Where is Ukraine in the Haggadah?

The Russian assault on Ukraine casts an undeniable shadow on this year’s sedarim. Since the seder tells the story of the Jewish revolt against tyrants in the distant as well as the more recent past, I was curious: What are the opportunities, using the traditional seder symbols and texts, to bring in Ukraine to the Seder conversation? Where is Ukraine in the Haggadah?

I. THE REFUGEES

As I write, less than a week before Pesach arrives, the BBC reports that more than 10.5 million people have fled their homes, including more than half of the country’s children. 4.3 million have fled the country and another 6.5 million have been been displaced from their homes and fled elsewhere within Ukraine.  Where are these refugees recalled in the Seder?

1.     In the taste of the Matzah. Matzah is the food of people who have to flee their homes; of those who have to leave so quickly that there isn’t even time for the bread to rise: And they baked unleavened cakes of the dough that they had taken out of Egypt, for it was not leavened, since they had been driven out of Egypt and could not delay; nor had they prepared any provisions for themselves (Exodus 12:39).

Many of the Ukrainian refugees were forced to leave their homes for safer environs like Poland, Romania, Moldova, Hungary, Slovakia, Germany, and, for the lucky ones, the State of Israel. Many left with the clothes on their backs and barely time to grab their most precious possessions.

That is the essence of Matzah. It can be the bread of deliverance that arrives in the blink of an eye (as in Egypt), but it can also be the food of those who are forced out of their homes just as quickly (לַחְמָא עַנְיָא / “the bread of affliction” indeed).

2.     In the Yachatz. We take the middle matzah and break it in half. As we do so, consider the following meditation:

We break this middle matzah and are reminded of so many divisions in our unfolding story.

Some separations are blessings: “God separated the light from the darkness” (Gen. 1:4); “God made the expanse to separate between the waters above and the waters below” (Gen. 1:7); “The waters split and Israel went into the Sea on dry ground” (Ex 14:21-22).

But other separations are tragic: Children torn from their parents in war-torn Ukraine, families displaced from their homes.

As the Matzah is broken into two pieces, we recall those refugees who have fled for their lives in just these recent weeks, and we remember that as long as tyrants commit atrocities, our world and each of us cannot be considered whole.

II. PUTIN, THE TYRANT

It’s not hard to see in Putin the same sorts of megalomaniacal tyrants that stain human history, all the way back to the Pharaoh of the Exodus. Jewish history is littered with these sorts of thugs, as the Haggadah says:

שֶׁלֹּא אֶחָד בִּלְבָד עָמַד עָלֵינוּ לְכַלּוֹתֵנוּ, אֶלָּא שֶׁבְּכָל דּוֹר וָדוֹר עוֹמְדִים עָלֵינוּ לְכַלוֹתֵנוּ
For it hasn’t been only one enemy who has risen up to annihilate us…

Us?

Yes, us. Certainly, many thousands of the Ukrainian refugees are Jews—at least before this war, Ukraine had the 10th largest Jewish community in the world. While Ukraine has a bloody and ugly history in its treatments of its Jews, there has been a Jewish presence there for over 1,000 years.

But that is only part of bigger picture.

Because the seder is also about freedom on a global scale. To celebrate Pesach is to declare: By virtue of our celebration, may others, too, be inspired towards liberation. Surely in our time, as much as ever, we must say: when some are enslaved, none of us are free.

And so, indeed, today another enemy is standing over us, threatening us all…

III. VOLODYMYR ZELENSKYY, JEWISH HERO

It is with pride tonight that we point towards President Zelenskyy, the Jewish leader of Ukraine who has made the case for freedom and justice for his country to the nations of the world.

Yet the Haggadah is famously reticent about naming human heroes. Moses’s name only appears once in the entire traditional Haggadah, emphasizing that deliverance comes only from God:

לֹא עַל־יְדֵי מַלְאָךְ, וְלֹא עַל־יְדֵי שָׂרָף, וְלֹא עַל־יְדֵי שָׁלִיחַ,
אֶלָּא הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא בִּכְבוֹדוֹ וּבְעַצְמוֹ.
Not through an angel, and not through a seraph, and not through an intermediary:
The Holy One alone, in all God’s divine glory.

So maybe we shouldn’t dwell too much on Zelenskyy?

But the inspiration of seeing this Jewish man—who carries the moral weight of family members murdered in the Holocaust—is an important part of tonight’s telling, too. For many of us, God acts in the world through human helping hands and voices of truth, like the voice of Zelenskyy.

The famous A Different Night Haggadah (eds. Noam Zion and David Dishon, ©1997) suggests a tradition attributed to Rabbi Al Axelrad at Brandeis in the 1970s: Having the family seder award an annual Shiphrah and Puah Prize to someone in the world who stood up to modern-day Pharaohs this year.

Shiphrah and Puah, you’ll recall, were the Hebrew midwives of Exodus 1, who refused to follow Pharaoh’s genocidal decree to kill Jewish baby boys. Their civil disobedience is the first act of rebellion that leads to Israel’s redemption. Today, we should consider at our seder those individuals who have stood up in the face of tyranny and oppression to be voices of hope and freedom.

Surely, President Zelenskyy carries the legacy of Shiphrah and Puah this Pesach!

IV. OUR ROLE IN THE STORY OF HOPE

There is a lot of “reminding”, “recalling”, and “commemorating” in the Seder. But our seder is incomplete if it remains in the realm of memory and storytelling. The Seder is a call, upon completing our celebration, to work and act to make the world whole again.

