Rags and Bones: Remembering Robbie Robertson

The death of Jaime Robbie Robertson this week had lots of baby-boomers-and-people-who-love-them returning to some of his classic songs with The Band: “The Weight,” “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” “Chest Fever,” and so on.

For me, I went back to a song of Robbie’s that appeared on one of The Band’s lesser-known, later efforts:  “Rags and Bones,” from their 1975 album Northern Lights—Southern Cross:

Catch a taxi to the fountainhead
Blinking neon penny arcade
A young Caruso on the fire escape
Painted face ladies on parade

The newsboy on the corner
Singing out headlines
And a fiddler selling pencils
The sign reads: Help the blind

Coming up the lane callin’;
Working while the rain’s falling
Ragman, your song of the street
Keeps haunting my memory…

“Rags and Bones” evokes an immigrant saga in the New World at the turn of the 20th century. It could be one of many North American cities, although in this case it happens to be Toronto. And it’s significant because it’s as close as Robbie Robertson ever got to really exploring his Jewish roots with The Band, a motley assemblage some of the most important musicians of the rock era.

For those who don’t share my obsessions, here’s a quick background. In the late 1950s—really at the dawn of rock and roll—a teenage Robbie Robertson joined up with a Canadian rockabilly group called Ronnie Hawkins & the Hawks, where he quickly became not only a skilled lead guitarist, but also a prolific songwriter. The group traveled around North America, where they became intimately familiar with indigenous American music (including rock, country, and blues) and indigenous American dysfunction (racism).

But their immortality came from hooking up with Bob Dylan, providing the electric backing for him in 1965 and in his world-changing tour of 1966. After that, they moved to Woodstock and, under the very democratic moniker “The Band”, began producing some of the greatest music of the 1960s.

The rest of the story of The Band is important: Watkins Glen in 1973 with the Dead and the Allman Brothers, the largest rock concert of all time; the barnstorming 1974 tour with Dylan; the tragic self-induced chemical hell that consumed so many of the generation, including Band members Richard Manuel and Rick Danko. And of course the legendary “final show” on Thanksgiving Day 1976 that was filmed as The Last Waltz. But those are just the broad outlines.

Robbie Robertson is never included in those perennial lists of “Jews in Rock.” His songwriting, incredibly rich as it is, rarely has allusions to Judaism or the Bible beyond its mythic status. (There are exceptions, like “Daniel and the Sacred Harp.” Although I’ve read that Robertson insisted that the line “I pulled into Nazareth” in “The Weight” refers to Nazareth, Pennsylvania.) But it’s noteworthy just how many Jewish musicians were part of Dylan’s revolutionary mid-60s scene, including Mike Bloomfield, Al Kooper, and Harvey Brooks (who still advertises his services as a music teacher in Jerusalem).

As Robbie Robertson tells it, his mother Dolly was Mohawk, and he spent part of his Canadian childhood on the Six Nations Reservation where she had grown up. The man whom young Robbie was told was his father was named Jim Robertson, an alcoholic who abused Robbie and his mother. Eventually Dolly and Jim split up.

It was a few years later in late adolescence that Robbie discovered the identity of his real father: a man named Alexander David Klegerman, a Toronto hustler and gambler and the child of Jewish immigrants, who had fallen in love with Robbie’s mother. Alex was apparently a pretty sketchy figure. Long before Robbie’s maturation, he was killed in a hit-and-run, which was rumored on the streets not to have been an accident.

Robbie learned this from his uncles Morrie and Natie Klegerman, Jewish underworld figures who took a liking to the kid. In his 2016 autobiography Testimony, Robbie wrote about regular trips to the heart of Toronto’s Jewish neighborhood, and how even though it was completely different from his upbringing in the suburbs or on the reservation, it struck something deep in his soul.

The most Jewish event in Testimony occurs when Morrie and Natie take teenage Robbie to meet his paternal grandfather for the first time. Shmuel Chaim Klegerman was a devout Yiddish-speaking Jew. Robbie describes their introduction this way:

The old man trembled with emotion. He put his hand on his chest and lowered his head as if in prayer. Then slowly he raised his eyes to look at me, a combination of joy and sorrow on his face. I felt frozen in the moment as he studied me, searching, I’m sure, for traces of his departed son. He gave a nod of recognition and a tear rolled down his cheek.

Then he spoke in English. “Alex was my favorite. Your father was my favorite.” I managed a slight smile in acknowledgement before glancing at Natie with sympathy, concerned he’d be upset by his father’s stark favoritism, but he waved it off—as if it didn’t bother him in the least. He signaled for me to join them. I walked over and took both their outreached hands, profoundly moved by the whole experience. But though I knew Natie meant for it to bring me closer, in this strange new world I still couldn’t help feeling like an outsider. (Robbie Robertson, Testimony, p.66)

His Uncle Natie said, “Well, Jaime, how about that? I bet you didn’t know you were Jewish.”

Again, this background doesn’t make Robbie Robertson a “Jewish songwriter.” But it seems important to me that someone who spent so much time exploring the mythology of America in his writing has a strong fiber of Judaism running through his makeup.

In the liner notes to Northern Lights—Southern Cross, Robbie recalled Old Toronto (again, in language that could just as well describe Old Boston, or Newark, or Baltimore, or a dozen other places in the New World):

People would come from the old country that were intellectuals and scholars… I had a grandfather who was one of these people. He was an intellectual but he made his living in Toronto as a rag man. I remember as a little kid, there was a lane behind our home and I remember hearing this guy coming up the land singing this song ‘Rags and bones, old iron.”

…As a kid, there was something a little scary about this. Then, years later finding out that it had a connection to my heritage inspired me to write this song.

The song was “Rags and Bones,” with its refrain:

Keep haunting my memory
Music in the air
I hear it everywhere
Rags, bones, and old city songs

One of Robbie Robertson’s gifts is to remind us that the collective culture we call “Americana” is a polyglot of immigrant stories—including the stories of transplanted Jews. Like Philip Roth—and, for that matter, Bob Dylan—Robbie Robertson’s legacy is much bigger than “Jewish writing.” But his (North) American writing includes Judaism in its DNA, an important acknowledgment that our presence here is as authentic and distinct as anyone else’s. And, for that matter, it reminds us that to begin to understand “America” includes understanding the story of the Jewish experience here.

That was one of his blessings to us—alongside some of the most immortal songs of the century.
!יהי זכרו ברוך

Image: Bob Dylan and Robbie Robertson, Forest Hills, New York, 1965 © Daniel Kramer

Against Defeatism

“Pessimism,” says my teacher Donniel Hartman, “is a luxury we cannot afford.” There is simply too much at stake at this political moment in Israel.

By now, regular readers of this blog know that I’m utterly preoccupied by the Israeli pro-democracy protests. It’s been two weeks since I’ve returned from Jerusalem, and I’m still processing all that I experienced. As the very fabric of Israeli society appears to be unraveling. I have no doubt that the righteous protesters in Israel are fighting for the nation’s soul.

“For me, Judaism is the antonym of defeatism and hopelessness. So, for that matter, is my Zionism.
”

As you know, Netanyahu’s coalition just struck down the Supreme Court’s ability to declare extreme legislation “unreasonable.” This is just the first salvo in an attack on one of the basic pillars of democracy: a system of checks and balances of the legislature by an independent judiciary. No wonder the despicable National Security Minister Itamar Ben Gvir—a racist thug with a terrorist background—tweeted that “the salad bar is open.” What he meant: This initial legislation is just the appetizer; a full entrée of laws castrating the court and dismantling democratic norms is now on its way to being served from the legislative kitchen.

This is what those demonstrations in the streets of Israel are fighting against.

I’ve written about this in previous posts over the past few months. But today I’m struck by what I’m hearing from some American Jews, and I’m distressed.

Since my return, I’ve heard from many acquaintances—in person, via email, and on social media:

Many are despondent about what’s taking place in Israel.

Some have suggested that they’ve lost hope in Israel’s future: the ultra-nationalist, theocratic takeover is nearly complete.

Some have said that, after a lifetime of supporting Israel, that they’re “out,” and can no longer pay lip service to a regime so antithetical to their democratic values.

