבוד זה לזה…תנא כולם מתו מפסח ועד עצרת אמר רב חמא בר אבא ואיתימא ר' חייא בר אבין כולם מתו מיתה רעה מאי היא א"ר נחמן אסכרה

Rabbi Akiva had 12,000 pairs of students from Givat to Antipras, and all of them died in a single period of time—because they did not treat one another with respect.  It was taught: All of them died between Passover and Shavuot.
Rabbi Hama bar Abba, and some say Rabbi Hiyya bar Avin, said: All of them died a terrible death. What was it? Rabbi Nachman said: askara.
—Yevamot 62b

Note that there’s nothing here about the 33rd day. Lag BaOmer only appears in later texts. According to post-Talmudic sources, the plague “ceased” or “ebbed” on the 33rd day in between Pesach and Shavuot; it’s still not clear. But the tradition arose that it should be a minor holiday, a mini-day of joy in the midst of a more sober time. 

From there, the tradition piled on. For Kabbalists, Lag BaOmer became a day of celebration for its mystical significance, including its connections to Rabbi Akiva and his premier student Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, both of whom are considered mystics par excellence. And like virtually every other holiday, modern Israel has invested this day with new meanings and customs—especially, in normal years, building bonfires in the fields.

Frankly, all this has always seemed rather obscure to me. Don’t get me wrong, I celebrate Lag BaOmer and love it. But the reasons are still bewildering. What really happened during the days of Rabbi Akiva? Why a happy day in the middle of the period?  Who knows? 

But this year, it seems to me that the original meaning of the season has a new resonance. 

Imagine that in Rabbi Akiva’s time, there was a real, literal plague that ravaged the countryside.

And imagine, too, that the suffering was exacerbated by those who blamed others for the plague, who spread conspiracy theories, who mocked their neighbor’s fears and concerns, and who scorned those who tried to take public health seriously? Is this so far removed from the Talmud’s assertion that “they died because they did not treat one another with respect”? 

And what if Lag BaOmer was the day that the plague’s “curve was flattened,” so to speak? The day when finally people were able to see that there was a light at the end of the tunnel, and these days of sickness would eventually come to an end, as long as personal responsibility and ethical leadership were allowed to prevail?

Imagine Lag BaOmer as tradition’s way of saying: keep up the good practices that you are observing and this plague won’t last forever. Keep counting the days, each one is a precious step towards a cure.

Note that the plague didn’t end on the 33rd; there were still weeks to go of thoughtful containment and protection from whatever was devastating the community. But it was a day of hope: a time to realize that, in a few weeks’ time, the barley would be harvested, people would be fed, and life would someday go on—hopefully, not “back to normal”, but with lessons learned. 

When the light is visible on the horizon, it is appropriate to pause and celebrate. It’s even appropriate to kindle our own fires, bonfires in the fields to light up the darkness.

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.

Esther: A Brilliant Satire of Jewish-Diaspora Relations

In the Hasidic tale “The Humble King,” Rebbe Nachman of Bratzlav wrote, “If you want to understand the nature of a community, understand its humor.” 

The Scroll of Esther—which is, among other things, a brilliant satire of Jewish life in the Persian Empire from about 2,300 years ago—offers a similar challenge: If you want to understand the Jews of Shushan, understand the Megillah’s humor. But who, exactly, is the object of the book’s satire?

In the second chapter of the book, we meet Mordecai, who is introduced to readers with a brief genealogy. We are told that Mordecai’s great-grandfather had been “carried into exile along with King Jeconiah of Judah, who had been driven into exile by King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon” (Esther 2:5-6). This verse may seem innocuous at first glance, but the satirical aim of the entire book emerges right here.

A little biblical history is called for in order to understand this. Jeconiah was the 18 year-old king of Judah who reigned for a mere three months in 597 BCE before he and his courtiers were conquered and deported eastward to Babylonia. They were the first of the Jewish exiles in Babylonia, and soon many more would follow them, in the wake of the destruction of the Temple in 586 BCE. The exile would remain a deep and traumatic memory for the Bible.

But just a few decades later—in 539 BCE—King Cyrus of Persia conquered Babylonia. Cyrus’s policy towards vanquished peoples was surprisingly liberal; he permitted the Jews to return home and rebuild their destroyed Temple. This, too, is an enormous event in the Bible’s mindset. Psalm 126, for instance, gushes: When G-d brought back the returnees to Zion, we were like dreamers!

This is the historical background of Esther and Mordecai. Their saga takes place in Susa (Shushan), the capital of Persia, a century and a half after Cyrus’s edict that permitted the exiles to return home. 