This is incorporated in Elijah’s Cup, symbol of the messianic hope for a future free of war and fear.

Long ago, my family adopted a well-known custom: we no longer leave Elijah’s Cup passively on our table, waiting for God to redeem us. Now we pass Elijah’s cup around the table, inviting each participant to pour in a few drops from her own glass—representing that unique responsibility of each of us to be God’s partner in the work of freedom. And so, too, should we leave this seder committed to the task:

·      Giving Tzedakah to help the refugees; for instance, through the JDC, the World Union for Progressive Judaism, Beit Polska/Jewish Renewal in Poland’s Refugee Relief, HIAS, the Kavod Tzedakah Fund, or other trustworthy organizations.

·      Celebrate and share the stories of those who are doing good, such as the Dream Doctors Project, an Israeli organization that has sent Mitzvah-clowns to the Ukrainian border to welcome the refugees with gentleness instead of fear.  Or Tel Aviv University, who has offered full scholarships to Ukrainian students and academics displaced by the war. Or the Survivor Mitzvah Project, who have been caring for Jewish elders in the FSU for years—and remain on the ground with those Ukrainian elders who have been unable to leave.

·      Urge the Israeli government to reject the far-right voices of isolationism and to accept even more refugees than they already have; insist that this is the sort of crisis for which the Zionist message rings loud and clear. (This might best be achieved with an email to your local Israeli consulate.)

·      Get ready—they’re coming. The Biden Administration has called for America to open its borders to 100,000 refugees in the weeks and months ahead. Will we be ready to welcome them into our homes and communities in the spirit of safety and security?

This is what it means to bring Elijah. And that call to freedom is incumbent upon each of us this Passover. In the words of the Hasidic master Rebbe Menachem Mendel of Kotzk (1787-1859, Poland):

We err if we believe that Elijah the Prophet comes in through the door.
Rather, he must enter through our hearts and our souls.

Don’t Kill Tsarnaev

I wrote this piece in 2015, on the two-year anniversary of the Boston Marathon terror attacks, which, as you’ll see in the essay, struck very close to home. With Friday’s Supreme Court announcement reinstating Tsarnaev’s death sentence, I returned to it and I’m re-posting here. I think it still holds up, and I’d be glad to hear your responses.

April 19, 2015

As we approach the anniversary of the Boston Marathon terrorist attacks, I’m thinking back to where I was at that fateful time.

After watching the early runners go past our home earlier in the morning, we set about our errands for the day. Most important was buying a suit for my son, who was becoming Bar Mitzvah in two months’ time. That’s where we were—in the suit store—when word started to spread: “There was a bomb at the finish line.”  Suddenly, the all the strangers in the store—customers and employees, adults and kids—were weirdly bound together as a community, straining to get details as they came through in real time, as happens once in a thankfully rare while when the world’s news are so powerful or so local that it makes everyone stop in their tracks.

The recent guilty verdict and the impending sentencing of Tsarnaev, as well as tomorrow’s Marathon, spark these memories and also prompt the question of whether this terrorist deserves the death penalty.

Opposition to capital punishment is one issue where consistent liberals sometimes waver. Despite the well-known facts that the death penalty is not an effective deterrent, and despite the fact that it costs the state exorbitant amounts of money, many people find they cannot harbor any  mercy for perpetrators of the most vicious crimes.  And anti-death penalty advocates simply must understand that and take those feelings into account.

I remember being a freshman in college during the Dukakis-Bush presidential debates in the fall of 1988, when the Bush camp was effectively painting Gov. Dukakis as a wimp. At one of the debates, Dukakis, an opponent of state executions, was asked how he would feel if it his wife had been raped and murdered. (Nice question.) Dukakis hemmed and hawed, and many pundits agreed that he lost the debate and showed he was out of touch with the American mainstream.

I remember even then, in my dorm room, jumping up and down and saying “Let me answer that question!”  The answer should have been:  Of course I’d want him dead! Of course, of course—a thousand times over! But: There’s a reason why in our judicial system, and any fair judicial system, the victims of crimes don’t get to determine the sentences of the convicted. That’s because victims naturally (and humanly) want more than justice; they want vengeance. And vengeance often runs counter to a society that strives to be marked by justice.

So where is Judaism on the death penalty? At first blush, the Torah seems to endorse capital punishment. There are many crimes—not just murder—in which the plain reading of the Torah calls for the criminal to be put to death.  (The Shabbat violator is put to death. So are witches. And incorrigible children!) The Talmud, in tractate Sanhedrin, describes the four different methods of execution that the Torah endorses:  stoning, burning, being slain by a sword, and strangling. (Never, it is important to point out, did ancient Israel employ crucifixion.)

However, if you really want to know what’s Jewish about a certain idea, you can’t just quote verses from the Torah. You have to look at the history of how that concept got interpreted and filtered in Jewish sources throughout the ages. The Torah, for instance, says that an incorrigible son must be put to death (Deuteronomy 21:18-21). The Talmud, however, wrings this notion dry. The law of the incorrigible son (ben sorer u’moreh) remains on the books; the Torah, after all, is G-d’s law, but its interpretation is given to human beings. And the Sages proceed to define the set of circumstances in which a person might fit the punishable category of “incorrigible” so tightly, so narrowly, that they can triumphantly declare that no such verdict “ever happened or ever will happen;” it is one of the laws that was simply given to us for the Mitzvah of studying it and learning from it (Sanhedrin 71a). They read the law out of existence!