Some are saying they will now refocus their identity as a “proud Diaspora Jew,” shaping a Jewish identity that excludes Zionism.

Some well-known Israeli pundits—and not necessarily those of the left—are grieving Israel’s future.

Some rabbis in prominent synagogues have announced that they can no longer recite Tefillat HaMedina / the Prayer for Israel at Shabbat services. Periodically we hear of rabbis (in non-prominent communities) declare that they are non-Zionist, if not outright anti-Israel.

And so on.

I don’t know how widespread those feelings of defeat are, but the sentiment is growing. And for every Jew who declares that they’re “out,” there will no doubt be a much larger number of silent resignations, of Jews who simply will construct their Jewish lives without Israel.  

I feel the pain that is inherent in every one of those exchanges. These are the heartfelt reflections of people who historically have acknowledged that Israel’s situation is different from ours: its battle against bloodthirsty enemies is existential. But many of these same individuals are now asking: How can I support a regime whose values have so profoundly diverged from my own?

But I can’t go there. And it’s desperately important that you don’t, either. We cannot afford pessimism—not when there is so much on the line.

This is my respectful response to all those friends and students who have shared their fears and concerns with me:

Our Israeli friends need our support, now more than ever. I’m quite clear that the battle that Israel is facing—from within this time—is as much an existential battle as it has ever faced from external enemies.

All around the country, hundreds of thousands of Israelis have been demonstrating for more than half a year, every Saturday night. (Israel’s population is approximately 9.7 million people. Do the math and be amazed by the breathtaking, massive proportion of the country that has taken to the streets in the name of democracy!)

Here are three more points I’d ask every person who is wavering to keep in mind:

(1)   The protests have been going on for 30 weeks!, and show no sign of weakening.

(2)   The patriotism of the demonstrators. The rallies are oceans of blue-and-white, with flags everywhere. Most rallies open or close with “Hatikvah.” In a world where the right wing tends to co-opt patriotic symbols, this is remarkable.

Consider this, by way of contrast. During the Trump years, I and many of you went to our share of political rallies: the Women’s Marches and Black Lives Matter. We believed in those causes. But what would it have taken for us to go and demonstrate every single Saturday night for months on end? That’s the depth of the commitment Israel’s pro-democracy camp has made.

And for that matter: Imagine showing up at a Women’s March or BLM rally with an American flag and singing the national anthem. It would have been more than strange—it would have been completely tone-deaf and out of place. By contrast, the rallies in Israel are a united call of the authentic voice of Zionism: democratic, patriotic, and inclusive.

(3)   What about the “insurmountable demographics” that we keep hearing about? Some of the defeatism has stemmed from a great resignation that these battles will never end, as birthrates among the religious right soar.

But that misses the point of what these demonstrations are all about. Because the revolt against Netanyahu’s coalition is not primarily a leftist revolt. It is a great upheaval by the broad democratic MAJORITY of the country: the center-left, center, and center-right. They may disagree on a wide variety of public policies, but who completely agree about the heart of the matter: That Zionism and Judaism are inherently democratic, and that an assault on Israel’s basic democratic institutions endangers everyone.

For me, Judaism is the antonym of defeatism and hopelessness. So, for that matter, is my Zionism.

For those with long memories, there have been dark times before. Israel emerged from the ashes of the Shoah—when 1/3 of the Jews in the world were murdered and the very question of any Jewish future at all was worth considering. There was June 1967—and a news blackout when it wasn’t clear for several days whether or not Israel had been wiped off the map. There was October 1973, when Jews ran from their synagogues on Yom Kippur to fight off a multilateral sneak attack by there enemies. There was, and remains, the threat of a nuclear Iran.

In none of these moments did we concede defeat or abandon our vision of the future. 

Diaspora voices in this struggle are crucial. Israelis are telling us that we are desperately needed for this battle. If you’ve ever been inspired by Israel’s seemingly endless reserves of innovation and perseverance in the face of implacable enemies… well, this is the moment when that inspiration and fortitude is needed more than ever.

Reliable polls show that this government has lost the backing of its supporters and a significant majority of Israelis—left, center, and the democratic right. A line has been crossed by the empowerment of theocratic fascists: that’s what those demonstrations are about.

There are no guarantees. Who knows how much damage this regime can wreak before it collapses or is voted out? But I do know this: If America’s liberal Jews sit this one out, or if we renege on the seventy-five-year commitment to the State of Israel, we will be complicit in empowering the forces of an anti-democratic theocracy in the Jewish state.

I’m writing these words on Tu B’Av, a date in the Jewish calendar devoted to love. “Love” is the way I was raised to describe our relationship to Israel. Love, of course, demands conviction and dedication over the long haul. We say to people whom we love: “My love for you is not conditional. We will, on occasion, disappoint one another. I will challenge you and criticize you when you let me down. But my commitment to you is undying.”

If you share similar sentiments, please: Do not submit to defeat. Recall the words of the Talmud, written in tears at another time of Jewish anguish:

,כּל הַמִּתְאַבֵּל עַל יְרוּשָׁלַיִם — זוֹכֶה וְרוֹאֶה בְּשִׂמְחָתָהּ
.וְשֶׁאֵינוֹ מִתְאַבֵּל עַל יְרוּשָׁלַיִם — אֵינוֹ רוֹאֶה בְּשִׂמְחָתָהּ

Whoever mourns for Jerusalem will merit to see her future joy,
and whoever does not mourn for Jerusalem will not see her future joy. (Ta’anit 30b)

Those words tell me that we will win this struggle, too. But we must not surrender to despair. To be part of the grand wonder of Israel means we must share in her battles, and not give up on the vision of what the state could and should be.  

Zealots and Tisha B'Av

In the middle of the Talmud tractate Gittin there is a long stretch of stories about the destruction of the Second Temple and the fall of Jerusalem on the 9th day of Av in 70 CE.

 One of those stories begins with these words:

...הֲווֹ בְּהוּ הָנְהוּ בִּרְיוֹנֵי

There were Zealots among the people of Jerusalem… (Gittin 56a)

Who were these Zealots? In the context of the stories in the Talmud, they were extremists who were so fanatical in their opposition to the Romans and to any Jew who disagreed with them that they would resort to violence and even murder. More on them in a moment.

In the meantime, what can we say about this word בִּרְיוֹנֵי / biryonei / “zealot”? The Klein Dictionary of Rabbinic Hebrew (1987) is blunt in its translation: “terrorist, bully, hooligan.” It says that the etymology of this word is obscure; it may be related to the Akkadian root barānū, meaning “violent, impertinent, rebellious.” (The old-school Jastrow dictionary of the Talmud suggests “rebel” or “castle guard”, losing the intimation of violence that the author is surely suggesting.)

Whatever the origin of the word, there is no mitigating that the Talmud holds these villainous, murderous Jews accountable for the desperation and ultimately the destruction of the city.

Yes, the Talmud speaks of fellow Jews in precisely this language, when necessary.

After introducing the Zealots, the story unfolds. The war with the Romans had been building since the year 66 CE. The people of Jerusalem—as well as Jews who had fled from outlying villages—sequestered themselves behind the city walls. The Roman onslaught was temporarily held at bay. And, the Talmud tells us, there were enough storehouses of food and cisterns filled with water to sustain the Jerusalemites for at least twenty-one years to come!

That is, until the biryonim / Zealots assert themselves.

We learn that there were a variety of political opinions among the refugees in Jerusalem at that time. Some wanted to fight; others wanted to appease the Romans; others thought it might be possible to work out terms of a compromise. The Zealots, being zealots, demanded adherence to their armed revolt—and would not tolerate dissent. The Rabbis counseled patience (so we see where the editors of the Talmud come out in this debate), and Zealots revolted:

.קָמוּ קְלֹנְהוּ לְהָנְהוּ אַמְבָּרֵי דְּחִיטֵּי וּשְׂעָרֵי, וַהֲוָה כַּפְנָא 

[In order to force the residents of the city to engage in battle],
the Zealots rose up and burned down the storehouses of wheat and barley,
and a famine ensued. (Gittin 56a)

They burn the 21-year supply of food that had been secured for the people’s survival! Because that, too, is what Zealots do: They are so certain of the righteousness of their cause, it doesn’t matter if there are brutal shortcuts that need to be taken to strong-arm or threaten people to their side. It doesn’t matter if there is death and destruction in the short term; all that matters the ultimate adherence to the cause. Violence for them is a necessary tool towards the ultimate ends—and it doesn’t matter who suffers.

