Rabbi's Bulletin SEPTEMBER 2019

THE ROOT OF JUSTICE IS LOVE

“Never forget that justice is what love looks like in public.” – Cornel West

 

Although both love and justice are basic Jewish ideals, I have always considered them diametrical. Rabbinic tradition presents two aspects of God in tension with one another. Chesed, the boundless energy of divine love, is balanced by the restraining force of gevurah, “judgment,” that limits it.

 

Thinking of it in more human terms, when you love someone—a child, a spouse, a dear friend—you naturally treat him or her in a distinctive manner, separate from how you interact with the masses of humanity. You may act courteously toward a stranger you just met, but you will shower your loved one with special attention. Love necessarily entails favoritism, and favoritism is anathema to justice, which requires treating everybody equally.

 

Love is a feeling, but justice is a principle. Rabbi Art Green observes: “Some people are easier to love, some are harder. Some days you can love them, some days you can’t.  But you still have to recognize and treat them all as the image of God. Love is too shaky a pedestal on which to stand the entire Torah.”


However, after my recent encounters with Beth Shalom member Austin Spier, renowned Jewish psychologist Erich Fromm, and Mayor John Hamilton of Bloomington, I’m not sure that I still view love and justice as antithetical. Perhaps it’s better to conceptualize love and justice as linked qualities, allies in the never-ending struggle to improve our personal relationships, communities and the world.

 

Austin’s Bar Mitzvah focused on the notorious “eye-for-an-eye, tooth-for-a-tooth” passage. Surely, punishment that strictly matches the crime demonstrates justice in its purest form; so why is that we recoil at “an eye for an eye?” Because it lacks any whiff of compassion. It seems that justice entirely lacking in love is not justice at all. (“Besides,” adds Austin, “if everyone decided to be a little nicer to one another, maybe the Torah’s harshest forms of punishment would not be necessary to begin with.”)

 

Under the influence of Erich Fromm, presented in last week’s “Finding God” discussion group, I also question whether love is a feeling after all. For Fromm, love is a discipline. In The Art of Loving, he writes: “Love is not primarily a relationship toward one object of love; it is an attitude, an orientation toward the entire world as a whole.” Fromm’s conception hearkens back to the Biblical word for love, ahavah. In the Torah, ahavah had a formal, legal connotation obligating two parties to a mutually binding covenant. Commandments such as you shall love Adonai your God and you shall love your neighbor as yourself imposed loyalty, respect, obedience (in the case of God), and justice (in the case of other human beings).

 

Likewise, we must not confuse love with passion, infatuation, or maudlin display. At last week’s Bloomington United rally in response to the threat of white supremacy in our community, Mayor John Hamilton reminded us of Martin Luther King’s famous words: “hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” Then the mayor added: “This kind of love is not the Hallmark variety. Only love born of strength and conviction can stand up to racists and bigots.”

 

So, yes, in the end, love is indeed the foundation upon which the principle of justice rests, along with the entire corpus of Jewish law. All the commandments that legislate fairness, preserve human dignity and uphold basic rights are rooted in compassion and empathy. Love and justice are not opposites; rather, love comprises justice.

 

We each build circles of concern around ourselves. Our circles include those who are near and dear to us—spouses, parents, children, family and close friends.  Some of our circles extend to our work associates, this congregation, the local community, or the Jewish people. Our primary religious obligation, it seems to me, is to constantly strive to widen the circle to encompass ever larger populations: people of color, LGBT people, people with mental illness, the incarcerated, immigrants, people holding political views contrary to ours…

 

When all classes of people are brought inside the circle of our love, then justice will roll down like water and righteousness like a mighty stream.

 

 

 

 

 




 

Rabbi's Bulletin august 2019

THE SPIRITUAL GIFTS OF BEING LAID UP

 

I was supposed to travel to Israel this summer for the first time in a dozen years. I was looking forward to studying at the Hartman Institute by day, and drinking coffee with old and new friends at sidewalk Jerusalem cafes in the warm summer evenings. Instead I spent a month cooped up at home recuperating from a herniated disk. Obviously, God had other plans for me this year. To my surprise, I was not upset. To the contrary, it’s been a period of new insight, appreciation, and joy.

