Spiritual Thoughts from Rabbi Daniel Bouskila

Lights, Camera, Israel

2011-12-09T00:29:00.000-08:00

(Parashat Vayishlach – Genesis 32:4 – 36:43)

Like a good movie, Israel evokes a variety of emotions within us. In fact, the poster for the 1994 Israel Film Festival (IFF) reads: “Passion, Triumph, Danger, Tragedy, Suspense, Miracles, Conflict, Ecstasy, Israel.” When I asked Meir Fenigstein, founder and director of the IFF, why he chose these particular words, he said, “These are the ingredients that produce a good film, and these also happen to be the emotions that best capture the story of Israel.”

Fenigstein was referring to the modern State of Israel, but I would argue that these words have portrayed the story of Israel from its very inception. Actually, the very first time the word “Israel” was pronounced, the scene was one of danger, suspense and conflict; its outcome could be tragic or miraculous; and the passion that ensued produced a feeling of ecstasy and, ultimately, triumph.

It was a dark, lonely night when “Jacob remained alone, and a man wrestled with him until the break of dawn” (Genesis 32:25). Jewish commentators are divided as to what exactly took place that night. Who was this mysterious “man” that suddenly appeared and wrestled with Jacob all night? Was he an angel or a real person? If he was an angel, who and what did he represent? Was this a real physical event, or did it take place in the realm of the supernatural? Was it a prophecy, a dream or a combination thereof?

No matter what answers the commentators have suggested, the outcome of this wrestling match is even more compelling than the above questions. Just before the break of dawn, when the “man” saw that he was unable to defeat Jacob, “he wrenched Jacob’s hip at its socket, so that the socket of his hip was dislocated as he wrestled with him.” He then implored Jacob “let me leave, for dawn is breaking.” Despite his injured thigh, Jacob still overwhelmed the “man,” and refused to let him go until the “man” would bless him.

“What is your name?” the man asked.

“Jacob,” he replied.

The “man’s” answer to Jacob is the turning point in Jacob’s life, and marks the dawning of a new nation destined to spend its eternity much like Jacob spent that night — alone, often in the dark, struggling with God, wrestling with enemies, injured … and triumphant. “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with beings divine and human, and have prevailed” (Genesis 32:29).

The medieval Bible commentator and grammarian Rabbi David Kimchi (Radak) teaches that the Hebrew word for “striven” — sari-ta — has as its root the word sarah (not to be confused with the name Sarah), which means “to contend,” or to “struggle toward victory.” This explains, according to Radak, the choice of Jacob’s new name — Israel. Built into the word “Israel” is the root sarah, which means that built into the word Israel is the character of struggling — with “beings divine and human.” Much like the patriarch Israel spent that night — and much of his life — struggling with the complexities of God, family, sibling rivalry, morals and ethics, parenthood and relations with neighbors, so, too, his descendants — the nation of Israel — were destined to spend their existence struggling with God, with each other, and with those that surround them.

The Talmud teaches: “The deeds of our forefathers are a sign for their children.” Never was this more applicable, especially to contemporary Israel, than the moment when Jacob — now named Israel — walked away from his wrestling match triumphant yet limping, permanently scarred from his battle wounds. This image conjures up the many instances in Israel’s modern history when Israel triumphed, but the wounds of battle rendered the triumph bittersweet. From its rebirth in 1948 on the rebounds of the Holocaust, to the many valiant battles fought by the IDF, to the miraculous victory at Entebbe marred by the loss of one soldier, to the elated feeling of seeing Gilad Shalit home again with the sobering reality of the price for his release, Israel — like its namesake — continues to walk off of its many battlefields with her fists raised in triumph, despite her injured legs limping away.

The words on the Israel Film Festival poster continue to ring true: Passion, Triumph, Danger, Tragedy, Suspense, Miracles, Conflict, Ecstasy, Israel. Like a good movie – and like Israel the patriarch -- Israel’s wrestling matches are passionate, filled with internal conflict, wrought with suspense and danger from enemies, and when we experience the ecstasies of Israel’s triumphs, we are compelled – like David Ben-Gurion said -- to believe in miracles.

A Beatles Passover

2011-04-17T07:21:00.000-07:00

Last night my family and I went out with some friends to the Pantages Theatre, where we took a musical journey back in time. For over two hours, the Broadway production of “Rain: A Tribute to the Beatles” took us through the tumultuous 1960’s and the great Beatles songs that came to define that decade. From the innocence of “I Want To Hold Your Hand” to the provocative “Revolution” and the contemplative “Let It Be,” we danced, laughed, cried and “Twisted and Shouted” to the sounds and sights of a unique era in time.

Throughout the show, I could not help but reflect on the depth and meaning of the Beatles lyrics, and how relevant they still are in our generation. Themes like “All You Need Is Love” and “Give Peace A Chance” are not limited to the 1960’s, but are relevant to all people at any time who seek a life filled with love and peace. To put it in Beatles terminology, the themes and lyrics of Beatle’s songs are not just about “Yesterday,” but they are also about “today and tomorrow.”

So, too, with the upcoming Passover holiday and the Seder that we sit down to with our families this coming Monday night. The themes of Passover – freedom from slavery and oppression, faith in God through thick and thin, and the power of storytelling – are meaningful and relevant to all generations of Jews everywhere in the world. Recounting the Exodus from Egypt is not limited to the “Magical Mystery Tour” of the Ten Plagues and the Crossing of the Red Sea from our Egyptian past. It’s also about “The Long and Winding Road” of Jewish history – from Medieval Spain through 18^th Century Poland, and from Nazi Germany to the Rise of Modern Israel – where we have experienced “Slavery and Freedom” again and again. We use the Exodus story as a framework for a narrative to tell and re-tell our collective history and our own stories to our children, hoping to inspire them to carry our traditions, ideas and values into the future.

“In Every Generation” – these words appear all over the place in the Haggadah. They are the “tagline” to the whole Seder experience, conveying the relevance of the Passover story for all Jews at all times.

“In every generation one is obligated to see oneself as if one had gone out of Egypt” – In this instance, the Haggadah seeks to include everyone seated around the table, openly declaring that the Passover story belongs to all Jews, irrespective of background or age group. It belongs to my ancestors that I have never met, it belongs to my parents, it belongs to my children, and it belongs to me – today, at the age of 46, and even 18 years from now, “When I’m 64.”

“In every generation our enemies try and destroy us, but the Holy One Blessed be He saves us from them” – This grim reality is a testimony to our survival. It’s a tribute to our willingness to overcome our enemies, even under the most extreme of circumstances. As my good friend Amos Oz pu it, “The Jewish people have survived for thousands of years because millions of Jews, over dozens of generations, have made personal decisions to uphold their identity. It’s also a reminder that we have gotten by with “a little help from Hashem.”

Chag Pesach Kasher V’Sameach

My Personal Purim Miracle

2011-03-17T15:45:00.000-07:00

It was Purim, 1985. The surroundings seemed so strange to me. From childhood, Purim always meant Megillah reading, noise from noisemakers, loud music, lively dancing, people dressed up in different costumes, lots of good food, exchange of Mishloach Manot gift baskets, and a little “l’chaim” to top things off. That was exactly the Purim I had in 1984, 1983, 1982…all the way back to 1964, the year I was born.

This year, it just wasn’t the same. There was no Megillah available to be read. There were some occasional loud noises, but they did not come from kids cranking noisemakers. There was no music to dance to, and nobody was really in the mood to dance. Not only were people not dressed up in costumes, but everyone was actually dressed exactly the same. The food was the same type of bland food we had eaten the day before, and the only exchanges were wishes of “Purim Sameach (Happy Purim),” with the sad and sarcastic response being “Yes, this is really Sameach (Happy), isn’t it?” If we said l’chaim – to life -- it wasn’t over a drink; it was a sincere hope that we will come out of this alive.

Purim 1985. Southern Lebanon. A lonely platoon of IDF soldiers, stuck in a small fortress. Not a very friendly place to be. The noise of gunfire, not the rhythm you would want to dance to. Young boys dressed up in khaki uniforms. Neighbors who were not interested in receiving Mishloach Manot. Strange, surreal. “During the month of Adar, we increase in joy” says the Talmud. Not here. Not in this place. No joy, nothing to celebrate. Just long shifts of guard duty, and patrols that really warranted the wishes of “l’chaim.”

That night of Purim is one big blur to me. Same with the morning – a total blank. All I could remember is the same exact things I could remember from any other day in Lebanon. But I will never, ever, ever forget the afternoon.

I was standing on guard duty with Moti, my sergeant who I had become very close to ever since basic training was over. We always did guard duty together, often talking about life, big dreams, and great hopes for the future. We would take turns looking through the binoculars, as there was this one long road we had to watch over. All sorts of traffic passed through this road. Lebanese delivery trucks, civilians driving from one town to the next, IDF convoys, ambulances. Due to the rise in suicide car bombs in Southern Lebanon, the IDF declared a rule that any vehicle that had only a driver and no passengers would immediately be suspected as a suicide bomber, and the IDF would open fire towards it. We had the dubious honor of watching over this road.

Moti was staring through the high - powered binoculars, and he told me that an IDF convoy was on its way. “I see some IDF vehicles approaching us,” he said, “and there is some other non-IDF van with them, but I can’t recognize what it is from here. Take a look.” I looked through the binoculars, and the convoy of jeeps and armored personnel carriers, still quite a distance away, was indeed accompanying a white van, but I could not make out the writing on the van. I looked and looked and looked, until the writing on the van suddenly became clear to me.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe my eyes,” I said in English. “What, what is it?” asked Moti. My eyes stared in amazement through the binoculars at the writing on the van: Chabad. That’s right, this IDF convoy was accompanying a Chabad van.

The convoy pulled up to our fortress, and my friends guarding the gate opened it up. In drove IDF jeeps, armored personnel carriers, and a van carrying Chabad rabbis and students. Like a mirage in the desert, the van stopped, and out came four Chabadniks. One of them held a Megillat Esther. Another had an accordion slung over his shoulders. Another had a bag filled with small megillot, Purim cards from kids, and blessing notes from the Lubavitcher Rebbe. Last but certainly not least, one of them brought out several bags of hamentashen, various other sweets, and, of course, a bottle and shot glasses for a true “l’chaim.”

Just like that, out of nowhere, in the middle of a war zone, this little IDF fortress suddenly came alive with the spirit of Purim. Now it was really surreal. From the bleak picture I described above, I could suddenly see somebody reading the Megillah from a parchment scroll, with people following in small paperback megillot (I have mine to this day). I now heard joyous accordion music, and I could see people dancing with big smiles in small circles. People were eating hamentashen, and l’chaim was not about a patrol, but instead was a good shot of vodka. We were all taking turns guarding the various posts, as everybody wanted to share in this sudden outburst of Purim joy. Purim was here, alive and well, in an IDF fortress in Southern Lebanon! Here we were – religious soldiers, secular soldiers, simple soldiers, officers, mechanics and cooks – together with these four Chabad angels, who brought us the purest sense of joy and the most sincere expressions of solidarity, support and unity I have ever experienced.

There is not one single mention of God’s name in Megillat Esther. Rabbinic tradition interprets this as the Purim story being an example of the “hidden hand of God,” where miracles happen behind the scenes.