All of which points us towards an uncomfortable question. Mordecai and Esther belong to a generation when Judea was reborn, and the Second Temple was standing. So what were Jews living doing living in the Persian diaspora—after they miraculously had been permitted to return to their homeland?

The answer is: In fact, only a small minority of Jews returned home. Susa/Shushan was the cosmopolitan capital of the world’s most vast empire; Yehud/Judea was, by contrast, a small backwater, and the rebuilding effort was not easy. The returnees were not immediately successful in rebuilding the Temple; their economy was weak, their will was depleted, and (wait for it…) there was ugly infighting about which Jews were the most “authentic”! (That’s right—the painful history of “Who is the real Jew?” begins here. We can read about the Jewish infighting in the biblical book of Ezra.)

This was the situation of the Jews of the Megillah. They were the ones who, when offered the opportunity to go, said… “Thanks, but we’re good.” Instead, they embraced the relative prosperity and comfort of the world’s most cosmopolitan society of the day. They were the ones who opted to stay right where they were.

All this should give us some perspective. Esther is a satire about Jewish lives and mores in a diaspora. Now, that satire can be viewed from two perspectives.

On one hand, it can be read as a celebration of the diaspora’s triumphs. After all, the Jews of Shushan have risen to the very halls of power. And when they are threatened by an antisemitic monster, they take action. From this point of view, the Megillah is a story of empowerment and heroism. As Bible scholar Adele Berlin has written, Queen Esther’s courage “strengthens the ethnic pride of Jews under foreign domination.”[1] For many of us, that’s the way Esther was learned.

But on the other had, from a satirical point of view, the author pokes great fun at these Diaspora Jews. Sure, they’re successful and proud; but still, the reader might wonder, what kinds of Jews are these? After all, they’re not very pious; G-d’s name is never invoked in the entire book, even with impending disaster. They don’t seem to keep kosher. (What, pray tell, did Esther eat in the king’s harem—tuna salad?). They take on fashionable local names. (Esther has a perfectly beautiful Hebrew name—“Hadassah”—but travels in Persian circles by her more familiar moniker, evoking the Babylonian deity Ishtar.) Yet they certainly can shrey gevalt: when calamity arrives, they fast for three days! (Nowhere in Jewish literature are we ever instructed to fast for three days, no matter how severe the crisis.)

None of this should be offensive or insulting; there is a difference between laughing at and laughing with. Part of the book’s brilliance is to make us grin at these recognizable stereotypes, and to see a bit of ourselves in its caricatures. The humor of Esther is broad, but it isn’t cruel. Instead, like Purim itself, it takes aim at established pieties and deflates them. We can imagine an ancient reader smiling, thinking, “Of course—these are the Jews who had the opportunity to go home, but didn’t!” We know these people. 

And perhaps we can recognize a bit of ourselves in this story as well. 

This is all a very good and spiritually healthy thing. Purim reminds us that there is a big difference between righteousness and self-righteousness.

When we consider our own self-image, as well as the relationships between the Jews of today’s Diasporas and the State of Israel, more righteousness and less self-righteousness is extremely valuable. To rediscover how to speak, to learn, and most especially to laugh with one another would be the greatest Purim gift we could give one another.

[1] Adele Berlin, The JPS Bible Commentary: Esther (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 2001), p.xxxv.

Tu BiShvat: How Israel Planted New Seeds in the Jewish Soul

When the Zionist movement was newly blossoming in the early 20th century, a prominent group of cultural-spiritual Zionists insisted that it was not only Jews who would be saved by a return to the Land of Israel; Judaism itself  had to be renewed as well. A return to the Land would inevitably impact the ways in which Judaism was expressed – not just in the Palestine, but in Jewish communities everywhere.

Therefore, one task of the pioneering olim was to infuse the Jewish calendar with new meaning.

The tens of thousands of pioneers who immigrated to the Land in the Second Aliyah (1904-1914) and onward were largely secular people, moved by a mixture of socialism and Jewish nationalism to develop a new Jewish identity in their historical homeland. Yet the boundary between what’s “religious” and what’s not becomes fuzzy when we consider these revolutionaries.

Even though most of them weren’t particularly interested in rite and ritual, many truly were convinced that with their lives they were writing a new chapter of the Bible and the history of the Jewish people.

The Jewish holidays, in particular, they infused with new meanings. Hanukkah, for instance – a relatively minor winter holiday back in the Old Country – became a national festival, emphasizing the Maccabees’ rejection of foreign tyranny in their homeland and expressing Jewish strength and vigor. In the words of a famous early Zionist Hanukkah song:

No miracle ever happened for us
No vessel of oil did we find.
Rather, we descended to the valley
And we climbed the mountain.
We discovered wellsprings
Of hidden light!

