Why Judaism? Loving Kindness

Rabbi Joseph Meszler

As we approach the High Holidays, the question of why Judaism lurks behind many sermons and clergy conversations. This week, guest blogger, Rabbi Josesph Meszler of Temple Sinai in Sharon, MA provides an answer to that question. The author of a Facing Illness, Finding God, he draws on Jewish text and personal experience to help us understand why Judaism matters.

When the prophet Micah told us to “do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God,” he may have been summarizing what could be characterized as a Reform halacha. Rabbi Rami Shapiro once wrote that many of our commandments could be divided up into one of these three categories: doing justice in the world by engaging in tikkun olam, facing the inevitable pain of life through loving kindness, and walking humbly with God through our ritual observance. But it is the middle injunction, to love kindness, that I think draws more and more people to the synagogue today. The main function of our religion seems to be to help us cope.

I believe Jewish people are looking to their Judaism as a source of solace. Healing services have become commonplace. Debbie Friedman’s Mishebeirach has long been something of an anthem. Rabbis are no longer sought after to be towering figures in robes speaking from high pulpits or deciders of halacha but rather a compassionate person with empathy. Congregants will forgive a rabbi a bad sermon; they will not do so if we are not there in their time of need. Jews today want rabbis to embody the Judaism that they need, a dependable human touch.

My hometown rabbi, Gustav Buchdahl, once remarked to me that today people seem to look for “therapeutic Judaism.” We want our Judaism to help make us whole and to help us heal. While this refocusing of Judaism cannot be at the expense of social justice or vibrant prayer – the other two parts of the verse from Micah – I believe he is accurate in that we crave shleimut: peace of mind/wholeness/completeness. Something in our age seems broken, and we are trying mend not only our world but ourselves.

As I’ve discussed elsewhere, I have had my own experience with illness and faith. Now completely healthy, my wife (and our colleague) Julie was once ill and had to have a scary operation. As I was sitting in the waiting room, surrounded by strangers who were preoccupied with their own thoughts, I was overflowing with anxiety. I began to pray in a way that Rabbi Nachman of Breslov taught – to scream silently in my mind. I didn’t know how loud thoughts could be until I was mentally screaming to God to please help my wife. It was in that moment that I needed a human touch the most, and I was fortunate that my Judaism was there for me.

I believe the Judaism of the future is going to be as a spiritual practice, and its central function is going to be to be as a source of comfort.

Immigrants – The Challenge of Inclusivity

This week, Professor David Levine,the  Sonabend Associate Professor of Talmud and Halakhah on the Jerusalem campus reminds us that the contemporary debates about immigration are not new. Indeed from ancient times, Jews have faced questions of how to deal with those who move from place to place. Drawing on his deep understanding of history and text, Levine explains what our tradition has to teach us for today.

After the epoch-making generation of Rabbi Judah the Patriarch at the turn of the second and third centuries, rabbinic activity split between two geographic settings, Late Roman Palestine and Sassanian Babylonia. The reasons for this do not concern us here, but an important point to remember is that this development is not to be construed as reflecting a dwindling Jewish community in Israel. This community would continue to thrive demographically, economically and culturally for another four centuries. The novelty of two geographic locations was first-and-foremost internal to the world of the talmudic rabbis. The traditional hegemony of Eretz-Israel was not about to relinquish its established role, and a budding creativity from across the Euphrates would soon assert its confident self-perception.

One result of this new configuration was the migration of students and scholars between the two locales. The Bavli expresses this phenomenon when it calls the migrants ‘nehotei’ (descend-ers) and identifies certain traditions as having been stated when a certain rabbi arrived (ki ata rabbi ‘peloni’ amar). Two anecdotes from the Yerushalmi (Palestinian Talmud) portray the towering figure of Rabbi Yohanan as having difficulty understanding and dealing with his Babylonian students. These traditions convey the hardship of emigrants in a new social-cultural context, with people around them often indifferent, sometimes unfriendly.

In a thrice told tale (Yerushalmi Berakhot 2:1 4b; Shekalim 2:7 47a; Mo’ed Katan 3:6 83c), Rabbi Yohanan (=RY) sees Elazar ben Pedat avoiding him and complains to another student Ya’akov bar Idi (in Shekalim: ‘Hiyyah bar Abba’), ‘These two practices of this Babylonian [are improper], one is that he does not greet me and the other is that he does not quote traditions in my name’. RY thinks that this type of behavior conveys disrespect, and he associates this disrespect with Elazar’s country of origin, Bavel. Ya’akov bar Idi is quick to correct this impression. In Bavel, students do not initiate a greeting to their masters: ‘The youth saw me and hid’ (Job 29:8) is a prescription for conduct. At worst there is a different cultural code at play, at best an acknowledgment of the esteem in which Elazar holds his master RY. The second correction that Ya’akov bar Idi offers, is instructive. When a student quotes his teacher’s opinion without attributing that opinion to the teacher, he is conveying dependence and intimacy. Everyone knows of the relationship between RY and Elazar, all are aware of the source of Elazar’s knowledge. The fact that this is assumed rather than stated, is a mark of intimacy. We can discern criticism of RY. Where he perceived alienation and repudiation there was actually a student in full recognition of all he owed his teacher, and who was acting with humility. RY is portrayed as being unable to transcend his own perspective. This anecdote challenges its audience to see situations through the eyes of others, empathizing with strangers whose experience is different and not easily accessible to others.

