Worry?

The seventeenth century philosopher, Baruch Spinoza thought of worry is “an inconstant pain” arising from the thought that something bad might happen in the future.  For Spinoza, worry is essentially future oriented.  Even if our focus of worry is about something that happened in the past, it is only in relation to how it will affect our future.  - Rabbi Gregory S. Marx

So what does this mean?  That we spend invaluable, irreplaceable time agonizing over what only  might come to pass?

A New Year Goes

Julius Lester wrote, “I don’t like it when gentile and Jewish friends greet me at Rosh Hashanah with “Happy New Year.” Rosh Hashanah is not the equivalent of January 1.

“I have never understood what “Happy New Year” is supposed to mean. I’ve never been sure that I want to be wished happiness. I’m not sure I know what happiness is, or that it is as important as we think. Happiness feels better than misery, but some of the most important periods of my life have been the ones of profound unhappiness. For all the feelings of well-being that happiness bestows upon us, it is not the goal of life.”

The holy days are over.  Families gathered and returned back to their homes.  The rushes of gatherings, holiday meals, and good wishes have long receded into thin memories.  We have pleaded for life and forgiveness. We starved ourselves on Yom Kippur as we imagined God surrounded by each soul and myriads of Angels waiting in turn for judgment.  A stay has been granted. 

Sukkot have been put away for another year.  Etrog and lulav are already turning brown.

Now comes the hard part. Longing for real change, it comes upon us in most mundane ways.  Judaism is a religion of faith in action.  Professing our belief in the God of Abraham and the importance of Judaism is nice, but for us God is not in the details; God is in what we do.  

That is why this is the hard part.  The Hebrew month we are in is Heshvan.  In Heshvan there are no holydays: it is empty of the numerous cues reminding us of God and self that dot the calendar for the rest of the year.   To fully realize our Jewish identity we must reach toward the promises we made last month and aspirations we vowed on Kol Nidre and begin to embody them.  This is our time to be tested, our Akeidah of sorts, determining whether the faith God trusted to us when our life was in the balance was well placed.

“After ecstasy, the laundry,” states an ancient wisdom.

Folding the clothes and putting them away we can sing a song to God.  In rising each morning we can say the Sh’ma and praise God for another day.  Instead of throwing papa’s tefillin away we can learn to put them on.  Perhaps mama’s tzedaka box can be retrieved from the cardboard boxes in the attic.  We can remember our parent’s yahrzeit and come to shul to say Kaddish for them this year.  From blessing our children to lighting Shabbat candles this is our time, our test.

Theologian Eugene Borowitz wrote, “No philosophy today empowers and elevates conscience, while economics, sociology, psychology and particularly psychoanalysis make man distrustful of it.”  So what can elevate our sense of wellbeing if not lofty ideas?  Doing the right thing.  Doing the godly thing.  Following and acting on the faith of the ages.  We are what we do.  We are not what we think. 

We have 613 mitzvot.  Pick one, any one, and start there.

Like Julius Lester, I did not wish you a “Happy New Year” on Rosh Hashanah but I did wish you a fulfilling one where you can become God’s vision of you.  My wish for you has not changed.

Some people call Heshvan, Mar-Heshvan, meaning the “bitter” Heshvan because of the lack of holidays.  I think of Heshvan as the month of opportunity.  It is a testing ground to determine whether we have changed or only aged another year.

Blessed are the Different

In olden days (not so very long ago) people who looked significantly different from others were placed in circuses where spectators could ogle and spit with no fear of any wrongdoing.  After all, the bearded lady and tiny prince were on display!  They were on stage, parading about as weird anomalies of nature.

            In yet older times, such individuals were thought to be possessed of demons.  Their parents must have committed some foul crime to give birth to such offspring!  Like the famed hunchback of Notre Dame there was no limit to the cruelties that could be leveled at them.  Human dignity extended only as far as the eye could see.

