October 9, 2012 | 7:47 pm

We Pray for Rain: Rallying for Water Justice!

Posted by Rabbi Dr. Shmuly Yanklowitz

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Every Jewish joke reveals an insecurity. Two men of Chelm went out for a walk, when suddenly it began to rain.” Quick," said one. "Open your umbrella." "It won't help," said his friend. "My umbrella is full of holes." "Then why did you bring it?" "I didn't think it would rain!"

Jews have always been concerned about (and even prayed for) rain. One of the greatest neuroses we give to our kids is when we teach them to pray for rain but then inform them that the rain we pray for does not fall here.

In the Beit HaMikdash, on Sukkot there was a special joyous ceremony entailing the pouring of water called the Simchat Beit Ha’Shoeva. It was considered a very joyous thing and included a lot of singing, dancing, and even juggling.

The Mishnah (Sukkah 5:3) teaches that every courtyard in Jerusalem was illuminated from the light of the water drawing ceremony of the temple: “One who has not seen the rejoicing at the place of the water-drawing has never seen rejoicing in his life” (Sukkah 51a-b). The joy of water affected all then.

The simple joy of water does not exist for all today. I can recall during my time in Senegal, Africa two years ago how polluted all of the village well water was. The lack of clean drinking, bathing, cleaning water was one of the most harmful forces in each community putting each village and each family at increased risk of many fatal diseases.

In fact, about one-sixth of the world’s population (more than 1.1 billion people) lack access to safe drinking water, and more than one-third (around 2.6 billion) lack adequate sanitation. This frequently leads to a water crisis, where the available potable, unpolluted water within a region is less than that region's demand. These water crises create or exacerbate numerous problems such as droughts and famine, diseases through inadequate sanitation, the sustainability of the planet’s plant and animal life, and regional conflict (i.e., “water wars”). With water use doubling every 20 years, and deserts moving north due to global warming, a serious emergency is upon us. While these seem remote, the ongoing drought affecting much of the United States has hurt farmers deeply.

While America has had water problems, Israel is in a deep water crisis. Over each of the past five years, rainfall in Israel has been significantly below average. In the past two years, it was 30-35 percent below average, resulting in a severe and worsening water crisis. It is becoming clear that this is not a blip but a trend. Even more troubling, lakes and rivers are drying up. This has even adversely affected the current water quality. Dalia Itzik, a former Israeli environmental minister, said that 40 percent of water piped into Israel and Palestinian homes is 'undrinkable'. Israel, comprising desert land, is also surrounded mainly by desert, compounding the regional impact of drought and water crisis.

Water plays a huge role in regional conflict. It will continue to influence future diplomatic discussions between Israel and surrounding countries, especially now that the Jordan is gradually drying up. This continues a pattern dating from the time that the Philistines sealed the wells that Isaac had dug.

Uzi Lanau, Israel’s Water and Energy Minister, maintained in September 2012 that desalination plants would provide the solution to the nation’s chronic water shortage. Currently, these desalination plants produce 300 million cubic meters of drinking water per year, and by 2014 should produce 600 million cubic meters, about half of Israel’s water consumption, and by the end of the decade he predicted that nearly all Israelis would be drinking desalinated water.

However, critics point out that Israel recently had a 6-year drought, and increased rainfall in early 2011 would not be enough to make up for this, as there is still a shortfall of about a billion cubic meters of water. The Sea of Galilee and mountain aquifers, the two main sources of water, remain at critical low levels.

Another potential solution is to use recycled water from laundry, dishwashing, and non-toilet bathroom use to water lawns and gardens, wash vehicles, and fill other cleaning functions in place of drinking water. Treated waste water could be used for irrigation, relieving some of the pressure on the water supply.

Traditionally, the crisis was more in the diaspora. The Midrash explains “By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept…‟ (Psalm 137:1). Why did the Jewish people cry by the rivers of Babylon? Rabbi Yochanan said, “The Euphrates (river) killed more of them than the wicked Nebuchadnetzer did. When the Jews lived in the land of Israel, they drank only rainwater, freshwater and spring water. When they were exiled to Babylon, they drank the (polluted) water of the Euphrates, and many of them died” (Pesikta Rabati, 28).

At Sukkot and Shemini Atzeret, we return to nature to acknowledge our need for our bare essentials. And we begin to pray for water. This is the water holiday. The Mishnah (Rosh Hashana 1:2) says: “At four junctures [of the year] the world is judged: at Pesach concerning the produce [grain]; at Shavuot concerning the fruit of the tree; at Rosh Hashana, all people pass before him.... and at Sukkot they are judged concerning water.”

Water is of such critical importance as most of our planet and most our human bodies consist of water. “Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai once taught: three things are of equal importance, earth, humans, and rain. Rabbi Levi ben Hiyyata said: ... to teach that without earth, there is no rain, and without rain, the earth cannot endure, and without either, humans cannot exist” (Genesis Rabbah 13:3).

Further, there is a significant human egalitarian nature to rain. “A certain non-Jew asked Rabbi Yehoshua: “You have festivals, and we have festivals. We do not rejoice when you do, and you do not rejoice when we do. When do we both rejoice together?” “When the rain falls,” answered Rabbi Yehoshua” (Genesis Rabbah 13:6).