The Talmud makes its anti-Zealot position perfectly clear. Immediately after the Zealots burn down the storehouses, we’re told a series of tragic stories about individuals who suffer horribly and die as a result of the desperate situation the Zealots have triggered. One thing leads to another—a tragic chain of events—that ultimately leads to the destruction of the Temple, the devastation of Jerusalem, and the Exile of the Shekhinah, G-d’s Intimate Presence.

This is what we mourn annually on Tisha B’Av.

Here's one more warning from the Talmud. As Jerusalem was in flames, the great Rabbinic leader, Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai, sought to save the city. He approached Abba Sikkara, the leader of the band of “dagger men” among the Zealots, asking Abba Sikkara to stop the madness:

.שְׁלַח לֵיהּ: תָּא בְּצִינְעָא לְגַבַּאי. אֲתָא.
?אֲמַר לֵיהּ: עַד אֵימַת עָבְדִיתוּ הָכִי, וְקָטְלִיתוּ לֵיהּ לְעָלְמָא בְּכַפְנָא
!אֲמַר לֵיהּ: מַאי אֶיעֱבֵיד, דְּאִי אָמֵינָא לְהוּ מִידֵּי קָטְלוּ לִי
.אֲמַר לֵיהּ: חֲזִי לִי תַּקַּנְתָּא לְדִידִי דְּאֶיפּוֹק, אֶפְשָׁר דְּהָוֵי הַצָּלָה פּוּרְתָּא

Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai sent a message to Abba Sikkara: Come to me in secret.

He came, and Rabban Yochanan said to him, “How long will you keep doing this, killing everyone through starvation?”

Abba Sikkara replied, “What can I do? If I say something to them [my Zealot followers], they’ll kill me.”

Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai said to him, “Find a way for me to get out of the city. Maybe there can still be some small salvation…” (Gittin 56a)

This is astonishing, if not surprising. The leader of the Zealots in Jerusalem knows things are out of control and that his followers have gone too far. But he’s passed the point of no return: by empowering his violent followers, he’s placed himself at risk. If he steps back from the brink, he knows they will turn their violence back on him.

Yes, I’m thinking about the political situation in Israel. (How could I not be thinking of it?) Today we’re seeing the devastation of what happens when Zealots—ultra-nationalist extremists coupled with the ultra-religious political parties—are permitted to dictate their terms to the majority of the nation. Such is the nature of coalition politics: the radical fringe is allowed to set the agenda—and they are willing to sacrifice the well-being of the rest of the country that dares to oppose their agenda.

In the days of the Talmud, they burned the storehouses of food—to force the people’s hand. The result led to the maw of the Roman legions and the destruction of Jerusalem.

Today, they will undermine the very foundations of Israel’s democracy, placing the economy, civil liberties, and the very promise of the “Start-Up Nation” at risk. I do not believe Jerusalem will be destroyed, but there are plenty of people this Tisha B’Av who are entertaining that very thought.

Tisha B’Av will have a profound and shocking resonance this year. Clearly, there are Zealots unleashed in Jerusalem. The extent of their destruction is yet to be known—a forceful, fully awake citizenry is determined not to allow them to burn down the country. The importance of our voices can’t be overstated.

There will be much to mourn this year on Tisha B’Av, and many lessons for our own time. May the reflections of this season help us to turn back from the brink of disaster, and may we save ourselves from the Zealots in our midst.

Tisha B’Av begins on Wednesday evening, July 26.
All are welcome to join me of an online study session on its themes on Thursday, July 27,
at 12:00 noon Eastern time. Register here to receive the Zoom link and Passcode.

"Tzav Shemoneh" in Jerusalem

.כּל מִי שֶׁאֶפְשָׁר לִמְחוֹת לְאַנְשֵׁי בֵיתוֹ וְלֹא מִיחָה — נִתְפָּס עַל אַנְשֵׁי בֵיתוֹ

Those who have the ability to protest the conduct of members of their own house
and do not do so are held accountable for the behavior of the members of their house.

—Talmud, Shabbat 54a

What is happening in Jerusalem right now?

Tzav Shemoneh is a military term meaning “an open ended call-up of army reservists” at a time of war. On Tuesday, a Tzav Shemoneh went out to Israeli society . But it wasn’t to report to military centers: it was a call to turn out it the streets of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv and elsewhere, to combat the enemy from within.

My friends and I were there—in our anguish. I love this city, more than any other, and its pain causes me pain. And Jerusalem in microcosm reveals a country that is pulling apart at the seams.

The first thing you notice at these pro-democracy demonstrations is the flags: they are everywhere. These demonstrations are an ocean of blue and white. This is really rather astounding: it’s a statement that they are being conducting in the name of Zionism and the history of Israel. This movement is not an anti-Israel movement; to the contrary, it’s a demand tht the country return to its First Principles that were inscribed in the Declaration of Independence: a liberal and democratic Jewish state.

Israel is experiencing an existential crisis against internal political enemies, and we were being called to action. Today the Knesset passed the first reading of the “reasonableness” bill. I won’t go into the details; you can read about it here. There is broad consensus that this bill is the first big step in the government’s attack on the judiciary, a bastion of democracy in this land, and a bulwark against tyranny. This government has declared war on the independent judiciary—and its traditional role of providing checks-and-balances on the legislature.

But that sounds like far too genteel explanation of why, for 27 straight weeks, hundreds of thousands of Israelis have marched and demonstrated.

In fact, the battle in the streets of Israel is the struggle for the democratic and Jewish soul of this nation. It’s that important, no overstatement.

That’s why there were hundreds of thousands of people around the country who spontaneously poured into the streets today.

The government, on the other hand, turned water cannons on the protesters in Tel Aviv. Water cannons? The same as in Birmingham in 1963? Yes.

The background to this crisis:

Last November, Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu assembled the most extreme – and most religiously Orthodox – ruling coalition that Israel has ever seen. Since then, the coalition has begun its draconian assault on the democratic consensus that has held Israel together for 75 years. The ultra-Orthodox parties have drained public coffers of social funds and funneled them to support their yeshivas and other institutions. The tacit endorsement of radical violence in the West Bank has condoned settler riots in Palestinian towns in of tit-for-tat violence after Palestinian attacks on Jews. The cabinet is populated by a handful of politicians who have been indicted or are under investigation. And there’s “judicial reform,” the all-out assault on the Supreme Court’s checks and balances on legislators.

The Minister of National Security, Itamar Ben-Gvir, is a man who the Israeli army refused to draft into service years ago because he was considered too extreme in his views, given his association with the racist, terrorist Kahanist movement. The Minister of Finance, Bezalel Smotrich, who also has a history associated with Jewish terrorism, has essentially been granted a militia of his own in the West Bank, where he has offered words of encouragement and assent for the settler pogromists who have stormed Palestinian towns, burning vehicles and buildings.

Then there’s Aryeh Deri, who has been convicted multiple times of taking bribes and tax evasion. Netanyahu wants to appoint this “religious” man, whom everyone knows is profoundly corrupt, as his Minister of the Interior. The Supreme Court quite properly told Netanyahu that Deri’s appointment to a senior cabinet position was absolutely “unreasonable” and illegal. So Netanyahu’s response is to attempt to castrate the Court by removing their authority to declare such things illegal by virtue of being “unreasonable.”

This is a ruling coalition, in the words of my teacher Yossi Klein Halevi, of “political zealots, religious fundamentalists—and the ‘merely corrupt.’”

Have no doubt: This is not a partisan political spat by the opposition who lost an election. This is the great awakening of the political center, who are saying:  Yesh Gvul: There is a limit to indecency. A limit to assaults on the very foundations of democracy. A limit to racist violence committed in the name of the nation with the winking assent of the government. A limit to cruelty which is contrary to the fundamental values of Zionism and Judaism.

How do I feel about this struggle?

