I was sitting with someone recently. He is a Muslim and active in the causes of his people. I am a Jew and active in the causes of my people. We are part of a dialogue group that builds bridges and develops relationships with people we usually do not get to know. But we are engaged, and through this process, a friendship has ensued.
The war in the Middle East is deeply painful for us both. We both know people we deeply care about who are direct victims of this war.
My friend recently celebrated the birth of his child. Mom and baby are doing well. He is so excited to be a father. Like most fathers, he wants to provide for his family and nurture his child with love and a bright future filled with opportunities. I recently celebrated the birth of a grandchild. We are overjoyed to have a new addition to our family and cannot wait for the next opportunity to shower our love. But in this beautiful moment was something chilling; it was an epiphany of sorts. How different would this be if we did not all live here.
If the war between our people never ends, what would become of our children? With the birth certificate, effectively, a death warrant would have been issued as well. Whether warriors or innocent victims, they would be the fodder for hostilities between two warring nations; we bring them into a killing machine. Birth should represent hope- the idea that there is a future and tomorrow promises something good. We do not have children so that they may be offered up, sacrificed on an altar of hate.
My friend and I shudder at this, as do many other mothers and fathers here and there. Birth is a miracle, and peace is no less. It is time to find a path forward together.
If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you…(If, by Rudyard Kipling)
Sophie Mili, illustrated If by Rudyard Kipling
How do I handle competing demands? What do I require for myself, and what do my obligations to others require? This delicate balancing act requires profound self-knowledge based on the preparation that helps us reconcile the sometimes competing if not outright conflicting, needs. Aaron demonstrates how to navigate these tricky waters in Parshat Shemini.
We encounter this repeatedly in our life journey; the competing demands of work and family are familiar to all of us, and we often find we can do only one at the expense of the other. Which takes priority? Can they weave together? This is our dilemma.
The answer is grounded in self-understanding.
The Talmud often weaves its machloket (discussions) around understanding competing values, holding two things in tension, and understanding the core values under different circumstances. We study and learn about who we are, what grounds us, and what motivates us, sometimes creating a hierarchy placing specific values above others. Contemplating the question, “Who am I?” even in troubling circumstances, we maintain ourselves and do not get consumed by the events but move through them, as complicated as the test may be. That is Shemini.
The Eighth Day, Shemini, is momentous; Aaron is to be initiated as High Priest. But by singling out the eighth day, the Torah shows us that the seven days preceding it are also significant–they constitute the formative period that brings us to a critical moment and beyond.
Aaron and his sons underwent thorough planning to assume the priesthood. Moses remained High Priest until he was assured that the training was complete and Aaron and his sons were fully ready. And then, catastrophe.
Nadav and Abihu approached God with “alien fire” and were themselves consumed. We ask ourselves why, and we wrestle trying to understand. If the crime was drunkenness, as our texts and commentators suggest, the punishment of death seems extreme. Perhaps we are trying to explain the unexplainable.
The deaths of Nadav and Abihu may have been just that; a catastrophic event that seems capricious and arbitrary. Such things happen all the time. Therefore, the question is not why this happened but how we respond when disaster comes.
We cannot imagine the overwhelming shock and pain Aaron experienced, but we can conjure ideas of how we might respond. Break down in overwhelming grief, rail against God, fall on his face and rend his clothes, publicly grieve the loss of his sons, go off to be with them and bury them, and turn his back on the priesthood. The list goes on. But that is not what Aaron did.
Aaron remained silent, although shaken to his core at the brutal death of his two sons. The commentators struggle with this silence. As a father, his initial instinct would be to mourn his two sons’ loss immediately. Nachmanides, the 13th C. Sephardic commentator, suggests the silence came after he stopped crying. Rashbam, the 12th C. commentator from Northern France and Rashi’s grandson, explains that Moses intercedes, reminding Aaron he must continue the sacred service already underway, as Aaron was just invested as High Priest and charged with the well-being of the entire people.
Wisdom is usually considered the province of the elder. The hoary head of age is a badge indicating a lived life and the experiences of that life. But experiences are merely knowledge. Once we acquire knowledge, we must embrace it as a life lesson and part of our value system and then judiciously offer it to circumstances in the future; only then can we claim to possess wisdom. Aaron arguably attains wisdom. It is borne from a horrific experience and will guide him throughout the rest of his journey.
Our commentators focus on the verse that explains drunkenness. Rashi sees this as God speaking directly to Aaron, a reward for maintaining his comportment. I suggest it is Aaron comprehending the wisdom of priesthood and the particular responsibilities of that responsibility. This wisdom is for him and the others of the priestly class and as a model for the rest of us.