The actual prayer for rain occurs after Sukkot, during the lesser-known Shemini Atzeret. During the Musaf prayers, the cantor, dressed in a white kittel (evoking the solemnity and critical need for water during this season), walks forward for the tefilat geshem, the prayer for rain. In the Amidah, from here until Passover, a phrase is added: “masheev ha’rua’ch u’moreed hagashem” (“Who causes the wind to blow and the rain to fall”). This prayer reinforces the Jewish covenant, where obedience to G-d’s laws is essential for survival. In contrast, ancient Mesopotamian societies, plagued by unpredictable flooding, tyrannical god-kings, and frequent warfare, tended to view their deities as capricious and cruel. In ancient Egypt, the Nile offered a dependable water supply and predictable flooding, but also to complacency, idolatry, and the worship of material goods. The Jewish model appreciates rain because it is scarce and valuable, and preserves spirituality.

Today, there is a new-found appreciation for water, that we cannot keep doubling our use of water while despoiling and depleting our sources. Is it appropriate for us to build oil pipelines over important freshwater sources, or engage in fracking for natural gas near well water? We must reflect on the concern for water that is present in the holiday of Shemini Atzeret.

In a profoundly mystical Gemarrah (Ta’anit 2a), we learn of the connection between prayer and rain. “Rabbi Yochanan said, the keys to three things were kept in the hand of the Holy One, Blessed be He, and not given over to an intermediary [nature]. They are, the key to rain, the key to childbirth and the key to the revival of the dead. The Key of Rain, for It is written, The Lord will open unto thee His good treasure, the heaven to give the rain of thy land in its season“ (Deuteronomy 28:12). Another Midrash teaches how showing mercy to others who is struggling is what enables G-d’s mercy to release more rain (Bereshit Rabbah 33).

In the coming year, may we think more deeply about how we use our water, donate to villages working on clean water projects, support research, and use the coming 6 months as we pray for a rain as an opportunity to get more involved!

 

Rabbi Shmuly Yanklowitz is the Founder and President of Uri L'Tzedek, the Senior Rabbi at Kehilath Israel, and is the author of "Jewish Ethics & Social Justice: A Guide for the 21st Century." Newsweek named Rav Shmuly one of the top 50 rabbis in America!"

October 6, 2012 | 9:51 pm

Apocalypse? Building a New World!

Posted by Rabbi Dr. Shmuly Yanklowitz

This week, a reporter from the Kansas City Star called me not to ask about Israel, the Presidential Election, or anything of immediate local or global relevance. Rather, she asked me about the Jewish perspective on heaven.  I, of course, reinforced for her that the Jewish tradition has a deep eschatological foundation and offers a strong belief in olam haba (the world to come). I also assured her that the Sages of the Talmud could not imagine a heaven that was exclusive only to Jews, but rather that it was reserved for the righteous of all nations. Lastly, and most importantly, I let her know that Jews have felt obliged to prioritize the holy work that needs to be done in this world over speculation about the nature of the next world.

Jewish worldly responsibility trumps any necessity to embrace dogmas or beliefs about the nature of an afterlife. Rambam even suggests that it would be harmful to spend much time thinking about that which cannot be known, such as the messianic era and the next world. He urges us to steer away from more radical cataclysmic apocalyptic thinking (Mishneh Torah Hilkhot Melakhim 12:2).

However, in my reflections, I also recalled the haftarahs that we read around the holiday of Sukkot dealing with the final apocalyptic end-of-days war of Gog U’Magog. In both the books of  Yechezkel (38:18-39:16) and Zacharia (14:1-21), a complex picture is painted. These stories have grasped the human imagination for centuries and penetrated deeply into our religious consciousness, since they represent the destruction of our imperfect world, the ultimate full blown war against evil, and the victory of God and the Jewish people in a battle for truth. Both of these haftarahs describe a future war fought against nations oppressing Israel, in which G-d rises to fight against the enemies of Israel. Rashi argues that both haftarahs describe the same end-of-days war with “every man’s sword against each other” and G-d’s ultimate supernatural intervention and destruction.

Some modern thinkers have suggested that we have experienced these wars already or are in the midst of them. The Vilna Gaon (commentary on Mechilta Exodus 14:20) said that this Gog U’Magog war will only last three hours and will take place on Hoshana Rabba. Another rabbi recently pointed out that the U.S. war in Afghanistan against Al Qaeda began on Hoshana Rabba.

Others claimed that World Wars I and II were the Wars of Gog and Magog preparing the world for the coming of the Messiah, started by the Jewish return to Israel. Previously, Chassidic teachers saw the Jewish struggles with France and Russia as the wars of Gog and Magog.

But must we worry? These wars are of the past, not the future, and these stories of Gog U’Magog have not gained prominence in Jewish theology.

Recently, an alleged Mayan prediction that the world will come to an end in December 2012 has been popularized in the media. Responsible theologians and scientists alike have unanimously repudiated this, along with popular entertainers. As Jay Leno recently joked on the Tonight Show: “According to the Mayans, the world is supposed to end in the year 2012. Are you buying that? When's the last time you even ran into a Mayan?” Or as the band REM once sung: “It's the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.”

