Friday, July 28, 2017

Yesterday, July 27th, was the third action for health care in the last two weeks in which I participated. I was arrested at the first two, I spoke at the third - I had the honor of following the great Rev. Barber.
I begin speaking at 11:47 (and a few other appearances later - including me singing slightly off key -oh, well!) plus keep an eye for excellent colleague Rabbi Ruti Reagan in a blue silk tallit, but you should really watch the entire thing - it's worth it, believe me.
Oh, also... did I mention... we won?

Here is, more or less, the text of my remarks:

Good morning,
I am Rabbi Alana Suskin. I am not anyone famous or important -except that as a rabbi, I am called to be a kli kodesh - a vessel for the holy, and in that role, two days ago, I was arrested in the Senate gallery for chanting alongside dozens of other people: clergy of all faiths, physicians, grieving mothers, and many more American citizens. Our message was clear: Kill the Bill. Protect our care.

I was in the Senate gallery that day because, as a rabbi and as a Jew, I am obligated to stand up for those who cannot stand up for themselves.  I came to the Senate to tell them, that it is a moral and religious obligation for our society to care for the sick.

Today, once again, speaking with one voice, we implore Senators to oppose any efforts to repeal the Affordable Care Act.

The Book of Isaiah warns, “Woe to you who make unjust laws, to those who issue oppressive decrees to deprive the poor of their rights and withhold justice from the oppressed of my people, making widows their prey and robbing the fatherless.” The Republican health care bill that strips children, families and elderly people of affordable coverage is the very definition of such an unjust law. It would leave more than 32 million people without healthcare by 2026.

Who will comfort the grieving mothers, the bereft fathers, the children whose parents died far too young to raise them? Who will hold their hands and wipe their tears? I refuse. I refuse to let this state of affairs come to pass. There is no justification for slashing Medicaid and taking health insurance away from 32 million low-income Americans, people with disabilities, children and seniors -- while lavishing tax cuts on insurance companies and the very wealthy.

There is no excuse for letting insurance companies impose lifetime limits that cut off your insurance as you face life-threatening disease. It is immoral. There is no acceptable reason. We will not stand for it.

The Golden Rule, to not do to others what we would not have done to us, is a fundamental value held across faiths.  But Members of Congress who vote for the Senate health care repeal bill will still have coverage for themselves, while leaving millions of Americans at risk of bankruptcy, health emergencies and death. The American Health Care Act makes a mockery of the Golden Rule.

Hebrew Scripture teaches in many, many, places, that as a society, we have a duty to care for the poor, the vulnerable, and the oppressed.
In Leviticus, we are told, “If your brother is becoming poor, and is not able to support himself; then you must support him...” Jewish commentaries[i] explain, “If your brother is becoming poor, do not let him fall. He is like a load resting on a wall; as long as it is still not fallen, just a single person can hold it and prevent it from falling, but once it has fallen to the ground, even five cannot raise it up again.”
Once people fall into deep difficulty it takes a much greater effort to help them –if it is possible at all. Emergency room care isn’t enough: we must enable everyone to access health care.

Behold the sin of your sister Sodom: pride, satiation, and a quiet, peaceful mind was in her and in her daughters; neither did she strengthen the hand of the poor and needy [ii].
We stand together today – and for as long as it takes – against repealing the ACA. We must vote down ANY bill that would strip healthcare from 33 million people.

In the book of Deuteronomy
we read:
אַחֲרֵי יְהֹוָה אֱלֹהֵיכֶם תֵּלֵכוּ …
You shall walk after the Lord your God…

The rabbinic sages
[iv] explain: What does this mean: …[It means] to walk after the attributes of the Holy One, blessed be. As God clothes the naked, … so must you clothe the naked. As God, visits the sick…  so must you visit the sick. As God comforts mourners, so must you comfort mourners...

If we are commanded to walk after the attributes of God, well, it is also written in Exodus[v]
אֲנִי יְהֹוָה רֹפְאֶךָ
I, God, am your healer.
As God heals the sick, so must we heal the sick.

Senators now must answer a moral question: whom do they serve? Do they serve all the people, or do they serve only millionaires and powerful special interests? If they serve the people, they will reject this bill.