I wasn’t in Shushan 2,500 years ago, so I can only rely on what the Megillah tells us. But there is one thing I am sure of: on Purim Day, 1985, for my friends and I in an IDF fortress in Southern Lebanon, there were no “hidden miracles.” God’s name was in the air, and the miracle of Purim was out in the open – in the most unlikely of places -- for all to see and hear.

Shabbat Shalom and Purim Sameach.

The Spirituality of Civil Law (Parashat Mishpatim/Exodus 21:1-24:18

2011-01-27T17:41:00.000-08:00

What do laws about personal injury, personal damages, holes in the ground, damages due to negligence with fire, paying employees on time, borrowing items from a friend or lending money have to do with Judaism? After all, isn’t Judaism – like all other religions – all about ritual observances, holiday and lifecycle celebrations and prayer services in a house of worship? Why would a religious book like the Torah contain legislation in matters of what society typically calls “civil law”?

The answer is that Judaism is not a religion, but a way of life. The Torah is not a collection of “Jewish rituals,” rather it’s a guide on how to live life – everywhere. The 613 commandments in the Torah are as much concerned with how life is conducted in the work place as with how services are conducted in the synagogue. In fact, prior to legislating any laws regarding houses of worship, sacred spaces, High Priests and sacrifices or prayers, the Torah spends a great amount of time legislating how to set up a fair system of civil laws that will help resolve disputes, protect vulnerable members of society and create a society that puts social justice as it’s highest value.

In last week’s Torah portion, the Jewish people stood at the foot of Mount Sinai and heard God’s voice speak directly to them. In ten powerful utterances (popularly known as “The Ten Commandments”), God outlined a vision for how a Jewish society would look and act. As the sound and light show at Mount Sinai came to a close, the Jewish people – completely frightened and overwhelmed by having heard the Divine voice – asked Moses “You speak with us, but let not God speak directly to us, lest we die.” The Torah then describes “The people stood far off, but Moses drew near into the thick darkness where God was.” It’s at this point that this week’s Torah portion begins, with God speaking “face to face” with Moses on Mount Sinai.

“And these are the rules (Mishpatim) that you shall set before them.” With this verse, God begins to legislate the detailed version of the Ten Commandments. The word Mishpatim refers to civil ordinances, and by beginning with these particular laws, God sends a very powerful message about what it means to be a truly “religious” community. Most people looking to create a “religious community” would begin by building a house of worship. In the Torah, God sees things differently. As the Jewish people are in the initial stages of building their own “religious community,” civil laws governing relationships between people are legislated before the laws on building a house of worship. Courts and judges come before tabernacles and High Priests. The message is that the first definition of being “religious” is how one behaves at work, in business, and how one treats his/her fellow human being. God knows that it’s much easier to behave “religiously” inside a temple or synagogue. The true challenge is maintaining that religiosity in the workplace and at home. It’s less of a challenge to perform the ritual commandment of prayer than it is to make sure that your employee is paid fair wages, and that the payment is made on time.

Contemporary society is engaged in a renewed “search for spirituality.” Judaism has joined in that search. A recent Jewish periodical devoted an entire issue to “Orthodoxy and Spirituality,” implying, perhaps, that they are independent of each other. This is probably due to the misguided and limited understanding of the term “spirituality” as almost exclusively a form of prayer or meditation. Is there “spirituality” in solving a dispute in court? Can one experience God when standing in the presence of judges who are charged with carrying out justice?

In reference to God, the Book of Psalms teaches: “Righteousness (Tzedek) and justice (Mishpat) are the base of Your throne” (Psalms 89:15). On this verse, the 13^th century Sephardic Talmudist Rabbeinu Yonah comments: “Whoever upholds justice (Mishpat) upholds God’s throne, and whoever perverts justice defiles God’s throne.”

Spirituality is “Mishpatim,” that is, the creation and maintenance of a just society that brings the glory of God’s throne into civil life.

In Israel With My Son Ilan

2010-12-15T19:28:00.000-08:00

There is no more powerful classroom than the classroom of life experiences. This is why I have always believed in travelling with my kids as much as possible, allowing them to experience, learn and see the world with their own eyes. Peni and I are big believers in life experiences. This is why we have taken our kids on so many trips, locally in California as well as family trips to Israel, Boston, New York and Washington, D.C. (I've probably left something out!).

This past Monday afternoon, my son Ilan and I arrived in Israel. Ilan is 10 (almost 11), and this is his fifth trip to Israel. By comparison, when I was his age, I had yet to step foot in the Holy Land! So, why is this trip different than Ilan's four previous trips to Israel? Because this trip is all about him.

Four years ago, I did something similar with my daughter Shira, who was also 10 at the time. Shira had just raised an incredible $24,000 to benefit Israeli children in the northern town of Shlomi, who had been hit hard during the summer of 2006 Lebanon War. Shira and I came to Israel to meet the kids, and she had arranged for 350 of them to attend the Festigal, Israel's annual kid's show extravaganza. We decided to join the kids, and we also took advantage of the trip to Israel to visit various people, places and things. That trip included visits with family, a night with the Shlomi kids at the Festigal, and dinner with Israeli author Amos Oz and his wife Nili in their Tel Aviv apartment. We did visit some sites, but Shira was thrilled to meet lots of people, especially as they recognized her from the color photo and write-up in Israel's Yediot Acharonot newspaper.

Ilan had a different itinerary in mind. "What would you like to do on your personal trip to Israel with Daddy?" I asked him. "Hikes, archaeological sites, more hikes, and some more archaeology." Ilan loves ancient history, and he loves adventures. Is there any better place in the world that combines these two experiences than Israel? So, here we are, off to an adventure through Israel's canyons, riverbeds and antiquities! We will visit the sites of ancient Jerusalem, and then are off to hike and journey through the Judean Desert, the Dead Sea Region, the Galilee, the Golan Heights, play in the snow on the Hermon, visit the coast and Tel Aviv, and travel down to the Negev for more hikes. We have been here a few days, and if you want to follow our trip, you will have to go to the special blog site that Ilan set up as trip journal http://ilananddaddy.blogspot.com/. There you can see photos and follow our adventures through Israel.

My purpose of this post is to encourgage parents that if you want to help build a positive Jewish identity for your kids, there is nothing better than showing them Israel yourself. Show them how much fun Israel is, how, cool, hip, ancient, modern, tasty and inspirational this amazing country of ours is. In just a few days, I have seen a deep impact on Ilan -- his love for Israel, his spiritually charged praying at minyan every morning, our Torah study together, and his remarks on how amazed he is with the survival of Israel and the Jewish people -- all of this is strengthened here in Israel. Enjoy these photos below, and don't forget to check out Ilan's blog for more. For now, let me only encourage you: if you are looking to take your kids on a really fun trip, injected with meaning, filled with adventure and abounding in diversity -- forget Hawaii or other typical vacation spots -- go to Israel -- the experience of a lifetime, again and again!!!

Dreams

2010-11-24T15:53:00.000-08:00

American writer and poet Henry David Thoreau (19^th Century) wrote: “Go confidently in the direction of your dreams.” Never was this truer than with Joseph, the young man whose brothers said of him “Here comes the dreamer”. From the young age of seventeen, Joseph began to dream big dreams. He saw himself as a future leader, and he was not afraid to express himself about his big dreams: “Hear this dream which I have dreamed,” he tells his brothers. “There we were, binding sheaves in the field, when suddenly my sheaf stood up and remained upright; then your sheaves gathered around and bowed low to my sheaf.” The very next day, Joseph shares another one of his dreams with his brothers: “Look, I have had another dream; and this time, the sun, the moon and eleven stars were bowing down to me.” Of course, his brothers were none too pleased with this dreamer, and Joseph’s dreams created jealousy and hatred towards him.

Yet Joseph never let go of his dreams. Throughout his trials and tribulations, Joseph lived according to Thoreau’s maxim of “Go confidently in the direction of your dreams.” His brothers beat him, stripped him, and sent him into a pit full of snakes and scorpions. They originally plotted to kill him, but opted instead to sell him into slavery. He is purchased in Egypt by Potiphar, the captain of Pharaoh’s palace. After refusing to have sexual relations with Potiphar’s wife, she accuses Joseph of sexual harassment, and he ends up in an Egyptian jail. From the beating and humiliation by his brothers, all the way to his wrongful imprisonment, Joseph stays strong and refuses to give up on his dreams. His strong will and determination, as well as his keen talent to understand the dreams of others -- all the while trying to realize his own -- ultimately lift Joseph from the depths of an Egyptian jail to the heights of power in Egypt. Indeed, Joseph’s brothers end up bowing down to him, and he becomes the brilliant prince whose economic plan saves the entire Middle Eastern economy from total collapse and disaster.

In pursuing his dreams, clinging to them under all circumstances, Joseph completes the circle of a profound life experience that is common to all human beings – living out our dreams. Thousands of years before Thoreau, Joseph went confidently in the direction of his dreams. Thousands of years later, so should you.

Burnt Tefillin: A Lesson in Religion

2010-11-04T01:39:00.000-07:00

It was the summer of 1985. I had just completed my service in the Israel Defense Forces, and I took up residence in Jerusalem. As I put on my tefillin one morning, it suddenly dawned on me that it was time to give these "loaner" tefillin back to the army. I should really buy a new pair, I thought. With so many religious stores to choose from in Jerusalem, where should I go?

I went back to my Yeshiva to speak to one of the rabbis, and he told me of a tefillin factory in Beit-El where they make the "top of the line" tefillin. He told me that it would be expensive but worth it, and that to help me out, he would would write a letter asking that I be given the "yeshiva student discount."

As he wrote the letter, he looked up to me and asked "Why is a young man your age buying new tefillin? Don't you still have the pair from your Bar Mitzvah?" I told the rabbi the story, that just a few months earlier, on Tu B'Shvat (in February, 1985), my platoon was attacked in Southern Lebanon by a suicide bomber. I explained to the rabbi that the suicide bomber drove a car filled with explosives toward our Safari truck, and, in a flash moment, triggered a massive explosion just a split second before his intended impact with our truck. On that truck were 14 soldiers, along with all of our personal equipment, our weapons and explosives -- and 14 pair of tefillin. The truck and all that it contained -- tefillin included -- went up in flames, but the 14 soldiers (10 of whom were wounded) miraculously came out alive.

As I told this story to the rabbi, he remembered hearing of the incident, and with an anguished look said "Yes, that's right, I did hear that story. That was such a terrible tragedy, 14 pair of tefillin burning."

Shocked and dumbfounded by his response, I calmed my immediate inner rage, mustered up all of my courage, looked the rabbi straight in the eyes and said "Rabbi, with no disrespect to you, I choose to look at the story a bit differently. Instead of focusing on the tragedy of 14 pair of burnt tefillin, I instead celebrate the miracle of human lives -- my life and the lives of my comrades -- who survived the bombing, can go on living, and can even come to you seeking advice on where to buy a new pair of tefillin. After all, Rabbi, had one of my friends been killed, could I have come to you asking where to buy a new one? Aren't we always taught that Judaism places the sanctity of life above all other things?" The rabbi saw that I was trembling, agitated and emotional, yet he continued to write his letter. He finally completed the letter, placed it in an envelope, and handed it to me.

I returned the loaner tefillin to the army, and my burnt tefillin were soon replaced by a beautiful new pair from the Beit-El factory. I still own that very same pair, and every morning when I wear this special pair of tefillin, they remind me of the near-death experience that my comrades and I went through, and -- as a result -- they remind me of the sanctity of life.