Incredibly, many people have given credence to this apocalyptic vision. In an international poll conducted for Reuters in May 2012, fully 10 percent of Americans believed that the world will end by the end of 2012, and 22 percent believe that the world will end during their lifetime. Contrast this with France, where only 6 percent of those polled believe that the world will end in their lifetime. Significantly, the poll revealed a correlation between anxiety over the future and belief in an imminent end of the world.

Contemporary thinkers have echoed the warnings of past rabbis to focus on real contemporary crises rather than imaginary doomsday scenarios. Deepak Chopra has noted that Americans should focus on the changing world, in which nations will have to curtail their indiscriminate use of natural resources, and in which “crude nationalism” and “religious intolerance” were credible threats worthy of attention. He warned against those who focused on the end of the world: “…reactionary forces, fueling an undercurrent of fear, promoting a fantasy of America as a perfect society where privilege is a birthright and the rest of the world exists on a plane almost beneath notice.” 

The Mayan doomsday episode will soon be behind us.  I would suggest that the wars of Gog and Magog are not in the Tanach and in our haftarahs in order to strike fear into us or to lay out a perfect picture of the end-of-days. Rather, it should tickle our moral imagination around the possibilities of destruction and creation.

This theme of global destruction is not new. We saw that G-d destroyed the world with the flood and Noah rebuilt the world. Later, all of civilization was broken once again and dispersed at the Tower of Babel. After the Shoah, the Jewish people needed to re-create a lost Jewish world. We are asked, now once again, to step out of our known world and imagine a new one. If your world were destroyed, how would you rebuild it? How would you change it?

Today, our American discourse is dominated by the details of how we are going to rebuild, as is demonstrated by the political process. You have about half the country saying we need big strong government and half saying we need small hands-off government, and a lot of bickering in between. But within the debate of HOW we structure our society, have we lost the big picture of WHAT—what is the ultimate world we are trying to construct together. That is much bigger than any individual’s pocketbook, any particular policy, any politician, and even any generation. It is ultimately what we leave in this world. The project of Judaism is designed to constantly push us from self-interest into the big picture of society, global impact, and long-term generational impact. What will the world be like after me?

To do that, we cannot go to the woods and wonder alone. To dream, we must do it together. And we must do it with those who have been excluded from the actualization of past dreams. As poet Toni Morrison said: “All paradises, all utopias are designed by who is not there, by the people who are not allowed in.” The best dreamers of the future are often those denied the dreams of yesterday.

The stories of apocalypse that we read may tempt us to think about how the world could be destroyed, but our moral challenge is to think about how we will reconstruct the world, how we rebuild after the storms. Destruction stories can divide us in fear. Construction stories can build us in unity.

In the 18th revolutionaries here in America, understood that they were building a new world. In 1948, those building the new Jewish state, understood they were creating a new world. When one holds their newborn child for the first time, they understand that they are holding a new world.

In fact, if we look at Noah after the first destruction of the world, Rashi explains that his name is Noach due to the nechama, the comfort he brought to the world. How did he do that? He invented the plow. To build the world, we just have to start plowing. That is our work, to dream but also just to start plowing and working toward that dream.

“Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai was once leaving Jerusalem.  Rabbi Yehoshua was walking behind him and saw the Temple in ruins. Rabbi Yehoshua said: ‘Woe unto us for the destruction of the Temple, the place of atonement for the sins of Israel.’ Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai said to him: ‘My son, do not worry—we have another form of atonement like it.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘Acts of loving kindness.’” That is how we rebuild the world today: turning from a destroyed past and rebuilding the future through gemillut chasadim (random acts of loving kindness).

When we read the stories reminding us of the power of destruction, may we rather dream of a new world, and commit each day to doing random acts of kindness to secure this future world that turns our dreams into realities.

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Rabbi Shmuly Yanklowitz is the Founder and President of Uri L'Tzedek, the Senior Rabbi at Kehilath Israel, and is the author of "Jewish Ethics & Social Justice: A Guide for the 21st Century." Newsweek named Rav Shmuly one of the top 50 rabbis in America!"
 

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October 4, 2012 | 2:38 am

The Clouds of Glory and Human Responsibility!

Posted by Rabbi Dr. Shmuly Yanklowitz

After the spiritual intimacy of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we subversively break from the walls of institutions and the comforts of home into our modest sukkot (outdoor huts). It is in these huts that we rediscover the religious foundation of our human responsibility.

The Torah teaches that the purpose of sitting in the sukkah is so that later generations should know that the Jewish People were placed in Sukkot when they left Egypt (Leviticus 23:42-43). The rabbis argue about the meaning of this ritual (Sukkah 11b). Rabbi Eliezer suggests that we dwell in the sukkot to commemorate the miracle of the ananei hakavod (clouds of glory) that sheltered the Israelites from the hot sun in the desert. Rabbi Akiva, on the other hand, argues that we sit in sukkot to commemorate the actual sukkot the Israelites were miraculously provided (in the city of Sukkot) while in the desert.