            Ancient Greeks would place deformed infants on the mountaintops to die of exposure.  The Greek civilization reasoned that they could be of little use to their family and society, if allowed to live.  The Nazis also adopted this notion of utility.  Their logic was that if members of society could not be productive, they would be leeches draining the nation of valuable resources.  Better they should be exterminated.  That is why the Nazis first gassed the mentally impaired- no use wasting energy on a population segment that could not create the nascent Reich.

Wendy Mogul, author of  Blessings of a Skinned Knee: Using Jewish Teachings to Raise Self-Reliant Children describes this scene:

                    When my family and I were studying at a Hebrew language institute in Israel one summer, we were housed at a hotel with a large group of what the Israelis called "special people" (mentally retarded and physically handicapped adults) enjoying their government-sponsored beach holiday. My children had never before seen people as peculiar looking and oddly behaved as these. One had a large knobby growth protruding from her ear, one had legs two inches in diameter, and there was Moti, a friendly young man of very limited intelligence. Moti spent much of his time vigorously greeting every passerby with a hearty "Good Morning!" and a nonstop handshake whatever the hour, day or night.

                     You see, most of the world would rather have sights like this far removed from their vision.  Yet, in Israel, the “special people” are a part of the fabric of everyday life.

A definition.  Normal, n. anyone like me.

                                                                             É

                     From the time we are young we are taught to make distinctions between us and them.  The boys have a contest against the girls.  The teachers vs. students.  The in-crowd vs the geeks.  Us vs. them.  Aryans vs Jews.  Backs vs whites.  Where distinctions become more limited we invent them.  Tutsis vs. Hutus.  Hindus vs Sikhs. 

                     Sometimes we resort to self-definition by what we are not.  That is, we develop an identity by pointing to others and saying “that’s not me.”  I suspect the people that visited the Man with the Elephant Ears went home feeling much better about themselves.  I also suspect that the Nazis felt empowered as they rid themselves of human detritus much in the same way that the Greeks blessed themselves when they produced healthy children.

                     Closest to the truth is that no one fits the mold of “normal.”  No one.  As we are all cast in a unique fashion – everyone is either normal or abnormal.  Take your pick.  “Why did God create all humanity through one human being?” asks the Talmud.  “So that no one can say that their lineage is superior.”  It then goes on to say that, “no two people are exactly alike even though we are all made from the same mold.  Therefore everyone must say The universe was created for my sake.”    Mishna Sanhedrin 4:5

                        There's a Jewish blessing that is said when you see exceptionally beautiful people or things: "Blessed are you, Lord our God, who has such beauty in His universe." And there is one to say when noticing strange-looking people or animals: "Blessed are you, Lord our God, who varies creation."

            Pay close attention: We do not recoil when we see a human being different from the “norm.”  We are not to “count our blessings” either.  Instead, our faith holds that we thank God for having created each person uniquely.  Unlike the Nazis and other societies we do not kill the disabled or gawk at them to appreciate our own bounty; they are to be valued as much as the abled. 

The Story of One Man's Quest for Truth

All life is becoming; it is process. The mark of the greatest preachers of all time has not been their ability to craft a flawless piece of rhetoric but to connect to the moment. Lots of people move the heads of their listeners, fewer can move their heart. Reading sermons that were delivered decades ago are invariably interesting,  yet of more historical significance than words which touch us at our core.

     Rabbis and speakers, like the Maggidim of old whom we emulate, are people who can connect with the moment. They are dynamic because they can accurately read the pulse of society. By their dead reckoning, the focus of each talk, invocation, eulogy and sermon respond to the active needs of the listener. The attention of the congregation is bolted. They sit rapt because the preacher has spoken a truth that they have not yet learned to articulate, but nonetheless recognize as truth.

     Even rarer are the individuals whose words reverberate throughout the twists of the epochs. To think that  one medieval grape farmer in France would be quoted for centuries-to-come is remarkable. Rashi’s words speak to  scholar, mystic and agnostic alike. The far-reaching impact of Rashi is evidence of his brilliance on the ground  in his own era and ours. It is difficult not to be awed by him.