They also remind me that the rabbi never did answer my question.

Rabin's Funeral

2010-10-21T04:58:00.000-07:00

I wasn’t born when JFK was shot, but I certainly remember where I was when Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin was gunned down by an extremist. It was Shabbat, November 4, 1995 (12 Heshvan, 5756, on the Hebrew Calendar). I was about to sit down to Shabbat lunch with a group of students in the synagogue, when someone came in to inform me that Rabin had been shot at a peace rally in Tel Aviv. Were it not for the two weddings I was scheduled to officiate at that week, I would have flown to Israel to attend the funeral.

I remember every moment of Rabin’s Funeral. I remember the moving tribute delivered by his granddaughter Noa, who opened her eulogy by saying “Forgive me if I don’t speak about the peace process today, for I wish instead to speak about my grandfather.”

I remember President Clinton – who brought me to tears with his “Shalom Haver” remarks moments after the assassination – moving me yet again, this time by delivering a “Dvar Torah” on that week’s parasha: “This week, Jews all around the world are studying the Torah portion in which God tests the faith of Abraham, patriarch of the Jews and the Arabs. He commands Abraham to sacrifice Yitzhak. ‘Take your son, the one you love, Yitzhak.’ As we all know, as Abraham, in loyalty to God, was about to kill his son, God spared Yitzhak. Now God tests our faith even more terribly, for he has taken our Yitzhak.”

Last year at this time, I was privileged to travel to Israel with Israeli Consul General Jacob Dayan and seventeen other rabbis for a three day mission to Israel. Our very first stop was the site of Rabin’s assassination, where the consul laid a wreath, and I was honored with leading the “El Malei Rachamim” prayer.

This year, I am back in Los Angeles, the same city where I was fifteen years ago when Rabin was assassinated. This week marks the fifteenth anniversary of the assassination (on the Hebrew calendar), and official ceremonies were held throughout Israel. This week, we read the same Torah portion – Parashat Vayera – that was read the week of Rabin’s funeral, the parasha of “Akedat Yitzhak" (The Binding of Isaac). This week, I look back at that unforgettable funeral, and I remember one more feature that stands out in my mind more than any speeches: the fact that a Jewish funeral took place in Israel where the deceased was surrounded and eulogized by Jews and Arabs.

I remember how Rabin was publicly eulogized (in this order) by Israeli President Ezer Weizman, King Hussein of Jordan, acting Prime Minister Shimon Peres and Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak. A Jew, followed by an Arab, followed by a Jew, followed by an Arab, all standing together at one graveside in Israel, eulogizing one Jewish leader. I think about the children who were born that year in Israel. They probably have a hard time understanding how such an integrated funeral was really possible, given the Middle East they have witnessed since they were born.

As I reflect on that moment, I ponder the spiritual significance of Rabin’s funeral. Was Rabin's funeral, which brought together Jews and Arabs for one brief moment, a first in Middle East history?

At the end of next week's Torah portion, Hayei Sarah, the Torah describes the death and burial of Abraham. A "father of a multitude of nations," Abraham fathered two sons, Isaac and Ishmael, whose offspring were unfortunately doomed to struggle with one another for thousands of years. Having one common father in Abraham, each son's offspring were poised to become "great nations." The Jewish people trace their lineage through Isaac, for God told Abraham "it is through Isaac that offspring shall be continued for you." The Arabs, and later the Muslims, trace their heritage to Ishmael, of whom God said to Abraham, "I will make a nation of him, too, for he is your seed." Each son was destined to be a leader of his own people.

After growing up together briefly, the half brothers were separated, Isaac's family going one way and Ishmael and his mother Hagar going in another direction. They were separated from one another for some 70 years. During that time, according to the Midrash, Isaac actually had gone to visit Hagar. We do not really know the purpose of the visit, but perhaps it was Isaac's overture at reconciliation between the half brothers.

Then Abraham dies. "And Abraham was gathered to his kin. His sons Isaac and Ishmael buried him in the Cave of Machpelah." The Talmud describes Ishmael's attendance at his father's funeral as an act of "teshuvah." To do teshuvah means to return. Ishmael returned to his father and to his half brother, Isaac. Was Ishmael's teshuvah a response to Isaac's earlier visit to his home? We will never know.

All we know is that Isaac and Ishmael, Jew and Arab, stood together at their father's graveside, tending to Abraham's burial needs together, each probably having delivered moving eulogies for all of "Abraham's kin" to hear at the funeral.

It is an unfortunate fact of history that the momentum of Isaac and Ishmael standing together at their father's graveside was not carried into the future of their respective people's history.

Similarly, it is unfortunate that when a funeral similar to Abraham's took place just fifteen years ago, the momentum of that event was not carried forward equally by both sides beyond Rabin's graveside.

Letters to Talya: A Yom Kippur Reflection

2010-09-15T01:30:00.000-07:00

Thirty-nine years ago, Dov Indig, a young soldier in the Israel Defense Force tank corps, sat on guard duty in the Golan Heights. Joining him was a reserve soldier, many years older than Dov. During their four hours of guard duty, they engaged in a deep conversation about religion. It must have been a fascinating exchange; Dov came from Yeshivat Kerem B’Yavneh, a Hesder yeshiva where students combine Torah study and military service in combat units, and the reservist came from a Hashomer Hatzair kibbutz, the epitome of secular Zionism.

The reservist told Dov of his teenage daughter, Talya, an 11th-grade student in the kibbutz high school. Talya’s class had recently spent one week in a Gesher (Bridge) seminar, where secular Israeli teenagers interact with religious kids and study Judaism from a more traditional perspective. The seminar raised many questions in Talya’s mind about Judaism, and her father felt unable to address her questions. He liked Dov’s approach and asked permission from Dov for Talya to write to him with her questions. Dov happily obliged, and what ensued was a two-year exchange of letters between Dov and Talya.

This thought-provoking and moving exchange of letters between two pre-Facebook teenagers is found in the 2005 book “Michtavim L’Talya” (“Letters to Talya”). I was recently re-reading the book, and it dawned on me how deeply this book relates to one of the most powerful lessons of Yom Kippur.

The Mishnah teaches: “For transgressions between man and fellow man, Yom Kippur effects no atonement, until they have pacified each other” (Yoma 8:9). This Mishnah emphasizes the interpersonal angle of Yom Kippur, one that far transcends cantorial performances and eloquent sermons. It teaches us that fasting and prayer do not resolve differences between people. It reminds us that in addition to talking to God with a scripted text, Yom Kippur is also about talking things out with family, friends and those with whom we have different religious and political viewpoints.

So it was with Dov and Talya. They lived in the same country but came from two extremely different places in life.

Dov was a Modern Orthodox religious Zionist yeshiva student. His worldview was rooted in God, Torah, halachah and the uniqueness of the Jewish people.
Talya was the classic secular Zionist. Raised in a secular kibbutz, her worldview was rooted in the modern-day values of Western civilization, of an enlightened Zionist society in Israel and in the Jewish people as agents of universalism.

Egalitarianism was not a part of Dov’s world, and God was not present in Talya’s upbringing and education. Dov frowned upon the abandonment of Torah and saw it as part of the cause for the breakdown of family values in Israeli society. Talya could not accept the separation of boys and girls in social venues such as dancing or holding hands on a date. What these vastly different youngsters had in common was their youth, their curiosity about the other and their willingness to talk with each other.

From very different perspectives, Dov and Talya exchanged letters for two years. It sounds scripted, but it’s all true. They spoke about God, Torah, Zionism, values, Jewish history and the political direction of their country vis-à-vis the Arabs. As we enter Yom Kippur, these intellectually brave teenagers remind all of us that the power of dialogue — face to face, Facebook or through written letters — has the power to bridge gaps, resolve differences and bring people closer together.

In fact, here is Talya’s very last letter to Dov (my own translation):

Dear Dov,
I received your letter today, and I am already writing back. Perhaps this is because of your previous letter, where you wrote of the possibility of war with Syria. I am deeply worried; so much so that I have decided that this year, for the very first time in my life, I am fasting and going to the synagogue on Yom Kippur. There I will pray that there will be no war, and that the high alert of our soldiers is a false alarm.
So, what do you think? Would you have ever believed two years ago, when we started writing to each other, that a cynical kibbutz girl, who bothers you with all sorts of annoying questions, is actually going to the synagogue and fasting on Yom Kippur? I hope I can hold up throughout the day!

I have changed so much these past two years, as my world has opened up to ideas that I would have never imagined in my wildest dreams. It’s all thanks to you, Dov, thanks to your fantastic letters, and thanks to our fascinating dialogues and exchanges. It now seems to me that I am living from letter to letter, so please, hurry up and write more, as I await your letters.
I wish you a good and wonderful New Year.
Yours, who thinks about you often,

Talya

Dov never had a chance to respond. He was killed on the second day of the Yom Kippur war.

On this Yom Kippur, let us commit to continue their dialogue.

Torah Thoughts from Paris

2010-08-17T04:27:00.000-07:00

This week I bring you “Torah Thoughts from Jerusalem – via Paris.” After two wonderful and productive weeks at the SEC in Jerusalem, where we held our historic first annual Sephardic Summer Institute, I decided to take a few days with my wife and visit the city where my father lived for ten years, where my parents spent their first year of married life, and where intellectual and artistic inspiration is as common as the corner café.
We arrived here Wednesday, and after checking into our charming little hotel, we went out to explore the neighborhood where we are staying – Le Marais – the historic Jewish neighborhood of Paris. I would like to share with you our first afternoon in Paris.

My friends have often commented that I must have a built –in wireless detector in my brain that detects Jewish bookstores (In Israel the signal is always beeping!), for within a few minutes of our walk down Rue de Rosiers in the Marais, Peni and I found ourselves in one of the most magnificent Jewish bookstores I have ever seen (and I have seen a few in my day). There in front of us, in a smorgasbord of books as varied as French cheeses and wine, we discovered the vibrant intellectual and spiritual world of French Jewry. Torah commentary, literature, poetry, intellectual journals – you name it, it was there. Peni studied French in college, and French is my first language from childhood, so we were both fortunate enough to appreciate the depth of what this bookstore represented.

This brought to my mind the opening verse of this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Re’eh: “Behold I set before you this day a blessing and a curse” (Deuteronomy 11:26). Throughout the Jewish world, the “blessing and curse” is often expressed by the conscious decision to strengthen and perpetuate Jewish life – a blessing – or the abandonment of anything Jewish – a curse. Here in Paris, as reflected by the vast intellectual and spiritual treasures I found in this bookstore, the Jewish community has decided – despite, and perhaps in spite of, an unfortunate resurgence of anti-Semitism (as told to me first hand by a local café owner), to choose the path of blessing and express a serious engagement with Jewish life. My library is now enriched with the Torah commentary of Rabbi Leon Ashkenazi (a French Sephardic rabbi who helped re-build French Jewry after the Shoa) and Marc-Alain Ouaknin (A French rabbi/intellectual who writes creative spiritual works on many Jewish topics) – and I also purchased a Moroccan Shofar.

As we walked out of the store – our minds and souls nourished – we felt it was time to also nourish our bodies. What to eat? And where? The answers to these questions were right in front of us, in every direction we turned. On these few charming Parisian blocks in the Marais, we were presented with more kosher restaurants than one can find in any given neighborhood of Tel Aviv. French food, Israeli food, Moroccan food, Ashkenazi food, kosher markets filled with gourmet meats, wines and cheeses, and patisserie/bakeries with pastries and baguettes that make you say “diet, what diet?”