Other festivals, too, were given a new national spirit. Passover Haggadahs from the early kibbutzim emphasized springtime planting and renewal as flowers bloomed in the Galilee. Lag BaOmer became a time of bonfires and archery, celebrating ancient rebellions against Roman (and all) oppression. Shavuot festivities on the kibbutz deemphasized the rabbinic theme of the giving of the Torah and reasserted the day’s biblical meaning of harvesting the first fruits of the season (bikkurim).

Most of all, the minor day of Tu BiShvat became a new celebration of national rebirth. Tu Bishvat historically was slight date in the Jewish calendar; it was mostly commemorated in the Diaspora with minor liturgical changes in the daily prayers. In late medieval times, Kabbalists gave Tu BiShvat new mystical meaning and created accompanying rituals, such as a mystical Tu Bishvat seder – but these celebrations were largely confined to an elite minority of mystically inclined communities.

The Zionist pioneers changed all that.

Tu BiShvat became a celebration of the land and their connections to it. They composed new songs and festivities. On those early agricultural settlements, Tu BiShvat became a day to celebrate the renewed intimacy of a people and its land.

And they planted trees.

Trees became a crucial part of the building-up of those early settlements. Trees would help drain the malaria-infested swamps, and protect crops from the wind, and provide relief to the Middle Eastern heat. Planting itself is a religious act, an emulation of God:

“The Lord God planted a garden in Eden, in the east” (Genesis 2:8). — So, too, when you enter the land of Israel, you should first occupy yourselves with planting. — Vayikra Rabbah 25:3

And this new definition of Tu BiShvat spilled over into Diaspora communities.

One ubiquitous item in the Jewish home of the 20th century was the Jewish National Fund pushka: a Tzedakah box devoted to collecting money that would go toward planting trees in Israel.

Tu BiShvat became a season when schools and synagogues participated in planting whole forests in newly blooming land, giving the season an entirely new ritual dimension. One could be forgiven for thinking, “Tu BiShvat? Oh, that’s the holiday the JNF invented.” After all, given the astounding numbers of trees planted over the past century, they virtually did!

Today, three themes come together for our renewed Tu Bishvat: our connections to the Land of Israel; the mystical-spiritual metaphor of a tree; and our responsibility to protect and preserve the environment. A meaningful 21st-century Tu Bishvat creates a thoughtful meditation on the interplay between these ideas.

Our ancestors of just a few generations back may not have recognized our celebration; it is a case-in-point of how Jewish life and observance has been transformed in our day – in no small part thanks to the successes of the State of Israel. Even for those of us who live in our various Diasporas, Tu BiShvat is a time for reasserting the countless ways in which Israel nurtures our own Jewish spirits, and the ways in which we can be part of making literal and spiritual deserts bloom with new life.

One immediate expression of this renewal is to vote for ARZA in the World Zionist Congress elections today. It’s simply one more dimension of how we can express our connection to the land in 5780 – and how a verdant and blossoming culture in Israel is an essential component of sprouting Jewish souls everywhere.

This essay originally appeared on reformjudaism.org on February 5, 2020.
Tu BiShvat begins on Sunday evening, February 9.

A Story on an Airplane (for Shavuot)

I was on a flight from Boston to Newark.  I was wearing a kippah—I mention that because it’s germane to this story. Sometimes I wear a baseball cap when I travel, but this time, for some reason, I left it behind.

The plane was full and I was stuck in the middle seat of the emergency row (I hate the middle seat, but I love the emergency row). I figured during the short hop to Jersey I could keep my head down in the Gabriel Allon thriller I’d bought in the airport, and before I would know it, we’d have arrived.

The plane took off uneventfully, and I was at the point in the novel where the Israeli superspy was called out of retirement to save the world again when there was a tap on my shoulder. Looking up, I saw the flight attendant, a tall, delicate woman in her young thirties. Why was she noodging me?

“Excuse me,” she said. “Are you learned, or merely observant?”

Huh? What kind of question is that?

“Are you learned, or merely observant?”

I mumbled something about not being sure I was either, but trying to be both. (There’s a Hasidic story about Rebbe Naftali Tzvi Horowitz of Ropshitz, who was once approached by a cop who asked, “Who do you work for and what are you doing here?” The rebbe, taken aback by the hidden spiritual implications of the question, asked the man if he would agree to follow him around asking that question all day—as a reminder! I wasn’t so glib, so I simply responded:) “What are you really trying to ask me?”

She said she had a question about Judaism. She asked, “Is it true that if I’m Jewish, I have to quit my job with the airline?”