In my understanding, they do the same thing with the death penalty. First, we must acknowledge that Talmudic law is religious, not civil, law—and thus, no Jewish religious court has executed anybody for anything in 2,000 years, since the days of sacrifices when the Temple stood (Sanhedrin 41a).  Furthermore, there are many crimes, such as violating Shabbat, for which the Torah may ostensibly permit the death penalty, but the Rabbis forbid it—saying, if G-d wants to execute, let G-d be the one who sheds the blood! (There’s a great midrash in Pesikta d’Rav Kahana 11:19 where Rabbi Yehoshua ben Korcha tells his colleague, a would-be executioner, that rather than kill a killer, “You should flee to the end of the world and let the Owner of the garden come and weed out His Own thorns!”)

Most telling of all is a conversation that is recorded in the Mishna (Makkot 1:10):

A court that puts one person to death in 7 years is called a murderous one.

Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah says:  Even once in 70 years!

Rabbi Tarfon and Rabbi Akiva say:  If we had been in the Sanhedrin, no death sentence ever would have been passed! To which Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel objected, saying: If so, you would have multiplied the number of murderers in Israel.

A serious passage – it shows that even in the days of these sages (about 1900 years ago), the death penalty was controversial. These aren’t incidental; each of them, especially Rabbi Akiva, is a dominant figure in Jewish history.  And Rabbi Akiva himself, that great sage and political revolutionary, found that a human court could never raise itself to the threshold that justifies putting a defendant to death.

There are many reasons to oppose the death penalty. I agree with those who say that eliminating state executions puts us on the side of civilization. The death penalty cheapens and coarsens our entire society, and puts us on the wrong side of history, in the company with the likes of Iran, Iraq, Somalia, and Syria. It is demonstrably racist and classist. And The Innocence Project has shown us, time and time again, that we get it wrong—and I concur that it is better to let 99 guilty men to go free than to kill one innocent man.

I suppose the most Jewishly authentic policy (Rabbi Akiva’s policy) might be: have the death penalty on the books, but never use it.  But that ideal might be too subtle and nuanced for our times; instead, let’s do away with its archaic barbarism completely.  Let Tsarnaev live—with all his infamy and disgrace. 

Is the War in Ukraine a "Jewish Issue"?

First: I know it’s a crass and parochial question. I don’t mean for it to be. Wherever there is oppression, tyranny, and military aggression by a malignant dictator—and Putin checks all the boxes—a Jew should be anguished.  If it’s a human rights issue, of course it’s a Jewish issue.

But there are a few specifically Jewish dimensions to the Russian assault against a nation that has the 10th largest Jewish community in the world (depending on how you’re counting), a population that has been there for over 1,000 years.

Ukraine and Belarus were homes to some of the most glorious spiritual geniuses in all of Jewish history; the birthplaces of some of the great figures of Jewish modernity, especially early Zionists and Hasidic masters.  Through the end of the 19th century, this region was home to the largest Jewish community in the world, by far.

 
Putin’s gaslighting. “Gaslighting” is a tool of abusers everywhere. It means: to obfuscate a situation by accusing the other person of doing something that the perpetrator himself is doing. (“Election security!” comes to mind.) Gaslighting makes the victim feel like he is the one who’s crazy, like she is the one who is the problem.

Putin’s particular gaslighting is his call for the “de-Nazification” of Ukraine. It’s not even clear what that means, but in recent years many people have found it useful to hurl the “Nazi!” epithet at their social and political opponents, which is especially ironic, given the rise of actual neo-Nazis these days.

It's gaslighting not only because of Putin’s tyrannical instincts, but also because his invocation of Nazis implies the persecution and annihilation of Jews—as if Russian (and Ukrainian) history wasn’t soaked with Jewish blood.

One Wednesday, Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky said:

They tell you that we’re Nazis. But how can a people that lost 8 million lives to defeat the Nazis support Nazism? How can I be a Nazi? Say it to my grandfather, who fought in World War II as a Soviet infantryman and died a colonel in an independent Ukraine.

Ukraine’s Jewish president.  Zelensky was elected president of Ukraine in a landslide vote in 2019 after a career as a comic actor and stand-up comedian. (The Times of Israel: “He was catapulted to fame by playing a foul-mouthed schoolteacher on TV who became president after one of his students filmed his profane rant against corruption and posted it online.”) He caught the world’s attention by getting tangled up with Rudy Giuliani’s traitorous machinations and Trump’s first impeachment.

It does not seem that Zelensky’s Jewishness has particularly influenced his political outlook, nor was there a notable surge in antisemitism after his election. But you can be sure that if the Russian-Ukrainian situation devolves, murmurings about international Jewish cabals and conspiracies will be murmured in the dark corners of the Internet and the usual suspects.

Jewish canaries in the coalmine.  But perhaps the biggest fear is one that is linked to the region’s repulsive history. Jews are always the canaries in the coalmine at times of crisis.

Jews have long been identified by European mobs as “others” and outsiders, useful targets for hate. In Ukraine there was a 17th century proto-Holocaust known as the Chmielnicki Massacres; it is estimated that 100,000 Jews were slaughtered at a time when the world Jewish population was about 1.5 million. (Bodgan Chmielnicki, the cursed leader of the uprising, is remembered among Ukrainians and Russian nationalists today as a hero.)