Here again, I looked at this bustling Jewish life – this time in the culinary arts -- and it brought to mind yet another teaching from this week’s parasha, one of the most characteristic expressions of living a Jewish life: the laws of Kashrut (the Jewish Dietary Laws – see Deuteronomy Chapter 14, verses 3-21, for a full listing of the permissible and prohibited animals to eat, and the prohibition of mixing meat and dairy). Here, in the heart of Paris, you can enjoy life as any other Parisian – eat the best cheeses, taste the finest wines, walk out of a bakery with a baguette that you finish by the time you get back to your hotel, or enjoy the finest entrecote steaks and pommes frites (that means French Fries – they don’t call them that here, FYI) – and you don’t need to compromise your observance of the Torah’s laws of kashrut. Simply magnificent, and once again, the expression of being a blessing, not a curse.

After a wonderful meal, we continued to explore, and we found a beautiful historic synagogue, opening its doors in time for Minha – the daily afternoon service. As opposed to what media might present, the synagogue was packed -- more so than I have seen in many US or Israeli synagogues – and mostly locals, not tourists. After the services, Peni and I met in the lobby, and we almost simultaneously commented how powerful it is that no matter where you are – Los Angeles, Boston, Jerusalem or Paris – the feeling of community in a synagogue is always that of feeling “at home,” and the language of prayer is always one. Of course, when that language is laden with a French accent, it brings out the romantic side of spirituality, and makes prayer a language of love. Parisians wouldn’t have it any other way.

Shabbat Shalom and Au Revoir from Paris!
August 6, 2010

The Ten Commandments

2010-02-05T12:48:00.000-08:00

How many commandments are there in the Torah? To most people the answer is simple: 10.

True, there are those who know the Torah contains 613 commandments, but the majority of people believe that there are only “The Ten Commandments.” For them, the 613 figure comes as a shock. And even among those who are aware of the 613, you will sometimes hear, “Yes, I know, but there are really 10 ‘big’ commandments.”

Perhaps the confusion stems from the fact that the term “Ten Commandments” is foreign to the classic Jewish tradition. The birth of “The Ten Commandments” tradition is in the Christian world, where Christian theology asserted that only these 10 statements, spoken by God at Mount Sinai, were relevant. The Septuagint, the Greek version of the Torah, translated the biblical term Aseret Hadevarim (10 statements), as dekalogos, which means “10 words.” Largely due to Christianity’s theological conclusions, the commonly known word “Decalogue” came to be known in Hellenistic and Christian circles as “The Ten Commandments.”

Rabbinic Judaism never used the term “Ten Commandments,” which in Hebrew would have been Aseret Hamitzvot. Instead, the rabbis named them Aseret Hadibrot (10 sayings or utterances).

What made these particular commandments unique to the rabbis was obviously not their exclusivity to all other commandments, but the manner in which they were transmitted to the Israelites. Most of the Torah’s commandments were transmitted through Moses. God would teach Moses, and Moses in turn would teach the people.

This is reflected in the oft-repeated verse “And God spoke to Moses as follows: Speak to the Children of Israel and instruct them….” This phrase, with either “God spoke to Moses” or “God said to Moses,” appears in the Torah 146 times. By contrast, the introduction to the “Aseret Hadibrot” — “God spoke all these words, saying…” — appears only in this instance. The fact that God chose to speak these 10 statements in first person, without an intermediary, is what caught the eyes of the rabbinic tradition. In fact, the Midrash Mekhilta de Rabbi Ishmael goes one step further, saying that all 10 statements were actually spoken by God as one: “God spoke all these words. This teaches us that God spoke the Aseret Hadibrot in one utterance — something impossible for creatures of flesh and blood. If so, why then is it said ‘I am the Lord your God,’ ‘You shall have no other Gods,’ and so on? It simply teaches that the Holy One, blessed be He, after having said all of the Aseret Hadibrot in one utterance, repeated them, saying each commandment separately.”

The words of this Midrash have even impacted the way the Aseret Hadibrot are read in the synagogue from the Torah. It is the custom in most communities to stand during the reading of the Aseret Hadibrot, a show of special reverence for this being the actual voice of God that was heard at Mount Sinai when these commandments were spoken. Additionally, when the Torah reader chants them, he must choose, based on the custom of the community, how to chant them. There are two alternative systems of cantillation for the Aseret Hadibrot — “lower cantillation” (ta’am tachton) and “upper cantillation” (ta’am elyon). The former divides the Hebrew text into verses, in the usual grammatical manner of the rest of the Torah, where the latter divides each commandment into its own unit, reflecting the manner in which God actually spoke them.

It is obvious that in the Jewish tradition, the Aseret Hadibrot are not the “Ten Commandments,” but they do hold a special place within the tradition. Is the mere fact that they were spoken out loud by God enough of a reason for the special attention they are accorded? Or is the actual content of these commandments, which is so powerful that God purposely chose to utter only these directly, the reason for their special place in Judaism?

The answer to this question is best summed up in Sefer Haikkarim, a 15th century work of Jewish philosophy by Spanish rabbi and philosopher Joseph Albo, who writes: “These 10 statements are general, all-inclusive principles representing the two main categories of commandments in the Torah. The first five of these commandments represents man’s faith in God, and his obligations toward God. The next five define the overriding principles governing man’s relationship to his fellow man, and are mandatory to the existence of an orderly life in any state or society” (Section 3, Chapter 26). As such, Albo asserts that the Aseret Hadibrot are a sort of “preamble to the constitution,” and without them, the rest of the Torah cannot make sense.

The Talmud teaches that the Aseret Hadibrot were once a fixed part of Jewish liturgy, and were recited every day during services. This practice was abolished, the Talmud says, so as to not strengthen the claim of the heretics who said that these are the most important commandments. I strongly believe that given the sad state of spiritual and moral affairs in today’s society, we should reinstitute the daily recital of the Aseret Hadibrot. Let us worry a little less about the “claims of the heretics” and focus more on what path we would like our world to follow.

"The Two Menorahs" by SY Agnon (translated by Daniel Bouskila)

2009-12-14T13:48:00.000-08:00

In the synagogue there stood a Hanukkah Menorah made of tin, and engraved upon it was an impression of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem, and the candlelighting blessings for Hanukkah. It's candle holders were wide and deep. All year long the Menorah was hanging on the northern wall of the synagogue, in the exact same place where they would hang a Matzah that symbolized the permission to cook during the Passover holiday. Every eve of Hanukkah, the Shamash (caretaker) of the synagogue would take down the Menorah, clean, shine and polish it, place it on a table next to the doorway, place wicks and oil in its cups, and light it for Hanukkah.

It happened one year that a few days before Hanukkah, the Shamash wished to prepare the Menorah for the holiday, but he could not find it. The news of this spread all over the town, and the news ultimately arrived to all of the town's children. God inspired the children to come up with a plan -- they would take all of their dreidels made of lead and bring it to the town's craftsman, so that he would make a new Menorah from all of the dreidels. They brought all of the dreidels to the craftsman, and they promised that his pay would be all of the Hanukkah gelt (money) that they would receive from their parents. It wasn't two or three days, and some even say one day, and the craftsman had already completed the new Menorah. The children took the Menorah from the craftsman and brought it to the synagogue, and that night they lit the Hanukkah candles from this Menorah.

A few months later, before Pesach, when the Shamash was cleaning and preparing the synagogue for Pesach, he suddenly found the lost Menorah under a bench. He picked it up and placed it back in it's natural place. The following year on Hanukkah, the Shamash took the original Menorah and prepared it for Hanukkah. The elders of the synagogue saw this and said, "The children who gave up their dreidels and Hanukkah gelt so that we should all have the mitzvah of lighting the Menorah -- they should have the merit that their Menorah should be used." They established that they should light from the lead Menorah that the children had commissioned, even though the original Menorah looked prettier. And so it was, that the light of the children illuminated the synagogue -- and the entire town -- year after year on Hanukkah.

Give Shalom A Chance

2009-06-03T17:36:00.000-07:00

Someone would probably be labeled a hippie if he or she were to use the English word “peace” as a greeting or an expression when parting. Yet in Hebrew, the standard “hello” or “goodbye” is shalom (peace), and the word carries no modern cultural or political connotation.

What is it about the word “shalom” that has enabled it to become the standard Hebrew salutation? A small sampling of its place in Jewish tradition will reveal that “shalom” is far more than a greeting.

In the Hebrew Bible, the word “shalom” appears 237 times, including in this week’s Torah portion, Naso. In the Birkat HaKohanim (Priestly Blessing), which is part of our daily Jewish liturgy, the concluding line reads, “Yisa HaShem Panav Elekha, V’Yasem Lekha Shalom” (May God direct his favor upon you, and grant you peace) (Numbers 6:26).

Commenting on the word “shalom,” the Netziv, the 19th-century rosh yeshiva of Volozhin, says, “Now that the previous blessings have been pronounced, we recite a blessing that is the vessel which contains the other ones, for without peace one cannot derive gratification from any blessing.”

The “previous blessings” referred to by the Netziv are the first two parts of the Priestly Blessing — “May God bless you and protect you,” and “May God deal kindly and graciously with you” (Numbers 6:24-25). In a beautiful metaphor, the Netziv refers to “shalom” as a vessel that contains “blessing, protection, kindness and grace” from God, and further remarks that without peace, one cannot truly enjoy these or any other blessings.

The great Torah commentator Rashi, in his typically brief yet packed comments, says, “Without peace there is nothing.”

Is peace only a blessing from heaven, or can human beings participate in creating peace?

The Book of Psalms teaches: “Seek peace and pursue it” (Psalms 34:15). Based on this injunction to actively seek peace, the rabbinic tradition brings to light an aspect of Aaron’s life that complements his ritual duties as high priest. Pirkei Avot teaches: “Hillel says: ‘Be a student of Aaron, lover of peace [ohev shalom] and pursuer of peace [rodef shalom]’” (Pirkei Avot 1:12).

For Aaron, who was commanded to recite the Priestly Blessing, its simple recitation was not enough. Aaron was the ultimate creator of peace within the community, reconciling differences between married couples and disputes between friends. From Aaron we learn that prayers are not mere words we recite, but, especially with peace, a lifestyle we must create for ourselves.

How far must one take the pursuit of peace? In an interesting numerological calculation (known as gematria), the Baal HaTurim commentary remarks that the numerical value of the letters that spell “shalom” (376 — shin=300, lamed=30, vav=six, and mem=40) is equivalent to the letters of the name “Esau” (376 — ayin=70, shin/sin=300, vav=six).

Esau was Jacob’s twin brother, and there was hardly “shalom” between the two. Furthermore, in later rabbinic tradition, Esau, the father of the Edomite nation, came to be equated with the Roman Empire, Christian Rome and all of the persecution of Jews that came with it. Despite all of this, the Baal HaTurim says that the numerical equivalence of “shalom” and “Esau” teach us that “one should always be first in inquiring after the peace of all men, even the peace of a non-Jew.” Where this may seem like “no big deal” for the Jew in the modern world, it was quite bold of the Baal HaTurim to make such a statement, especially in light of the atmosphere toward Jews in medieval Europe. Perhaps we can draw from his teaching today by remembering that “Esau” was symbolic for “enemy of the Jews,” and therefore, “being first to inquire after the peace of all men” — including Esau — serves as food for thought in the debate of whether it is wise for the Jews to make the first overture for peace toward our enemies.