 

First, I remembered how deeply this community cares for me. Within hours of the news getting out that the Rabbi was housebound, satchels bursting with edible goodies started appearing on my doorstep. (As is well-known, food is the cultural currency by which we Jews express love.) I was overwhelmed by your prayers and good wishes expressed through voice messages, emails, and greeting cards. I sometimes get caught up in the negative, the one or two stressors of my job. Then I forget all that routinely goes well and the loving people for whom I work. After I get well, I want to retain my renewed sense of gratitude for this community and the privilege of serving it.

 

During my convalescence, my gratitude extended not just to people but to the simplest pleasures. I celebrated small measures of progress—the first morning I could stand on my feet long enough to make coffee for myself, or the first night in four weeks that I slept through the night. In my prime, I would think nothing of a 15-mile hike in the wilderness; meanwhile I was thrilled to walk all the way to the tennis courts in Southeast Park and back. I hope to return quickly 15-mile hikes. And when I do, I want to retain the sense of joy for simply being alive.

 

I also learned humility and acceptance in the face of changing circumstances. I hate to admit it, but I can sometimes be stubborn about projects I organize; when things don’t go my well way, I tend to dig in my heels. I might have dug in my heels about going to Israel, but the Torah stopped me.

 

It so happens that the Torah portion that week was Shelach Lecha, in which God decrees that the People shall wander in the desert for forty years instead of traveling directly to Israel. Of course, when they hear that the Promised Land is now off-limits, suddenly the People want to go after all! Defiantly, they march on Israel with devastating results. In a flash, I realized the Torah was speaking directly to my individual situation. I understood that if I defiantly pursued my trip to Israel now that “it was decreed off-limits,” I too would meet “with devastating results.”

 

Thus, another gift of being laid up was finding and heeding the Voice of God. Early on, when excruciating pain shot down my leg and I didn’t know what was happening to me, I simply had no idea what to do first. I turned to a trusted friend and said: “I have no idea what to do. You tell me, and I will do exactly as you say.” She replied: “You need to cancel your appointment with the chiropractor; your problem is too serious for that. Go immediately to the orthopedist and follow his instructions.” Essentially I turned my friend into the temporary ruler of my life. I deputized her as God, as it were, and I turned my will over to her direction.

 

Now, as I slowly regain control over my schedule and activities, I am cognizant that my independence can be taken away at any moment. When I am back to normal, I want to retain the humility to remember that ultimately my life unfolds not according to my plan but God’s.

 

What I experienced this summer challenged me physically but did not set me back spiritually. To the contrary, it has been a joyous period. I have often pointed out to people with terminal illness and their loved ones the words in the Mi Shebeirach (the Prayer for Healing): refu’at hanefesh u’refu’at haguf, “a healing of the body and a healing of spirit.” I have shared with them my conviction that even when a physical cure is no longer possible, spiritual well-being is always possible. I learned this summer that the gift of spiritual wholeness not only applies at the point of death but whenever we are ailing physically. The state of my body is external to who I am inside, which can always remain connected to others, to myself, and to God.

 

Rabbi's Bulletin october 2018

Middah of the Month: Humility

As discussed from the pulpit on Kol Nidre evening, we (the Rabbi and President) are launching a Mussar program at Beth Shalom entitled: “Middah of the Month.” Mussar is a Jewish ethical discipline devoted to the cultivation of positive character traits known as middot(singular: middah). Each month, a different middahwill be featured in the print bulletin, at worship services, on the website, at Board meetings, and elsewhere. The Middahfor October is Humility (Anavah).

Alan Morinis, the founder of the American Mussar Institute, writes in his book Everyday Holiness: “Humility is the first soul-trait to work on, because it entails an unvarnished and honest assessment of your place. Without this accurate self-awareness, nothing else in your inner life will come into focus.” Humility entails a right-sized appreciation of self: neither grandiose, nor self-effacing, but in between.

People who flaunt themselves are often compensating for low self-esteem. However, if you feel right with yourself inside, then you can assert yourself in quiet ways without being arrogant or overbearing. In our tradition, Moses supremely exemplifies the proper deployment of ego. The Torah describes him as “the humblest person on Earth,” and yet, as a leader, he doesn’t shy away from resisting his opponents and upbraiding his followers when necessary.

Here’s a completely hypothetical example in my own role as Rabbi. Let’s say that a member were to cast aspersions on a decision I made and accuse me of pride, and let’s say that I were incapable of explaining my actions without breaking another person’s confidentiality. I could “take the high road” and not defend myself at all. I could react indignantly with: “I’m the Rabbi, and you have to do whatever I say.” (By the way, Mussar teaches that anger almost always results from lack of humility.) Or, I might say something like: “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I have valid reasons that I unfortunately am not at liberty to share with you.” That would be an intermediate response. 