[i] (Sifra 109b on Leviticus 25:35)
[ii] (Ezekiel 16:49)
[iii] (13:5)
[iv] (Talmud Sotah 14a)
[v] 15:26

Sunday, July 23, 2017

Between the Straits. Delivered at All Souls Unitarian Church, July 2017

Here is (more or less) the text of this sermon:

In the section of scriptures that the Jewish community reads this week, the story of five women seems nearly an afterthought. Yet, unlike many biblical women, all five are given names, and this is an indication that we should pay close attention. These five women appear only one other time in the five books of Moses, but they bear an important message.
Earlier, the daughters of Tzlophchad (Makhlah, Tirtzah, Khoglah, Milcah, and No‘ah) come before Moses with a complaint. At that point, in Biblical law, only sons can inherit their fathers. The father of these five had had no sons. So the five women went and stood before Moses, before Elazar the priest, before the heads of all the tribes, and before all the community, to point out  that this meant that their family’s inheritance would disappear, and they demanded to inherit from their father. Moses heard their cause, and took it to God. And God said to Moses, “The daughters of Tzeophchad speak rightly, give them their father’s inheritance. Furthermore, from now on, the law is changed -and then the passage goes on for a while to explain exactly how the law is to be changed.
In the passage this week in which the daughters of Tzelophchad are mentioned, there is a further clarification of the law, and then they carry out God’s commands, and they get married, and everyone lives happily ever after.
Together, these two passages make up possibly one of the most extraordinary moments in the Torah, in the Five books of Moses – and that’s no small feat. This is, as far as I can recall, the only instance of a regular, everyday person taking a complaint up to the highest levels --and causing an unjust law to be changed –by God, Godself! And not just a regular everyday person, but five women who have no father. This is, biblically, almost the very definition of a powerless person, a person with no one to advocate for them, and so, they advocated for themselves, marching up to the tent of meeting, which is their version of the marble cladded halls of power, and demanding that an unjust law be changed.
And surprisingly, the rabbinic sages approve wholeheartedly. In the code of Jewish law and commentary called the Talmud, one of the most canonical and central of Jewish texts collected over centuries and compiled around the year 500, the rabbis say (bava batra 119b),
  בנות צלפחד חכמניות הן דרשניות הן צדקניות הן
  “The daughters of Tzelophehad are wise, they are darshaniot – which means something  like interpreters of Torah, but also means something like seekers, and they are righteous.”
The rabbis add, “That they are wise can be seen from the fact that they spoke in accordance with the moment.” The great commentator Rashi adds, “Their eyes saw what Moses’ did not. “
The rabbis continue, explaining that we know they are interpreters of Torah – in other words, learned equals of the rabbis- by demonstrating that the women must have been familiar with the law, and brought their claim through logic and argument.   And the rabbis conclude that (Sanhedrin 8b): The daughters of Tzelophechad merited that the law be written through them…This is to teach you that punishment is brought about through the sinful, and reward is brought about through the righteous.
Remember the daughters of Tzelophchad, because we’re going to need them in a bit.
It’s hot outside.  It is, in fact, humid, miserable, and oppressive. This period of the summer, for Jews, falls during a three-week period of mourning leading up the saddest day in our calendar, the 9th of the month of Av, the day on which Jerusalem fell and the Temple there was destroyed. This moment of our history turns out to be, in many ways, the defining one of Jewish memory, and a pivotal event in the creation of rabbinic (that is to say, modern) Judaism. So we might want to ask, of the many possible ways to remember this event, how do the sages choose to explain what happened?

In the Talmud, and aso partly in another early text from the same period, a very early commentary (midrash) on the book of Lamentations, the rabbis retell the story of this tragedy: it begins with a party.

A tale is told of one of the wealthy men of Jerusalem who made a banquet, inviting everyone.

This man had a friend, Kamtza, and an enemy, Bar Kamtza.  [This wealthy man] made a party and said to his servant, Go and bring Kamtza. The [servant] went and brought Bar Kamtza. When the man [who gave the party] found [Bar Kamtza] there he said, …what are you doing here? Get out. Said [bar Kamtza]: Since I am here, let me stay, and I will pay you for whatever I eat and drink.