It is hard to write these words. I am a passionate lover of Israel, and recognize that its very existence testifies to the fact that we live in an extraordinary chapter of Jewish history. A 2,000 year-old dream became a reality—together with a rebirth of its ancient language, the building of one of the most robust economies in the world, and the growth of an international hotbed of hi-tech innovation and development that transforms communities around the world for the better.

But I write because of my love and admiration. Because as Yossi has also pointed out, all this is at risk if we allow these zealots to achieve their goals in the dismantling of Israeli democracy. Israel’s economic “start-up nation” miracle will disappear quickly, because the young, centrist population of the country will abandon a Jewish fundamentalist state for freer societies, without a doubt.

I am quite clear that this struggle is as much of an existential threat as Iranian nukes.

This is no time to stand on the sidelines, or to abandon the people of Israel who are asking all of usto support them in this fight.

And so we poured into the streets tonight, marching up to the Knesset and chanting “Dem-o-krat-yah!”

I’ve written about this struggle for Israel’s soul a lot by now. But it’s pretty clear to me that keeping Israel Jewish and democratic is the most urgent Jewish task of this moment.

Israelis have made it clear that our voices are essential. What can Jews living in the Diaspora do?

(1) Stay informed (read the daily Times of Israel) and let those who have a direct line to the government know that we will not allow our beloved Israel to become a fascist theocracy, that we oppose this government’s cynical judicial reforms, and so on. Who needs to hear it?  Your nearest Israeli consul. The President of your local Jewish Federation (demand to know how your Federation is directing its money to support democracy and pluralism). And others with ties to Israeli political, business, and institutional leadership.

(2) Show up to local demonstrations in your nearest city. The group on the forefront in the U.S. is UnXeptable—Saving Israeli Democracy, created by Israeli expatriates living in America, and you can follow them on Facebook.  

And when you go, make it clear that you’re protesting as a Zionist and a Jew. It is essential that we make clear: this is not an anti-Israel or anti-Zionist movement. Quite the opposite: our love for Israel and her people demands that we fight for her freedom. That’s what all those flags are about.

(3) Support those organizations that are doing the work of fighting for democracy in Israel.

·      Israel Religious Action Center

·      Hiddush—For Religious Freedom and Equality

·      USA for Israeli Democracy

·      New Israel Fund

… among many others.

(4) Support those organizations that are promoting a non-coercive, liberal form of Judaism in Israel. That includes:

·      The Israel Movement for Progressive Judaism

·      Gesharim Letikvah—Bridges for Hope

·      Specific Reform and Conservative communities in Israel with which you may be associated
…among many others.

I haven’t written much here about how this is a pivotal moment for Israeli-Diaspora relations; I’ll do that another time. But suffice to say that this is a moment, for all “supporters of Israel,” to put their cards on the table. As the Talmud teaches, “Those who have the ability to protest the conduct of members of their own house and do not do so are held accountable for the behavior of those members of their house.”

Jerusalem's Past and Present (A Fast Day in the Eternal City)

Shalom from Jerusalem.

 Today (Thursday) is the minor fast day of 17 Tammuz, a date which has a special resonance in this place and time. 17 Tammuz ushers in the three-week period leading up to the Fast of Tisha B’Av, which commemorates the Exile—from Jerusalem, from G-d, and from one another.

In truth, a great many Jews don’t observe the so-called “minor fasts” that are sprinkled throughout the Hebrew calendar. These days mark ancient calamities and, frankly, Jewish history has enough other tragedies to fill the entire year. Personally, when I’m in the U.S., I don’t typically fast on this day.

But Jerusalem does twisty things to my soul. When I’m in Jerusalem in the summer, these Three Weeks pack a lot of spiritual resonance for me. That’s what I’d like to share with you here.

According to the Mishnah, five calamities befell the Jewish people on this date in antiquity—events which serve as an overture to the dark dirge of Tisha B’Av:

חֲמִשָּׁה דְבָרִים אֵרְעוּ אֶת אֲבוֹתֵינוּ בְּשִׁבְעָה עָשָׂר בְּתַמּוּז וַחֲמִשָּׁה בְּתִשְׁעָה בְאָב
,בְּשִׁבְעָה עָשָׂר בְּתַמּוּז נִשְׁתַּבְּרוּ הַלּוּחוֹת
,וּבָטַל הַתָּמִיד
,וְהֻבְקְעָה הָעִיר
,וְשָׂרַף אַפּוֹסְטֹמוֹס אֶת הַתּוֹרָה
.הֶעֱמִיד צֶלֶם בַּהֵיכָל

 On the 17th Day of Tammuz:
1.     The Tablets were shattered by Moses [when he saw the Israelites had made the Golden Calf];
2.     The daily offering in the Temple was cancelled [by the Romans in the buildup to the Temple’s destruction];
3.     Jerusalem’s walls were breached [by the Roman legions];
4.     The Roman general Apostomos publicly burned a Torah scroll;
5.     An idol was place in the Sanctuary.

—Mishnah, Ta’anit 4:6

Each of these events is noteworthy as the launch-pad for deeper tragedies for the Jews, several of which took place three weeks later on the 9th of Av.

But here I’d like to focus on #1: The Rabbis consider this to be the date that Moses came down from Mount Sinai with the tablets in his arms, saw the Golden Calf and the Israelites dancing around it, and smashed the stones with the Ten Commandments to pieces.

Of the five items listed in the Mishnah, this one is an anomaly. Most of the events in this list occur later in history, at the end of the Second Temple period when Rabbinic Judaism was emerging. But #1, strangely, is a throwback to the era of Moses and the Torah.

Why would the Rabbis of the Mishnah link their recent tragedies—from which they were still reeling—to Moses’s story from the distant past?

The Torah relates that when Moses came down from Mount Sinai with the Tablets of the Law in his arms, he was stunned to see the Israelites cavorting with the idol that they had compelled Aaron to make:

וַֽיְהִ֗י כַּאֲשֶׁ֤ר קָרַב֙ אֶל־הַֽמַּחֲנֶ֔ה וַיַּ֥רְא אֶת־הָעֵ֖גֶל וּמְחֹלֹ֑ת וַיִּֽחַר־אַ֣ף מֹשֶׁ֗ה
וַיַּשְׁלֵ֤ךְ מִיָּדָו֙ אֶת־הַלֻּחֹ֔ת וַיְשַׁבֵּ֥ר אֹתָ֖ם תַּ֥חַת הָהָֽר׃  

As soon as Moses came near the camp and saw the calf and the dancing,
he became enraged; and he hurled the tablets from his hands and
shattered them at the foot of the mountain. (Exodus 32:19)

 
This cries out for interpretation. Even though we can understand Moses’s anguish, we must ask: How could Moses smash the Tablets? These were the words of G-d, inscribed by the finger of G-d and infused with holiness! It’s hard to imagine that, even in a fit of rage, Moses would treat the Tablets with disgust. (Think of our own internal reflexes, if a Torah scroll totters in our presence, to leap and make sure it doesn’t fall to the ground.) How could Moses do such a thing?

There are many commentaries on this, but here is my favorite: Moses didn’t carry the Tablets—the Tablets carried him. After all, Moses was an eighty-year-old man at this point in the story. Are we to imagine that he lugged weighty stone tablets  from the mountain peak down to the base camp all by himself?!

No, says the Midrash: the letters—the writing of G-d—made the stones light as a feather. Their inherent holiness carried Moses along with the Tablets.

When those very letters saw the people cavorting with their idol, the letters peeled off the tablets and fled back to their divine Source. They had to: Holiness and the worship of gold don’t mix.

And with the letters gone from the tablets, suddenly Moses was holding the full weight of the stones. He didn’t exactly smash the tablets; it’s more like he lunged forward due to their new-found enormous weight and he couldn’t hold them anymore. They fell to the earth and shattered. (This midrash is found in Pirkei d’Rabbi Eliezer Chapter 45.)

It’s a good story, but there’s a deeper lesson going on here.

This midrash maintains that when people behave obscenely, then the Shekhinah, G-d’s intimate Presence, flees. So do her accoutrements, such as the letters on the tablets. Holiness can only blossom in the fertile soil of ethical living.