This is not the only time we hear of inattentiveness to the hardship and the behavioral nuances of Babylonian disciples in Israel. Kahana came from Sura to Tiberias to study with the renowned RY (Yerushalmi Berakhot 2:8 5c). Probably dressed strangely, maybe with shoes instead of the usual sandals, the youth encountered an unfriendly reception from people on the street. ‘What voice [did you hear] in heaven?’ a ruffian threw out at him. Kahana retorted, ‘[I heard that] your verdict is sealed’. And indeed the ruffian died. It happened again, and Kahana thought to himself that this was not what he had bargained for: ‘Did I come to kill off the people of Eretz Israel? I will return to where I have come from’. However, one does not depart from his master without asking his permission. Kahana carefully formulated his request to RY, ‘If a person’s mother demeans him, but his stepmother respects him, where should he go?’. ‘One should go where he is respected’, was the unassuming reply. Kahana returned to Babylonia. Not realizing what he had sanctioned, RY asked why Kahana had departed without taking leave. The reply was ‘The conversation you had with him was his way of taking leave’. The master was unaware of what the young man had been going through, and even when Kahana expressed this hardship RY could not hear it. The parable of the mother and stepmother begs to be unraveled and understood on additional levels. The cry for protection of the parent-figure is almost explicit. It is lost on the rabbi. Mockery in the street is ironically paralleled by insensitivity in the study hall. One would have expected the beit midrash to provide this sense of safety. Not for Kahana. He is always alert, never able to trust his surroundings. The foreigner cannot find a place where he can feel protected and let his guard down. The ending is a pessimistic one, for the situation is not resolved.

These two traditions – Elazar’s misunderstood behavior and Kahana’s unwelcoming reception – choose RY as the target of their implicit criticism. Like biblical narrative, talmudic stories have no problem casting their protagonists in uncomplimentary light. Unconcerned with historical accuracy, these rabbinic figures are employed to teach. Edifying behavior invites emulation, problematic conduct posts a warning sign. RY is a linchpin figure for the Amoraim of third and fourth century Palestine. Selecting him as the butt of this criticism raises the stakes. An indictment of RY stands for a condemnation of an entire community. The allegation is in the absence of a secure ambiance where a stranger might be included.

In another context the Yerushalmi records a predicament of the small community of Cappadocian Jews in Sepphoris (Shevi’it 9:8 39a). Hailing from the Asia Minor these people did not seem to integrate easily into the social fabric of Sepphoris. The laws of Shevi’it – the agricultural sabbatical – require forfeiting ownership of produce (bi’ur) at a certain point during the year-long hiatus of work in the field. The produce would then become legally ownerless (hefker) with anyone permitted to gather it for themselves. A loop-hole was offered and a person could forfeit ownership of the produce in the presence of three trusted acquaintances, and immediately re-acquire this produce. In this way, a third party would not have the opportunity to act on the ownerless property and acquire it for himself. The ‘Cappadocians of Sepphoris’ asked Rabbi Ami how they could go about this particular detail of halakhic behavior. ‘Because there is no one who cares for us (literally: no one who loves us) and no one inquires about our well being, how are we to act?’ The technical solution which is offered should not mitigate this searing emotion of loneliness.

Talmudic tradition challenges itself and its students to hear these voices, empathize with the feelings they express, and act to lessen the hardship. The biblical idiom of ‘ger yatom ve’almanah’ (the foreigner, orphan and widow) is a trope for those who are marginalized and disenfranchised. Who are the ‘ger yatom ve’almanah’ in our midst? Do we step up and assume responsibility for incorporating them in society?

Loving Israel: What Does it Mean Today?

The Hovevai Zion were among the earliest Zionist but now that we have achieved what they barely were able to dream of, what does it mean to be a lover of Israel. Dr. Lisa Grant Associate Professor of Jewish Education on the New York campus is our guest blogger this week. Drawing on her extensive work in Israel education and her own personal experiences, she shares some reflections on what loving Israel today.