The people look to Aaron as an exemplar and intercessor with God. This unique stature required Aaron to maintain his composure and dignity, continuing his work in the face of this loss. However, Aaron does not participate in the offering and, in this separation, remains connected to his sons as a mourner.
We have all encountered the moment of decision. There are two paths forward, forcing us to choose the most critical. Although many of us could not comprehend how Aaron could continue his priestly duties, many of us understand there was no other way forward for him. Regardless, we must understand ourselves well enough to determine what we would do when faced with such a test.
Only through preparation or self-awareness can we know how to respond to crises, calamities, or even the everyday things that require tradeoffs. These are not the choices of good versus evil. They are the more nuanced choices, often of good versus good, that are more complex and difficult. How do we maintain who we are and uphold the values we hold dear if we have yet to explore either concept? Only through knowing one’s self can one authentically move forward.
Ironically, the verse from Deuteronomy (30.19) resonates in such complex space, “I call heaven and earth as witnesses today against you, I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing; therefore, choose life, that both you and your descendants may live.” Therefore, we need to understand the meaning of choosing life. Indeed, even the unspeakable horror of losing a child still requires us to find a way forward in our lives and for others.
This is dynamic and constantly changing, yet, we continue to live and grow broadly from our experiences on this journey. Our self-understanding evolves, and wisdom permits us the opportunity to navigate a path forward.
The Ark in the Noah story is a craft beholden to wind, rain, and sea currents. It bobs on the water until it finally hits land. A sailboat, on the other hand, is different. Although it, too, is subject to the currents and constantly being pushed off course, it has rudder, keel, and sails. With these tools, the skilled and prepared pilot keeps the ship following the stars toward the intended destination. So too, can we as we grow older and wiser. We’ve prepared for the journey and its eventualities and can respond with that wisdom. This is the message of Shemini.
The tensions between generations has existed, likely from the beginning. Cat Stevens (Yusuf), a favorite troubadour of my youth, captures the issue in his iconic song, Father & Son. As we struggle our differences, let’s also treasure the things that link us together.
The tension between generations continues. It was embodied in this Cat Stevens /Yusef Islam music, Father & Son, that resonated so deeply for me them and now.
“There is a better place, a promised land…There is no way we get from here to there except by joining hands, marching together.” (Mishkan Tefillah, p.39)
There is a wonderful commercial on the airways. The “Good Hands” insurance folks have Tina Fey driving with her mother-in-law, aka Mayhem, portrayed by Dean Winters. It is a caricature of the tensions intrinsic in this relationship. But it is not always so, as we see in this week’s Parsha, Yitro. This week we see how the wisdom of the elder father can be shared with the son. Yitro is transferring knowledge borne from the experience of leading others, he is a Midianite priest after all, to Moses, a relative “newbie” to this challenge.
The wise should share their wisdom. That is straightforward enough. But it is in the transferring that things can often be complicated. If I try to impose my wisdom, it likely won’t be heard, shunted aside instead of embraced. I must find a way to communicate successfully, requiring understanding and sensitivity. And on the other side of this relationship, the one benefitting from wisdom needs to be ready for the learning. Jethro had to listen and find a way to connect with his son-in-law, and Moses needed to be overwhelmed enough to realize he was in over his head and was in a desperate place. Only then could that wisdom be shared.
Both sides of the relationship are challenged to set aside ego and power so that they can find a place to work together for a common purpose. How timely a message for all of us.
Shabbat Shalom!
(I have been away for a few weeks traveling in Israel and Rome. I bring home many new experiences I look forward to sharing soon.)
The appalling misuse of the Bible to defend stripping children from their parents at the border adds insult to injury, something I would have thought all but impossible given the heinous underlying act. It makes the indefensible downright obscene.
Whatever our personal position on strong border controls may be, this inhumane action undermines our most fundamental values. We are a nation of laws, but very importantly we are also a nation of hope. Our laws can be applied humanely with mercy and compassion. This egregious violation of our values is a symptom of a growing cancer in our society.
In an age of increasing division and antipathy, this moment needs to serve as a tipping point. Can we aspire to be the light unto the other nations, leading by example or must we retreat building walls that separate us in the name of protecting us? History shows us time and again that the latter approach ultimately fails. And by the time the walls are ultimately breached, what found inside is a hollow shell of the greatness that once lived.
Our greatness comes not from the domination of a ruler, or even the majority. Our greatness springs from America’s ability to protect and defend the minority when the majority prevails, exercising its will civilly and compassionately.