And that brings us right back to Jerusalem. The Second Temple, the Talmud teaches, was destroyed because even though the people followed the letter of the law, they treated one another with senseless hatred (sinnat chinam), and because no one—not the political leaders, nor the Rabbis, nor the Jews of the community—would stand up and counteract the hate. So the spirit flew back to G-d, and the Temple imploded. Because holiness can’t abide in the idolatrous atmosphere of hate.

The Rabbis saw the idolatry of the Golden Calf as the prelude to later apostasies in history: namely, when human hatred was so ever-present that people couldn’t see the Image of G-d in their neighbor. And they treated one another accordingly, leading to tragedy and Exile.

Jerusalem 2023. The city is as sublime as ever—it’s my favorite city in the world. The history, grandeur, and spiritual power of this place touch me as much as ever. But there is a weight that is evident in Jerusalem, too. Not far from the surface—the ancient explosiveness is still there.

There are deep tensions permeating Israeli society right now. Monstrous zealots and their enablers are running the government and given unprecedented power and authority. The West Bank is seething with violence—including the violence of Jewish radicals running amok, in tit-for-tat retribution with Palestinian extremists, burning vehicles and property. The very ideals of democracy are under attack.

Fortunately, there is also a huge swath of Israeli society that is determined not to allow the Zealots to bring down all that we’ve built. And so on Saturday night—as they have for the past six months—tens of thousands of demonstrators will take to the Israeli streets again, carrying Israeli flags and singing “Hatikvah.” This is no extremist gathering; it’s a patriotic display against zealotry and assaults on Israel’s democratic institutions, a demand to return to the ethical first principles of Zionism and Judaism.

As I’ve written before, the most pro-Israel stance that we can take today is to support these pro-democracy protests around Israel and America.

Today I’ll be fasting, in remembrance of how Jerusalem was lost 2,000 years ago, and how hatred, violence, and cruelty drive the Shekhinah into Exile. And then on Saturday I’ll be with the demonstrators, to show that we’ve learned the lessons of our living past. For the sake of Jerusalem: because G-d help us all if the Shekhinah is forced to flee from this place once again.

Photo: Arch of Titus, Rome; depicting the plundering of the Jerusalem Temple by the Roman army in 70 CE (NG)

On Friendship—Part Two

Part Two: Talmud, Kabbalah, and My 7 Principles about the Nature of True Friends.
You can read Part One here.
A Source Sheet with all these texts and more is available here.

 
Did the Sages of old have “friends”— in the way we use the term? After all, the books that they wrote—the Mishnah and Talmuds and the classic Midrashim—have so much to say about the most important relationships in life:  parents and children, sisters and brothers, married partners, teachers and students, and so on. Surely they had some insights about the love between individuals who are not family?

Let’s start with a question of vocabulary. The Bible generally uses the term רעה when it speaks of friends; that’s the word that’s used to describe Job’s three friends who come to comfort him in his loss and suffering. This linguistic root means “associate, neighbor, fellow” in Biblical Hebrew and, provocatively, “yoke” in Arabic and Ge’ez (ancient Ethiopic).[1] Thus the word implies someone whose fate is “hitched” to our own, whose destiny is interconnected with ours.

The Rabbis prefer the term חבר / chaver. The root חבר appears many times in the Bible, but only in one or two instances might it mean something close to “friend,” such as Psalm 119:63: 

חָבֵ֣ר אָ֭נִי לְכל־אֲשֶׁ֣ר יְרֵא֑וּךָ וּ֝לְשֹׁמְרֵ֗י פִּקּוּדֶֽיךָ׃
I am a chaver to all who fear You, to those who keep Your precepts.

But when the term appears in the Bible, it usually means bound together, as in Psalm 122:3 which celebrates Jerusalem:

יְרוּשָׁלַ֥͏ִם הַבְּנוּיָ֑ה כְּ֝עִ֗יר שֶׁחֻבְּרָה־לָּ֥הּ יַחְדָּֽו׃
Jerusalem built up! A city knit together [she-chubra lah yachdav].

 By preferring the term חבר, the Rabbis are saying that their chaverim are people whose lives are bound together with each other.

But that doesn’t mean that the Rabbis’ chaver meant “friend.” Oftentimes, a chaver is more accurately translated as “peer” or “classmate” or “fellow disciple of the Rabbis.” Chaverim were people who were similarly ideologically aligned to be part of the emerging class of Rabbinic Judaism, at a time (1st century BCE-3rd century CE) when there were other kinds of Judaisms that were competing for prominence.

So it’s not accurate to translate every appearance of the word chaver in the Mishnah or Talmud as “friend.”

Still, there are many occasions where the relationships between these peers—who together study Torah, celebrate and mourn, and share the meaning of Life—qualify as “friendships.”

Most famously there is a story of Honi the Circlemaker, a legendary figure who slept for 70 years and then tried to reintegrate himself into his community. He returns to his family home, only to discover that his grandchildren’s generation consider him a madman. Then he goes to the Beit Midrash, where the Rabbis are talking about Honi’s generation as if it were ancient history. There, too, he receives a chilly reception and he is not brought into the community. At the conclusion of this story, which preceded The Twilight Zone by 2,000 years, Honi gives up, prays for mercy, and dies. The story concludes with the words:

אוֹ חַבְרוּתָא אוֹ מִיתוּתָא
O chavruta o mituta
Either companionship or death! (Talmud, Ta’anit 23a)

The author of that story knew a thing or two about the desperate yearning people have for real human connections.

A striking description of friendship in Judaism comes from Maimonides’s commentary to the Mishnah. A well-known passage from Pirkei Avot says:

עֲשֵׂה לְךָ רַב, וּקְנֵה לְךָ חָבֵר
Get yourself a teacher [rav], and acquire for yourself a chaver… (Pirkei Avot 1:6)

Now, we might consider the word chaver here to mean what it usually means in classic Jewish literature: a peer, a committed study-partner. And that is probably what it means in its context. But Maimonides (1135-1204) takes this passage as a jumping-off point to create a taxonomy of friendships that sounds so… modern.

After spending some time discussing the unusual verb here—“acquire”—Rambam goes on to say:

.האוהבים ג' מינים: אוהב תועלת אוהב מנוחה ואוהב מעלה…
There are three types of friends:
A friend for one’s benefit [ohev to’elet],
A friend for one’s enjoyment [ohev m’nucha]
And a friend for one’s ultimate virtue [ohev ma’alah].

He then proceeds to explore the meanings of each of these categories. But before we go there, note that the word for “friend” has again evolved. Where the Bible used רעה  and the Sages employed חבר, Rambam prefers the word אוהב / ohev. If it didn’t sound so weird, we would translate the term as “lover”: a non-erotic sort of intimacy that true friends understand. Rambam already has tipped his hand: He’s not talking about “peers” or “associates”; he’s talking about two human beings who truly love one another.

Here's how he describes each of these three groups, in increasing levels of intimacy:

“A friend for one’s benefit / ohev to’elet”—This is like the friendship of two business associates, or of a king and his retinue.

[My comment: This may be Rambam’s lowest level, but it still connotes real friendships. Many of us might have warm and rich relationships with our co-workers. We may enjoy spending time with them, celebrating birthdays together or talking about our lives and our families. We probably don’t spend time with them outside of work, but still, when we’re together, we generally enjoy each other’s company.]

“A friend for one’s enjoyment / ohev m’nucha”—There are two subcategories: (a) a “friend for pleasure” and (b) a “friend for confidence.”

The “friend for pleasure” is like the friendship between men and women and so forth. Whereas a “friend for confidence” is a person to whom you can confide your soul. You don’t keep anything from that person, either in deed nor in speech. And you will make that friend know of all your affairs—the good ones and even the disgraceful ones—without fearing that you will experience any loss, either through the friend or through another person. When a person has such a level of confidence in another, you will find great enjoyment in the other’s words and in their friendship.

[I’m not sure why these aren’t distinct categories. Still, the “friend for pleasure” sounds like the sort of person whom we hang out with; someone whose company we enjoy as we share similar interests—like going to a ball game or a concert together. Life is more enjoyable when it’s shared with those sort of companions.

But maybe your buddy who goes to the game with you doesn’t want to hear about your fears about your career, or your marriage, or your finances.