It is no wonder that we greet one another with the blessing “shalom.” It is, as the minor Talmudic tractate’s Perek HaShalom (Chapter of Peace) puts it, “The greatest of all blessings, for all blessings and prayers conclude with peace.”

I therefore conclude with a prayer that “shalom” become more than just a greeting. In other words, "Oseh shalom bimromav, Hu ya’aseh shalom aleinu, V’al kol Yisrael, v’imru amen."

(originally published in the Jewish Journal, June 4 Issue, 2009)

Journey Through the Land of Oz

2009-04-30T10:06:00.000-07:00

Review of The Amos Oz Reader (Harcourt, 2009)

(review originally appeared in the Jewish Journal 4/29)

“We must keep in touch,” Amos Oz said during my first meeting with him three years ago.

“With great pleasure,” I answered, proceeding to ask him today’s natural follow-up question: “What is your e-mail address?”

He looked at me with his charming smile and responded: “I don’t have an e-mail.”

Amos Oz, Israel’s best-known and most translated author, has penned 33 books — including novels, novellas and short stories — along with more than 400 articles on literature and Israeli politics. I use the word “penned,” because this gifted writer and outspoken political commentator accomplished this impressive literary output the old-fashioned way — with pen and paper. Actually, with two different pens — one blue, the other black.

“They each have a special purpose,” he once told me. “One is to rage against the government and tell them to go to hell, and the other is to tell stories.”

On May 4, Oz will turn 70. As part of the celebrations, a new English-language anthology, “The Amos Oz Reader”(Harcourt), was just released, offering a retrospective of some of the author’s finest writing from both his pens.

It is a refreshing departure from the stereotypical out-of-context compilation, and credit for this goes to editor Nitza Ben-Dov, a professor of Hebrew and comparative literature at Haifa University. Ben-Dov has creatively grouped Oz’s writings into four different themes: The Kibbutz, Jerusalem, the “Promised Land,” and some of Oz’s personal reflections, “In an Autobiographical Vein.” In so doing she gives us a bird’s-eye view of his life through the lenses of his writing.

Born May 4, 1939, in the Kerem Avraham neighborhood of Jerusalem, Amos Klausner grew up an only child in war-torn British Mandate Jerusalem during the years immediately leading up to the establishment of the State of Israel. His father, Yehuda Aryeh Klausner, was an intellectual whose politics were right-wing Revisionist Zionism. His mother, Fania Mussman, also an intellectual, suffered from severe depression. Their tiny Jerusalem apartment was filled with thousands of books, and Amos grew up in a milieu that included weekly Shabbat afternoon visits with his great uncle, professor Joseph Klausner, and often with Klausner’s neighbor and arch rival, the great writer S.Y. Agnon.

In 1952, Amos’s mother committed suicide at the age of 38. Two years later, just 14 1/2 years old, Amos Klausner left Jerusalem for Kibbutz Hulda, leaving behind his father and his family name, renaming himself “Oz” (which means “strength”), and rejecting his father’s Revisionist Zionism in favor of left-wing, Socialist Zionism. This biography continues to shape and inform much of Oz’s writings.

The “Kibbutz” section of the anthology features an excerpt from his first novel, “Elsewhere, Perhaps” (1966), where he explores the complex fine line between personal and communal life on the kibbutz, as well as the often-blurred line between kibbutz idealism and petty human behavior typical of any society.

Oz’s most famous novel, “My Michael” (1968), is the first exposure we have to his dark view of the city of his childhood, Jerusalem. The “Jerusalem” section includes a substantial excerpt from “My Michael,” titled “It’s Cold in This Jerusalem of Yours,” where the narrator, the depressed Hannah Gonen, describes the city as “a landscape pregnant with suppressed violence.”

One of Israel’s most vocal political journalists and peace activists, Oz’s other pen is well represented in the “Promised Land” section of the anthology, in which we encounter Oz’s liberal Zionism, his understandings of the terms “Jewish” and “Zionist,” his disdain for right-wing extremism and his vision of what Israel potentially can be. The section “In An Autobiographical Vein” features a chapter from “A Tale of Love and Darkness,” titled “My Mother Was Thirty-eight When She Died.” In 2003, Oz openly confronted the most traumatic event of his childhood, the suicide of his mother. With the publication of the quasi-memoir, quasi-autobiographical “A Tale of Love and Darkness,” readers were finally able to journey with Oz through the trauma and pain of his loss.

As Amos Oz celebrates his 70th birthday, the State of Israel celebrates its 61st year of independence. Oz recently said, “being an Israeli at 70 is like being an American who is 250 years old. I saw the Boston Tea Party and met both George Washington and Abraham Lincoln.”

While Oz’s analogy about his age is sharp and witty, it risks painting an inaccurate image of the Israel and the Israeli that he portrays in his books. The “George Washingtons and Abraham Lincolns” of Israel are not characters in Oz’s novels, and the “Boston Tea Parties” of Israel are at best the background to his plots. Amos Oz’s Israel is not the epic Israel and larger than life Israeli one finds in Leon Uris’s “Exodus” or Herman Wouk’s “The Hope.” Instead, he presents his readers with portraits of small, everyday people in provincial places within Israel. In fact, almost half of Oz’s books are set in the one square mile of Kerem Avraham, the small Jerusalem neighborhood where he was born. And when we do meet Israel’s political leaders or confront the complex issues surrounding the establishment of Israel, Israel’s military campaigns, or the Israeli-Palestinian conflict — as expressed in Oz’s political essays — one finds an Israel void of apologetic government rhetoric or simplistic one-sided arguments.

A week after our first meeting, I opened my mailbox and found an “old school” air-mail envelope adorned with a red, white and blue border. Inside was a personal letter on plain white paper, written in black pen.

Even without e-mail, Amos and I have kept in touch ever since.

A Yom Ha-Shoah Reflection

2009-04-21T11:23:00.000-07:00

Today is Yom Ha-Shoah, Holocaust Memorial Day. In memory of our 6 Million brothers and sisters who were brutally murdered in the Shoah, I present this poem composed by Uri Zvi Greenberg, one of Israel's great Hebrew poets.

Born in 1896 in Austria-Hungary, Greenberg moved to Palestine (Israel) in 1924. He was awarded Israel's Bialik Prize three times, and was the recipient of the Israel Prize -- Israel's most prestigious honor -- in 1957. He died in Israel in 1981.

Greenberg's poems are often called "prophecies," as he was one of the few Hebrew literary figures of the 1930's and 40's whose works envisioned and warned of the detruction of European Jewry (S.Y. Agnon was one of the others). Greenberg understood the Holocaust as a great tragedy on multiple levels, amongst them the Jewish indifference to their own destiny. Greenberg's words are powerful, poetic and direct, and he minces no words in "telling it like it is."
Below is one of Greenberg's most powerful reflections on the cruelty and inhumanity of Nazi Europe towards the Jewish people.

WE WERE NOT LIKENED TO DOGS AMONG THE GENTILES
by Uri Zvi Greenberg

We were not likened to dogs
among the Gentiles.
They pity a dog, caress, even kiss him with the Gentile mouth.
For like a puppy, fondled at home, they pamper it, delight in it always.
And when this dog dies - how very much the Gentiles mourn him!

We were not led like sheep to the slaughter in the boxcars,
For like leprous sheep they led us to extinction over all the beautiful landscapes of Europe.

The Gentiles did not handle their sheep as they handled our bodies.
Before slaughter they did not pull out the teeth of their sheep.
They did not strip the wool from their bodies as they did to us.
They did not push the sheep into the fire to make ash of the living
And to scatter the ashes over streams and sewers.

Are there other analogies to this, our disaster that came to us at their hands?
There are no other analogies-
Therein lies the horrifying phrase:
No other analogies!

For every cruel torture that any other man may yet do to man in a Gentile country -
He who comes to compare it will state:
He was tortured like a Jew.

Every fright, every terror, every loneliness, every chagrin,
Every murmuring, weeping in the world,
He who compares it will say:
This analogy is of the Jewish kind.

There is no recompense for our disaster, for its circumference is the world.

The whole culture of the Gentile Kingdoms to its peak -
through our blood.

And all its conscience -
through our weeping.

Pick Up the Pieces

2009-03-20T06:24:00.000-07:00

The “Tablets of Testimony,” the stone tablets upon which God inscribed the Ten Commandments, have a powerful and deeply symbolic story to tell. Beyond the words inscribed by God, the journey of these stone tablets reveals an important lesson in life.

A mere 40 days after hearing God’s voice pronounce the Ten Commandments, the Israelites suffered a serious spiritual setback. Unable to retain, or even comprehend, the idea of a formless spirit speaking in a divine voice, they returned to the more familiar, simplistic, man-made idols of their immediate Egyptian past — the golden calf. Upon shaping the golden calf, Aaron declared, “This is your God, O Israel, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt” (Exodus 32:4).

Moses, who spent those same 40 days atop Mount Sinai with God, then descended the mountain “with the two tablets of the covenant in his hand, written on both sides” (Exodus 32:15).

Who had shaped and written these tablets?

“The tablets were the work of God, and the writing was the writing of God” (Exodus 32:16). Carrying in his hand the weight of “God’s word,” Moses looked down at his own brothers and sisters. “And it happened when he drew near the camp that he saw the calf and the dancing, and Moses’ wrath flared, and he flung the tablets from his hand and smashed them at the bottom of the mountain” (Exodus 32:19). In one dark moment, the fantasy of an ideal people becoming the bearers of God’s word was shattered.

Next came the challenge: Where do we go from here?

The Talmud teaches: “Rabbi Judah bar Ilai taught that two arks journeyed with Israel in the wilderness — one in which the Torah was kept, and one in which the tablets broken by Moses were kept. The one in which the Torah was placed was kept in the Tent of Meeting; the other, containing the broken tablets, would come and go with them” (Talmud Yerushalmi, Shekalim, 1:1).

Yet another Talmudic teaching goes one step further, asserting that “both the new tablets of the law and the broken pieces of the first tablets were kept in the same Ark of the Covenant” (Talmud Bavli, Berakhot, 8b).

How did Moses and the Israelites move beyond their shared breakdown? Realizing their mistake and what they had potentially lost, the Israelites collected the broken remains of their first encounter with God, and they gave them to Moses. Fortunate enough to be given a second chance, Moses brought down another set of God-given tablets and placed them alongside the broken pieces.

Whether it happened the way the first Talmudic teaching describes (separate arks) or the second teaching tells it (the same ark), the rabbis offer us a powerful reminder that wholeness and brokenness share equal space in life. The Tablets of Testimony, in both whole and broken form, is a metaphor for the human condition — striving for perfection, all the while embracing imperfection. Both the whole and the broken are considered sacred in the Jewish tradition. They are both “God’s word.”

The great Chasidic master, Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk, taught: “Nothing is more whole than a broken heart.”

Failures, broken dreams and shattered fantasies are an inevitable and natural part of life. In fact, the “shattering of tablets” is often a necessary gateway through which we must pass in order to reach the greater heights that we seek in life.

Through the episode of the golden calf and the broken tablets, Moses and the Israelites teach us that even after openly defying God’s word, it is still possible to pick up the pieces and start over again.