To those who find the actions on our borders justifiable, shame on you for your heartlessness. To those who find these actions unjustifiable, our thoughts must be backed by action that will cause change. Otherwise, we too will be responsible for the horrors wrought upon the children.
Parashah Shelach helps me understand a fundamental part of the human condition giving perspective into the fickle nature of the Israelite people’s relationship to their God as the Almighty leads them from bondage to the Promised Land. Put simply, the people lack trust. Not just in God, but more fundamentally in themselves. The text asks if I am unable to trust in myself, how can I be in a relationship with anyone else including even God?
The Almighty has been steadfast as a protector and provider, out of Egypt, across the Red Sea and to Sinai. Yet, at every turn, the people complain, unable to place their trust in God. In Parashah Shelach, God asks the people to send a reconnaissance team into the land that God has promised. The scouts return with more than information about the people and the land; the scouts conclude that they are like giants and we are like grasshoppers. They are of greater Middot[1] than we. Any attempt to conquer the land is doomed, even though this was the Land that God had promised. I was perplexed baffled by this lack of trust in God until I realized that in actuality, this was fundamentally a lack of trust in themselves, making it impossible to trust in God.
This insight remains as true today as it was then. Only when we are able to trust in ourselves can we then trust in another. Trust is the capacity to open ourselves to a deeper sharing, creating a more profound relationship. But this also requires becoming vulnerable to someone else. Our lack of trust, or fear of what bad might happen, is overcome by the hope of what good could be by establishing bonds of trust.
We so often build emotional walls around us. We believe the walls are meant to protect us. But in fact, these walls shut us off, creating a spiritual and emotional prison that keeps us from others as surely as they shut others out. But our greatest joy comes when we are in a relationship with others, when we can trust in ourselves enough to entrust others with the most intimate parts of who we are. Although it is scary to admit our fears, it is also empowering; for it opens us up to the possibilities of the heart.
This trust and openness is not a place of weakness; it takes a strong person who is able to show vulnerability. To show someone else, a spouse or a child, that you need them and their help requires inner strength and courage. It reinforces and deepens the relationship bringing you closer than before. Together you can face what certainly would have been a lonely battle by yourself. This becomes a message of hope.
The meaning of Shelach is ultimately this message of hope, which might seem counterintuitive. The older people are consigned to die in the desert so that the next generation is properly prepared to enter the Land. But it is this older generation who are the teachers of the generation that will enter the Promised Land. Even though they suffer the consequences of mistrust, the rest of the Torah shows them grapple with this important lesson and strive to teach their children well.
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[1] The term Middot, in Numbers 13:32, has been translated to mean size or stature. However, in the context of Mussar, Middot also means measure, character, or values. The Torah might have this broader understanding of this word, strengthening the argument posited in this essay.
Our tradition speaks at great lengths about filial obligations, the responsibilities of children to honor and revere their parents. Likewise, much is written about our obligations as parents to raise children properly, to teach them, and to prepare them for the world. But do we teach them Torah when we do not live it our selves? We do not teach them to build a better world but instead how to selfishly survive in it.
We offer them a world based on material gain, our nation withdrawing from its predominant place in the world, communal strife, a political system challenging the legitimacy of its fundamental institutions, and an economy that will burden them with almost intolerable crushing debt. We have not built a better world for them. And yet, these young people have galvanized in the wake of the Parkland horror. And that gives me hope. For even though we have not done right by them, they seek changes that will benefit us all.
Do we deserve our kids? That remains an open question until we begin to act as though they truly are the most prized things in our lives. We can start by supporting them in their efforts to address gun violence, this grievous wrong in our society that has murdered so many of them. Support them as they raise their voices, join them as they march in March. Help make the world they inherit better than what we have now.
I am excited to announce the launch of Conversations for Life and Legacy™.
Conversations for Life and Legacy™ is a whole new approach to sharing our wisdom, making meaning in our lives, and connecting beyond ourselves drawing upon the insights of Jewish tradition and text.
Conversations for Life and Legacy™ goes far beyond an Ethical Will to share our sacred stories in unique new ways. Among the particular innovations are using a rabbi trained in chaplaincy to guide the interview and capturing it all on video.
Please look at our new website: www.ConversationsForLifeAndLegacy.com to explore this new approach; see what it can mean to you and how it can be brought to your community.
Today we also launch a Facebook page: ConversationsForLifeAndLegacy and we will be on Twitter as well @rabbidavidlevincll.