The great 19th-century rabbi, the Sfat Emet (Rabbi Yehuda Leib Alter), suggested both rabbis of the Talmud were correct. He suggested that the clouds of glory (Rabbi Eliezer) represent the miracles at the time when Divine Providence was clearly observed by all. The actual sukkot (Rabbi Akiva) represent the miracles of Divine Providence that are no longer openly seen. Thus, in our sukkot today we are reminded that we must have more faith and we must devote more human toil to enable that hidden Divine Providence.

Rabbi Yitzchak Aizik Sher also suggested a synergy between the two positions. The clouds of glory represent a miracle that covered the entire Jewish people. The sukkot represent the individual providence that G-d did and does for each individual. We can be appreciative of global, national, and covenantal miracles, and we can also appreciate the blessing of a more intimate and personal providence.

The great 16th-century rabbi called the Mabit (Rabbi Moshe ben Yosef Trani) asks why a holiday was not created around the other miracles of the desert, such as the providing of manna to eat or the wells to drink from. He answers that it was an extra miracle that G-d provided the luxury of shelter and not just survival (Beit Elokim Shaar ha’yesodot 37). We can never express enough gratitude to be alive and to have food and drink. But we are also grateful for the other “luxuries” that we consider needs, and we emulate G-d in securing these needs for others as well. One can survive without certain human needs and wants, but one cannot flourish without them. The Sukkot represent the blessings of human potential and flourishing.

On Sukkot, we commemorate historical miracles and eternal values, national redemption and personal salvation, Divine providence and human toil, the spiritual and the physical, the metaphysical and concrete pragmatism. In the sukkah, we are reminded of the peace that exists in the world that we can be thankful of and the need to further perpetuate that peace.

We are not only to welcome the stranger into our huts, we are commanded to once again experience our own alienation. The Torah makes the case on numerous occasions (Leviticus 23:42, 25:23, Chronicles I: 29:15, Psalms 39:13, etc.) that all humans and all Jews are gerim (strangers and immigrants). Not only are we strangers alienated before our Creator, we are also strangers on this earth during our temporary visit to the world. Rashi explains (Leviticus 23:42) that our sukkot must not only include citizens but also immigrants and strangers to ensure we remember our true nature and our temporary corporeal existence.

By reconnecting with our modest hut and connecting with other strangers in the community, we can rediscover our own frailty, our own alienation and our own human responsibility.

Rabbi Shmuly Yanklowitz is the Founder and President of Uri L'Tzedek, the Senior Rabbi at Kehilath Israel, and is the author of "Jewish Ethics & Social Justice: A Guide for the 21st Century." Newsweek named Rav Shmuly one of the top 50 rabbis in America!"
 

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October 3, 2012 | 2:57 pm

All Jews in One Sukkah!

Posted by Rabbi Dr. Shmuly Yanklowitz

Rabbi Avi Weiss often tells his students that one of the most important traits to be an upstanding Jew, and certainly a Rabbi, is to have a deep sense of “Ahavat Yisrael,” love for our fellow Jew. For many, this can be challenging. To cultivate a love for the values of the Torah, for the holiness of Israel, for the Jews we know is one thing, but can we cultivate a deep love and connection to a random Jew we never met or have anything in common with? What is the origin of this love, and is it genuine? In theory, as a historical construct, it sounds beautiful, but what is its emotional foundation?

In the Midrash (Vayikra Rabbah 4:6), Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai (the Rashbi) once taught: “A man in a boat began to cut a hole under his seat. His fellow passengers protested: ‘What concern is it of yours?’ The hole-maker responded, ‘I am making a hole under my seat, not yours.’ They replied, ‘That is so, but when the water enters and the boat sinks, we too will drown.’” Without a consideration that we as the Jewish people are on a ship together, not in the survivalist sense but in the spiritual sense with a shared mission, our ship cannot sail with its full grandeur. With all passengers, in a shared history and destiny, our ship will sail the mighty oceans.

The Gemarrah (Sukkah 27b) says: “kol Yisrael re’oooim laishaiv b’sukkah achat,” that all of Israel is fit to sit in one Sukkah; as a community looking to perpetuate peace in the world, we maintain the ideal of living under one proverbial sukkah. While we as Jews may have different ideologies, ways of serving G-d, languages, and values, and it may at times seem that we have little in common, we can remember that the “sukkah of peace” must house us all. And so we require the shalom of a unified sukkah with the diverse members of our people. The Midrash teaches that the four species that we wave on Sukkot represent the four different kinds of Jew, and they all unite at this festive time.

Rabbi Shlomo Riskin, the Chief Rabbi of Efrat in Israel, tells a story about Reb Levi Yitzchok of Berdichev, who invited all types of Jews into his sukkah—simple people, beggars, even scoundrels. But the more established members of the community, the learned and the wealthy, felt uncomfortable around this motley crew. To address this situation, Reb Levi Yitzchok explained that Jewish tradition records that in the world to come, the holy Jews of all the generations would be gathering inside the sukkah of Leviathan, led by Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.  Moses would be speaking words of Torah, Aaron would conduct the ritual, and the songs of praise would be sung by King David. If the doorkeeper demanded to know by what right Levi Yitzchok thought he could enter (because, after all, he was hardly of the caliber of the aforementioned spiritual giants of our nation), then he would answer that since he invited everyone, including the "lesser lights" into his sukkah, would not these true masters of our faith open their hearts and invite him into their sukkah?
 