Historically, the Jewish condition in the region was fraught. Russia, Ukraine, and Belarus (where untold numbers of generations of my ancestors lived until they thankfully escaped) were homes to some of the most glorious spiritual geniuses in all of Jewish history; they are the birthplaces of some of the great figures of Jewish modernity, especially early Zionists and Hasidic masters.  Through the end of the 19th century, this region was home to the largest Jewish community in the world, by far.

In 1881 Tsar Alexander II was assassinated—and the Jewish community was falsely implicated in the crime. Brutal pogroms were unleashed by bloodthirsty peasants with the knowing encouragement of churches, newspapers, and the government. And in a 30 year period, massive numbers of Jews got the hell out—approximately 2.5 million left, most of them heading to the shores of America’s goldene medina.

When the Soviet Union emerged in the 20th century, Jews were perpetual targets of discrimination, deportations to Siberia, and abuse. I know that I am not alone in my generation of Jewish Americans whose appetites for political action were profoundly shaped by the Free Soviet Jewry movement. (And we won—the Soviet Jewry movement has been called the most successful human rights campaign in history!)

There’s a reason why it’s so hard to visit a synagogue in Europe these days. When you go as a tourist and want to drop in on Shabbat services, there are hurdles to jump through; you can almost never simply show up and say you’d like to join the service. It involves calling ahead, always showing your passport, and often driving back and forth searching for a community that is self-consciously trying to keep its head down and not draw attention to itself. Such is the state of freedom of worship in “civilized” Europe.

So when we see this uncloaked Russian neo-Soviet aggression, our basic humanity is triggered and we worry about all the victims. But it also makes sense that we fear for the safety and well-being of Ukraine’s Jewish communities, who are on edge precisely because of the region’s awful history: When times are rough, Jews have always been the convenient scapegoat by oppressors.

Keep them all in your prayers this Shabbat, and for the awful weeks ahead that we surely have in store.

How can we help? Tzedakah Funds have been set up to help the victims of the crisis through the WORLD UNION FOR PROGRESSIVE JUDAISM and the JDC - AMERICAN JEWISH JOINT DISTRIBUTION COMMITTEE.

A Message to College Students after the Assault in Colleyville, Texas

I thought I would share with you the message that I sent on Monday to my college students at Babson College. It doesn’t reflect everything I’m feeling after these intense few days, but it does convey the message that I wanted them to hear. I’d be glad to hear your responses. —Neal

Dear Friends,

Following up on my email from yesterday, as more information emerges from the antisemitic assault on Congregation Beth Israel in Colleyville, Texas.

This morning I saw a rather inspiring interview with the Rabbi Charlie Cytron-Walker, who was one of the hostages and, as it becomes clear in this video, is really quite a hero. I know Rabbi Cytron-Walker, and can testify that he is as humble, honest, and deeply committed to social justice as he seems—do check it out:

And speaking of social justice, let's dwell on a few details from this powerful video.

First: He thought the terrorist was a hurting individual in need of shelter; he brought in him in to the synagogue on Shabbat and made him a cup of hot tea and talked kindly to him. I recognize that he was put in grave danger because of this. Indeed, this is the latest in a series of attacks over the past three years that makes Jews wonder how safe we really are in America, even in our synagogues (and even on our college campuses).

But: G-d forbid that we ever let our fear turn against the people who are most vulnerable and hurting. We need to put safeguards in place, for sure, because there are people in the world who do want to harm us. But I suspect that the rabbi does not regret being a person who acts on his kindness and empathy and compassion, even though there are times when our compassion makes us vulnerable.

Second: His gratitude. Surely, he has much to be grateful for. We can learn from this: When someone walks away from near-disaster and can clearheadedly give a voice of gratitude to the law enforcement officers who rescued them, and the friends who sent love and prayers, and to G-d, well... we can, too. It's a reminder that when we encounter the (by comparison) petty annoyances and obstacles in our day, that we can embrace postures of gratitude for all the blessings that we are also perpetually all around us. And we can say thank you.

Third: His human values. It's not lost on me or anyone that today is Dr. Martin Luther King Day, a day when we honor one of America's greatest voices of justice, liberation, and hope. At the end of the video, Rabbi Cytron-Walker goes out of his way to acknowledge the Muslim, Christian, and Jewish ("my people") voices who stood with him, who prayed for him, and who expressed their hopes and fears and gratitude. My understanding of Dr. King is that he spoke profoundly from his own tradition—the African-American church— but recognized that, in order to be realized, his message was contingent on a great multifaith and multicultural coalition of likeminded people, people who genuinely were motivated by the recognition that every human being is made in the image of G-d. The rabbi seems to be giving voice to that vision at the end of the video.

All in all, it's been a harrowing few days—but one, thank G-d, that has ended with the hostages finding safety.

I remind you of my offer from yesterday: If you feel unsafe or unresolved or afraid about what's been going on—I'd be glad to speak with you. Please feel free to be in touch; I'm here for you.

Shalom,

Neal

In the Talmud, A Weirdly Sobering Voice from My Own Not-So-Distant Past

Each chapter of the Talmud ends with some beautiful words from the editor: הדרן עלך / Hadran Alakh / “We will return to you.” It’s a reminder that the massive volumes of the Talmud are not read like any other books, but rather are something to be reviewed and revisited. When you come back to a certain chapter, you discover insights that you never noticed the first time around, because you’ve presumably grown and changed and are reading the words in new and different ways.

So with the tradition of Hadran in mind, I often write notes to myself in the margins as reminders for the next time I’ll be back on this page.