Now, I’m in the middle seat, and we’re all flying cattle class anyway, so this truly bizarre question is taking place over the lap of at least one other passenger in very close quarters. I told her that as far as I knew, there was nothing in the Torah or Talmud that prohibited one from being a flight attendant for American Airlines. She thanked me and continued up the aisle.

For the next few minutes, I found it difficult to care about whether or not Gabriel Allon would set aside his paintbrushes to command the Mossad, so I got up and went to the galley at the front of the cabin, where she was alone. I asked her to explain a little more.

“My fiancé is Jewish,” she said, “and I’m not. I’m studying for conversion with a Chabad rabbi in Los Angeles. He told me that not only must a Jew keep kosher, but it is prohibited for a Jew to serve non-kosher food to another Jew, even inadvertently. So he said if I became Jewish, I’d have to quit my job, because part of my duties includes serving food to passengers.” She was obviously emotionally torn up about this prospect.

I’m not judgmental about others’ Jewish choices, but this woman really needed someone to talk to. So I listened. She said, “You know, this process has been so hard. My fiancé isn’t Orthodox, but we wanted to do this with a Chabad rabbi because… you know… we wanted to do it right.” (My bowels twisted and I bit my lip, but said nothing.)

But it became clear that this teacher was abusing his student. She said, “A few weeks back, my fiancé and I decided to make a real Shabbat evening experience, the whole thing—services, dinner, just being together and not doing any work. We went to the local Conservative synagogue—it was closest—and we just had the most incredible time, singing the prayers and joining in with a Jewish community. I couldn’t wait to tell my rabbi. When I saw him a few days later, I told him all about it and how wonderful it was. He said to me, ‘You went to a Conservative synagogue? I just added four more months onto your studies.’”

Her eyes welled up, and my heart broke a little for her. I said, “I want you to know, there are many kinds of rabbis and many ways of being Jewish.” She nodded, thanked me for listening, and we had to return to our seats.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about her, and about this L.A. rabbi who was beating her up emotionally. I felt awful, because she’s supposed to be falling in love with Judaism and everything Jewish, yet here she is, guilt-ridden and hurt and filled with ambivalence. And I thought about that question, “Are you learned or merely observant?”, and how she asked me simply because I was wearing a kippah this time.

The flight ended, she was making the connection to LA and home, and of course we’d never see each other again. So I figured I would make a final gesture. As we started that disembarking ritual—“…bye now, b’bye, good-bye, bye now…”—I slipped my business card into her hand. “Listen,” I said, “I know a couple of really good rabbis in L.A.”

I don’t know what became of her, or if she became a Jew, and what kind of spiritual life she might have discovered for herself. But I hope she found her way Home.

And I think of Ruth the Moabite, who thousands of years ago clung to her mother-in-law Naomi and said, “Wherever you go, I will go; wherever you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your G-d, my G-d.” I wonder sometimes, if Ruth were navigating our Jewish world today, whether or not she would ever make it inside the gates. Thank G-d she did, and we celebrate her legacy, and those who made a journey like hers, this week. She, too, made it Home.

The Book of Ruth is read on Shavuot, which begins on Saturday night, June 8.

Marking Yom HaShoah in 2019

This is the text of the letter I sent out to the Babson College community today,
on the eve of Yom HaShoah:

Thursday is Yom HaShoah, the annual day in the Jewish calendar that commemorates the annihilation of European Jewry during World War II. Seventy-four years after the liberation of Auschwitz and the defeat of the Nazis, it is a time for sober reflection about what the legacy of the Holocaust means to us who are now three and four generations removed from it.

In truth, all Jews today carry within them the legacy of the SHOAH (the Jewish term for the events called “the Holocaust”), although each carries it in a different way. Many Jews have branches on their family trees that simply break off. Others grew up with memories passed down from grandparents and great-grandparents about survival in the most miraculous, or most horrific, of circumstances. Others simply know the stories, and have a vague sense of responsibility because of the legacy of this painful history. It is part of us, forever.

Yom HaShoah seems especially resonant this year. Surveys of Americans tell us dispiriting news. Two-thirds of millenials (and 41% of all Americans) do not know what Auschwitz was; 22% of them never heard of the Holocaust (or aren’t sure if they have). The remaining survivors of the death camps are elderly today; in a few years, there will be no living eyewitnesses to the crimes of the Nazis and their enablers.

And the emerging trends of hate, violence, and white supremacy are on our minds this year. The murderous attack at the Chabad synagogue of Poway, California last week - six months after the massacre of Jews on a Shabbat morning in Pittsburgh - in the name of white nationalism conjures up great horror among us on this Yom HaShoah.

This week, the ADL released its annual study of antisemitism in America. In 2018, it recorded 1,879 antisemitic incidents in the United States, including the bloodiest in American history (the assault in Pittsburgh). This number is the third-highest annual number that the ADL has ever recorded. This is why many Jews, young and old, are asking questions we've never asked in our lifetimes:  How safe are we here, really? 