In teaching the need to welcome and love all Jews into our Sukkah and our hearts at this special time, Rabbi Riskin asks an important question: “What do we say to a great soul who cannot be burdened with the complexity of religious details (as so many of us are committed to)?” He offers the following analogy: On a clear night, I can often manage to see stars hundreds of light years away, but on a cloudy night I may not be able to see anything at all. However, if I learn the laws of optics and build a telescope, I will see much farther and clearer. But acquiring a telescope has its price. There are many facts to learn regarding its proper use, and an object comprising countless details is placed between the eye and the world. But just look at the added vision it provides!

The laws of the Torah are like this telescope (or microscope) into reality. It seems constrictive, but it is really liberating. On Sukkot, we embrace the stargazers who shun telescopes, we open our hearts and invite them into the sukkah, but at the same time we know how much sharper our vision is when we look at the stars through the gaps (required by halacha) in the roof of the sukkah. As religious Jews we may at times feel at great odds with our secular sisters and brothers, but as an Am Kadosh (holy nation), there is an imperative for some type of unity. This unity is not an ends in itself but a means to fulfilling our global role as advocates for love, truth, and justice. Our love is born out of the unique intensity of this holy partnership.

Sefer Kohelet (the book of Ecclesiastes read on the Shabbat of Chol Hamoed Sukkot) teaches: “There is no tzaddik on earth (no perfectly righteous person on earth) who only does good and does not sin,” (7:20). This sets a foundation for love and tolerance among the Jewish people. From the most to the least learned, from the oldest to the youngest, from the most cultivated to the most reckless, on some level we all err and we all stumble.

As we are continuing our focus on teshuva (growth and transformation from Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur), which in many ways can feel like a solo journey, we reunite to remember that we are all stumbling and striving for growth. It is for this reason that Sukkot must follow these holy days. Teshuva cannot happen in pure isolation, but rather in community. The peak of our life commitments and growth must now happen together.

May we learn to expand the size of our tent (of our sukkah) to include a few more within our camp (more religious or less religious, older or younger). And may we expand our hearts to create more room for the other as well.

Rabbi Shmuly Yanklowitz is the Founder and President of Uri L'Tzedek, the Senior Rabbi at Kehilath Israel, and is the author of "Jewish Ethics & Social Justice: A Guide for the 21st Century." Newsweek named Rav Shmuly one of the top 50 rabbis in America!"

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September 25, 2012 | 1:46 pm

Yom Kippur: An Encounter with Death & Life!

Posted by Rabbi Dr. Shmuly Yanklowitz

“Mitah v’Yom HaKippurim Michaprin.” The two ways to truly atone are Death and Yom Kippur. But are the two really so different? On Yom Kippur, we reject food and drink, similar to one close to death. We say vidui (our confessions) just like someone preparing to die. Many wear white on Yom Kippur—the kittel, the same plain shroud that one will be buried in. We remove ourselves from leather shoes, bathing, anointing, and marital relations on Yom Kippur again as though we are mourners.  Our lives are lived in our bodies. On Yom Kippur we step out of our bodies as if we were gone. We visit the cemetery at this time to honor those who have passed away and to soften our hearts to our mortality. We ask ourselves on Yom Kippur in Unetaneh Tokef: “who shall live and who shall die.”

One of the main goals on Yom Kippur is to encounter death. We spend one day reflecting on our mortality. When we fully embrace Yom Kippur, we have an encounter with death (a preparation for death). We are to be transformed by it; in preparing for death, we come to more deeply celebrate life. Even more, our transformation teaches us to reprioritize what really matters. As Sogyal Rinpoche once wrote: "Death is a mirror in which the entire meaning of life is reflected."

One day of the year we accept the reality of death, but we are not like Buddhists who willingly embrace death. On all other days of the year, we mourn those who have passed, we protest the taking of lives, we prevent death by seeking cures and healing. But protesting death must not overtake us. Rather, taking ownership of life must. As the great French existentialist Simone de Beauvoir, wrote: “We are having a hard time living because we are so bent on outwitting death” (The Ethics of Ambiguity, 120).

So only on this day we let our guard go and embrace the inevitable to remind us that although our death must come someday, today we must live. We can best perform the mitzvah of u'varchata b'chayim, to choose life, once we are aware of the alternative and that there is a choice to be made.

There is an intimacy we achieve with our Creator when we approach death just as those on their death beds who lose their theological skepticism. In fact, we learn from the Talmud (Shabbat 88b) that those who experienced the revelation at Sinai directly from the mouth of G-d died in that moment and were brought back to life. It is only in a life/death transcendental moment that we can truly grasp certain truths.

Longtime hospice worker Kathleen Dowling Singh lays out the stages of dying in her book, The Grace in Dying. They are, according to her: Chaos, Surrender and Transcendence. Yom Kippur can be modeled off these three. We are in chaos during the night, and the early morning of Yom Kippur hits us like a ton of bricks. Then we begin to surrender once we realize that we are able to transcend our hunger and personal desires. Finally, we may reach transcendence in the late afternoon when we tap into our deeper potential to understand ourselves and the world.