All of which is to say, this morning, I found a note to myself that was a sobering signpost of where we are in the world.

Some context: I learn the Talmud in two ways. I’m one of tens of thousands who are doing Daf Yomi, the one-page-a-day cycle of reading the Talmud which takes 7+ years to navigate (we just marked the two-year anniversary of this cycle!). I approach Daf Yomi as a spiritual discipline each morning, before I read the news or email or the day’s responsibilities; I give it 45-60 minutes and often simply plow through sections that are especially dense or obscure.

I also have been learning Talmud with a chevruta (study partner), Rabbi Ben Levy, which we’ve been doing for over 20 years! And our approach is the exact opposite of Daf Yomi: we read closely and meticulously, and give ourselves plenty of opportunity for reflection and free association. It sometimes takes us years to finish a single volume of the Talmud.

So, this morning I’m reading the Daf Yomi, Megillah 31, which Ben and I studied more intensively in the past. The page discusses the liturgical readings from the Torah that the Rabbis selected for the various holidays throughout the year. And in that discussion, we find this paragraph:

תַּנְיָא, רַבִּי שִׁמְעוֹן בֶּן אֶלְעָזָר אוֹמֵר: עֶזְרָא תִּיקֵּן לָהֶן לְיִשְׂרָאֵל שֶׁיְּהוּ קוֹרִין קְלָלוֹת שֶׁבְּתוֹרַת כֹּהֲנִים קוֹדֶם עֲצֶרֶת, וְשֶׁבְּמִשְׁנֵה תוֹרָה קוֹדֶם רֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה. מַאי טַעְמָא? אָמַר אַבָּיֵי וְאִיתֵּימָא רֵישׁ לָקִישׁ: כְּדֵי שֶׁתִּכְלֶה הַשָּׁנָה וְקִלְלוֹתֶיהָ

It was taught: Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar said: Ezra enacted for the Jewish people that they should read the Torah portion of the curses that are recorded in Leviticus (Lev. 26:14-46) before Shavuot, and the Torah portion of the curses that are recorded in Deuteronomy (Deut. 28:15-69) before Rosh Hashanah.

Why? Abbaye (4th C sage in Babylonia) said—and some say it was Resh Lakish (3rd C sage in the Land of Israel) who said it: In order that the year, and its curses, should come to an end!

(The next paragraph explains that Shavuot, at the beginning of the summer, can also be considered a “New Year,” just like Rosh Hashanah.)

There’s lots to say about those words. But what leapt out at me was a note that I had written in the margins when I last read this page with Ben. There I wrote: “I’m reading this on 12/30/2020, the year of the Covid-19 pandemic.” Look how naïve I was! I figured that it was unique that I was studying this text on the cusp of a New (secular) Year, and it resonated with me. Because surely when I would return to this page in the future, the curse of the pandemic would be a sorrowful memory of a lousy time.

My own voice from the past, in a private message to my future self.

Like so many others, I’m so tired of all of this—of irresponsible responses to the virus, of the stupid politicization of public health policies which should be one thing all of us have in common, of these frigging masks, and of people I care about being sick or dying or in mourning. Tired of it—but trudging forward and determined to do the right and responsible behaviors, for the sake fo those who are most vulnerable.

 Today I wrote another note in the margin of Megillah 31b: “And again, on Daf Yomi 1/12/22, while Covid still endures.”

I will return to you, Megillah 31. And, G-d willing, when I return to you, the curses of this damned pandemic will have come to an end, a distant memory.

Toldot: The Voice of Jacob, The Hands of Esau

The Dvar Torah I wrote for Hebrew College on this week’s Torah portion, Toldot, “The Voice of Jacob, The hands of Esau,” is available now at their weekly blog, 70 Faces of Torah. Enjoy - and Shabbat Shalom!

Neal

Image credit: R. Crumb, The Book of Genesis Illustrated (2009)

A Very Short Note About Parashat Noach

This is from a weekly “Shabbat Shalom” notice that I sent out to my students at Babson College on Friday. Babson - for those who don’t know - is an entrepreneurial school located in Wellesley, MA (it’s consistently ranked the best business school for entrepreneurship in America, and I hope that helps explain the last line in the post about “future business leaders.”)

This week's Torah reading is Parashat Noach (Genesis 6:9-11:32), and it's the saga that so many of us learn when we're little kids: the story of Noah and the primeval Flood. But even though we learn this story when we're young, it's hardly a children's story.

The story of the Flood is actually Creation 2.0. It essentially teaches that G-d's first attempt at an ideal Creation goes terribly awry, so G-d wipes almost everything out and starts over with a new template. Noah, his family, and a small sample of life go out from the ark to repopulate the world that has been wiped clean.

At the culmination of the story, G-d puts a rainbow in the sky, as a "sign" to Noah and his descendants:

וְהָיְתָ֥ה הַקֶּ֖שֶׁת בֶּֽעָנָ֑ן וּרְאִיתִ֗יהָ לִזְכֹּר֙ בְּרִ֣ית עוֹלָ֔ם
 בֵּ֣ין אֱלֹהִ֔ים וּבֵין֙ כּל־נֶ֣פֶשׁ חַיָּ֔ה בְּכל־בָּשָׂ֖ר אֲשֶׁ֥ר עַל־הָאָֽרֶץ׃
When the bow is in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant 
between G-d and all living creatures, all flesh that is on earth. (Genesis 9:16)

What is the significance of this "sign"? G-d essentially says: I'm not doing this again; this is the last planet that I'm giving you. I’m not going to destroy the earth again - you humans, however, might. 