What is there to say or do? I think the answer from Jewish tradition is twofold. There is a famous saying by the great sage Hillel from over 2,000 years ago (it would be a cliché if it weren’t so perfectly accurate):  “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? But if I am only for myself, what am I? And if not now, when?”

“If I am not for myself”— this is why Jews take the legacy of the Shoah so personally. Jewish survival, and its transmission to the next generation, is an absolute obligation for us; the Shoah makes that message only more profound. This is part of what the State of Israel means to us: There is a refuge; a safe place (recalling that the whole world, including America, turned its backs on many victims of the Nazis); and, not insignificantly, a Jewish army to defend itself. The Shoah isn’t the reason Israel exists (its roots extend far earlier than the War), but it does explain the passion with which its supporters will defend it.

In other words, this response to the Shoah is: AM YISRAEL CHAI: The Jewish People lives. And every Jew has a responsibility to make it so. 

“But if I am only for myself”— That “but” is crucial. The Shoah didn’t start with death camps; it began with the increasing dehumanization of Jews, and propaganda that gradually eroded rights and liberties to the point where we were turned into something less-than-fully-human. Denial of rights leads to oppression. And that leads to neighbors abandoning and attacking neighbors; which led to genocide. It was systematic, it was thoughtfully planned, and it was almost successful.

This idea, too, seems particularly profound in 2019. The massacres of Muslims at prayer in Christchurch, New Zealand remain a fresh wound. As does the assault on Christians in Sri Lanka. And the burning of three black churches in Louisiana last month. Just to cite the three most notorious, and most recent, examples of the current rise of hateful violence. 

In other words, the other commanding voice of the Shoah is to stand up against the dehumanization of anyone, anywhere. To say to every tyrant: “Not on our watch.” To know and understand our neighbors - and to defend and protect them.

That is what is at stake in the memory of the Shoah. That is what we mean when we say “Never Again.”

We're Doing the 10 Plagues All Wrong—Part Two

The Maggid section of the Haggadah—the lengthiest part of the seder, the section which retells the story of the Exodus—culminates with the description of the so-called “Ten Plagues.” As I wrote earlier, the idea of the “plagues” is misunderstood, and that has led to a lot of misguided creativity around this part of the seder.

None of that is to say that there aren’t powerful and important lessons regarding the ritual here. In some ways, this is one of the most provocative sections of the entire seder.

When we reach this passage, every community that I’ve encountered has a similar sort of ritual. Upon reciting the name of each  “plague,” a drop of wine is removed from each of our cups. (Many also remove drops of wine before the 10 Plagues: 3 drops at the verse from Joel 3:3  “...Blood [דָם] and fire [אֵשׁ] and pillars of smoke [וְתִימֲרוֹת עָשַׁן]”; and 3 times at the acronym for the Plagues [דצ"ך עד"ש באח"ב], for a total of 16 drops.)

There are variations about how this removal takes place. Many people use their fingers, taking out wine from their glass drop by drop. Perhaps this custom alludes to the יד חזקה / yad chazakah / the “mighty hand” with which G-d redeemed the Israelites (see Exodus 6:1, 13:9; and especially Deuteronomy 26:8, which the Haggadah is citing, as well as Deut. 34:12, the last verse of the Torah).  Other people tip their glasses, spilling drops one at a time. Some use a utensil to remove the drops.

But the most important thing is to be clear about what this ritual means.

A kiddush cup full of wine is a symbol of joy and celebration. To reduce the wine in our glass symbolizes reducing our joy.

Why do we do this? The 15th Century commentator Don Yitzhak Abarbanel said that our joy is not complete as we recall the suffering of the Egyptians as we made our way to freedom. He quotes Proverbs 24:17:  “When your enemy falls, do not rejoice...”

That is a breathtaking statement.  Recall that when we read “Egyptians” in the text, what we’re saying is:  Nazis. Inquisitors. Hamas. Baby-killers, as the midrash makes clear. The most bloodthirsty oppressors that have slimed their way onto the stage of human history. 

And yet, when we consider the victories that gave us our freedom, we recognize that our enemies suffered, too.

It recalls as astounding passage from the Talmud that tells how the angels wished to rejoice at the moment of the Splitting of the Sea, but G-d silenced them:

שאין הקדוש ברוך הוא שמח במפלתן של רשעים. דאמר ר' שמואל בר נחמן אמר ר' יונתן... באותה שעה בקשו מלאכי השרת לומר שירה לפני הקב"ה אמר להן הקב"ה מעשה ידי טובעין בים ואתם אומרים שירה לפני.