As members of this holy community, Congregation Beth Shalom, we each have to decide when to speak up and when to keep our thoughts to ourselves. On the one hand, the Torah exhorts us with: “you shall reproach your kinsfolk,” and on the other hand it immediately goes on to say: “but you shall not incur guilt because of it.” (Leviticus 19:17) The qualifying clause is interpreted to mean: “bring criticism to the other person’s attention in a considered, considerate manner, lest you yourself incur guilt by disrespecting, demeaning or shaming her.”

The last word (for the present) on humility comes from opera. I happen to be studying Poulenc’s “Dialogues of the Carmelites” in preparation for IU’s upcoming production. At one point, the reverend mother says to Blanche: “unhappiness is not when others have disdain for you but only when you have disdain for yourself.” (Her counsel parallels the Jewish idiom expressed in the Torah service: “not on the opinions of mortals do I rely, but on God alone.”) Only it sounds so much better in French! Le malheur, ma fille, n'est pas d'être méprisée, mais seulement de se mépriser soi-même. 

Rabbi's Bulletin September 2018

TESHUVAH  

To do teshuvah(“repentance”) rates as one of the most arduous demands that our tradition places upon us. As a Torah study participant said last week: “who among us wants to admit she’s wrong?” Teshuvahis a painstaking and comprehensive process. We must go to the person we have hurt, straightforwardly articulate our offense (without explaining, minimizing, or justifying it), express remorse, resolve never to recommit the injurious behavior, and be willing to do whatever is in our power to make amends for the damage. These are the steps enumerated by Maimonides. They take time, effort and courage. Failure to do teshuvah is considered more serious than the original transgression. Judaism ranks transgressions according to their level of severity. A “sin” (cheit) is an unwitting transgression, committed by accident (for example, forgetting a promise or commitment). An “iniquity” (avon)is a willful transgression, committed because we can’t resist the “evil impulse” or temptation (for example, losing one’s temper). Finally, an “act of rebellion” (pesha) is a willful transgression, committed solely to violate another’s authority or dignity—the most grievous kind (for example, acting out of malice or spite).

What’s noteworthy is that when we commit wrongdoing but fail to do teshuvah, the original transgression, no matter how flagrant or slight, now automatically upgrades to the level of pesha, a deliberate and sustained act of defiance. The sage Netivot Shalom explains: “when an individual commits a sin, he transgresses the will of the Creator only once, at the moment of the misdeed itself, but when he doesn’t return in teshuvah, he stands in rebelliousness all his days.” In other words, a momentary lapse hardens into longlasting obduracy.

Given how exacting and even painful the process can be, how do we summon the will to do teshuvah? On the other hand, given how consequential and grave the obligation is, how can we afford not to do teshuvah? Netivot Shalom settles the predicament by offering an extraordinarily encouraging analogy. He compares doing teshuvah before the High Holidays to searching for chametz (bread and other leavened products) before Passover Jewish law prohibits the possession of chametz on Passover—down to the smallest crumb. We’re supposed to scrub and sweep every room during the days leading up to the festival. On the night before, we ceremonially search high and low for the last morsels, armed with candle, feather and wooden spoon. Try as we might, however, we can never be sure of having eliminated all of it. That’s why we conclude with the recitation: “Let all leaven that may remain be regarded as dust of the earth.” As the Talmud directs: “search all the nooks and crannies, but then you must let it go and nullify it in your heart.”

Likewise, the entire month of Elul is devoted to teshuvah, so that we may enter the New Year with a clean slate. We’re supposed to scrupulously inventory our behavior, enumerate our wrongs, identify all those we have harmed, and seek their forgiveness. Try as we might, however, we can never be sure of having atoned for everything. Just like the removal of chametz,the process of teshuvahhas a fixed endpoint when we get to say: “I’ve done all I can.” Concerning past transgression, at a certain point we must tell ourselves: “let it go and nullify it in your heart.” 

Our behavior will always be flawed. Even the way we do teshuvahwill always be flawed. “What does Adonai require of you? Only do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God.” I take the prophet Micah’s famous tripartite injunction to mean that the only thing that matters in the end is: our constant striving to live according to our principles, our compassion toward others and ourselves when we fall short of our values, and our willingness to learn and grow from every misstep along the way.

L’shanah tovah tikateivu. "Days are scrolls: let us write on them what we want to be remembered."