Quality of Life

2009-03-20T06:21:00.000-07:00

It was a very brief meeting, and a seemingly peculiar exchange of words. For the first time, the head of the Israelite household -- Jacob -- meets Pharaoh, the king of Egypt.

The only thing they shared in common was Joseph.

To Jacob, Joseph was his son, and to Pharaoh, Joseph was the economic wizard who saved his empire's economy from total disaster.

If one were asked to speculate on what these two men would speak about during their first meeting, it might go something like this:

"Jacob, you raised a brilliant young man. Without him, our country would be in a great depression right now."

Beaming with pride, Jacob would respond, "Thank you, your majesty, it's a great honor to see my son serving in your distinguished court. He always was a dreamer, and I am proud that he followed his dreams."

Pride, honor, and praise -- all of the ingredients one would expect in a first conversation between a grateful king and a proud father.

There is no such exchange between the two, nothing even remotely close. Instead, here's how it went: "Joseph brought his father and presented him to Pharaoh. Jacob blessed Pharaoh. 'How many are the days of your life?' asked Pharaoh of Jacob. Jacob replied to Pharaoh: 'The days of the years of my sojourning are a hundred and thirty years; few and unhappy have the days of my life been. I did not attain the days of the years of life that my fathers did during their sojourn through life.' With that, Jacob blessed Pharaoh and left his presence." (Genesis 47:7-10)

Far removed from the typically schmaltzy story of "Your son is so wonderful," and "Yes, I'm so proud of him," the brief exchange between Pharaoh and Jacob has an altogether different aura, rooted in what we call in Hebrew hochmat haim, or life's wisdom.

As the leader of a powerful empire, Pharaoh had certainly met many world leaders. In his meetings with them, he certainly drew from their wisdom and advice, as would any intelligent ruler. One can only imagine what Pharaoh expected Jacob to look like, but the 16th century Polish commentator Kli Yakar tells us that Pharaoh was shocked when he saw a thin, frail, weakened old man approaching him, barely able to walk toward his throne. Jacob begins by blessing Pharaoh, and this seems to bond the two men, so much so that Pharaoh poses a wise, carefully worded, personal question: "How many are the days of your life?" The wording of Pharaoh's question caught the eye of many commentators, who wonder why Pharaoh did not simply ask, "How old are you?" Why did he word his question as "How many are the days of your life?"

Jacob's response reflects a deep understanding of Pharaoh's carefully worded question: "The days of the years of my sojourning are 130, [but] few and unhappy have been the days of my life."

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, a 19th-century German commentator, remarks that Jacob differentiates between living and existing: "You ask how many are the days of my life? I have not lived much. I have sojourned on this earth for 130 years. The days of the years that I can really call my life were in reality only few -- and were themselves bitter and full of worry."

The Netziv, head of the Volozhin Yeshiva during the second half of the 19th century, offers an additional insight: "My years of success in life were few and bitter, for even when I had actually achieved material wealth and financial security, my life was still filled with woe and sorrow, such as the death of my wife Rachel and the rape of my daughter Dinah."

Jacob's answer is filled with perspective on life's big question: How do we measure and define a "happy life"? Is it by living to a ripe old age? Is it through material wealth and success?

According to Hirsch, Jacob was telling Pharaoh that a true human being does not see life through length of years, rather through the quality of days lived. As much as we may like to think otherwise, Hirsch says, "It is only with a few select people that each day is full of importance and is considered by them as having a special meaning." Jacob's perspective brings to mind the custom of reciting Psalm 90 at a funeral, when -- before burying a loved one -- we ask God to "Teach us to number our days, so that we may get a heart of wisdom."

The Netziv's comments add the powerful reminder to Pharaoh that material wealth alone does not bring happiness. In another psalm recited by mourners (Psalm 49), we are reminded that material wealth is not carried with us into the grave. Jacob told this wealthy king that his great palace, wealth and fame are of no value without the true happiness, love and fulfillment of family life and personal relationships.

In the waning days of a 130-year-old life that included receiving his father's blessing by way of deceit, a terrible relationship with his brother, an unfulfilled married life, the rape of his daughter and constant strife between his children, Jacob teaches Pharaoh -- and all of us -- that happiness is not about reaching old age or amassing wealth; rather, it's about the quality and richness of day-to-day life. In this regard, his brief encounter with Pharaoh is arguably his greatest and wisest moment as a patriarch.

Little League Baseball, Major League Behavior

2009-03-02T12:32:00.000-08:00

It is not often that I share personal stories about my own children, but this morning I feel inspired to relate to you a beautiful lesson from Ilan, my nine year old son. Ilan is entering his third season in Blue Star Baseball, an all Jewish baseball league where the games are played on Sundays, thus accomodating Shomer Shabbat families. This league has been a wonderful experience for Ilan; we have seen him grow in maturity, confidence and baseball skills, and especially in the era of steroids and Manny Ramirez greed, attending Ilan's games is a far superior experience to so-called "professional" baseball.

Last week was the final practice before game one, and at the end of practice, it was time for uniform distribution. From a distance, I saw Ilan's coach take the uniforms out of a bag, and the next thing I saw was a heap of kids storm the coach, grabbing the uniforms out of the coach's hand. As one who coached for ten years, I personally would have taken all of the uniforms back, telling the kids we don't grab -- but I guess that's just me. When it was all over, the coach approached me and said "Look, I was short one uniform, and unfortunately, your son Ilan is too polite and does not know how to grab, so he waited for me to give him his uniform, and we ran out. I will order him one for next week." I looked at the coach and said, "Under the circumstances, I am very proud that Ilan is the only kid without a uniform."

As a coach, I always told my players that your behavior off of the playing field or court will ultimately be a reflection of how you play the game. As a parent, my wife Peni and I are big believers in the principle "Children Learn What They Live." If children are taught that it is OK to grab and be pushy or rude, then that is how they will behave -- on the playing field, in the classroom, on the playground, in the synagogue or at the dinner table.

When Ilan approached me, somewhat teary-eyed and put off by the rude behavior of his teammates, I calmed him down and told him that before the opening pitch was even tossed, he had already won MVP honors in my book.

The Sword of Islam -- A September 11 Reflection

2008-09-11T09:37:00.000-07:00

Ever since Sept. 11, 2001, the term "jihad" has become part of America's vocabulary. So, too, have the adjectives "Militant Islam" and "Islamic Fundamentalism" become common parlance on America's talk shows, in our political discourse, and in daily conversations on the American street. To most Americans, these are all relatively new vocabulary words, and within the context of America's 232-year history, the "Sword of Islam" as a direct threat to U.S. citizens living on American soil is a relatively new issue.

Yet to Don Isaac Abravanel, a brilliant Sephardic bible commentator with a keen eye for political insight, the term "jihad" was nothing new.

One morning late in the 15th century, Don Isaac Abravanel was sitting in his study in Monopoli, Italy, writing a detailed commentary on the Book of Isaiah. Born in Portugal in 1437, Abravanel eventually moved to Spain in 1481, where in addition to being a reputable Jewish scholar and diplomat, he served as treasurer to King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Christian Spain.

Having just experienced the inquisition and subsequent expulsion of his people from Spain in 1492, Abravanel now contemplated the meaning of Isaiah's prophecies. He was particularly intrigued by Isaiah 54:17, which states: "No weapon that is forged against you shall prosper." Is this “weapon” merely a general reference, asked Abarbanel, or can it be referring to a specific individual or nation? Is it the weapon of the Babylonians, the Romans, or, perhaps most logically, the Spanish/Catholic inquisitors from Abravanel's previous home?

Abravanel's answer surprisingly omits all of these persecutors of the Jews, and instead points toward "jihad" and "Islamic Fundamentalism."

On Isaiah 54:17, Abravanel comments: "There are religions today whose champions are not content to assert the supremacy of their faith by debate and argument, but put to death all who would repudiate their faith. The Ishmaelites/Islam fall into this category."

What prompted Abravanel, a Jewish Bible commentator, to make this statement, particularly when most historians have portrayed Islam's treatment of the Jews under their rule as generally favorable? After all, was it not in Muslim Spain that Abravanel's Sephardic ancestors enjoyed a "Golden Age"?

Abravanel was certainly aware of all of this, but he was also not blind to the early history of Islam, and its particular treatment of the Jews by its founding prophet Mohammed.

Having fled from Mecca to Medina, Mohammed tried to assert himself as the founder of a new faith, and he turned to the Jewish communities for support. When the Jews rejected his claims to prophecy, Mohammed, together with his tribes and supporters, proceeded to violently attack and subjugate the Jewish tribe of Banu Qaynuqa, murder Jewish poet Kaab Ibn Al Ashraf for speaking out against early Islam's violent methods, lay siege on the Jewish tribe of Banu-n-Nadir, murder elderly Jew Abu Rafi from Khaybar in his sleep and slaughter over 500 Jews from Khaybar. All of these (and many other) acts of violence led by Mohammed stemmed from the ugly historical reality that, as Abravanel stated, Muslims conquerers would routinely "put to death all who would repudiate their faith."

As to the "favorable status" the Jews supposedly experienced under Muslim rule, one must never forget that this Ahl al dhimmis (protected people) status granted to the Jews was within the context of the "Covenant of Omar," which levied special jiziya (poll) and kharaj (land) taxes on the Jews, forced them to wear distinctive yellow clothing and prohibited their riding horses or wearing swords. As the "Covenant of Omar" states, these measures will be continuously imposed as means of degradation against Jews "until they pay the tribute readily, offered on the back of their hands, in a state of humiliation" (Sura 9:29). In general, Jews were to always hold a position inferior to that of a Muslim, although there were favorable exceptions to this rule under certain circumstances. One can refer to the Granada Riots of 1066, when Joseph Hanagid and his entire congregation were slaughtered by angry Muslims who resented the ascension of a Jew to a political position, as an example of what "favorable status under Muslim rule" really meant.

The irony and tragedy of Abravanel's comments is that while he was commenting on a biblical verse spoken as prophecy, his own comments became a prophecy on radical Islam's future. Five hundred years after he made his comments on Isaiah 54:17, Abravanel's view of the extreme elements of Islam unfortunately still stands: "There are religions today that ... put to death all who would repudiate their faith. The Ishmaelites/Islam fall into this category."

If I did not know otherwise, I would think that Abravanel's comments about Islam came from a recent newspaper column.

(If you are interested in learning more about this topic, I recommend two books, both reviewed in the September 10, 2008 issue of The New Republic. The books are: The Legacy of Islamic Anti-Semitism: From Sacred Texts to Solemn History, edited by Andrew G. Bostom and Icon of Evil: Hitler’s Mufti and The Rise of Radical Islam, by David G. Dalin and John F. Rothman – both books were reviewed by Israeli Historian Benny Morris).

Miriam: The Voice of Wisdom

2008-07-03T15:42:00.000-07:00

July 3, 2008

Parashat Chukat (Numbers 20:1-22:1)

Just like that, she was gone.

With no forewarning, Parashat Chukat tells us "Miriam died there and was buried there" (Numbers 20:1). "She died with a Divine kiss," the Talmud says, and with that one kiss, the sole female voice in the Israelite camp was gone.

Who was Miriam? She is the only woman in the Torah who bears the title "Neviah" -- prophetess. So who was she?