The Holy and Blessed One does not rejoice at the fall of the wicked.
Thus Rabbi Shmuel bar Nachman said in the name of Rabbi Yochanan:... At that  moment [when the Egyptians were drowning in the Sea,] the ministering angels intended to sing before the Holy and Blessed One.
The Holy One said, “The work of My hands is drowning in the sea, and you would sing before me?!”

This is an astonishing idea. Our tradition is demanding that, at the moment of deliverance from suffering, we set aside any sort of triumphalism. Instead, we are called upon to recognize the very human-ness of our enemy.

To be sure, these passages do not apologize for our victory. We don’t regret that we were brought out of Egypt, just as we don’t regret the integrity and passion and ferociousness with which we’ve fought any just war in history. Evil must be vanquished, sometimes only through greater force.  

What the tradition does assert is that we can’t allow ourselves to dehumanize our enemies. They, too, are fathers and mothers, sons and daughters. They suffered when their water turned to blood, their fields were devoured by locusts, and their firstborn lay dead in their beds. They suffered when we fought back in the ghettos and the trenches, and when they and their children died on the battlefields. 

Enemies are real, but perhaps recognizing each other’s inherent humanity is a cautious step towards a world with... well, a bit fewer enemies. 

Can we live up to this standard that our tradition sets? I’m not saying I can, not yet. The desire for justice... which sometimes is indistinguishable from the desire for vengeance against those who have hurt us... is just too strong. But that’s what makes this spiritual challenge so compelling—our highest values are what we should reach for, not what we already comfortably accept.  

This is the ritual of the drops at the Ten Plagues.  It’s radical and challenging, and it deserves a moment of meditation and reflection before we tip our cups.  

We're Doing the Ten Plagues All Wrong—Part One

I collect Haggadahs. I love them; I think the Haggadah is the quintessential Jewish religious text. Not only because it tells the story of how we became a people, but also because there are Haggadot customized for every Jewish family and community. That’s why there are so many hundreds of them out there.

Pride of place in my Haggadah collection goes not to rare volumes or collector’s editions. Instead, I prefer photocopied and homemade texts that families have shared with me over the years, taking the traditional order, texts, and rituals and making the story their own. After all, personalizing the story is the key injunction of this festival: “In every generation, we must view ourselves as if we, personally, came out of Egypt” (Mishnah, Pesachim 10:5). We write ourselves into the continually unfolding story, respectfully inscribing the latest chapter that builds on what came before.

At the culmination of the Maggid section of the Haggadah—the part that tells the story of the Exodus—is a description of the עשר מכות/Esser Makkot, known colloquially as the Ten Plagues. And judging by the Haggadot in my collection, as well as all the creative seder material that fills my inbox at this time of the year, we’ve been doing it all wrong.

Racism. Climate change. Islamophobia… Countless Haggadot and seder-leaders over the years have invited guests to list “10 modern plagues” that afflict our world.

Homophobia. Rape culture. Surging antisemitism… there is no shortage of plagues in our world, and we’re often called by well-meaning people today to elaborate on them at the seder.

Family-separation policies for immigrants. The ubiquity of screens. Allowing rich people to set our communal agenda. Suburban complacency… I can do it, too. I’m sure you have your own list.

But if we think about it, these lists really don’t work at this part of the seder. It’s not that these things aren’t important—they are, and each contributes to a form of “enslavement” that we all yearn to be free from.

The problem is, that’s not what the מכות עשר / Esser Makkot / “Ten Plagues” are all about. 

Makkot are not “plagues.” They are “strikes”, as in military strikes against an aggressive enemy. That is precisely the image that the Torah presents in the Exodus story: G-d is waging a battle against Pharaoh in order to achieve the liberation of the Israelite slaves. At the burning bush, G-d tells Moses:

וְשָׁלַחְתִּ֤י אֶת־יָדִי֙ וְהִכֵּיתִ֣י אֶת־מִצְרַ֔יִם בְּכֹל֙ נִפְלְאֹתַ֔י אֲשֶׁ֥ר אֶֽעֱשֶׂ֖ה בְּקִרְבּ֑וֹ
וְאַחֲרֵי־כֵ֖ן יְשַׁלַּ֥ח אֶתְכֶֽם׃
I will stretch out My hand and strike [v’hikeiti – the same root as makkot]  Egypt with
various wonders which I will work upon them; after that he shall let you go.
(Exodus 3:20)

This process unfolds over a series of 10 strikes against Egypt, each one a tool towards bringing about freedom: blood, frogs, lice, etc…

When the Torah recalls the Exodus, it refers to these events as “signs” and “wonders”. In Deuteronomy 34:11, they are called אותות (“signs”) and מופתים (“portents”); these words are used again in Psalms 78 and 105. They are divinely attributed miracles that directly brought about the release of the people from bondage.