It's one of those Torah passages that stunningly speaks to our own situation. The climate crisis is not a divinely ordained situation; it is purely the result of human obliviousness and corporate greed. And its solution, too, is given over to human hands.

There's a shocking modern midrash that speaks to this, asking: What do you imagine that Noah and his family saw when they first stepped out of the ark? Many of us, taught the story as children, picture that it's springtime: birdsongs fill the air; the sun is shining; animals are frolicking; all the strains of Vivaldi's "Four Seasons."  But the midrash imagines that Noah sees something quite different:  He sees corpses.

After the Flood, Noah opened the ark and looked out. He saw the earth desolate, forests and gardens uprooted, corpses visible everywhere. There was no grass, no vegetation; the world was a wasteland.

In pain and dismay, Noah cried out to G-d: “Ribbono shel Olam! In six days You made the earth. Now you have brought the work of Your hands to nought, uprooting all You planted, tearing down all You built. Why didn’t you show compassion for Your creatures?”

G-d said to Noah, "Excuse me? Now, after the destruction, You come to Me and complain?When you saw what was about to happen to the world, you thought only of yourself and your family, while everyone else died by the fire and the water!"

And Noah realized that he had sinned. 

The story of the Flood is fundamentally about this: You get one planet. You get to be either part of the solution - or you're precisely the problem. What could be a more timely message for us, and for every future business leader?

Image credit: R. Crumb, The Book of Genesis Illustrated (2009)

Twenty Years

Twenty years.

No doubt others will have much to say about this dismal anniversary, but I hope that my reflections will help you come to terms with yours. I’ll share three things here: (a) where I was; (b) a strange fantasy that I had at the time; and (c) what it all meant to me as a Jew.  I can only share what I felt and learned, because ultimately, each of us is on our own; the great coming-together in unity and mutual empathy of the post-9/11 world never arrived. (Today, under Covid, that couldn’t be clearer.)

Like many people in New Jersey, I was driving to the office that Tuesday morning, and one year-old Avi was in his toddler’s seat in the back. It was during our four-minute commute into New Brunswick that we heard the news that the first plane hit the first tower.

I dropped Avi off in the Anshe Emeth preschool and hurried down the hall to Rabbi Bennett Miller’s office, where together we listened on the radio as the events unfolded. There was the second plane, and then the towers collapsing. There was the attack on the Pentagon. There was the plane full of heroes that was wrested from the terrorists and forced down in a southwestern Pennsylvania field. I recall how for the rest of the day there was chatter about how many more planes were out there, unaccounted for, and we braced ourselves for even more crashes that never came.

We put out word that there would be a gathering in our sanctuary that afternoon. And I remember Rabbi Miller putting his arm around me and saying, “Neal, don’t be disappointed if very few people come out. Many people’s impulse will be to go home and stay home on a day like today.” And I remember the overwhelming emotions when we went up to the sanctuary and every seat was full, and we sang songs of peace, and one by one people came up to the microphone and just spoke from their hearts.

The anger came later, and I still don’t think that 9/11 commemorations give enough credence to the integrity of anger. In New Jersey, everyone was one degree of separation or less from a funeral.
 

I had a fantasy in the weeks after 9/11… and it was just a fantasy, a pretty naïve one as it turns out. You see, something rather remarkable happened in the world after the attacks.  Many countries around the globe said, “We’re all Americans today.” Many cities renamed some of their main thoroughfares with names like “New York Plaza” or whatever. That was certainly the case in Israel, where every citizen knows what it feels like to live in the shadow of terrorism. There was a remarkable sense of international empathy, of gathering behind the United States, this wounded giant.

But not everybody shared that sense of unity. In many Arab nations, there was celebration. In the Palestinian territories—and I don’t write this with spite or viciousness, just candor—there was dancing in the streets, and passing out candies to children on this ‘great day.’

And my fantasy was that America would use that momentary international unity for something truly profound… My fantasy was that President George W. Bush would, in the months after 9/11, bring Arafat and the Palestinians and Sharon and the Israelis together. And he’d say: “Here’s the deal. We have the weight and support of the entire world behind us. We’re putting an end to the conflict, now. The plan is the Clinton plan, that one that you, Arafat, walked out on. We saw you dancing and celebrating. We’re willing to put that aside. But now, today, everyone will sign this agreement, and we’re putting the decades of conflict to an end. By the authority of the United States and the entire world which stands with us.”

That was my fantasy. I told you it was naïve. But what authority, what consensus we had for a few moments there… and I shudder to think how it was squandered.

The other thing I will always remember is how the attacks came just six days before Rosh Hashanah.

When we assembled in shul that year, everything was illuminated in new and unfamiliar ways. The words of the Machzor were on fire. The prayers spoke of things that hadn’t been there last year. There was ash in the air.

Rabbis scrapped the sermons they had been writing over the summer and composed new ones from the heart. I haven’t been able to track down the sermon I wrote, but I still remember how it ended. It was about Cain and Abel. At the end of the drash, I reflected on Cain’s famous dodge when the Lord of the Universe asks him, “Where is your brother Abel?” Cain, of course, says, “I don’t know. Am I my brother’s keeper?”

And I remarked that the very next verse, when G-d speaks again, seems quite disconnected; instead of answering Cain’s question, G-d responds that Abel’s blood is crying out from the ground. The non-sequitur bothered me. Why doesn’t G-d answer? Why doesn’t G-d reply to Cain’s question?