Israel has been an integral part of my life since childhood. For almost 39 years, I have had an immediate family presence there, first my parents for over 34 years and then my daughter for almost five.  I’ve lived there as well, for longish stretches at three different times in my life, and I visit regularly to see family and friends, to work with colleagues, to conduct research and to teach.  Having meaningful ongoing encounters with people, places and memories in Israel is an essential part of who I am as a human being and a Jew. There’s no doubt that I love Israel. It’s personal.  It’s in my bones.

My love of Israel grows out of my deep and abiding commitment to the Jewish People and collective Jewish life.  Israel is infused in symbols, actions, beliefs, and expressions of collective Jewish belonging.  Simply put, it’s impossible for me to imagine being a Jew without a relationship to the multiple dimensions of am, Torah, eretz, and medinat Yisrael.

But, loving Israel is complicated. Throughout my life, I’ve grappled with the politics and tried to understand the contours of the many competing and contentious social, cultural, economic, historical, ethnic tensions that make up the complex weave of contemporary Israeli life.  Israel is a place of wonder and inspiration, where the ongoing story of the Jewish people plays out every day.  And it is also a divisive, overly sectarian place that far too often wallows in and is paralyzed by its history, and seems all too often willing to abdicate moral responsibility in the self-righteous name of security.

As an educator, I often think about what my job is in teaching Israel.  I do not believe that the starting point is love. Rather, I think we need a new paradigm for teaching about Israel.  Too often, we rely on the “myth and miracle” narrative of Israel to foster a romantic notion of a heroic place. Yet, the day-to-day reality is far removed from this and a relationship built on myth is likely to crumble in the face of a much more complicated reality.  Nonetheless, many educators avoid grappling with confusing complexities that they themselves are uncertain about and that they fear will distance learners and undermine formation of a strong Jewish identity.   Ironically though, a case can also be made that approaches to Israel education that promote and perhaps even demand an unreflective love, may have the opposite effect, leaving Israel as a superficial, peripheral and even alienating aspect of American Jewish life.

A new paradigm for Israel education begins with a stance of critical engagement.  Love is not the starting point but is the ultimate goal – not a naïve and unreflective love, but rather a mature love that can endure even in the face of missteps and imperfection. Cultivating this type of love requires deep engagement with the complex and rich dimensions of Israel as a land, people, and state. More importantly, it requires a commitment to the Jewish collective enterprise of building a shared future that celebrates our diversity of stories, experiences, beliefs, and practices, and that contributes to a thriving Jewish People and a better world.  That’s the foundation of my love of Israel, of Judaism, and the Jewish People.  Each is an inseparable thread in the tapestry that gives my life shape, purpose, and meaning.

Integrity and Pride: We hang in the balance

Recently, stories about integrity pride have made headline quite frequently. This week Professor Alyssa Gray, Associate Professor of Codes and Responsa Literature on the New York campus of HUC-JIR puts into the context of rabbinic thinking on these two challenging human impulses. She reminds us that in thinking about these how to manage our sense of pride there are no simple answers.

Professor Alyssa Gray

We like to think that our world operates in this day and age on principles more elevated than “might makes right.” Think again. Plenty of people believe and act on the idea that might does make right. Taking “might” to mean something other than physical or military strength—power derived from great wealth, or even athletic skill and celebrity—we see that public figures ranging from Tiger Woods to some Goldman Sachs executives (not to mention Bernard Madoff and co.) acted arrogantly on the implicit belief that their power entitled them to do and have whatever they wanted whenever they wanted, at whatever cost. Given some of what we’ve seen, the Rambam’s advice (Hilkhot Deot 2:3) that we behave with extreme self-deprecation so as to avoid arrogant pride looks sound. But it’s more complicated (as Rambam surely knew too): the same sense of self that can deteriorate into a toxic brew of arrogance and overreaching can be, in a person of better character, a vital component of the healthy sense of self of an accomplished individual.

Reflections on pride, arrogance, and overreaching fill our Judaic and Western traditions, sometimes with confusing results. Who doesn’t (just a tiny bit) admire John Milton’s proud Satan in Paradise Lost (“What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will. . . .” Book I)? And that’s just one small quote. The Tanakh is less subtle in its assessment of the arrogance of power, as well as the arrogant’s inevitable (to the Tanakh) fall. That fall may be spectacular (think of Pharaoh and his armies at the Reed Sea), and at other times drawn-out and tragic (David’s sin with Bathsheba changed the narrative arc of his reign from one success after another to a reign in which he never again enjoyed a moment’s peace until his death). Kohelet’s pessimism notwithstanding, the overreaching arrogant don’t fare well in the Tanakh.

