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.

Some RADIANCE for Dark Times - New Book!

Dear Friends,

I hope you and your family are safe and sound during these trying times. I hope that with this note I can share a little bit of light.

I’m pleased to announce that the book I edited—after more than 3 years of work—is now available:  RADIANCE: Creative Mitzvah Living—The Selected Prose and Poetry of Danny Siegel, just published from the Jewish Publication Society. It’s available now from jps.org, and—even though the sites say May 1—I understand it is now available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and elsewhere. Perhaps someday soon you’ll see it in your local bookstore (here’s a prayer that bookstores will still exist when this is all over).

 It’s an anthology of the most important writings by Danny Siegel, the noted Jewish educator, essayist, Torah teacher, and poet. Rabbi David Ellenson, President Emeritus of HUC-JIR, calls Radiance “A spiritual masterpiece!” and Professor Deborah Lipstadt calls it “a welcome volume that continues to challenge and teach us today.”

Danny Siegel’s teachings have shaped modern Jewish education with his urgency about how to do acts of Tzedakah, Tikkun Olam, and deeds of compassion and generosity. My experiences with Danny have very much shaped the person, professionally and personally, that I’m trying to become, and that’s a big reason why I wanted to create this book.

His prose essays are filled with translations and interpretations of texts from Jewish tradition—including many off-the-beaten track and unusual selections. Ideas for personal Mitzvah Projects fly off the page, and inspire readers to think creatively about how each of us is poised to personally make a difference in the world. And it’s not meant to be a period piece; there are five new essays where Danny takes his insights into the 2020s.

The poetry is saturated with Jewish spirituality—its history, pain, exhilaration, and hope. Many of these poems have been incorporated into Jewish liturgies over the years.  Some are ripe for rediscovery; I think he should be recognized as one of the most sublime Jewish poets of our generation.

I realize that there are other, greater concerns at this time. But it also strikes me that much of this book is about how to hold together as a community (especially at a time like this), and how to carry compassionate responsibility for the most vulnerable among us (now more than ever)—and in that way, it may be especially poignant today. 

For Jewish community leaders:  I’d like to suggest that this book may be especially useful to you as a gift for faculty and staff, for executive boards and volunteers, and for anyone involved in the work of building communities based upon Jewish values.

I hope you’ll check it out. Danny and I are available to speak to you or your community about  the ideas both in and beyond the pages of this new anthology.

With Gratitude,

Neal

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.

On the Death of an Indigent Jew

At first, burying the dead was more difficult for families than the death itself—because of the enormous expense. Family members even abandoned the bodies and ran away.
That changed when Rabban Gamliel adopted a simple style, and the people carried him to his grave in plain linen garments. Subsequently, everyone followed his example.
—Talmud, Ketubot 8b

Today I stood by an open grave as we lay to rest a certain Mr. Cohen, with the honor of Jewish rite and ritual to which every Jew is entitled.

With me at the graveside were the gentile funeral director and four members of the staff of the Jewish Cemetery Association of Massachusetts (JCAM). And that’s it. There were no mourners; no family to say the Kaddish, no friends or acquaintances to pay their respects.

I was invited to be there, because for the past few months I’ve been part of a quiet but important conversation here in Greater Boston: How our community can create a policy for burying indigent Jews—for people who have nothing; no assets, no money to pay for funeral costs or burial plots, and often no family.

You may think that it’s rather astounding that a Jewish community like this one does not have a strategy in place to bury extremely poor Jews. And you’d be right.

For decades, the burden of burying Jews without money here has fallen on the shoulders of whoever happened to be there. Sometimes that’s the funeral homes; other times, it’s the fine people at Jewish Family Services, or Yad Chessed, the important Boston-area Tzedakah collective.

More often than not, the burden of providing a dignified burial falls upon JCAM, a non-profit organization which owns and manages 124 Jewish cemeteries throughout Massachusetts. My friend and colleague Jamie Cotel, the Executive Director of JCAM, estimates that they are called upon to provide approximately thirty to forty burials a year for people who have little or no funds. JCAM’s already thin budget is stretched to provide a free grave, to pay the facilities crew to open and administer the burial plot, to arrange for the ritual, to provide a gravestone, and more. 

That’s thirty-to-forty times a year. And that’s just the cases that come into JCAM’s domain. It doesn’t include those desperate poor who simply disappear beneath the communal radar screen. Our Mr. Cohen’s body, for instance, was alone in a local hospital for a distressingly long time before being turned over to a local Christian funeral home. They were prepared to bury his body in a pauper’s field in a Christian cemetery—until JCAM became aware of the situation, and advocated to bury him in one of their Jewish cemeteries, with full Jewish ritual and honor.

But JCAM has limited funds and staff. This crisis—and it is a crisis, if you believe that Jewish burials aren’t just for the rich—demands a systematic, community-wide effort to share the responsibility and the cost. I’m glad we’re working on it, even while I’m ashamed that it hasn’t happened until now.

We buried Mr. Cohen, but we knew almost nothing about him. The only family Jamie could identify was a distant and estranged cousin in another state, who could provide her with no further family information and certainly wasn’t offering to share the cost of a funeral.