We first meet her anonymously, without any proper name. She is referred to as "his sister," that is, the older sister of a little boy whose mother hid him in a basket on the Nile River. Once the mother placed the baby in the basket, "His sister stationed herself at a distance, to learn what would befall him" (Exodus 2:4). When Pharaoh's daughter discovers the basket with the crying baby, "His sister said to Pharaoh's daughter: ' Shall I go and get you a Hebrew nurse to suckle the child for you?'" (Exodus 2:7) Miriam is first described as a loving and caring sister, who saw to it that her baby brother Moses was protected and cared for.

We next encounter Miriam on the banks of the Red Sea, following the Song at the Sea. It is there that we first learn her name and title: "Then Miriam the prophetess, Aaron's sister..." (Exodus 15:20). It is strange, the Talmud remarks, that she is referred to as "Aaron's sister": "Was she only the sister of Aaron and not the sister of Moses?" Through this question, the Talmud actually probes a deeper question: Why was Miriam accorded the spiritual title of "prophetess"? Rabbi Nachman taught in the name of Rav, that Miriam was referred to as "the prophetess, Aaron's sister," because at the moment in her life when she first experienced prophecy, Aaron was her only brother. This takes us back to the early period of the Israelite enslavement, when Miriam is said to have predicted: "My mother is destined to bear a son who will save Israel" (Seder Olam 3, Megilla 14a). When Moses was born, the Talmud says, the whole house was filled with light, a divine indication that Miriam's prediction was in fact a prophecy.

At the Red Sea, Miriam the prophetess organized the first spiritual gathering for Israelite women. Miriam "took a timbrel in her hand, and all of the women went out after her in dance with timbrels, and Miriam chanted for them: Sing to the Lord, for He has triumphed gloriously" (Exodus 15:20-21). Miriam's song and dance was, according to Rabbenu Bahya, a "direct address and praise to the Shekhina," the feminine side of God. Miriam the prophetess was the first feminine voice to directly address the God of Israel.

Miriam's next episode is more controversial. Miriam "spoke against Moses, because of the Cushite woman he had married" (Numbers 12:1). What happened to her younger brother that Miriam criticized him? He had now become Moses the devoted "Man of God," and it was on this that Miriam had a critique. In becoming a prophet and "Man of God," Rashi says, Moses first separated from and then ultimately divorced his wife, the "Cushite Woman" (understood by Rashi to be Zipporah). Miriam expressed disappointment at her younger brother's abandonment of his wife, with an underlying critique of the concept of holiness achieved at the expense of a normal family life. God punishes Miriam, afflicting her with leprosy. How did the Israelite camp feel about Miriam's words and her subsequently being "shut out of the camp for seven days"? The fact that the Torah tells us "the people did not march on until Miriam was readmitted" (Numbers 12:15) is a strong indication that the community understood the need for her powerful presence. Without her, they lacked the sensitive voice of a woman.

This brings us to Miriam's sudden death. The lone prophetess of Israel dies, and in the very next verse, "The community was without water" (Numbers 20:2). The Talmud teaches: "Water is likened to Torah." The impact of Miriam's death was the drying of Miriam's Well -- a Well of Torah that had drenched the community with what Proverbs calls "Torat Imekha -- "The Torah of your Mother." The Israelites lost the sensitive, feminine voice of Torah -- the voice that not only foresaw the birth of a savior but also instinctively protected him, the voice that sensually sang and danced to the Shekhina, and the voice that risked punishment by reminding the Israelites that spirituality is as much about family as it is about God.

Miriam did not speak often, but when she did, she mirrored the closing lines of the "Woman of Valor" poem, chanted every Erev Shabbat around the table: "She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the Torah of kindness is on her tongue."

Miriam reminded her brother Moses, and all of us, that "Torah" is a lot more than just a "Holy Scroll."

© Copyright 2008 The Jewish Journal and JewishJournal.com

Agnon's Story of Torah (Book Review)

2008-06-05T16:31:00.000-07:00

Book Review of "Present at Sinai: The Giving of the Law" by S.Y. Agnon, translated by Michael Swirsky (Jewish Publication Society, 1994). Originally published in Hebrew as "Atem Re'item" by Schocken Books, 1959

What will you study the night of Shavuot? How about immersing yourself in a collection of classic texts of rabbinic literature, creatively compiled and presented in one convenient volume by an iconic Nobel Prize-winning author?

S.Y. Agnon's "Present at Sinai: The Giving of the Law" is a rich anthology of biblical, talmudic, midrashic and mystical texts -- all on the subject of the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai. In this unique volume, you will find texts that speak of the Torah's mystical origins in heaven prior to the creation of the world, the revelation of Torah from heaven by God at Mount Sinai, a section on the Ten Commandments and a post-Sinai reflection on the deeper meanings of Torah beyond Sinai.

In "Present at Sinai," Agnon is at once editor and author. As editor, he consulted hundreds of books of rabbinic literature and selected from them the texts to include. His talent as an author is expressed in the creative way that he arranged the texts. Rather than present them by textual chronology (Bible, Mishnah, Talmud, etc.), Agnon presents the sources by theme, creating a chronology from "Before Creation" to "The Giving of the Torah" and beyond. Each section contains selections from the full gamut of the rabbinic corpus, and with his storytelling genius, Agnon arranged these texts in a flowing narrative, with the sources doing the talking in their original language. In this book, you are not reading stories written by the author; instead, you are reading one grand epic "Story of Torah," as told in the language of the classical texts of Torah, woven together by Agnon.

What prompted Agnon, a master of original writing, to create an anthology of rabbinic texts relating to Shavuot? As an author with a deep connection to his religious roots, Agnon related to the experience of Shavuot, a celebration of the centrality of books in Judaism.

"In God's love for His people, He still gives us some of that same power which He gave us as we stood before Sinai and received the Torah and commandments," the narrator says in Agnon's story "The Sign."

Agnon was intrigued, I believe, by the divine origins of Judaism's very first book. Both "Torah From Heaven" and "Torah From Sinai" ascribe authoritative status to Judaism's "Original Book" and to the canon of sacred books that were written as commentaries on that "Original Book." This spoke deeply to Agnon, and is reflected in many of his writings.

In his Nobel Prize acceptance speech in 1966, Agnon said, "Who were my mentors in poetry and literature? First and foremost, there are the Sacred Scriptures, from which I learned how to combine letters. Then there are the Mishnah and the Talmud and the midrashim and Rashi's commentary on the Torah. After these come the poskim -- the later explicators of talmudic law -- and our sacred poets and the medieval sages, led by our Master Rabbi Moses, son of Maimon, known as Maimonides, of blessed memory."

Earlier in his life, in 1937, Agnon wrote the story "The Sense of Smell," where the narrator (who, in typical Agnonic fashion is a vehicle for Agnon's own voice) proclaims: "Since the Temple remains destroyed and we have no priests at service or Levites at song, instead I study Torah, the Prophets and the Writings, the Mishnah, the halachah and the haggadot, tosefta, dikdukei Torah, and dikdukei soferim."

In both instances, Agnon connects himself to the sacred texts of the Jewish tradition, the very texts that helped him shape his unique style of writing in modern Hebrew literature. The language of Agnon's novels and short stories is based on the Hebrew of rabbinic literature, whose many periods and genres Agnon brilliantly synthesized in a style all his own.

Agnon opens "Present at Sinai" with a midrash about the creation of the world, where the Torah declares, "I was the artistic tool [kli omanuto] of the Holy One, blessed be He." This midrash is as much about Agnon as it is about God. Much like the Torah served as God's artistic tool in creating the world, so, too, did the library of Torah serve as Agnon's artistic tool in creating his own world of literature.

Agnon's voice is deeply embedded in "Present at Sinai," the voice of a modern author who is in love with the texts and language of his ancient tradition. Use "Present at Sinai" on Shavuot, and you will delight in the story of Torah, as told in its own language, by an author who, in the words of literary critic Gershon Shaked, "is one of the few Hebrew writers besides those of scripture to gain international recognition." From "Torah at Sinai" to Stockholm, Agnon was in good company.

The Trial of God

2008-05-01T07:34:00.000-07:00

At the young age of fifteen, Elie Wiesel lived in a horrible place called Auschwitz. In his memoirs about this “hell on earth,” Wiesel tells a fascinating story about a Talmud teacher who befriended the young Elie, took him to his barracks, and told him that he would witness one of the greatest trials in all of world history: The Trial of God. Three rabbis, all prisoners in Auschwitz and witnesses to the daily death machine of the Nazis, decided that it was time to place God on trial.

They formed a rabbinic court (Bet Din), and conducted the trial completely in accordance with Halakha (Jewish Law). They gathered evidence against God, building a strong case against the “Holy One Blessed Be He.” The trial lasted several days, with the judges giving all those who wished a chance to speak their minds. Witnesses were heard, painful personal testimonies were given, and in the end, young Elie remarked in amazement how none of the witnesses even remotely defended God.

It was time to issue a ruling, and the rabbinic court pronounced a unanimous verdict: “The Lord God Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth – guilty of crimes against creation, against humanity and against His own Chosen People of Israel.” Soon after this painful judgment was pronounced, followed by a reaction from the people that Wiesel describes as an “infinity of silence,” the rabbi presiding over the rabbinic court looked up to the sky, saw that the sun had set, and that the darkness of night was upon the world. This rabbi, who had just indicted God and pronounced Him guilty of crimes, looked towards the silenced crowd and said “Come, my friends, we have a minyan – it is time to pray Maariv (the evening prayer service).” The other members of the rabbinic court, together with the witnesses and the onlookers, all gathered around the rabbi to join in their evening prayers to God. The fifteen-year-old Wiesel watched this perplexing scene with utter amazement.

For those who experienced the horrors of the Holocaust, the “Trial of God” continues. They continue to recount the traumas of daily humiliation, subjugation and annihilation, wondering, with good reason “Where was God?” For them, no verdict will ever resolve this painful religious question, even as they recite Kaddish – a praise and exaltation of God – for their families and loves ones.

As we observe Yom Ha-Shoah (Holocaust Memorial Day), lighting candles with memorial prayers and Kaddish on our lips, we continue to contemplate the “silence of God” during the Holocaust, tormented at the same time by the “silence of good” during those dark years. “Where was God” is indeed a deeply religious question, but no less religious is the question “Where was humanity?”

My Father's War

2008-03-06T23:55:00.000-08:00

2008-03-09
My Father's War

By Daniel Bouskila

Nessim Bouskila, right, and his comrades in the Israel Defense Forces in 1948. Photo courtesy Daniel Bouskila.

It was Friday afternoon, May 14, 1948. Twenty Four-year-old Nessim Bouskila, a recent immigrant from Marrakech, was riding the Paris metro. Across the way sat a man reading a special afternoon edition of "France Soir." Nessim read the newspaper's headline: "L'etat d'Israel est ne" -- "The State of Israel is Born." Amazed and overjoyed, Nessim rushed off the metro at the next stop, hurrying to the nearest newsstand to buy the paper. Reading past the headline, Nessim's joy turned to anxiety as he learned of the Arab threat to invade the newly born Jewish state. He also read the Jewish Agency's plea calling on young Jews to come to Israel's defense.

"This is what we grew up praying for and dreaming of," my father told me in a recent conversation, "so I did not need to read any further." Nessim made his way to the headquarters of the Jewish Agency in Paris, where he found more than 400 young men and women already lined up, eagerly awaiting the "privilege," as Papa worded it, to help defend Israel.

Raised in Marrakech, Nessim's Jewish education was the same as that of his ancestors, with one major exception: Nessim also studied Bialik and Tchernichowsky.