If we “die” on Yom Kippur, then we go to olam haba (the next world). That next world paradoxically is actually olam ha’zeh (this world). We learn to live in this world as if it were the next world (in our near-death experience). We encounter death in order to live.

The Talmud in Moed Katan teaches the following story: “When Rav Nahman was dying, he begged Rava to implore the angel of death not to torment him. Rava replied, ‘But, Master, are you not esteemed enough to ask him yourself?’ Rav Nahman considered this for a moment, and then pondered aloud, 'Who is esteemed, who is regarded, who is distinguished' in the face of Death Himself? Then, after he died, Rav Nahman appeared to Rava in a dream. ‘Master, did you suffer any pain?’ Rava asked. Rav Nahman replied, ‘As little as taking a hair from milk. Still, if the Holy One were to say to me, ‘Go back to that world,’ I would not consent, the fear of death being so great.’”

On Yom Kippur we learn that we need not fear death. Rather, we must embrace death in order that we can affirm life in the deepest sense. May 5773 be a year of life! May we rededicate ourselves to enhancing the lives of all those around us!
 

 

Rabbi Shmuly Yanklowitz is the Founder and President of Uri L'Tzedek, the Senior Rabbi at Kehilath Israel, and is the author of "Jewish Ethics & Social Justice: A Guide for the 21st Century." Newsweek named Rav Shmuly one of the top 50 rabbis in America!"
 

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September 23, 2012 | 7:05 pm

Yom Kippur: Expanding Our Communal Roles

Posted by Rabbi Dr. Shmuly Yanklowitz

The Jewish community at large is struggling to find common spaces where all can be together. After all, where can we be united as 21st-century Jews? In religious belief? On Israel? In Jewish education? On some type of mitzvah day or day of learning? Only a small fraction of the community shows up to anything or agrees to anything. We have become so fragmented.

If the Jewish community is merely a restaurant, then we come when we’re hungry and like what’s on the menu. We pay for our food, leave our trash, and go home. But if the Jewish community is more like a family, we show up to support things even when they do not totally speak to us, even when the meal being served is not what we would have ordered. Perhaps what has been most lost from Jewish community building is a sense of connection to the big picture, the whole, and the notion that we sometimes must sacrifice our desires for the well-being of the broader community.

In the Yom Kippur liturgy, before Vidui, we sing “Ki Anu Amecha” (because we are your people) and in this prayer we use 11 metaphors of our collective relationship to G-d (Nation before God, Child before Parent, Slave before Master, Congregation before Portion, Heritage before Lot, Sheep before Shepherd, Vineyard before Watchmen, Handiwork before Shaper, Beloved before Lover, Treasure before God, Designated before Designated). We are able to sustain as one people before G-d, since there are many Divine roles. Perhaps no one role could hold the attention and trust of us all.

And yet, there is an important growth opportunity for each of us hidden in this song. One aspect of teshuva we focus on at Yom Kippur is learning how to connect to all of these different Divine manifestations (G-d as shepherd, G-d as parent, G-d as watchman, etc.). By doing so, in addition to strengthening our personal connection to our Creator, we can learn how to emulate each of these roles and how we can broaden ourselves to play multiple communal roles. We do not come to shul just to see our three or four friends and achieve personal goals, but also to connect to the community as a whole and achieve communal goals. To do that, we must be broader in our vision.

As part of the philosophical mind-body problem, we know that we cannot know each other’s essences. We cannot know each other’s minds and hearts. We come to learn about each other through our actions. Someone smiles! Someone picks up a table to help! The way one walks and talks! One reveals oneself through actions. We relate to community not through our belief but by what we give, by what we do publicly, and sometimes just by showing up.

Elie Wiesel explained that we can connect to one another through our common history:

"We are bound by tradition to believe that together we have stood at Sinai, that together we have crossed the river Jordan, conquered the land of Canaan and built the Temple; that together we have been driven thence by the Babylonians and the Romans; that together we have roamed the dark byroads of exile; that together we have dreamed of recapturing a glory we have never forgotten—every one of us is the sum of our common history."

This is true, but we are also much more than a “sum of our common history.” We are the present as well.

The early 20th-century Jewish Russian philosopher Jacob Klatzkin wrote: "To be a Jew means the acceptance of neither a religious nor an ethical creed. We are neither a denomination nor a school of thought, but members of one family, bearers of a common history."

To be a family means to show up for one another and to support one another, to fulfill what the Talmud (Shavuot 39a) mandates as "Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh"—"All Israel is responsible for one another." We do that by broadening ourselves and by building bridges not through putting up walls.

Unfortunately, there are those who would reject this family. Recently, Chief Sephardi Rabbi Shlomo Amar stated that if a Jew should encounter only Reform Jews on Rosh Hashanah, “it is better for him to pray in his hotel and not go near them. Moreover, it is better that he not pray at all than pray with them.” In response, Reform Rabbi Uri Regev said: “It is sad that Rabbi Amar chooses the holiest time of the Jewish year, which should celebrate Jewish unity, to pursue his sectarian fundamentalist views.” Rabbi Regev added that “pluralism and diversity,” rather than seeking “fault with fellow Jews,” should be what Judaism stands for.