Here’s a part of the eulogy I gave:

Our tradition says that the day of death is like the Day of Atonement, and optimally we go to our Final Reward in the spirit of humility, purity, and atonement for all the sins we committed in our lifetime. I pray today that his passing does indeed bring atonement for his sins, and peace to his soul, and comfort to those whose lives he touched during his years on earth.

….There’s another dimension of atonement that I’m thinking of today as well. We, too, need atonement. We, too, must ask for forgiveness—of Mr. Cohen, for our sins. We have sinned by living in a self-absorbed society where he found himself so alone at the end of his life; where he lingered so long in the hospital morgue.

Chattanu – we have sinned. Please forgive us, sir. You, and all of G-d’s children, deserve better.

I believe that the measure of a community’s integrity is the degree to which it cares for the most desperate, hurting, and defenseless members in it. The enormity of its bank accounts, the hugeness of its homes and synagogue buildings, and the grotesque assemblage of automobiles in its parking lots are not signs of moral grandeur—and they just may indicate the exact opposite.

May Mr. Cohen rest in peace. And may his memory, such as it is, give us no peace, until we are able to do far better for those like him, the living and the dead.

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 New Adventure in Jewish Learning - Come and Join Me

Dear Friends of This Blog,

I’d like to invite you to join me in a new online Jewish learning adventure.

As you may know, my biggest passion (along with highly amplified music and trout fishing) is teaching Jewish texts, and exploring how they can be fun, intellectually stimulating, and provide spiritual meaning in a chaotic world. I teach regularly through Me’ah (in-depth courses through Hebrew College), at local synagogues, and as a visiting scholar-in-residence in Jewish communities around the country. 

For a long time I’ve been aware of the great numbers of potential students who, who for any of a wide variety of reasons, don’t have access to options and resources for Jewish adult education. And I’ve learned about the power of using technology to connect people and build virtual classrooms.

I’ve discovered that we really can do it: create online communities that are personable, interactive, and fun. I’ve also discovered that there are surprisingly few options on the internet for Jewish learning with an independent scholar. So I’m giving this a shot—and, if you’re interested, I’d love for you to be in on the ground floor.

As a pilot project, I’m offering a free class about THE TRUTH ABOUT CHANUKAH—SPIRITUAL REINVENTION IN EVERY AGE on Tuesday evening, December 17, 2019, from 7:30-8:30 pm eastern time. Click here for more information and to register. The class will be recorded, so you can register to listen to it after the fact, but I hope you’ll be able to join me in real time.

We’ll be using Zoom technology, which is quite simple to use. When you register, I’ll send you basic information about using Zoom, and for those who so desire, there will be a 30-minute training session before the class at 7:00 pm eastern.

Please feel free to share this far and wide, to anyone you think may be interested in online Jewish learning that is fun, meaningful, and spiritually exciting. There is no experience necessary, and all are welcome (but it won’t be juvenile).

I’m very excited about this project, and I hope you’ll be part of where it goes in the future.

With gratitude,

Neal

Book Announcement - Radiance: Creative Mitzvah Living/The Selected Prose & Poetry of Danny Siegel

I'm excited to share the pre-publication information about the book I've edited, Radiance: Creative Mitzvah Living--The Selected Prose & Poetry of Danny Siegel, to be published by the Jewish Publication Society in April 2020. Rabbi David Ellenson, past President of Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion, calls it "a spiritual masterpiece"!

Here’s a link to the JPS site for forthcoming titles: https://jps.org/books/radiance/

Danny, as many of my friends and colleagues know, is a scholar of Jewish texts and values, and the preeminent expert on creative and grassroots ways in which people transform the world. He's also one of the unheralded shapers of Jewish education in America. He's the author of over 30 books, many of which are long out of print -- thus my desire to gather an anthology of his "greatest hits." His prose essays are filled with offbeat Jewish texts and striking ideas and projects, and we've written five new essays to bring his thinking about Tzedakah and Tikkun Olam (world-repair) up to date.

Furthermore, ⅓ of the book is devoted to his remarkable, profoundly spiritual poetry. Many of these poems have been included in various Jewish liturgies for Shabbat, holidays, and life cycle events over the years.

Danny and/or I would love to come to your community for a book launch or event. Please feel free to contact me directly if you or a community leader is interested.Danny, as many of my friends and colleagues know, is a scholar of Jewish texts and values, and the preeminent expert on creative and grassroots ways in which people transform the world. He's also one of the unheralded shapers of Jewish education in America. He's the author of over 30 books, many of which are long out of print -- thus my desire to gather an anthology of his "greatest hits." His prose essays are filled with offbeat Jewish texts and striking ideas and projects, and we've written five new essays to bring his thinking about Tzedakah and Tikkun Olam (world-repair) up to date.

Furthermore, ⅓ of the book is devoted to his remarkable, profoundly spiritual poetry. Many of these poems have been included in various Jewish liturgies for Shabbat, holidays, and life cycle events over the years.

Danny and/or I would love to come to your community for a book launch or event. Please feel free to contact me directly if you or a community leader is interested.