Yet pride, arrogance, and their deleterious impact on one’s integrity aren’t only for the Tiger Woods(es) of this (and the Biblical) world. Let’s consider the consequences of lashing out in response to wounded personal pride, a wound we all suffer at one time or another. In the rabbinic narrative of the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE, the chain of events culminating in the destruction is kicked off by the (not then famous) Bar Kamza’s false report to the Roman Emperor that the Jews were rebelling, which he made in order to get even with the rabbis for his public humiliation, which they witnessed but did not stop (BT Git. 56a). This is a cautionary tale in which Bar Kamza’s justifiably hurt pride led him to an ill-considered act with unforeseen consequences. In another cautionary tale, R. Eleazar b. R. Shimon, puffed up with pride because of all the Torah he had learned, thoughtlessly insulted a man by calling him “ugly” (BT Tan. 20a-b). Although he immediately regretted what came out of his mouth and begged forgiveness, the injured man stubbornly refused until R. Eleazar’s townspeople (=his “congregation”) intervened. R. Eleazar’s justifiable pride in his accomplishments turned him “ugly” while the man’s justifiable hurt turned him truly “ugly” when he unjustifiably refused to forgive. Careful response to wounded pride is also of halakhic concern. Rambam teaches (Hilkhot Matanot Aniyyim 10:19) that one who refuses to take tzedakah even though he or she literally cannot live without it is a shedder of blood, liable for his or her own death. While Rambam sees the reluctance to accept help from others as admirable even if it means that one lives right at the edge, that pride becomes sin when it becomes an obstacle to continuing to live.

Between the extremes of Rambam’s exhortation to self-deprecation and the arrogance of pride and power lies a healthy sense of self that includes an awareness of one’s abilities/status/good points, etc., and a true humility that keeps one from seeing those things as justifications for taking advantage of other people or for seeing oneself as superior to them. For (Talmudic) example: While a strong sense of self-confidence is vital to leadership, the rabbis saw humility as equally indispensable, inveighing against leaders who behave tyrannically toward their communities (e.g., BT Rosh Hashanah 17a), and teaching through stories of failed rabbinic leadership that the failure may have been due to a want of humility (e.g., Rabban Gamliel on BT Ber. 27b-28a). While taking pride in knowledge is found wherever there are teachers and students, humility is equally vital to doing that sacred work; to borrow a phrase from another context—if you don’t know something, “Teach your tongue to say, ‘I don’t know’” (Kallah Rabbati 4:22) and, if you’re a teacher, recognize the truth that often one really does learn most from one’s students (BT Tan. 7a). (If you’re a student, recognize that you can learn from the teacher too! That’s on BT Tan. 7a as well.) There is no better advice for all of us—wealthy, powerful, and not so much—than the well-known words of the Hasidic R. Simcha Bunim of Pshiskhe: In one pocket carry the words “The world was created for me” and in the other “I am but dust and ashes.”

Saying Sorry: On the Meaning of Forgiveness and Forgiving

This week’s installment in our Saying  Sorry series comes from Dr. Dalia Marx,  assistant professor of Liturgy and Midrash at the Jerusalem campus of HUC-JIR. Marx’s expert understanding of liturgy brings us back to a fundamental question in the process of teshuvah, the relationship between the forgiver and the one asking for forgiveness.

It takes two to forgive –one who requests forgiveness and one who grants it. Forgiving is a two way process – it is a inter-personal social act, aimed at mending an injured relationship. In this sense, forgiving is a speech act, a thing we do with words, as John L. Austin put it. The intention is not enough; it has to be clearly articulated, as Dr. Rick Sarason taught in his blog post. At the same time, forgiving is a self reflective ongoing process. Even when we know we need to forgive, some times our soul is reluctant to do so.

Dr. Dalia Marx

Forgiving is both an act and a process, an interpersonal affair and a personal matter. What do we do when we know that we should forgive but still are resistant to doing so? Can it be that granting forgiveness (to somebody) and forgiving (in our hearts) are two completely different things? Don’t we sometimes doubt that we can forgive those who wronged us, truly forgive them?

Furthermore, forgiving is possible only when there is injustice, injury or insult. Paradoxically, grave injury begs magnanimous forgiveness but at the same time makes it harder for the offended party, who may feel that it is unjustified, to forgive,. Can this paradox be mitigated? More so – this depicts an alienated world, a world in which each side of the equation is alone in dealing with his/her own perspective of the unfortunate encounter.

Yotam Benziman, an Israeli philosophy professor, suggests a useful direction. He claims that one cannot nullify the pain, and that regretting and repenting will not “make things right”. Instead of “forgiving and forgetting”, Benziman suggests a “dialogic forgiveness”. The offender is dependent on the offended for forgiveness because s/he can’t forgive her/himself (although there are those who claim that this is possible). The offended party must forgive the offender precisely because s/he offended him/her. This specific bond is unique to this relationship – both carry the burden of it and no one else is part of it.