There are very valid disagreements about how we should practice Judaism today. We need not agree with one another but we must respect one another and find spaces for sharing, dialogue, cooperation, and support. We need not love everyone in our spiritual family but we must support one another nonetheless. 

One of the themes of Yom Kippur is that we enter alone. Each of us arises in fear for our lives, standing alone, feeble before the Creator without any good explanations for how we lived the previous year. Yet, we conclude by singing about our collective destiny, “L’Shana Haba B’Yerushalayim.” We enter as individuals, but if we truly internalize the day, we feel more connected to our whole community and people.

This Yom Kippur, may we emulate the Divine to become larger presences, playing greater roles in our communities to have our own unique impact in our magnificent national story.

 

Rabbi Shmuly Yanklowitz is the Founder and President of Uri L'Tzedek, the Senior Rabbi at Kehilath Israel, and is the author of "Jewish Ethics & Social Justice: A Guide for the 21st Century." Newsweek named Rav Shmuly one of the top 50 rabbis in America!"

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September 21, 2012 | 1:18 pm

Runaway Slaves in the Torah and Today!

Posted by Rabbi Dr. Shmuly Yanklowitz

What would you do if an escaped slave showed up on your doorstep in Canaan in 1400 B.C.E., or in Memphis in 1810, or in Tel Aviv in 2012? The problem of the runaway slave is both ancient and modern.

Slavery plagued America for more than two centuries, beginning with its evolution in the British colony of Virginia. Many people are unaware that the proponents of slavery, beginning in the 1830s, actually increased their militancy and sought further legal sanctions for human bondage. From 1836-1844, Congress was under the “Gag Rule,” which effectively prohibited the discussion of slavery. Southern states routinely intercepted and burned anti-slavery tracts that were sent through the postal system.

The nadir of this movement occurred with passage of the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850, which provided for the return of slaves who escaped from one state into another state or territory. The courts allowed an owner to use "reasonable force" to detain runaways and anyone who tried to help a detained slave escape would be subject to the scrutiny of a federal "grand inquest,” a grand jury. Not only were local sheriffs and other officials compelled to cooperate with the apprehension of runaway slaves under penalty of substantial fines, but the law stated that “all good citizens are hereby commanded to aid and assist in the prompt and efficient execution of this law.” Thus, all citizens were compelled to support slavery. While the Underground Railroad helped many escaped slaves, runaways were only safe when they reached Canada.

After the Civil War, only about 150 years ago, the fugitive slave laws ended along with slavery in America. In contrast, the Jewish tradition has been very progressive, as our holy Torah prohibited this 3,300 years ago!

As we learn in the Torah, if a slave from another town escapes, the Torah forbids the return of the refugee slave to his master (Deuteronomy 23:16).  The Torah could have gone in a very different direction, based upon contemporary values. For example, in the ancient law found in the Code of Hammurabi (which was issued before the Torah, about 3,800 years ago in Babylonia), Hammurabi legislated (16-17) that one who hides a refugee slave in his home should be put to death, while one who hands over the slave to his owner should receive a payment.

The Torah, on the other hand, ruled that it is forbidden to return a runaway slave. The Ramban makes clear that Jewish law does not view the runaway slave as a new slave, but as completely free. We are dealing with a human being, not property, the Torah insisted; to return one fleeing for his life would put him at grave danger. The Ha’amek Davar, Rav Naftali Tzvi Yehudah Berlin (1817-1893), taught that we must remember that the slave has not just run away from the rigors of slavery, but has chosen asylum specifically to be with you. He is searching for something more in life since he has chosen to run toward you. The Talmud explains that the Torah is dealing specifically with a case of a slave from another country fleeing to the state of Israel (Gittin 45a).

In July, I took a group of our students from the yeshiva in Efrat, Israel, where I was teaching, to Tel Aviv to meet with the African refugees sleeping in the parks. In Israel, great debates have emerged concerning what to do with the 60,000 refugees who have entered Israel since 2006 seeking asylum. Significantly, Israel is the only democratic state with a land connection to Africa, so it is inevitable that a large portion of African refugees would seek to go there. These undocumented migrants cross into Israel either looking for work or fleeing from severe persecution. They are essentially escaping slavery, extreme poverty, or death. The social and economic burdens are immense, and Israel overall is already struggling very nobly with very limited resources. Clearly, Israel cannot be a home for all refugees who wish to come. This is not a fair request of this tiny state already overwhelmed with social and economic issues. Many are pushing for the refugees to be deported, but Jewish law as we have learned is that we may not return a slave to their master. Israel, a nation of refugees itself, must develop a legal process for non-Jewish refugees. Defending the runaway slave is fundamental to our tradition.

Closer to home, today, we are unlikely to encounter literal “runaway slaves.” Nevertheless, do we not encounter those who have undergone traumatic experiences? Many have baggage and are running from it. Every day, we try to escape parts of our past that have confined us (failures, pains, losses). When we encounter another, do we return him or her to their master or are we a part of their liberation? How do we embrace those who have just filed for bankruptcy, completed their divorce, or come out of sitting shiva for a lost family member? They have been trapped in some misery, and when they reach our doorstep, how do we embrace them? In a sense we are all runaway slaves running out of fear from danger and even our inevitable death. We can never fully understand the emotions attached to one’s entrapment; we can merely open our arms.