Mr. Rogers' Moment

When I was young, I admired clever people.
Now that I am old, I admire kind people.
—Abraham Joshua Heschel

Mr. Rogers is having a moment: a new movie starring Tom Hanks; a recent book about his life and legacy; and a 2018 documentary about his life about which (it was the law) every liberal pastor and rabbi in the world had to give a sermon.

The new movie, in which Hanks amazingly transforms himself into the legendary children’s TV host, is sweet and critic-proof. I mean, it’s the cinematic equivalent of a Mitch Albom book: it’s not exactly great art, but picking apart something so well intentioned would be churlish and harsh. After all, it’s about kindness, decency of the spirit, forgiveness, and giving people the benefit of the doubt.

And during these sick and unkind times, you have to be pretty jaded not to appreciate such a message. It’s worth remembering the famous quote attributed to Henry James:

Three things in life are important.
The first is to be kind.
The second is to be kind.
And the third is to be kind.

The real secret is that kindness itself is a radical and countercultural gesture. What could be more against the grain of today’s cultural moment than to affirm a stranger’s self-worth, and to receive one another with honest affection despite our differences?

It’s curious that one of the persistent themes in the recent works about Fred Rogers is that “he wasn’t perfect” and “he wasn’t a saint.” It’s repeated so many times that it made me wonder why. Who thought that a gentle and mentoring children’s TV host was a saint? Why is it not enough to be a thoroughly decent and kind human being—and just to leave it at that?

Why is there an expectation that people who do good need to morally perfect? In Jewish terminology, is it not enough to be a Tzaddik—must one also be a Tzaddik Gamur?

That’s a particular pathology that seems to be relevant to our own Mr. Rogers-less age and the world of cancel culture. There’s a cynicism in our society that has been building up for years, that assumes that there is a dark underbelly waiting to be exposed in every do-gooder.

Somebody performs remarkable feats on the athletic field? They’re probably abusing PEDs. A political leader advocates for justice and decency? Surely they’re hypocritical and corrupt. A prominent and compassionate clergyperson? Probably a secret pedophile. And all the well-publicized disgraces of certain athletes, politicians, and religious figures have solidified this point of view in many people’s minds—each scandal is an affirmation that one day all of them will be exposed for what they really are. That’s a secondary part of their tragedy (the primary tragedy must always be their victims).

To be sure, there are real predators and manipulators out there. But it’s tragic to traffic in a culture of cynicism that assumes that everyone’s motives are suspect; that solipsism and self-promotion are at the core of most people’s behavior; that decency is probably a cover for horrible impulses that pervade unwoke culture.

That cynicism seems to me an outgrowth of expecting that a hero has to be perfect, and always in hero-mode; otherwise that person is no hero whatsoever.  Which seems a shame, because if you get rid of all the imperfect heroes, you aren’t going to be left with any heroes at all.

Everyone has their tremors and their doubts. Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi told a story about a time, as a young Hasid, when he went to visit his rebbe for counsel. When he arrived, he was denied admittance and told to come back tomorrow. Returning the next day, he was received with the graciousness that he was used to. Forgive me about yesterday, the rebbe explained; “The one you wanted to see yesterday was not here. Today he is.” He didn’t cease being a rebbe because he had an off day.

The new Mr. Rogers movie ends on a fantastic note (so to speak). To understand it, you have to know that Tom Hanks’s Fred Rogers wears the same slight, gentle smile throughout the entire film. Earlier in the film, Mr. Rogers is asked if he ever feels frustrated or angry. Of course I do, he replies. So how does he handle these feelings? He responds: by going swimming, or “banging all the low keys on a piano at the same time.”

In the final shot, the day’s filming has wrapped, and Fred Rogers sits alone at a piano, playing Schumann. Suddenly he stops and unexpectedly slams his fists down on the low keys of the piano.

Then he resumes playing the light, classical melody that had been interrupted.

It’s a great, ambiguous moment. There’s no warning that he was experiencing a particular crisis or having an unusually difficult day. What gave him that moment of anguish? It’s one moment in the film where we get a glimpse that there exist some troubled, churning currents underneath his placid demeanor, and the film doesn’t choose to specify what’s stirring them at that moment.

It doesn’t matter. What matters is the measure of goodness and decency that he brought into the world. So a hero is troubled occasionally by self-doubt. So he is, in fact, un-saintly and complicated. Perhaps that’s the only kind of hero we’ve ever experienced, and we should be grateful enough for that.

On the 24th Yartzeit of Yitzhak Rabin ז״ל

Today is the 24th anniversary of the murder of Yitzhak Rabin ז״ל - a sobering anniversary. Rabin was murdered in a maelstrom of hate at a time when political conversations amidst family, friends, and communities broke down to such a complete degree that communication across lines no longer seemed possible. It was a time when the tinderbox of violent radicals was fertilized by politicians and rabbis with the most extreme rhetoric - who then walked away saying, "It wasn't our fault."

I'm revisiting this piece I wrote in 2016 - and I can't help but remain haunted by those first words I wrote then: "A horrible question arises: was the murder a complete and unmitigated success?"

A sobering anniversary indeed.