The Hebrew term לבקש סליחה (asking for forgiveness), reflects the dependence of the offender on the offended party for forgiveness; one can’t force forgiveness, one may request.

Benziman’s proposal rejects the New-Age notion according to which “we are all in charge” and therefore “we are all guilty”, and consequently “no one is [really] guilty”. The relationship between the parties is not egalitarian but it can be,  if the offended agrees to relate to the offender as an individual, – one who chose to do wrong and now chooses to atone for it and to make things right.

סליחה, forgiveness is possible only between two individuals who believe that we have the ability and the responsibility to make choices.

Saying Sorry, What Does it Mean? More than Righting a Wrong

Often we think of saying sorry in terms of how it can right the wrongs that we have committed.  This week’s This week’s installment in our occasional summer series on saying sorry suggests that there is much more at stake when we engage in teshuvah. Dr. Aaron Panken, Assistant Professor of Rabbinic and Second Temple Literature at HUC-NY challenges us to think about how saying sorry can change the person who says it.

Dr. Aaron Panken

Most of us are probably familiar with the rabbinic dictum that privileges repentant sinners above even those who are wholly righteous. It first appears in a passage in Bavli Berakhot 34b:

And Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba said in the name of Rabbi Yohanan: all the Prophets themselves prophesied only regarding penitents, but as for the wholly righteous, “no eye has seen, only God alone” (Isa. 64:3). He disagrees with Rabbi Abbahu, for Rabbi Abbahu said: In a place where penitents stand, even the wholly righteous may not stand, as it is written: “Peace, peace, to one who was far and to one who is near” (Isa. 57:19) – first to the one who has been far, then to the one who has been near all along.

Rabbi Yohanan’s opinion (as cited by the Amora Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba) is somewhat opaque at first glance. Rashi understands his interpretation of Isa. 64:3 to mean that all the good predictions and comforting statements found in the Prophets apply to those who will repent. This is eminently reasonable, as the prophetic voice is so often aimed at those who are behaving rather badly, and the impetus of reward has always been a favorable way to encourage sinners to cease their sinning.

However, Rabbi Yohanan’s message can also be read in a strikingly different way. Rereading his interpretation of Isa. 64:3, he could be saying that there is no such thing as a wholly righteous human being – in fact, “only God alone” can secure the position of the tzaddik gamor – the completely righteous being. Thus, his statement may be indicating that the Prophets spoke to sinners, and, in so doing, they spoke to everyone, because, in truth, we are all sinners, and there is no one who can do without a prophetic call to justice now and then. This implies, then, a recognition of an essential human characteristic – we all commit sins of some sort, and only God alone has the quality of being wholly righteous.

Philo Judaeus (Egypt, 20 BCE-50 CE) shared a similar position to Rabbi Yohanan regarding God and righteousness in his On the Virtues 1:176-7:

176 Now those blessings which are of the greatest importance in the body are good health, without disease; and in a matter of navigation, a successful voyage, without danger; and in the soul, an undying recollection of all things worthy to be remembered. And the blessings of the second class are those which consist of re-establishment, such as a recovery from diseases; a long wished for escape from and safety after great dangers encountered in a voyage, and a recollection which ensues after forgetfulness; the brother and closest relation of which is repentance, which is not indeed ranked in the first and highest class of blessings, but which has the principal in the class next to the first.  177 For absolutely never to do anything wrong at all is a peculiar attribute of God, and perhaps one may also say of a God-like person. But when one has erred, then to change so as to adopt a blameless course of life for the future is the part of a wise person, and of one who is not altogether ignorant of what is expedient.

Philo drives home the point of the second reading of Rabbi Yohanan’s statement: God has cornered the market on righteous perfection. Rather than hoping for complete righteousness (an unachievable and inherently frustrating goal for mere humans), individuals in search of righteousness ought focus solely on changing where they have erred, and heading toward righteousness as best they can, without any expectation of ever completing the process in its entirety.  Further, to Philo, those who have sinned and repented are second-class, when compared to those who have never sinned.

Contrast this with Rabbi Abbahu’s comprehension: he views the repentant sinner as having a better position than even the most righteous of humans. After all, one who has repented has (as it were) sampled from both buffets, and even with intimate and personal knowledge of the delights of sin, has taken hold of the path of righteousness. In this strong act of casting off sins, the one who was far (from perfection, from righteousness, from God…) can now become near (to perfection, to righteousness, to God…).