[The host] said, I won't. [Bar Kamtza said] Then let me give you half the cost of the party. No, said the [host]. Then let me pay for the whole party [said Bar kamtza]. [The host] still said, No, and he took him by the hand and put him out.

R. Zecharia b. Avqulos, who was capable of protesting, was there, but he didn’t protest. (In Hebrew)
Upon leaving, [bar kamtza] said, “I get thrown out in shame, and let them sit there in peace?!”

Said [bar kamtza to himself], Since the Rabbis were sitting there and did not stop him, this shows that they agreed with him. I will go and inform against them, to the Government.

He went and said to the Emperor, The Jews are rebelling against you. [The Emperor] said, How can I tell? [Bar Kamtza] said to him: Send them an offering and see whether they will offer it [on the altar of the Temple]. So [the Emperor] sent with [bar kamtza] a fine calf.  While on the way he made a blemish …on the white of its eye, in a place where [Jews] count it a blemish but the [Romans] do not.

The Rabbis were inclined to offer it in order not to offend the Government. Said Rabbi Zechariah ben Abkulas to them: People will say that blemished animals are offered on the altar [of the Temple – ie. That we do not follow the laws about sacrifices]. They then proposed to kill Bar Kamtza so that he should not go and inform against them, but R. Zechariah b. Abkulas said to them, Is one who makes a blemish on consecrated animals to be put to death? R. Yohanan thereupon remarked: Through the scrupulousness of R. Zechariah b. Abkulas our House has been destroyed, our Temple burnt and we ourselves exiled from our land....

This is … a very peculiar story. Given that the rabbis themselves redacted the Talmud, one would think they might not include this story, which does not put the rabbis in a particularly good light.

But the rabbis clearly felt the need to make this point: that the worst tragedy in our history, which resulted in persecution, famine, and the destruction of the central institution of our religion (at the time) was the result of a very human chain of events in which the leaders of the people turned a blind eye to one man publicly shaming another, followed up by that same set of leaders waffling in their responsibilities to act to protect their people from the malice engendered by their own actions.

In fact, in another section of the Talmud, one of the rabbis says specifically, “Jerusalem was destroyed only because they did not rebuke each other: for it is said, Her princes are become like harts that find no pasture: (Lam. 1:6.)  Just as the hart, the head of one is at the side of the others's tail, so Israel of that generation hid their faces in the earth, (i.e. turned their faces away from the evil that the other did)  and did not rebuke each other.” (Shabbat 119b)

It seems to me to be a harsh, accurate, reflection on the failings of the leadership of the time. The rabbinic sages had a great deal to say about what a proper leader is. Elsewhere in the Talmud, they call out exactly the situation that seems to have been described in our story. They say, (Shabbat 54b-55a) Whoever can rebuke his household but does not, is held responsible for [the sins of] his household; [if he can rebuke] his fellow citizens, he is held responsible for [the sins of] his fellow citizens; if the whole world, he is held responsible for [the sins of] the whole world.

In other words, as Rabbi Zechariah b. Abkulas stood by and did nothing as a man was shamed, he is held responsible for not only the shaming – which in our tradition is considered comparable to murder – but for the results that followed.

This is possibly the exact opposite of the story of the daughters of Tzelophchad.
They are both stories about the relationship between regular people and people in power:
In the first story, the daughters of Tzelophchad feel wronged. They, through no fault of their own, have been deprived of their land, and they aren’t going to take it sitting down. And they don’t!

The second story is also a story about someone who is wronged, and who decides to do something about it.

In the first instance, the focus seems to be on the women and in the second, it appears to be on the leaders. And we might want to investigate why.

And this is the crux of the matter: in each story, both sides of the wrong have choices to make. As you recall, Tzelophchad’s daughters are lauded by the community, and even by God. They chose to stand up against injustice,  and they did it firmly – they didn’t ask, they instructed. And yet, they also clearly made a point of respecting the community they were in to do so, and so they were called wise, insightful and righteous.

Bar Kamtza made a different choice, he reacted to his – very correct- reading of the situation saying that he was going to get revenge against the leaders who failed to stand up for him, but in doing so he rained destruction down on everyone.