The “friend for confidence” is on a different plane: someone with whom you can comfortably drop your pretenses, and to whom you can really open yourself up. As Rambam says, life is deeper and fuller when you have someone like this—someone who you can truly trust not to betray your confidences. And that sort of friendship is a blessing.

 
“A friend for one’s ultimate virtue / ohev ma’alah”— This is when the desire of both of them and their intention is for one thing alone, and that is the Good. Each one wants to be helped by the other in reaching this good for both of them together. And this is the friend which the Mishnah commands us to acquire, and it is like the love of a teacher for a student and of a student for the teacher.

This is something much rarer. This is a relationship in which each partner is committed to making the other a better a person. It is built on such a rock-solid foundation of trust that one can hear the criticism of the other, knowing that what she’s saying is reliable and not encrusted with her own inadequacies or schadenfreude.

A friend like this may come along only once in a lifetime—if we are lucky! Such a loyal and loving and selfless friend is something to be cherished.

Further: it may sound strange to us to hear the Rambam throw in the relationship between a student and teacher at the end. But that serves to show us how far removed we can be from the idealized model of the teacher and students that existed in classical Judaism. The teacher of Torah has only the student’s well-being in mind, and considers him as a whole entity and as a unique individual. And the teacher is better because of the relationship with the student.

There were times and places where that deepest degree of friendship was actively cultivated by likeminded spiritual seekers.

For instance, Lawrence Fine has written about a Kabbalistic community in late medieval Jerusalem called Beit El.[2] Here was a group of rigorous mystics who were determined to forge a unique community of prayer, study, and mystical contemplation with one another. In order to achieve spiritual excellence, they also swore eternal allegiance and friendship to one another—to exemplify the sort of the relationships that Rambam described in his highest level of friendship, above.

They went one step further: They wrote a “Ketubah” declaring their commitments to one another. (Literally, a Ketubah—a “marriage license”! Consider for a moment: If you were to write a Ketubah for the best friends in your life, what would be the terms of the relationship? What would be the commitments you’d make to each other?)

In part, the “Ketubah” says:

From now and forever after we are met together, we are associates, we are joined, we are bound to the others as if we were one person, we are companions in all matters of every kind. Each of us resolves to help, encourage, and give support to his associate, helping him to repent, rebuking him and participating in his tribulations, whether in this world or in the next, and in all the ways of faithfulness and ever more so…

It is a remarkable level of commitment: To trust the other so fully, to integrate so completely into each others’ lives, so as to make each other the best person they can possibly be and together to come to understand the reality of God. 

_______________________ 

In conclusion: I’ve written these entries because I’m increasingly aware of the blessings of friends in my life—and because of the crisis of loneliness that pervades so many people’s lives in our increasingly isolated times. I pray that each of us merits a true and treasured friend in this lifetime—and that each of us is capable of reciprocating such love to those who need us.

Judaism has a lot to say about the nature of friendship; we’ve only scratched the surface. But I’d sum it up this way:

Seven Principles from Judaism about Friendship (NG)

1.    A friend doesn’t disappear when times are rough. Friends don’t give up on the other person, and are committed to the relationship for the long haul.

2.    Even if friends don’t see each other often, or are separated by a long distance, a friend is present when needed.

3.    A friend doesn’t project his or her own issues onto the other, but listens carefully to what the other person needs.

4.    Friends aren’t afraid to share their shortcomings and failures with the other, because they know the other’s love will not falter and the other person can be trusted.

5.    Friends share delight in the other’s successes, and aren’t competitive, envious, or guilty of schadenfreude.

6.    When one makes a friend with this level of trust, it is a pleasure and delight to be in each other’s company.

7.    Real friends make the other person a better person. They’re not afraid to share criticism—as long as it clearly comes from a place of love. Conversely, a friend listens carefully to the criticism of the other, because the other person is trustworthy and committed to a friend’s well-being.

[1] Brown-Driver-Briggs Hebrew and English Lexicon, p.945.

[2] Lawrence Fine, Judaism in Practice: From the Middle Ages through the Early Modern Period (Princeton University Press, 2001), 210-214. The “ketubah” I’m discussing can be accessed on my Shavuot Source Sheet – check it out; it’s a fascinating document.

On Friendship—Part One

The Problem, and a Biblical Model of Friendship

 I’ve been thinking a lot about the idea of FRIENDSHIP in Judaism, and had the pleasure of teaching some texts about this topic at our recent Shavuot celebration. This essay, in two parts, is an abridged form of that program. (If you want to see the Jewish sources I assembled for that evening, you can access the Source Sheet here.)

I.               Introduction to the Topic, a Crisis

There is a crisis of loneliness in the modern world that’s been building for a long time and which was exacerbated by the pandemic. In past year or so, there have been a spate of articles (in the New York Times, Psychology Today, NPR, The Atlantic, and many more) along the lines of, “Why is it so difficult for adults to make new friends?”

There are many reasons for our increasing social isolation, but the burning irony is that all of our online technology somehow makes our distance from one another even worse. True, there is potential in social media and ever-present smartphones to keep people connected. I’m no Luddite: I have many friends and family members who are far away, and thanks to my devices I’m able to have a window into their lives.

But just as often, these tools worsen our ever-increasing estrangement from one another. So many of us are consumed with our own feeds and personalized diets of entertainment that our self-absorption is worse than ever. Sure, every generation of adults thinks the next iteration of technology is a calamity. (Remember when violent cartoons were going to be the destruction of all those ‘70s and ‘80s kids? Where’s Wile E. Coyote when you need him?) Yet it’s remarkable that people today can actually be nostalgic for the act of watching TV together as a family—as opposed to another evening with each family member subsumed in their own private screen.

Suffice to say that many psychologists identify loneliness and isolation as a health risk and a social crisis. The author Robert Putnam diagnosed this American syndrome in his classic study Bowling Alone (2000).

Of course, there is a big difference between “loneliness” and “being alone.” Plenty of people, not just the introverts among us, crave private time to be alone, for self-reflection, creativity, or simply to think. But that is very different from loneliness: the intense yearning for real connection with other people, but the failure to find someone who can reciprocate.

I’m also writing from a personal place. A few years ago, I went through a crisis that was both professional and personal. It was the most traumatic experience of my life, prompting therapy and lots of self-reflection. Of course, my family—especially my extraordinary wife—were my rock during this time. But I also discovered a few lessons about the nature of friends.

My discoveries were twofold. On one hand, I realized that the betrayal of a friend is surely the most painful experience in the world. I was saddened, to say the least, by the failure of some friends—people who said they loved me—to be there when I needed them. Perhaps you’ve had similar experiences, and if so, I empathize with that pain and loss.

But I discovered something else, too: I am blessed to have some truly extraordinary friends who stood up at that time. These friends were present, sympathetic, honest, and compassionate. Some were people who up to that point I didn’t realize were such good friends, and they revealed themselves to be loyal, loving, and partisan on my behalf. What a blessing!

My first prayer for you is that you should be blessed with such friends in your life.

So that’s the background for my inquiries:

·      Did our ancestors in antiquity have “friends”—or is that a modern construct?

·      Are there good examples of friendship in the classic Jewish literature?

·      Jewish sources have so much to say about the most important relationships in life—do they have anything to teach us about how to be a good friend?

II.             Friendship in the Hebrew Bible

 If you believe, as I do, that the Bible is holy because every facet of experience is found there, then surely there are examples of good friends in its pages. But that’s easier said than done. Why not stop reading for a few moments and ask ourselves—“Who are the Biblical examples of true friends?”

Did you come up with any? It’s harder than it seems—especially if you take off of the table family relationships, on the assumption that the place of authority between, say, parents and children distorts what we mean by “friendship.”

Then there’s David and Jonathan—a relationship that is often held up as a true model of friendship. Even the Mishnah (Pirkei Avot 5:16) perpetuates this idea.

But with due respect to the Mishnah, I don’t buy it. David, as presented in the Book of Samuel, is a far too complex and contradictory figure to be a paragon of friendship. If you read carefully, you’ll notice that everyone keeps falling in love with the charismatic and gifted David: his various wives (at least at first); “all Israel and Judah” (2 Sam. 18:16); and, indeed, King Saul’s son Jonathan. Time after time, people profess their love for David, and periodically they save his life because of their devotion to him.