Saying sorry involves, of course, the recognition that the act we committed caused hurt to another. But, for Rabbi Yohanan and Philo, repentance also involves a deeper self-understanding: that we are not perfect, that we are not better than others, and that we, as limited humans before an unlimited God, simply will not be able to achieve such righteous perfection. To Philo, though perfection will ultimately evade us, such re-establishment of ourselves for the better is wholly honorable and the right path to a brighter future. Coupling this with Rabbi Abbahu’s divergent idea of the exalted position of the penitent gives us hope and encouragement toward self-improvement and the relief that can come from conscious turning from sin.

From wherever we begin, saying sorry is the first step to bringing ourselves from far to near – closer to the way we ought to be.

Saying Sorry: What Does Forgiveness Mean?

This week we have the second in our occasional summer series on Saying Sorry. This week Rabbi Ruth Abusch-Magder PhD. the editor of this blog shares some of her reflections of the shape of forgiveness.

Person one: Ani Mevakesh S’licha U’michila

Person two: Ani Noten S’licha U’michila

I ask for forgiveness and absolution

I grant forgiveness and absolution

A few years ago, just before Rosh Hashana, I sat with a friend and reviewed the past year. It was clear that there was tension in our friendship. As we discussed what had happened, I apologized for the hurt that I had caused. She accepted my apology. In the next breath she explained that despite this, she no longer wanted to maintain a connection.

Our tradition tells us a great deal about righting a wrong that we commit. Doing teshuvah means following up on apologies with changes in behavior. As Maimonides teaches, we are obligated to forgive.[1] But while we can measure changes in bad behavior, can we measure forgiveness? In other words what does forgiveness look like?

Recently another friend was confronted with this question. A woman who had hurt her badly in the past moved into her community. At the time of the betrayal, which had involved a sexual impropriety, forgiveness has been sought and my friend had been unwilling and unable to grant it. Five years later, the woman had written my friend a letter of apology, which my friend judged as sincere, but still my friend was unable to forgive. She had thought the man involved would one day be her husband and the woman her maid of honor. A few months ago, when a mutual friend re-introduced them at Temple, the old friend acknowledged their past by saying that she they had known each other when the old friend was “younger and very, very foolish.” As my friend reported, forgiveness had been actively sought three times.

In many ways my friend had moved on from the old place of hurt and anger. In the intervening decades, my friend married a wonderful man with whom she has built a family. She is happy with her life and freely admits that had she married her then boyfriend it would not have been nearly as happy. Until this woman moved into her community she had not thought of her in years.

My friend has assumed that the distance from the events and the lessening of feelings constituted a form of forgiveness. But when the old friend reappeared, my friend was not so sure. With another newcomer to the community, my friend would have opened the doors to her home for Shabbat, offered advice on schools and camps but in this case she did not.

When repentance is sincere we obliged to forgive, but how do we know when that obligation is fulfilled?

In counseling my friend, I pointed out that in many ways she was acting on her forgiveness. She had not brought up the sins of the past. She was not shunning this woman or besmirching her name in the community. For all intents and purposes, she was allowing this woman to live the teshuvah that she claimed to seek. As Solomon Schimmel has explained in his book Wounds Not Healed by Time: The Power of Repentance and Forgiveness there are levels of forgiveness. IWe do not have an obligation to re-embrace an individual with no memory of their transgression or the hurt it caused but we are obligated to allow them to act the fullness of their teshuvah. We do not have an obligation to return to a world that existed before the rupture occurred.

This concept is echoed in our tradition which distinguishes between mechilah –the letting go of a grudge- and slicha –the letting go that happens deep in the heart – and kapparah – the complete wiping clean of the slate.

When we ask for and are granted forgiveness it does not lead to earthly kapparah. We have to realize that in transgressing, we can never go back to the way the world was before we acted. Our actions have consequences and while we may be able to do a full teshuvah we cannot expect that the forgiveness will mean a full embrace by those we have wronged in the past. When we agree to grant mechilah we take the first step in a process with the hope that we will arrive at some day at a state of full slicha. But the final forgiveness, the full letting go is not ours to give, that level of forgiveness belongs only to God.

ואסור לנחבל להיות אכזרי ולא ימחול לו ואין זו דרך זרע ישראל אלא כיון שבקש ממנו החובל ונתחנן לו פעם ראשונה ושניה וידע שהוא שב מחטאו וניחם על רעתו ימחול לו, וכל הממהר למחול הרי הוא משובח ג ורוח חכמים נוחה הימנו.

Saying Sorry: What Does it Really Mean?

This week we begin a occasional summer series on the topic of saying sorry. As we prepare our hearts and actions for the work of Elul, we hope that the words of the HUC-JIR faculty and staff will help deepen our own understandings and insights. This week, Dr. Richard Sarason, Professor of Rabbinic Literature and Thought on the Cincinnati campus brings ancient wisdom to bear on some of our contemporary culture of apologizing.