The “Ten Plagues” are the tools of liberation. They are not lingering calamities from which the world suffers, like racism, environmental cataclysm, or ignorance. They are not called “plagues.”

The Torah has words for “plague”: נגע / nega’ and מגפה / magefah. Nega’ usually appears in the context of leprosy, the scale-disease that was a particularly horrible trauma in the Bible. (Later, a whole tractate of the Mishna on this theme would be called Nega’im.) Magefah is used usually in the context of massive deaths after the Israelites sin as a community (see, for example, Numbers 14:7, 25:8-9, 26:1; and 1 Samuel 4:17). But neither term, nega’ nor magefah, conjures up God’s battle with Pharaoh.

There is one exception (because there’s always an exception). In Exodus 11:1, just prior to the מכת הבכורות / the strike against the first-born of Egypt, G-d tells Moses:

…ע֣וֹד נֶ֤גַע אֶחָד֙ אָבִ֤יא עַל־פַּרְעֹה֙ וְעַל־מִצְרַ֔יִם…
“I will bring but one more plague [nega’] upon Pharaoh and upon Egypt…” 

Here is the one appearance of the word “plague” in the entire saga. Why does this word appear here, and only here?

Perhaps that Tenth Strike is different. After all, scholars have pointed out that the Esser Makkot occurred in three triads; there is a literary symmetry in the clusters of three, and the Tenth stands outside of the pattern. Perhaps the severity of the 10th Strike is so intense that even G-d realizes that this is the “nuclear option.” Maybe it’s simply the exception that proves the rule, since nowhere else in biblical or rabbinical literature these events are called “plagues.”

So it’s just a little too lazy to score political points by asking, “What are 10 modern plagues…?” We have more than our share of them, it is true. But there is a cognitive dissonance in linking the today’s blights with wondrous moments in the past that directly led to our freedom.

The seder saga inspires other, more appropriate and difficult questions: What “miraculous” things have contributed to our freedom – individually, as a family, and as a people? What wondrous events in our past directly made it possible for us to be here today? And how do we appropriately express our wonder, awe, and gratitude?

Good Enough

Had G-d brought us out of Egypt
But not parted the Sea for us – Dayenu!
Had G-d parted the Sea for us
But not brought us through on dry land – Dayenu!
Had G-d brought us near to Mount Sinai
But not given us the Torah – Dayenu!

 Here’s a conversation starter for a dry seder:  Does anyone really believe the words to this song?

            I mean, we’ve been singing Dayenu a long time – probably since the era of the Geonim (650-1075 CE). Even families that have abridged the seder to a significant degree still consider this song essential. But consider the words as they appear on the page, and the message is less than obvious. Do we really believe that “It Would Be Good Enough for Us” (for that is the meaning of Dayenu) if G-d had redeemed us from slavery and then left us to starve in the desert? If the Sea had parted and the story ended there? If we had not been allowed to coalesce into a people, and had ultimately gone the way of the Amorites, Hittites, Canaanites, Babylonians, and others who long ago folded into history’s abyss?

            Of course it wouldn’t have been “good enough.”  Any break in any link of the chain of those miraculous events would have signified the end of the Jewish people, and there wouldn’t be anyone around to sing Dayenu to G-d. How could that possibly be “good enough”? So maybe this passage has more to it than meets the eye?

            Dayenu is placed nearly halfway through the seder, after most of the storytelling has taken place and just after the recitation of the Ten Plagues. We have already recounted the brutality of slavery. We have begun to comprehend all the many miracles – and the miracles upon miracles, according to Rabbis Yossi Ha-G’lili, Eliezer, and Akiva in the Haggadah – that have brought us here today, to this moment. Soon we’ll be feasting. But first we sing this song.

            The themes of what it means to be a slave and what it means to be free are placed before us.  And there’s a trap. We might reach this point in the seder, say to ourselves that slavery is a thing of the past, and we’re done with it. Let’s eat.

            But slavery is not a thing of the past.  Those who delude themselves into thinking they’re the most free just might find themselves in chains more restrictive than ever.  Just consider:

·      One in three Americans are chronically overworked;

·      54% of Americans have felt “overwhelmed” at work in the past month;

·      21% of overworked Americans exhibit symptoms of clinical depression.[1]

Do you see? A girl who starves herself “just to lose a few more pounds” is still enslaved. A family that feels compelled to make a Bar Mitzvah party that much bigger or more lavish because that’s the style is enslaved. A teenager who accommodates sleep deprivation just to get fifty more points on the cursed SATs is still enslaved. Uniquely, Americanly enslaved.