     The Hasidic Masters have been made accessible to us by contemporary insightful writers, scholars, and historians. Their words have found a receptive and hungry audience in modernity. Classes and books in spirituality and Kabbalah abound. What Louis Jacobs has called “pop Kabbalah” has tapped into a wide and spiritually conscious generation. In our time, Jews have been underwhelmed by the lack of depth they perceive in their faith. All they learned about Judaism was as children in inadequate Hebrew Schools. Many, as a result have looked outward for meaning. Some have turned inward and have asked  the question Howard Kushner posed to us more than one decade ago “Is this all there is?”.

     Arthur Green has opened up for us a response in the form of a translation of the S’fat Emet. In The Language of Truth, Green has compiled and translated and commented on the Master’s works, Rabbi Yehudah Leib Alter of Ger.

     To his credit, Green allows the Hasidic Sage to speak for himself. Organized by Sidra and Holy Days, The Language of Truth is an accurate English translation of Rabbi Yehudah Leib. The commentary of the S’fat Emet contains the qualities of  spiritual depth combined with existential meaning. In one instance, the S’fat Emet records Rashi’s statement of Sarah’s life as being complete and whole. Going on to state that each of us has the potential to imbue every moment with meaning so that maturity is not a remote notion, the S’fat Emet reckons that Sarah’s life may be a paradigm for us. He writes: “Every day of our lives we are given [the opportunity of] some special thing to set aright.”

     In another instance, the S’fat Emet weighs the meaning of the “Giving of the Torah.” When the people  Israel received the Word of God they were sated with power. Like the Angels,

the people Israel were awakened to the strength of God by their full understanding of the Divine Will. At Sinai, the Psalmist said of them “You are gods.” The S’fat Emet takes the point even further by telling his listeners that when they observe the mitzvot of the sabbatical or jubilee on Shabbat they return to the “times when this former power is awakened.”

     The words are terse. There is little room for rhetoric, less for hyperbole. Each vort is concise, almost abrupt. As if sensing this, Arthur Green closes each lecture with something tangible. At the end of Hayyey Sarah, he writes.

       For some of us teshuvah, the return to God, needs to constitute a drastic or even violent change in the way we have been living. But there are those for whom teshuvah is constant throughout life, who are always turned at to God, returning energy to the One. For them, teshuvah is as natural as breathing and as indispensable a part of life.

     This is the stuff which has a unique appeal to our spiritually impoverished generation. A thought: Is it coincidence  that the least knowledgeable / observant community is also the one with the deepest yearning for spirituality? The S’fat Emet is one of those remarkable commentaries which addresses the deep needs of our people.

     To whom would this book be useful? The morsels Rabbi Yehudah Leib provides are succulent. They at once inspire and elevate. The S’fat Emet takes a positive view of the great potential of each Jew.  We are people who can reach the spiritual heights of our biblical ancestors.

     Not satisfied with mere exposition, the Hasidic Master fervently believes in the living breathing relationship between God and His people. For example, one way we reach the highest realms by self-negation (bittul). Yet this self-negation is expressed by the S’fat Emet in terms of “…becoming holy where we are right here in this world a person can become more holy than the Seraphim” One can almost hear Shlomo Carlbach (of blessed memory) singing out the same words. These are the sentiments which infuse us with hope and joy. They invite us to become more than we are.

     Truth is, Green’s work is not a speedy read: it moves in a condensed, yet powerful way. The verbiage is sparse. For those who seek inspiration, the segments presented for each Torah Reading and holiday provide great impetus for thought and reflection. Each kernel that the S’fat Emet gives is a spark evoking a whole chain of ideas.

     A person seeking depth and meaning will find this tome

a worthy companion. For these looking for the original text, the Hebrew version is found in the rear.

     The Language of Truth is about a personal quest for greater holiness. Rabbi Yehudah Leib was more than a teacher, he was a craftsman who ever refined and reshaped his work. Maybe that is why the S’fat Emet is so powerful. There are no platitudes here, just a spiritual process—a yearning to then connect with the Ultimate Master.