Dr. Richard Sarason

“Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

Readers of a certain age will recall this ad-line for the 1970 film version of Erich Segal’s short novel Love Story, which was all the rage in pop and campus culture at the time.  I remember thinking—even then—how fatuous (and sentimental) that statement is.  For Jews, love means precisely having to say you’re sorry, but not just saying.

As I am writing this piece, two prominent apologies have just been noted in the press.  First, Tony Hayward, the CEO of British Petroleum, began his testimony before the U.S. Congress with an apology to the American people for the catastrophic oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, which he acknowledged should never have happened.  To many, this must have felt like cold comfort and empty words after the fact, particularly when BP’s safety record has been so problematic for years.  The establishment of a $20 billion dollar fund to compensate those whose livelihoods have been ruined by the spill (after some arm-twisting from President Obama) is at least an attempt to make good on the apology. Words must be followed by actions if they are to be given any credence, because deeds have consequences.

Two days earlier, British Prime Minister David Cameron had issued an official apology to the people of Northern Ireland for the 1972 “Bloody Sunday” killings by British troops of 14 unarmed demonstrators in Londonderry—and he, too, used words similar to those of Tony Hayward: “What happened should never, ever have happened.”  But of course it did, and there’s the rub.  Only deeds can atone for deeds—but words can have profound symbolic significance as an outward expression of an inward change.  As John F. Burns noted in The New York Times Week in Review on June 20, “Seen from the historical viewpoint, this was an act of reconciliation to be listed alongside . . .[those of] other penitents throughout the ages.”

Which brings us full circle back to a religious perspective and to our own Jewish tradition as we prepare once again for the High Holy Days. (One of our sons as a child used to refer, not incorrectly, to Yom Kippur as “I’m Sorry Day”).

I always carry around in my head a little verse that I memorized as a first-grader in religious school, from Dorothy Kripke’s children’s book, Let’s Talk About God:

God and friends and parents

Forgive wrong things we do

If we can say, “I’m sorry,”

And really mean it, too.

Herein is both the problem and, perhaps, a way toward a solution.  Talk is cheap.  Words do not, cannot, undo deeds.  But words can at least begin the process of restitution and reconciliation as an outward expression of an inward change, as an acknowledgement of  responsibility for one’s actions, as a way of reaching out to the other.

Maimonides’ definition of teshuvah (Mishneh Torah, Sefer Hamada’, Hilkhot Teshuvah 1:1) notes that the process of teshuvah must begin with a verbal confession (vidui)—in words, out loud—so that one’s inward resolution is given outward, public expression. (And if this verbal confession is hypocritical, the person is like one who immerses in a mikveh still holding onto a dead creeping thing, a primary source of impurity; Hilkhot Teshuvah 2:3—what a powerfully concrete analogy!).  Expanding upon M. Yoma 8:9, Maimonides continues, “Transgressions against one’s fellow, as for instance, if one wounds, curses or robs one’s neighbor or commits similar wrongs, are never pardoned until the injured party has received due compensation and has also been appeased.  Even though he has made compensation, the wrongdoer must also appease the one he has injured and ask his forgiveness.  Even if a person only annoyed another in words, he has to pacify the latter and entreat him until he has obtained his forgiveness” (Hilkhot Teshuvah 2:9-10).

So, while words alone do not suffice for full repentance (they must be accompanied by compensation and a change in behavior), they are a necessary part of the process: words are our first line of social communication as adults.  (We socialize our children by saying: “Use your words.”)  But our words must truly express who we are and what we mean when we wish to make amends and to change relationships.  And then we must stand by our words with deeds—“and really mean it, too.”

What do we tell the children? Autism in a Jewish Family

All too often we as individuals and as community leaders battle with expectations of perfection that can create unreasonable pressure for our children and families. While we understand that the perfect Jewish family is a myth, there is often silence when it comes to speaking about the challenges we face. This week, we have the pleasure of reposting a piece by Deborah Greene wife of Rabbi Fred Greene (HUC-JIR  NY 2001) While in general it is our practice to post the words of our alumni directly, we felt that Deborah’s piece spoke to a family reality that she and Fred share together.

Fred Greene

What follows is a tremendously inspiring story of strong thoughtful parenting. It is a wonderful model for talking with kids about hard issues of all sorts. It is hard to overestimate the power for our communities of seeing that they are not alone in their struggles. This piece was orginally posted on Deborah’s blog Puzzled.

Deborah Greene

To Tell or Not To Tell

“We, the one’s who are challenged, need to be heard. To be seen not as a disability, but as a person who has, and will continue to bloom. To be seen not only as a handicap, but as a well intact human being.” (Robert M. Hensel)

The summer we told Yael about her autism. Her sister Leora by her side.

