Monthly Archives: October 2019

Time to Weep, Time to Dance: Sukkot 5780

Enough with all this happiness! The Torah commands, and we dutifully sing, “rejoice on your festival… and be entirely happy” (Deut. 16: 14, 15). The Rabbis explain the original form of rejoicing to be the consumption of the “happy sacrifice” (קרבן שמחה) during Temple times; thereafter everyone should rejoice in their own way—by drinking wine, wearing colorful clothes, giving nuts and popped corn to the kids, and portions of food for the poor—and avoiding mourning during the festive days (b. Pesahim 109a). There’s a rule the masses can embrace!

Could it be that this all amounts to too much levity? This is one way to explain the medieval custom of chanting Kohelet (Ecclesiastes) on Shabbat Hol HaMoed Sukkot (or Shmini Atzeret—for a comprehensive discussion of the origins and explanations of this custom, see Rabbi David Golinkin’s 2006 essay on the subject). Among the theories for why this text is read is simply to complete the cycle of five megillot (the other four are better associated with their festive anchors), or because the title “Kohelet” might be associated with the mitzvah of “Hakheil” which was performed on Sukkot, or because of an opaque verse in Kohelet 11:2, “give portions to seven or eight,” which is associated with Sukkot in Bavli Eruvin 40b.

None of these explanations gets to the content of the book of Kohelet. Rabbi Isserles lists the custom without explanation (OH 663:2). However his student Rabbi Mordecai Jaffee offers an explanation in his halakhic volume “Levush.” He says that Sukkot is dedicated to rejoicing, and the book of Kohelet reminds us that true joy comes not from building wealth (“vanities”) but from satisfaction with what God has provided. This explanation matches a certain mode of pious thinking, though it runs counter to the biblical command to rejoice with the harvest, and the Talmud’s suggestions of rejoicing with wine, new clothes and sweet treats for the children. Continue reading

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Apologizing and Atoning for the Dead: Yom Kippur 5780

Last week I saw a student near Columbia wearing a T-shirt that said, “Never apologize.” I cringed but did not criticize them directly. Perhaps they meant, never apologize for your feelings, or never apologize for your identity. If so, then ok. But perhaps they meant it pure and simple—never apologize, period. I understand the temptations of such a sentiment, but it is the opposite of what we are trying to convey today, when our liturgy is a repeat cycle of Selihot, expressions of remorse and petitions for forgiveness. How then does one apologize?

This semester I am teaching a course on the laws of prayer, drawing mostly on the great code of Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, and of Rabbi Yosef Karo, the Shulhan Arukh. On Monday we focused on the laws of Yom Kippur in order to prepare for this holiest of days. These codes detail the protocol for confession, whether of the high priest in the Holy of Holies, which we will dwell on during the Avodah service soon, or of simple Jews who have wronged God, or one another. An essential component of the process of restoring one’s relationship is to acknowledge precisely what one has done wrong. To apologize.

Here is the established protocol: If it is another person whom you have wronged, then you must go to them and ask forgiveness. If they refuse to forgive, you go a second time, and then a third time, accompanied by three witnesses in order to publicize both your wrong doing and your sincere regret. If the person who was wronged refuses to forgive, then generally, the person who did the wrong is exonerated. The Talmud says to stop going, lest you wind up bothering the other person, harassing them almost, and thus draw them deeper into conflict and their own sin.

Usually three apologies should suffice. But what if the victim of this wrong has since died? What should you do then? The traditional Jewish answer is a bit unnerving. In such a case we are told to gather a minyan of Jews and go to the cemetery where the wronged person lies buried. Standing at their grave with the minyan, a microcosm of Israel, the person who did wrong confesses their sins in detail, apologizing to the deceased victim, and asking forgiveness. This protocol is explained in the Shulhan Arukh, Orah Hayim (the path of life).[1] According to the commentary Mishnah B’rurah, the person who comes to apologize must walk barefooted to the grave (וצריך ללך לשם יחף), as if to reduce the distance between the living and the dead, the guilty and the innocent. Continue reading

The Pupil of God’s Eye: YK-Ha’azinu 5780

The practice of hagba’ah, the lifting of the Torah scroll, is always dramatic, but especially when one can see unusual features of the scroll from a distance. This is the case with the poem Ha’azinu (Deut. 32: 1-42), which is presented as two narrow columns of parallel verse in phrases of three or four words. Scribes justify these narrow columns, and the visual effect is a pathway through the wilderness on which I imagine walking, bounded by hedges of holy words on either side.

Several of the phrases from this poem have made their way into our liturgy, and one into our halakhic lexicon—the rule that when three people have eaten together then one must “invite” the others to say the blessing after the meal comes from verse three, “when I call out the Name of the Lord, [you, plural] give greatness to our God.”

However, other verses are rather obscure. This year I am drawn to verse ten, which depicts God finding Israel like an infant howling in the wilderness (compare to Ezekiel 16:6 וָאֶעֱבֹ֤ר עָלַ֙יִךְ֙ וָֽאֶרְאֵ֔ךְ מִתְבּוֹסֶ֖סֶת בְּדָמָ֑יִךְ וָאֹ֤מַר לָךְ֙ בְּדָמַ֣יִךְ חֲיִ֔י וָאֹ֥מַר לָ֖ךְ בְּדָמַ֥יִךְ חֲיִֽי׃). Our passage says that God “found [Israel] in a desert region, in an empty howling waste. He engirded him, watched over him, guarded him as the pupil of an eye.”(JPS) The three verbs of the end of the verse are somewhat redundant which, as always, prompts rich rabbinic interpretation. Continue reading

Rosh HaShanah 5780: Digging In Against Anti-Semitism

Anyone here from Kansas? Two weeks ago I made my first trip to Kansas City to give a talk about tzedakah at a beautiful synagogue there. Afterwards I stood in the parking lot, schmoozing with the rabbi about the 2014 attack on their JCC. Three people were murdered that April day by a neo-Nazi Klan member spewing vile anti-Semitic statements. As it happens, all three of his victims were Christian. Two belonged to the massive Methodist Church of the Resurrection, and one to a Catholic church. Yet this was very much an act of anti-Semitic violence.

I asked the rabbi, how has the attack changed your community? In many ways, he said. Look, see the stained-glass windows? They’re coated in bullet proof glass. See here, this is now the only entrance to our building. There are locked gates throughout the building. You met the armed guard when you entered, didn’t you, and of course, there are cameras. Some in the parking lot are high resolution, equipped to read license plates and report any suspicious ones directly to the police department.

That is all impressive, but similar security measures are playing out in synagogues and Jewish schools across the country and world—we are better protected than ever, but we still don’t feel secure. Which would we prefer—bullet proof glass, or better relationships with our neighbors, and a society less saturated with hatred and violence? Continue reading