The problem is: David is always the object of another’s love, the Hebrew verb אהב. Never does the text position David as the subject to declare, “David loved ________.” It’s hard to know if David ever loves somebody else.

I propose that such one-sidedness is no model for a real or authentic friendship.

Instead, I can think of one Biblical model that strikes many of the notes of genuine friendship: the three friends of Job.

After Job’s devastating losses—of virtually everything he has—the text reads:

When Job’s three friends heard about all these calamities that had befallen him, each came from his home—Eliphaz the Temanite, Bildad the Shuhite, and Zophar the Naamathite. They met together to go and console and comfort him.

When they saw him from a distance, they could not recognize him, and they broke into loud weeping; each one tore his robe and threw dust into the air onto his head.

They sat with him on the ground seven days and seven nights. None spoke a word to him, for they saw how very great was his suffering. (Job 2:11-13)

Read that passage carefully and consider what an extraordinary group of friends Job has!

1.     They live far away. We can tell by their exotic names and the epithets that the Bible gives them. (I know I have many cherished friends who live far away, and it can be a long time—sometimes years—between moments when we see each other.)

2.     But when they hear of Job’s pain, they come. A time of real crisis is not a time to disappear, or to be too busy. They come to be with Job—without being asked.

3.     They tear their clothes—an act of mourning—when they see his distress. His pain is their pain because of the intimacy of their feelings for him.

4.     They sit on the ground with him (another ritual of mourning) and remain silent for days (surely the first example of sitting shiva). Regarding this silence: Yes, sometimes, a situation calls for a carefully chosen kind word. But just as often, what is really necessary is presence. Job’s friends don’t speak—at least, not right away; what is needed is their act of showing up and being present for their friend in his anguish.

Later, Job’s friends will have many things to say. Some of those words are helpful, others, not so much. But I’m struck by so many elements of their behavior, and their desire to bring compassion and healing to their ailing friend.

It’s a model that surely resonates with immediacy in our own age of distance and isolation and ever-creeping solipsism.

Coming in Part Two: The Rabbinic and Kabbalistic traditions offer some remarkable perspectives of genuine friendships. Stay tuned.  

Image: “Friendship Matters,” Psychology Today, June 19, 2015

Is There Such Thing as a Reform Jew?

Many years ago, I attended a conference sponsored by the Reform movement on Jewish ethics at summer camp. It brought together rabbis and educators for a high-level conversation about informal education on “Reform Jewish ethics.”

The primary teacher was Warren Zev Harvey, the Orthodox scholar and Professor of Jewish Thought at Hebrew University. At the very end of the program (in my memory, he was already wearing his coat and hat and preparing to exit), Professor Harvey posed a challenge to us: “Why do you insist on calling your work Reform Jewish ethics? Why aren’t you self-confident enough about your interpretation of Torah simply to call it Jewish ethics, without the qualifier?”

He was asking us to have the integrity to stand by the authenticity of our own understanding of Judaism, rather than to consider it a parochial eddy outside the mainstream of the Torah tradition. I thought then it was a brilliant question, and it continues to resound with me today.

I’m thinking about that day, since I’ve just returned from attending and presenting at a national conference called “Recharging Reform Judaism,” an important conversation for a religious movement that is in crisis.

My presentation was about the theme of Jewish peoplehood, an idea that has taken a battering in recent years. From the right wing, there are continuous assaults on the legitimacy of non-Orthodox expressions of Judaism. From the left, there are consistent denials of unique responsibility and duties toward one’s people.

Even though I’m attached to fewer and fewer institutions of Reform Judaism these days, and I find myself preferring spaces where those labels do not hold, it’s still the movement in which I largely was raised, and I’m a graduate of Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion, the Reform rabbinic seminary, so I have a partisan interest in this discussion.

The conference had its share of successes and failures, and I’ll try to write about them in the days ahead. But one thought lingers with me both before and after the gathering.

It may seem strange to say, but the conference prompted me to wonder:  Is there even such thing as a Reform Jew?

Or, for that matter, a Conservative or Reconstructionist or Renewal Jew?

I propose that the answer is: No.

It’s not that those words—Reform, Conservative, Orthodox, Renewal, Reconstructionist, etc.—don’t mean anything; they most certainly do. It’s simply this:  those adjectives don’t describe Jews. They describe synagogues.

When you became part of the Jewish people – either at birth or upon conversion – no one ever said to you, “Mazel Tov, it’s a Conservative Jew!” or “Congratulations, you are now a Reform Jew!” They did say: Mazel Tov – welcome to am yisrael, the Jewish people wherever we are to be found around the world.  A Jew is simply (?) a Jew, and the principle of klal yisrael emphasizes the connections that a Jew in Massachusetts shares with a Jew in Ukraine, or Tel Aviv, or Argentina, or Uganda. 

And yet, so many obsess over the labels.  What they fail to recognize is that it isn’t the modifier – “Reform” “Conservative” “Orthodox” “Renewal” “neo-Chasidic” or whatever – that is ultimately important. What is important is the “Jewish” part.

Again, the language of different communities is instructive and important. There are qualitative distinctions to be found between different communities, and that’s okay by me. I’m a pluralist by nature.

Personally, I think the demise of the religious movements in America is exaggerated. There is a value to the existence of movements in American Jewish life. That main value is  a certain sort of persuasive social power that movements have, as opposed to being a lone satellite in the synagogue universe.  The religious movements have the power and potential to speak, for instance, as a moral voice on social issues with far more weight that a lone community can.

(And please—can we stop calling the movements “denominations”? We’re not Protestants. And the word “movement” is a good one, implying dynamism and growth as opposed to stagnation and conformity.)

But as for each of us, as individuals:  I think the Jewish people would be much more cohesive if more of us saw ourselves with the flexibility to move between communities, recognizing the inherent worth of diverse expressions of Judaism—even if we naturally find ourselves at home in one setting over another.

I do recognize that there will remain an essential divide between Orthodox/halakhic communities and non-halakhic ones. I can understand why many women, for instance, would not want to participate in a shul with a mechitzah, or liberal-minded people in general could not pray in a community that doesn’t accept LGBTQ individuals. Likewise, I get why halakhic people can’t pray with communities whose siddurim are less-then-fully traditional. That boundary is real, and understandably so.

But my point is: as individuals, our identification should be with the Jewish people, rather than our own narrow sliver. As Professor Harvey challenged me a long time ago:  Have the self-confidence (and literacy) to interpret the Torah with authenticity and confidence, even while retaining the modesty to listen to others’ viewpoints. The Jewish people as a whole will be stronger for it.

In other words, when they ask you, “What kind of Jew are you?”, tell them: “A committed / creative / ever-growing / Mitzvah-loving / constantly learning / etc. sort of Jew.”

But as for the institutional labels? Leave them for the institutions where they belong.

Image: Isaac Mayer Wise, American Jewish Archives

Rabbi Harold Kushner ז״ל

I didn’t know Rabbi Harold Kushner all that well, but he did impact my life in two particular contexts.

First: I live in Natick, Massachusetts, the town where Rabbi Kushner lived and worked for most of his career. In the Jewish cemetery here his son is buried—Aaron, who died of progeria, the rare premature-aging disease which prompted Rabbi Kushner’s famous book When Bad Things Happen to Good People—and here on Monday he will be laid to rest.

I had never met him in person until I moved to Natick in 2005. The first time I ran into him in the Bakery on the Common, I was giddy—“I just met Harold Kushner!”—and he was very gracious and welcomed me to the neighborhood. More exciting was the second time I encountered him a few months later, when he came over and said, “Hi Neal!” Harold Kushner knew who I was!

After that, our paths crossed periodically: at events for local rabbis, or around town, or in contexts where he was a guest lecturer. He was always cordial and warm towards me.

But the main context in which I knew Harold Kushner is the same way in which countless other people knew him: He reached out through his books.

Just think, for a moment, about what a metaphysically extraordinary thing a book is. Through a book an author reaches across space and time to transmit ideas, provocations, comfort, and hope. Here’s the way Stephen King describes it:

What writing is: Telepathy, of course….