Masters of our Fate

One of my favorite teachers was Rabbi Levi Yitshak of Berditchev.  Why? Perhaps because he was so full of life and vitality.  Every subject he spoke of, or examined, was infused with a special urgency.  Rabbi Levi Yitshak was aflame with Torah.  It is true that some could not stand his brilliance so they instead retreated to the safety of their minds.  Most however simply stood in his light and absorbed the radiance.  It changed them forever.

Some of the Master’s sayings were:

“You can get a hoarse throat davvening before the lectern.  But not before the Almighty.”

“Life can be so painful.  Know this: God Himself is in exile.”

“Lord, Master of the Universe”, prayed Levi Yitshak, “I saw a simple Jew bend down to pick up his tefillin when they fell.  He kissed them so sweetly.  Dear Lord, pick me up, your child.  Kiss me.”

“You can see whether a person really loves God by the way she treats people.”

“Your mind is the Holy of Holies”

We are a people in search of life.  To that extent pharmaceuticals are a reasonably safe investment.  They are about the only stock that has not done too poorly in the market downturn.  One reason for the popularity of drugs is that people are looking for some relief to take the edge off living and at the same time make life’s experiences more meaningful.  The best control over a random life, modernity thinks, is to be insulated from pain.

The Master thinks otherwise.  In fact, most of what he is quoted as saying revolves around sensation.  Levi Yitshak’s insistence is that we access joy within.  “Mitzvah g’dola l’hiyot b’simha,” It is a great Mitzvah to celebrate life, to be full of exuberance.  While the advice is simple enough it is not easily done.

There is an ancient tale about the powerful Greek conqueror, Alexander the Great.  He was sitting in judgment.  A man had come before him to plead for his life.  Alexander the Great, after hearing the defendant, pronounced his verdict, “guilty.”

“Your majesty,” he cried. “I appeal.”

“To whom do you appeal?” sneered the ruler.  “There is no one higher in authority than myself.”

“I appeal from Alexander the Small to Alexander the Great.”

There is much more in us.  We know this.  Becoming God’s vision of us would be consummate achievement-- for then we would know that we have become as “Great” as deep inside we know ourselves capable of being.

             Earlier this year we read about Avram who was called up by Gd to leave everything familiar and travel to unknown parts; “to a land that I will show you.”  Yet, no sooner had Avram arrived in the Land when a famine urged him south to Egypt.  So Levi Yitshak asks, ‘Why did God lie to him?’  Why was Avram told that he could live in the new land when famine expelled him from it soon after his arrival?’

             ‘No,’ say s Levi Yitshak.  The Torah says, “that I will show you,” not that will be forever yours.   God was giving Avram a vision of the future, a glimpse of the deep beauty that would sustain him in the darkest times when faith might otherwise abandon him.  So when Avram sought refuge in Egypt from the land’s destitution, he remembered the promise and the vision of the Holy Land.  In the dark nights of terror when Avram feared for his life, he would later recall what he was shown and this was enough for him to survive.

In a seminal work by survivor Viktor Frankl, he questions how survival was possible where every attempt was made to dehumanize the victims of the Shoah.  The camps were to become a mirror of what the Nazis tried to impose upon their victims.  How then to remain human where all vestiges of humanity were absent?  How can a person survive when riven of all hope?  The brutality of the Nazis was matched by their continual treatment of Jews as certainly less-than-human and less-than-animal.  How did those who were able to survive find both the will to live as well as maintain an image of their own humanity in the midst of such depravity?

Those who were able to focus on small acts of courage and keep mental images of hope had the best chance for survival.  Frankl tells tales of heroism like sharing a crust of bread or aiding the sick in the midst of a hell that only promised punishment for acts of goodness.  In this place words of hope could be exchanged provided a glimpse of a possible future.  “The prisoner who had lost faith in the future - his future – was doomed.”  In other words, Frankl, like Avram, saw a picture of how life once was and could become once more… and this was enough to sustain him.

“Life is a journey”, said the rebbe.  “And how we you traverse the road?”  He answered, “We begin with a single step.” 

Our teachers, Masters, and rabbis never indicated to us that life would be unencumbered or simple.  What they did teach us, however, was that with a vision how life can be, we can at least be masters of our own fate.