According to the Talmud, one may not remind someone of their past (where they have run from) if they have changed their ways, and we may never do anything to block others from their own teshuva (repentance and transformation). This requires humility. In approaching others, we must remember that we do not stand in their shoes and we must not judge them.

In dealing with the Civil War, Abraham Lincoln, fighting against slave owners, said: “my concern is not whether G-d is on our side; my greatest concern is to be on G-d's side.”

We do not know that the other is wrong. We just know that we must keep our eyes on the prize and do what is right.

The Torah’s mandate that we may not return a runaway slave still has relevance and far-reaching implications today.

 

Rabbi Shmuly Yanklowitz is the Founder and President of Uri L'Tzedek, the Senior Rabbi at Kehilath Israel, and is the author of "Jewish Ethics & Social Justice: A Guide for the 21st Century." Newsweek named Rav Shmuly one of the top 50 rabbis in America!"

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September 21, 2012 | 4:00 am

The Mitzvah of Hakhel and A Call for Universal Education!

Posted by Rabbi Dr. Shmuly Yanklowitz

Over the last several years I have had the opportunity to teach in classrooms in villages around the world, from Central America to Southeast Asia, and from Africa to the former Soviet Union. One unexpected and saddening phenomenon I have encountered in several poorer countries is empty classrooms. Many students do not show up or are pulled from school by their families due to intense economic or social pressures. There is an education crisis around the world that is at the root of countless other social and economic problems.

In this week's Torah portion of Vayelech, we learn about the keen Jewish interest in public education, expressed by way of a fascinating communal forum called Hakhel. Every seven years, the king would come out of his palace to educate the public. This was in keeping with the command to "Assemble the people -- men, women and children, and the strangers living in your towns, so that they can listen and learn..."

According to the medieval commentator R. Abraham Ibn Ezra (31:10), this public learning event took place at a time when everyone -- even the slave or the stranger -- would be able to attend: the beginning of the Sabbatical Year, when working the fields is forbidden in Jewish law (other rabbinic authorities argue that it took place immediately after the Sabbatical Year). This ensured that everyone was able to break from the demands of work and have time for study.

Yet today, too many of the world's children lack the opportunity for intellectual growth. While the number of primary-school-age children who do not attend school has been reduced from 105 million in 1990 to 61 million today, the trend has slowed since 2005, and has remained virtually unchanged since 2008. More than half of unschooled children live in sub-Saharan Africa.

A key reason for this lack of progress is the effect of armed conflict, which prevents 28 million children from going to school, as schools are targeted for attacks, and girls in particular are subjected to physical and sexual abuse. In South Sudan, for example, families often marry their daughters off by age 15 in order to relieve the crushing economic pressures of recovering from civil war. In Pakistan, numerous girls' schools have been forced to close due to militant attacks on the facilities. Low education levels only heighten the risk of further conflict, as militancy become the only available "career" option for those who lack the training to earn a decent wage.

This should be a call to action.

Jewish law mandates that we not only teach where we can but that we appoint teachers to all of our cities. The Shulchan Aruch (a mainstay of Jewish legal codification) requires that "Every community is obligated to appoint teachers; a city without a teacher should be put under a ban until the inhabitants appoint one. If they continue to neglect to appoint a teacher, the city should be destroyed for the world exists only through the breath of school children" (Yoreh Deah 245:5).

Perhaps we should return to this Sabbatical Year ritual to remind us that we must seriously invest in the education of our children if we wish to move villages and nations out of poverty. Today, only 2 percent of humanitarian aid goes to education, which will not pull South Sudan or Pakistan out of their crises. The Talmud teaches that Jerusalem was destroyed "only because they neglected (the education of) school children." Further, "School children may not be made to neglect (their studies) even for the building of the Temple" (Shabbat 119b). We must heed this message before yet another generation is lost to ignorance, prejudice and war.

There are ways to improve education. UNESCO and the EFA Global Monitoring Report note that some policies have proven beneficial in areas where armed conflict has disrupted the educational system, including a shift from humanitarian aid to long-term investment with multi-year commitments and pooled resources to reduce bureaucracy and help the transition to government-run programs. In addition, if donor nations converted six days of military spending to education aid, they could make up the current $16 billion shortfall in education needs for poor nations. While well-planned military campaigns might reduce violence in the short term, in the long term an educational investment in the future of poor nations is a more certain route to peace and prosperity.

In the 21st century there is an endemic problem of placing immediate rewards over long-term gains. With education, we cannot afford to delay investing in the future. The Torah reminds us that we must put down our shovels to prioritize public education. We cannot expect struggling villages and nations to address this challenge alone. As Jews and as Americans who hold the value of education so highly, we must be at the forefront of the policies and financing of global education opportunities.

 

Rabbi Shmuly Yanklowitz is the Founder and President of Uri L'Tzedek, the Senior Rabbi at Kehilath Israel, and is the author of "Jewish Ethics & Social Justice: A Guide for the 21st Century. Newsweek named Rav Shmuly one of the top 50 rabbis in America!"

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