I proposed then that G-d does, in fact, reply to Cain. The entire rest of the Torah is G-d’s answer to the question.

And the answer was, and is: “Yes.”

Brain Freeze on Israel

The recent statement by Ben & Jerry’s that they will stop selling ice cream in the West Bank is giving a lot of people brain-freeze. Personally, every time I look at my newsfeed I feel the sensation of  swallowing a mouthful of Americone Dream way too quickly. Yet I’m surprised by the intensity of the pro-Israel community’s reactions.

“If only Ben & Jerry’s chose instead to say, “Our corporate policies promote peace, co-existence, and bridge-building - that’s what those frozen Peace Pops represent.” ”

Of course, the echo chamber of social media has whipped itself into a frenzy, including official statements and actions from the Israeli government itself. And surely, in the days ahead, every Jewish organization is going to feel compelled to do what they do: Issue A Statement. Some supermarkets in Orthodox areas are now counter-boycotting Ben & Jerry’s. So, apparently, is New York Mayor Bill de Blasio. And the Kashrut Authority of Australia and New Zealand has declared that Ben & Jerry’s is no longer kosher!

The unexpected statement from Ben & Jerry’s board of directors was issued on July 19. Under the incendiary headline, “Ben & Jerry’s Will End Sales of Our Ice Cream in the Occupied Palestinian Territory,” the brief statement says that selling in the “OPT” is “inconsistent with our values.” It acknowledges that “we hear and recognize concerns” from activists—implying that the BDS movement has caught their ear.

The final sentence says that Ben & Jerry’s will “stay in Israel through a different arrangement” yet to be determined.

This is fairly ridiculous on a number of levels—a manufactured controversy that the pro-Israel community is pumping far too much oxygen into. As others have pointed out, Ben & Jerry’s statement is all posturing and mildly incoherent. As always with these boycotts, they don’t indicate what specific results they would like to see from their action. They don’t distinguish that there is a difference between the natural urban sprawl of Jerusalem and radical isolated outposts. And furthermore, Palestinians, like the Jewish settlers, will be denied their Chunky Monkey - as well as jobs.

As ever, boycotts are blunt and dull-witted weapons. If only Ben & Jerry’s chose instead to say, “Our corporate policies promote peace, co-existence, and bridge-building - that’s what those frozen Peace Pops represent.” They could have used this moment to celebrate the exciting thawing of relationships (surely there’s an ice cream metaphor there) between Israel and certain Arab nations in the Abraham Accords. And if only they chose to reinvest their profits in the many good people and organizations that are really promoting a better future for Israelis and Palestinians alike, in mutual co-existence!

As others have shown, there are also some sneaky corporate practices going on here. Ben & Jerry’s is owned by Unilever—a conglomerate that owns several ice cream brands, all of whose business will continue uninterrupted. Ben & Jerry’s maintains a distinct Board of Directors within Unilever, and this action seems to have spurted from there. So no one is losing any money: Unilever will continue to sell its umpteen products wherever it wishes and Ben & Jerry’s will get to nod to its progressive amen-corner.

Look, we’ve been here before. But there’s something different about the responses to this particular news cycle. And it needs to be discussed in our Jewish communities.

“Mark this as the official moment when rejecting the settlements became an anti-Israel, antisemitic act. ”

Because Ben & Jerry’s statement clearly said they’re only pulling out of the occupied territories. While in some hateful and ignorant quarters the occupation is “from the River to the Sea”—i.e., the entire State of Israel itself—I assume Ben & Jerry’s is referring to the West Bank. Their statement clearly affirms that they have no intention of pulling out of Israel inside the Green Line. (As I said, the move is insipid. But it’s not quite the “boycott Israel” statement that activists on either side seem to assert.)

Many institutional Jewish responses have linked Ben & Jerry’s with the international BDS movement. The rhetoric has been angry, including most disturbingly the local Israeli Consulate’s statement, which called Ben & Jerry’s action “economic terrorism” with “antisemitic undertones.”

Really?

Avoiding the West Bank is now the equivalent of BDS? That will be news to all the pro-Israel Jews—and they are legion—who look carefully at labels to avoid products made over the Green Line. That will be news to all the advocates of two-states-for-two-peoples who make up the majority of Jewish Americans and their elected officials.

Hell, for most of the past fifty years, most regional Jewish Federations (the “United Jewish Appeal” from the old days) made clear that their Israel fundraising did not support activities that were beyond the Green Line. That’s a very similar policy to Ben & Jerry’s new one. So almost every Federation in America is a retroactive secret conspirator with BDS and Israel’s enemies?

Mark this as the moment that it became official policy that being pro-Israel equals supporting the settlements. And that includes the illegal outposts, of which the previous and current governments choose to look the other way.

I fear that Israel has been inching in this direction for many years, and that mainstream American Zionist organizations have been deluded. These angry responses are part of a tactical move on the part of the right, nudging towards a reality where the only legitimate supporters of Israel are right-wingers.

The times are a-changing, and not necessarily for the better. In addition to the trend that asserts that the settlements are Israel, there are other disturbing changes to the status quo:

·      It was a longstanding consensus in Israel that Meir Kahane’s (yimach sh’mo) racist politics were beyond the pale of civilized society; his Kach party was labeled racist and forbidden from running in elections as far back as 1988. Yet Kahane’s students and admirers have established several uber-right-wing parties in recent years, and ex-PM Netanyahu actively courted them to be members of his coalition. Several Kahanists sit in the current opposition bloc in the Knesset.