            What’s the way out of this trap?  Only this: the person who knows how to say Dayenu—what I have is, indeed, truly enough for me—is the person who is really free. I can stop the endless pursuit of acquiring, competing, accumulating more. In fact, I can do a better job at giving some of it away.

            Of course, there are plenty around us who are truly, desperately in need. This lesson can’t be applied outwards toward our neighbors, telling them they should be satisfied with whatever they have (as in the words of the miser in a classic Chasidic story, “If I can subsist on bread, they can surely subsist on stones!”) It only works when directed within.

            That’s why we sing Dayenu in our seder. Only the person who can look at his life and say, “What I have is truly what I need,” knows the taste of liberation; everything else is delusion.

[1] Overwork in America: When the Way We Work Becomes Too Much, Families and Work Institute, 2005, http://familiesandwork.org/press/overworkinamericarelease.html#overwork

Miles Davis and the Art of Living

Miles Davis (1926-1991) was one of the most important American musicians of all time—completely reinventing musical categories three or four times over during his turbulent career. Here’s the opening track of his 1971 album A Tribute to Jack Johnson, called “Right Off”:

Miles was a great trumpeter, but he was even more important as a bandleader, putting together some of the greatest groups in history. And he was known for giving cryptic instructions to his players, like a Zen master. He’d say, “Don’t just play what’s there, play what’s not there.” And: “Sometimes you have to play for a long time in order to play like yourself.” And: “There are no mistakes.”

There’s a moment in “Right Off” that illustrates Miles’s attitude of “no mistakes.” And in this instrumental drama, there’s a spiritual lesson.  You can hear the moment—Miles’s entrance after a dramatic introduction of drums, bass, and electric guitar—between 2:00 and 2:20 in the audio clip.

Here’s how jazz critic Paul Tingen describes what we’re hearing:

At 1:38 the guitarist takes down the volume, and at 2:11 he modulates to B-flat to heighten the dramatic effect of Miles’s entry. However, the bass player misses the modulation, and carries on playing in E.

In other words, the two principle players are now accidentally playing in different keys. It’s a train wreck. Surely they should stop and start the take over?

But that’s where Miles’s genius – his flexibility and his careful listening to his fellow musicians – comes in. Tingen continues:

In the middle of this clash of tonalities, Miles decides to make his entrance.

He starts by playing a D-flat, the minor third in the key of B-flat and the major sixth in the key of E. It is an ingenious choice – because the note is effective in either key. Miles than plays twelve staccato B-flat notes, phrasing them on the beat to drive the band on, and also as if to nudge [Michael] Henderson [the bass player] towards B-flat tonality. Henderson gets the message, comes into line by modulating to B-flat, and Miles carries on, giving one of the most commanding solo performances of his career.

 Tingen explains what’s so stunning about this:

Most musicians would have regarded the point when the 2 musicians were clashing in such incompatible keys as E and B-flat as an embarrassing mistake and would have stopped the band… Very few would have considered, or have had the courage, to come in at such a moment. And even fewer would have been able to make it into a resounding success.

Miles could have stopped the music, corrected the musicians, and started over. Instead, he picks the perfect note that takes the so-called mistake and makes it art.

Abraham Joshua Heschel told us that our task is to construct our lives as works of art, and what Miles does is illustrative of this.  On these days before Yom Kippur, we are tasked with having the courage to look honestly inward, reflecting on our choices and our deeds and their consequences. 

One important lesson of the Season of Teshuvah is that we don’t get to go back and erase our actions. They are done, with a ripple effect that has gone out into the world.  Rosh HaShana and Yom Kippur are not spiritual erasers, blotting our sins from the Book of Life.

But the Days of Awe are something else:  They are opportunities to transform those deeds and shape them. Every living soul is a work-in-progress. It’s been said: No one can make a brand-new start, but anyone can make a brand-new ending.

That’s what’s so empowering about Yom Kippur. It’s only for people who make mistakes. Perfect people are not invited:

 Rabbi Abbahu says: In the place where a baal teshuvah [one who has turned back to a good and decent path] stands, even a completely righteous person cannot stand. [Talmud, Berachot 34b]

Think about it this way: Teshuvah is one of 613 Mitzvot. That means if a person is perfect and has not sinned – then she can only do 612 of them! The rest of us get the upper hand!

To take what we’ve damaged and mangled and turn it into art: that’s the trick. Miles knew it; so did the Talmud. Maybe this year Yom Kippur can spur more of us in that direction. 

Quotes are from Paul Tingen, Miles Beyond: The Electric Explorations of Miles Davis, 1967-1991 (New York: Billboard Books, 1991), p.106.