"Our rabbis in Morocco never once condemned secular Zionism!" he exclaimed.

After initial medical exams in Paris, Nessim was sent to the Jewish Agency's "Arenas Camp" in Marseille, where, for one month, he and hundreds of others were given paramilitary training by members of the newly founded Israel Defense Forces. At 4 a.m. one day, they finally boarded a rickety boat at the port of Marseille.

The journey to Israel took longer than expected. The first truce had been declared, and the United Nations delayed the ship, questioning the necessity of Israel bringing in boatloads of young volunteers. For 12 tortuous days at sea, Nessim and the others barely saw daylight, living on sardines, crackers, jam and water.

The ship docked in Haifa, and the volunteers were detained for four days by the United Nations. "

We had no idea where we were," Papa told me. "These first days were hardly the Israel we dreamt of."

It was 1 a.m., and the confused new arrivals were awakened and hurried off to Beit Lid.

"This was the military induction center," Papa recalled. "We were photographed, given ID cards and uniforms."

The new recruits were then taken to Tel Mond, where they spent the next month in boot camp. One of the few already fluent in Hebrew, Nessim and two of his childhood friends were eventually separated from their French-speaking comrades. They were assigned to a Palmach Battalion in the Yiftach Brigade, where they received advanced training. In October 1948, Nessim and his friends participated in the famous Operation Yoav in the Negev, commanded by Yigal Allon. They saw heavy combat action, and Nessim returned from the battlefield having lost his two childhood friends.

"I now understood the heavy price of independence," he recounted, somewhat choked up.

I asked Papa if he had any contact with his parents back in Morocco: "I received a letter from them in our native Judeo-Arabic, transliterated into Hebrew characters."

This confused the military censor, who called Nessim in and had him swear over a Bible that the letter was not some secret code from Arab spies.

"The censor was Polish," Papa said with a smile.

An unexpected illness weakened Nessim, and he was transferred from the Palmach to the air force, where he was assigned the task of securing high-ranking officers and pilots. This job gave him a front-row seat to Israel's political scene. He accompanied officers to the Knesset in Tel Aviv, where he heard David Ben-Gurion address the parliament; the Hatikvah neighborhood, where he heard Menachem Begin speak in a public rally; and the Hadar Hotel, where he saw U.N. mediator Ralph Bunche. An assignment to Armon Ha-Natsiv in Talpiot gave Nessim his first trip to Jerusalem, where he caught his first glimpse -- albeit from a distance -- of Jerusalem's Old City.

In 1949, Nessim spent the first Passover of modern-day Israel in Jerusalem. He stayed with his mother's cousin, who had lived in Jerusalem's Old City until she was forced out just a few months earlier.

"I finally said 'This year in Jerusalem,'" he recalled with great emotion.

On his first flight out of Israel, Nessim sat on the same plane as Moshe Sharett, Israel's first foreign minister. Symbolic, perhaps, because growing up in Los Angeles, I saw my father as my own personal Israeli foreign diplomat.

Asked how he sees Israel today, he said "I am proud to see a strong and beautifully developed country whose brightest days are still ahead of her."

Papa couldn't resist sharing how proud he is that his granddaughter Shira was invited by the Israeli Consulate to sing "Hatikvah" at Los Angeles' recent "Live for Sderot" event. Sixty years later, this was Papa's ultimate personal reward for his service to Israel.

Stuck In The Middle: Isaac Speaks Up

2007-11-09T04:09:00.000-08:00

My name is Isaac. You think you know me, but you really don't. I am stuck in between two generations, constantly overshadowed by my father, Abraham, and my son, Jacob. If you ask anyone to name the nation that eventually came from my family, they either refer to them as "the offspring of Abraham" or, more commonly, "the children of Israel." You never hear anyone refer to this nation by my name: Isaac.It's not that my name isn't mentioned in the Bible. My name actually appears 108 times, yet, virtually all of the stories where my name is mentioned and where I am involved as a character are told from someone else's point of view, completely ignoring my perspective. When I was just a little boy, I was out playing with my half-brother, Ishmael. The next thing I know, my mother throws him and his mother, Hagar, out of the house. To this day, I have no idea why this happened, and nobody ever asked me how I felt about losing my play partner. The next and only other time I saw Ishmael was when we buried our father, Abraham.Some years after I lost my half-brother, there came what many of you call the "big test." You have certainly heard about the most famous of stories that contains my name, "The Binding of Isaac." The irony of having my name in the title of this story is that this story isn't really about me at all. It's all about my father: "After these events, God tested Abraham." Not once throughout this "big test of faith" is my voice ever heard, except when I asked my father why he forgot the sacrificial lamb. His answer: "God will provide." So there I was, bound on an altar, the fire burning and my father's knife to my throat. Yet when it's all over and God's angel saves my life, only my father emerges as a heroic figure. Not once do we hear how I -- Isaac -- felt throughout this ordeal. In case you're wondering, I'll start by asking if you ever noticed that after my akeidah, there is never again recorded in the Torah one single conversation between my father and me. Let's add to this that when we came home, we found that my mother had died from the shock upon hearing what my father had done. So perhaps from your perspective, the akeidah crowned my father the "ultimate hero of faith." As for me, my relationship with my father was ruined, I lost my mother and I spent the rest of my life traumatized. Not quite a "all's well that end's well."My father's last act on earth was to send his servant to arrange my marriage. Funny, nobody asked me if I wanted to get married, and if I did, do you think I would have a say in who I would marry?I ask this question because, yes, I did love my wife, Rebecca, but I have a hard time getting over how she went behind my back and convinced my son, Jacob, to deceive me. I favored Esau, and I have my own reasons for that. But once again, my feelings were not taken into account, and what should have been "Isaac Blessing His Sons" became "Jacob Deceiving Isaac." My own blessing to my kids became the matter of a sibling rivalry and a sneaky plot by my wife. I had no say in the matter.Please don't get me wrong. I am not writing all of this in order to invite your pity, because there is one story recorded about me for which I will forever be proud. It is the one and only story in the Torah that is all about me. As you know, both my father and son were faced with severe famines in Canaan, and, as a result, both of them left and went down to Egypt. I, too, was faced with a "famine in the land," but I did not leave. I stayed in Canaan, and I dug wells. Perhaps I gained something when I was bound up on Mount Moriah. I became a survivor, and despite the trauma, I learned to tough things out. I am the only one in my family to never leave the land.Throughout our history, my family's descendants have been mistreated, traumatized and deceived (just like me), yet somehow, we always survived. We always insisted, either physically or metaphorically, on "staying in the land and digging wells," despite "the famine." So perhaps our people refer to themselves by the names of my father and son, but their inner character and strength as tough survivors comes from me, Isaac. It is my story -- the story of a survivor -- that is really their story.

Agnon's "Days of Awe" (Book Review)

2007-09-17T00:19:00.000-07:00

"Days of Awe: A Treasury of Jewish Wisdom for Reflection, Repentance, and Renewal on the High Holy Days" by S.Y. Agnon, (Schocken Books, 1995).

Is literature penned by a Nobel Prize-winning author appropriate reading material during High Holy Days services? I am not sure how your rabbi would react if you sat in the pews reading T.S. Eliot or William Faulkner, but if you were found poring over the pages of 1966 Nobel Laureate S.Y. Agnon's "Days of Awe," originally published in Hebrew as "Yamim Noraim," I trust most rabbis would happily approve. So would Agnon. In his introduction, Agnon states that he created this book so that one may read it "between prayers," as a way of intensifying one's spiritual experience during the High Holy Days.

Agnon's "Days of Awe" is a rich anthology of biblical, talmudic, rabbinic, mystical, poetic and philosophical texts -- all on the subject of the High Holy Days. The bibliography to "Days of Awe" lists more than 500 volumes from which Agnon culled this material, and Agnon tells us that he actually consulted "one thousand books and more" in preparing what amounts to a multi-generational conversation of sorts on the High Holy Days. I call it a "conversation," because it differs from other encyclopedic anthologies in that the sources do not stand isolated from one another, rather they poetically flow one into the other. "Days of Awe" is an anthology compiled by a master novelist and storyteller, so it is not surprising that it can evoke an almost narrative-like aura and conjure up images in the reader's mind that the average anthology simply cannot.

For example, in the section about the shofar, Agnon presents Avudraham's list of Saadia Gaon's 10 reasons why the shofar is blown, most of which are historical and nation oriented (e.g. binding of Isaac, revelation at Mt. Sinai, Destruction of the Temple). This is immediately followed by Maimonides' more personal teaching that the shofar hearkens the individual to "awake from your slumber, search your deeds, and turn in repentance towards God." This, in turn, is followed by a homily from the teachings of the Chasidic master Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, comparing the physical and spiritual aspects of "sound travel" as a lens through which one may understand the deeper meaning of the notes of the shofar. These three sources come from different geographical regions and historical eras (14th century Spain, 12th century North Africa and 18th century Eastern Europe, respectively), yet Agnon creatively juxtaposes them in a manner that gives the reader the feeling that Avudraham, Maimonides and Rav Nachman are in the same room having a conversation about the shofar.

Many have questioned why a writer whose creative genius lies in the domain of novels and short stories would spend, as Agnon himself stated, "Sixteen hours a day for two and a half years," in composing an anthology of texts. The simple answer is that he was asked to create this book by his lifelong patron and publisher, Zalman S. Schocken, who wished to present to German Jewry a book through which they could understand the significance and meaning of the High Holy Days. But beyond this pragmatic answer lies a much deeper theological issue that serves as a window into the world of Agnon's fiction.

Literary critic Malka Shaked devoted a lengthy article to the theme of Yom Kippur in Agnon's writing, remarking that Agnon's "deeply personal spiritual connection" to this subject is expressed through Yom Kippur serving as the setting or background to many of Agnon's plots. "In compiling 'Days of Awe,' Agnon virtually forgoes his own personal creative voice," Shaked writes, "yet [the act of creating this volume] demonstrates Agnon's deep interest in this theme."
Is Agnon's personal voice completely absent in "Days of Awe"? Agnon admittedly massaged some of the texts, adding his own introductions and transitions to create the poetic flow to which I alluded earlier. Agnon compares his editorial activity here to "an artist who is handed fine silk from which to weave a garment, his only personal addition being the strings he uses in weaving."

While this beautiful analogy does paint an accurate picture of Agnon's role as editor, it is somewhat incomplete. In typical "Agnonic" fashion, Agnon masks his own voice, here in the guise of a peculiar bibliographic listing to which there is no description, author, place of origin or publication date, simply reading "Kol Dodi (in manuscript, in possession of the author)." In the section on "The Parent's Blessing," given on the eve of Yom Kippur, Agnon "quotes" from Kol Dodi that "when a man comes to bless his children, he ought to shut his eyes, so as not to see their flaws."

What is this "Kol Dodi manuscript"? In her personal memoir, Agnon's daughter Emuna Yaron reveals that "Kol Dodi" (which means "My Beloved") is actually a fictitious title used by her father when inserting his own ideas into this volume.

The High Holy Days are a time for deep thought and personal reflection. This brilliant volume is a direct interface with the struggles, traumas, hopes and aspirations that form the core of the High Holy Days experience. Bring it to synagogue, and, in addition to finding Agnon's voice, you might find your own voice deeply embedded within the voices of our tradition's greatest thinkers.