·      It was a long-standing status quo arrangement that Jews would not gather to pray on the Temple Mount, the home of the Dome of the Rock and al-Aqsa mosque, and site of the two historical Jewish Temples. Historically, politicians recognized that the site was volcanically volatile; Orthodox rabbis decreed that it was halakhically forbidden for Jews to tread on that space. But increasingly Jewish extremists penetrate and pray on the Temple Mount, and knowingly violate the law while authorities look the other way. After decades of status quo, suddenly the “eternal Jewish right” to pray on the Temple Mount has become a mainstream Orthodox position—as well as the new Prime Minister’s.

·      Do you think the Temple Mount issue is about religious freedom? These people don’t care about religious freedom. On Tisha B’Av—the day that the rabbis mourned the destructive power of senseless hatred—a group of thugs associated with the Ateret Cohanim Third Temple-movement physically invaded and assaulted a prayer service at the egalitarian section of the Western Wall, ostensibly to “liberate” it from the horrors of women wearing tallitot.

I fear that these trends are becoming normalized in Israel—trends that even in the recent past were considered the domain of only the most hardcore and vile extremists.

Look, I cling proudly to my Zionist credentials. My love for Israel is like my love for family: it is unconditional, even when we inevitably disappoint each other. And I’ve been vigorous and public opponent of BDS again and again and again; it’s an antisemitic movement, born in hatred for the very existence of the Jewish state. I emphatically reject the vile and ignorant suggestion that Israel is an “apartheid state.”

But that doesn’t mean that it is impossible for Israel to ever become an apartheid state.

I fear for the country I love if the Kahanists and Third Temple radicals continue in their trajectories towards normalization and acceptance. The Jewish community simply must talk about what these movements represent - and how the status quo on so many topics is shifting.

This is a complicated moment. I don’t care much about Unilever’s foolish corporate policies, but I care very much about how the Jewish community chooses to respond to Ben & Jerry’s. The very definition of what it means to be “pro-Israel” is up for grabs. Liberal Zionists who are still standing must make clear that Evyatar is not Tel Aviv.

Greens in Salt Water: Our Second Covid Passover

הָשַּׁתָּא עַבְדֵי, לְשָׁנָה הַבָּאָה בְּנֵי חוֹרִין
This year we are slaves. Next year we will be free people.  —Passover Haggadah

 
Last year at this time, we were all adapting to what it meant to conduct a seder via Zoom, physically distant from our loved ones. And, to some degree or another, we made the adjustments. Even if those seders weren’t the greatest of our entire lives, most people agreed that technology made it 70%, or 43%, or 29% successful. 

At that time, we figured that this was a temporary gesture. Within a few weeks (remember?), we said to ourselves, this will all be over, and we’ll remember how strange and different the Seder of 2020 was. Surely we’ll be “free” by summer.

Now we’re preparing for our second Pandemic Seder. Almost 540,000 Americans have died from Covid, let alone the victims all over the world. We’ve learned how to adjust our behaviors, adapt our daily rituals, and act responsibly for our own sake and the sake of others. (Well, most of us—except for the most obtuse and irresponsible among us—have learned how to do so.)

This year’s Pandemic Seder will feel different. The availability of vaccines has made it possible for some people to be with each other; we don’t live in mortal terror for our parents, grandparents, and the elders of our community quite so much. There is a feeling that even if we are having socially-distanced seders now, there is hope on the horizon that we’ll be liberated from these narrow, confining spaces very soon.  And that hope, it seems to me, is very “Kosher for Passover.”

Early in the seder, we observe a ritual involving two symbols. We take up a green vegetable—“Karpas”— a symbol of springtime’s renewal. A Hasidic commentary reminds us that Pesach is also Chag Ha-Aviv, the Festival of Springtime, and after a long, cold winter, the world is slowly renewing its warmth and vitality. Even though we have just passed through winter, this holiday endows us with renewed energy for Life.[1]

We take the Karpas and dip it into a dish of salt water, which symbolizes the tears of suffering.

Each symbol thus has a distinct meaning—but what does it mean to dip one of these symbols into the other?

It means that our lives are almost never entirely joy or entirely sorrow. Real life is a mixture of those two elements, one dipped in the other. Our celebrations include a reflection of those who are no longer with us. By contrast, our bereavements are tempered by sweet memories and love that endures.

Dipping the Karpas into the salt water is a timely and powerful ritual. Because this year, as much as ever, we know the symbolism of hope mixed with tears. As our world opens up, it is crucial that we do not lose sight of the fact that there has been so much death and sorrow all around us for these many months; social distancing hasn’t just been about inconveniencing ourselves, it’s been about minimizing the danger to ourselves and others. So much loss is contained in the seder’s salty waters.

But in that loss there is hope. The green vegetable promises us that we’ll emerge and from this and new life will blossom—soon. The winter has passed. The vaccines are here; they’ll be available to everyone in the near future. Soon we’ll be out of this, if we can just hold on a bit longer. And when we emerge, our freedoms should be to us sweeter than ever; our relationships should be even more precious; and our empathy to those who hurt should be so much deeper.

From our pains, we learn the preciousness of life. Passover promises liberation from all forms of enslavement. Its hope, as ever, is born from salty tears.

[1] In The Chassidic Haggadah, Rabbi Eliyahu Touger, 1988.