We’re not even in the same year together, let alone the same room… except we are together. We’re close.

We’re having a meeting of the minds.

I sent you a table with a red cloth on it, a cage, a rabbit, and the number eight in blue ink. You got them all… We’ve engaged in an act of telepathy. No mythy-mountain shit; real telepathy. (Stephen King, On Writing, 1997)

In this telepathic way, Rabbi Kushner reached me and countless people through his books. He was a publishing phenomenon, and through his writing, the healing wisdom of Judaism spread far beyond his reach in the pulpit or in the classroom - and to Jews and non-Jews alike.

I first read When Bad Things Happen to Good People in high school, as part of Temple Shalom’s Confirmation curriculum. (The assignment was simply: read a Jewishly relevant book and submit a report on it. How many synagogue Hebrew schools would expect their students to do that today? Very few, I bet.) It was probably the first book of theology I ever read, and the first place I learned the very Jewish tradition of wrestling with G-d, rather than offering apologies for G-d.

But every elegy for Rabbi Kushner is going to mention WBTHTGP, which made him famous. Personally, I return more frequently to some of his other great books, especially: Living a Life That Matters (2001), Conquering Fear (2009), and his self-published sermon collection Faith and Family (2007), among the others. Really, he never wrote a book that isn’t worthwhile. All of his books speak gentle but sublime spiritual truths, peppered with insights from classic Jewish literature as well as the lives of people in his community.

(By the way, many people don’t realize that he is the author of the “below the line” Torah commentary in Etz Hayim, which sits in the pews of many American synagogues. This, surely, is another aspect of his immortality.)

My personal favorite is How Good Do We Have to Be?, one of the wisest books I know. It’s typical of his style. The jumping-off point is a well-known Biblical touchstone; in this case, the Genesis story of the Garden of Eden. You may have thought that at this late date there wasn’t much more to say about Adam and Eve and the expulsion from Eden. Yet in Rabbi Kushner’s hands, it’s a stunningly contemporary exploration of universal themes: what it means to be a parent or a sibling, the American dysfunctional pursuit of perfection, healthy guilt versus unhealthy guilt, and the real possibility of being able to forgive others and ourselves. He always seems to have a perfect real-life anecdote at his fingertips (a skill that—as a writer and teacher—I covet desperately).

For instance,

The essence of marital love is not romance, but forgiveness.

….Romantic love overlooks faults (“love is blind”) in an effort to persuade ourselves that we deserve a perfect partner. Mature marital love sees faults clearly and forgives them, understanding that there are no perfect people, that we don’t have to pretend perfection, and that an imperfect spouse is all that an imperfect person like us can aspire to:

“For years I was looking for the perfect man, and when I finally found him, it turned out he was looking for the perfect woman and that wasn’t me.”

And:

How do you define a “good death”?... Let me suggest my own definition: a good death would be one that does not contradict what your life has been about.

…When we learn to think of life as a story, then we can come to think of death not as punishment, but as punctuation. What we want to know about a book or movie is not how long it is, but how good it is, and we can learn to think of life in the same way. (p.161-162)

And lest you still are under the misguided impression that after Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit the expulsion from Eden was some sort of punishment—it’s not. Here’s Kushner’s midrash from the book, and it is a beautiful epitaph:

How the Story Might Have Ended

So the woman saw that the tree was good to eat and a delight to the eye, and the serpent said to her, “Eat of it, for when you eat of it, you will be as wise as G-d.” But the woman said, “No, G-d has commanded us not to eat of it, and I will not disobey G-d.”

And G-d called to the man and the woman and said to them, “Because you have hearkened to My word and not disobeyed My command, I shall reward you greatly.”

To the man, G-d said, “You will never have to work again. Spend all your days in idle contentment, with food growing all around you.”

To the woman, G-d said, “You will bear children without pain and you will raise them without pain. They will need nothing from you. Children will not cry when their parents die, and parents will not cry when their children die.”

To both of them, He said, “For the rest of your lives, you will have full bellies and contented smiles. You will never cry and you will never laugh,, You will never long for something you don’t have, and you will never receive something you always wanted.”

And the man and the woman grew old together in the Garden, eating daily from the Tree of Life and having many children. And the grass grew high around the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil until it disappeared from view, for there was no one to tend it. (How Good Do We Have to Be?, pp.32-33)

Amen, and I’m grateful to know that through his writing he’ll continue to teach us for generations to come.

On the 75th Anniversary of Israeli Independence

Macht keine Dummheiten wherend ich tot bin.
"Don't make any stupid mistakes when I'm dead."

—Theodor Herzl

 Over my desk hangs my prized possession: A framed copy of Der Tog (“The Day”), the daily Yiddish newspaper published in New York from 1914 to 1971, dated May 15, 1948.

In 1000-point font, the headline cries Yiddishe Melukha (A Jewish State)!

On that day, the paper was printed in blue ink rather than black newsprint.

And there are images of three people on that front page:  President Harry S Truman, who sent official recognition from America; David Ben Gurion, the new Prime Minister; and Theodor Herzl, who set the political processes in motion half a century earlier.

I love this artifact and look at it every day. It was stashed away in my grandfather’s closet for years after he died; my grandmother presented it to me one day with an understated, “Do you want this?”

“This is what patriotism looks like: A return to First Principles, enshrined in Israel’s Declaration of Independence, signed by a mosaic of ideologically diverse patriots exactly 75 years ago.”

What I love about it is: It’s a reminder of the extraordinary impact of this moment for Jews everywhere in the world. As Ahad Ha’am predicted decades earlier, the arrival of Israel held enormous reverberations for Jewish people everywhere, not only those who would become citizens of the new state. Jews all around the world responded with celebration and wonder and dancing in the streets. Since it was Shabbat, special prayers were sung in shul the following morning. Most everyone recognized that a new chapter of Jewish history was being written.

I look at that headline with wistfulness today, as Israel is going through a revolution that is playing out in its streets.

What troubles me today are those—including Jewish leaders who should know better—who are saying that celebrating this 75th anniversary is “you know, complicated.”

I hope that for most of us, the celebration need not be complicated. 75 years is a wondrous milestone, a time for reflection and gratitude and celebration. We live in a generation that knows a Jewish state. What an incredible sentence that is! Our Jewish ancestors would have been astonished by that fact. Whoever they were, wherever they were in the world, they most certainly: (1) turned and faced the Land of Israel when they prayed; and (2) prayed daily to G-d to “bring us in peace from the four corners of the earth, and allow us to walk with dignity in our land.” They would have staggered to know that a Jewish state would become a reality, nearly 2,000 years after Jewish autonomy in our homeland ceased.

Look, I’m not naïve. I’ve been watching the political situation unfold in Israel for a long time. Israel is right now engaged in a genuine struggle for its very soul. For months, hundreds of thousands of Israelis have been pouring into the streets, on a weekly basis, demonstrating for democracy against the most extreme, autocratic, and corrupt regime that the nation has ever known. And those protests aren’t slowing down.

I’m with them. I know the implications if this governing coalition is allowed to succeed in its abominable, anti-democractic agenda.

But rather than ambivalence, I’m more energized than ever in my love for the state of Israel.

Why? Because those demonstrators in the street have revitalized me.

This is what patriotism looks like: A return to First Principles, enshrined in Israel’s Declaration of Independence, signed by a mosaic of ideologically diverse patriots exactly 75 years ago:

THE STATE OF ISRAEL will be open for Jewish immigration and for the Ingathering of the Exiles; it will foster the development of the country for the benefit of all its inhabitants; it will be based on freedom, justice and peace as envisaged by the prophets of Israel; it will ensure complete equality of social and political rights to all its inhabitants irrespective of religion, race or sex; it will guarantee freedom of religion, conscience, language, education and culture; it will safeguard the Holy Places of all religions; and it will be faithful to the principles of the Charter of the United Nations.

Tomorrow, there is a lot of work to do. It is imperative that we align ourselves with the voices of freedom, democracy, and peace.

Today, however, we celebrate—unambiguously, unapologetically, and with no small amount of wonder at reaching this moment. Our ancestors would have demanded nothing less.

Chag Samayach!