As parents, we are faced with many difficult conversations. Amongst them, there is the “don’t do drugs” talk, the “don’t drink & drive” talk and of course there is the good old-fashioned, highly anticipated “birds & bees” conversation. Most of us spend a good amount of time thinking about how to get these conversations just right. We look for the best books, ask friends how they handled these conversations with their own children & seek out guidance from trusted sources. If you are the parent of a child with autism, you also need to tackle the “telling my child that they have a lifelong developmental disability” conversation. I can promise you that this particular conversation is one of the most intimidating, nerve-wracking & anxiety inducing conversations of all.

You see, this particular conversation will help to shape how your child will see himself or herself for years to come. You want to impart the knowledge of who they are and why they are different without making them feel that their disability defines them. You want to help them understand their struggles, without making them feel limited in their capabilities. You want them to see themselves as “differently-abled” and not “disabled.” In addition, you want to help to ensure that they themselves won’t use their autism as an excuse, a “get out of jail free card” so to speak.

Then there are the other components of this conversation. When do I tell my child? How will I know when the time is right for them to handle this information? How much or how little do I share? Do I share this information with their friends & classmates? The list goes on & on.

Fred I began to think about having this conversation with Yael towards the end of her 2nd grade year. We knew that upon entering third grade, the social gap would widen significantly. We were already seeing her friends surpass her both socially & emotionally. What were seen as “little quirks” by her peers before, were now being seen as “strange” or “weird.” We also felt that it was becoming important to try & help her understand why she always had a teacher aid, went to social skills groups & needed occupational & other therapies. I guess you can say that we felt as if we wanted to help create a picture out of the many different puzzle pieces that made up her daily life.

So, I talked with her therapists, began looking for good books and hit the web in search of a “how to guide” to having this conversation with Yael. We waited until the 2nd grade school year was over. Then, we waited for the perfect opportunity, believing we would know it when we saw it. Alas, the picture perfect moment never seemed to present itself. There always seemed to be something about it that we felt wasn’t “quite right.” Truth be told I think we knew that we were going to change our daughter’s perception of herself, and her sister’s perceptions as well, for the rest of her life. No matter how the conversation went, she would now know herself not simply as a person, but a person with autism and that scared the heck out of us. Read the rest of this entry »

The Dangers of Jewish Genetics

This morning’s paper brought news of genetic similarities among Jews of Ashkenazi and Sephardi backgrounds. Citing studies published in the prestigious journal Nature, the New York Times reported that “Jewish communities in Europe and the Middle East share many genes inherited from the ancestral Jewish population that lived in the Middle East some 3,000 years ago, even though each community also carries genes from other sources — usually the country in which it lives.”

Pondering both the study and its results, I realized that I had several different responses to this story. On the one hand, I love the underlying vision of Jews as diverse on the outside but united on the inside. Such a study suggests that despite our differences when it comes to important issues such as whether to eat rice at Pessach, we may well share a common ancient origin. It undercuts claims of supremacy, often implied by power structures if not overtly claimed, in terms of being the true keepers of Torah.

But there is a darker set of questions that emerges from mixing Judaism and science in this way. The idea that one could trace Judaism in the body is not a new one. During the Inquisition in Spain, many Jews underwent forced conversions. Taken at face value, these conversions should have paved the way for the complete integration of these former Jews into Spanish society. Yet, in relating to these converts, Old Christians developed the system of Limpieza de sangre which defined people within society by the ancestral purity of their blood. Those with Jewish, or Muslim, blood were considered significantly inferior to those whose blood was pure and faced discrimination and retaliation as a result. One could leave the Jewish faith but not the Jewish body. In the 20th century, similar lines of reasoning were essential to Nazi eugenics. The body became the essential holder of Judaism. The destruction of Judaism meant the physical destruction of Jews and vice versa.

Even as we step away from this extreme precipice, there are lesser dangers raised by linking Judaism so closely with the body. Tying Judaism down to genetic markers raises the danger of essentializing Jewishness to the point of irrelevance. If Judaism can be measured by tags on DNA, what is the place of the learning of our sages, our historical and cultural experiences and our ritual behaviors in defining Judaism. As we continue to do battle with the Orthodox religious establishment in Israel about who is a Jew, the thought that one might be able to test for Jewishness, is truly frightening. The possibility of being able to identify “pure” of “real” Jews could be powerfully destructive. As Reform Jews, we are committed to the outreach and welcoming of all those who seek to join our community. We look not at the bodies but at the actions and faith of those who want to become Jews.  Jews and Judaism cannot be reduced to genetic components without seriously compromising the complexity and texture that is our inheritance.

The idea that we are one people is a beautiful and romantic notion. It speaks to a vision of unity that is a compelling and important element of Jewish tradition and interconnection. But mapping that vision of unity onto bodies is highly problematic.