But in the case of the five women, they are given credit for doing things the right way, but in Bar Kamtza’s case, his role is nearly ignored, and it is the leaders who are held responsible, nd I believe that the difference did lie in the behavior of the leaders.
Moses listened. He took their criticism to heart, and he acted on it.
This made that event a stirring example not only of the power of common people to stand up for what is right, but of an example of what good leadership looks like.
In contrast, the leaders in Bar Kamtza’s case weren’t malicious, they were perhaps worse – they were apathetic.  Rabbi Zechariah ben Abkulous did nothing as Bar Kamtza was humiliated and thrown out. And then together with the other leaders of the community, they failed to take any action at all.
The name for this three week period that Jews are currently observing is “Bein HaMeitzarim” which means “Between the straits.”
It seems to me that we stand here today, as Americans, “between the straits.” We are living in a moment in which our leaders are unwise, and we, the people, have to make choices about how to react to the deep unwisdom which threatens the social order.
We are, I believe, living with leaders far more like Zechariah Ben Avkulous, than like Moses. The daughters of Tzelophchad had the benefit of a leader who could hear  their wisdom and insight, and who valued their righteousness. That allowed them to stand before the community and repair what was broken.
And so it leaves us to wonder about what might have been. We know – we can see today – that some people love to blow things up. They want to see the crash. But today, it’s not just the  people who are hurting who want this – it seems to be the leaders as well.
What could have happened if Zechariah ben Avkulous stood up at the party and stopped the action, perhaps made peace between Bar Kamtza and his enemy? Perhaps he would have been unsuccessful at that, but at least Bar Kamtza would have seen that someone stood up for him. Perhaps he wouldn’t have then brought destruction upon the entire community.
And so, if our country is filled with bar Kamtzas who are hurt, and want to lash out at everyone, and our leaders are unwise, then, it must fall to us to be aware – to be Tzelophchad’s daughters – wise and insightful and righteous. If there is no Moses to help, then we must go all the way to the top and make sure that the inequity is fixed at its root.
The mystical book the Zohar says, “Rabbi Jose said ‘I was reflecting that the condition of mankind depends entirely on their leaders: when these are worthy, the world and all in it prosper, but when they are unworthy, woe to the world and woe to the people!’    -- Zohar, Sh’mot, Section II, 36b

In the medieval book, the sefer hakuzari, which is a dialogue between a king and a rabbi:
2. The Kuzari said, “Tell me how the upright and pious people of your religion behave.”
3. The Rabbi said, “An upright person is one who is concerned with his country. He provides all its citizens with their every provision and need. He leads them justly, does not oppress any one of them, and does not give to any one of them more than his rightful share ...”
4. The Kuzari said, “I asked you about an upright person, not a leader!”
5. The Rabbi said, “An upright person is a leader. All of his senses and attributes – both
spiritual and physical – submit themselves to his command. He thus leads them just like a real
world leader, as it says, ‘He who rules his spirit is greater than one who captures a city’ (Mishlei/Proverbs 16:32). He has shown that he is fit to govern – that were he to rule over a country, he would preside over it justly, just as he has done with his own body and soul.”

So what do we do when we have no leaders who are worthy? We must act after the model of the daughters of Tzelophchad.  We must be righteous and in justice and care for others, we must take our vision to the halls of power, and we must walk before the powerful and not ask, but insist, that the wrongs be righted.

Thursday, January 26, 2017

Va'era: When God is hard within us

The Maor Eynaim (in his commentary on Brachot) says,
האדם הוא כמו שמראה בעצמו, כך מתראה למעלה: אם בגדלות הוא, מעורר למעלה בגדלות, ואי אפשר להאיר לעולם גשמי כזה
“A person is a mirror, just as he reflects himself, so is that reflection made above: if he is full of aggrandizement (gadlut) then so it will be above and it is impossible to bring light into the world this way.”

At the beginning of our torah portion, Moses is hesitant to appear before pharaoh. To reassure him, God tells Moses what will happen when Moses speaks to pharaoh. And God tells him, now, before Pharaoh has done anything, before Moses has even spoken to Pharaoh, before a single plague descends, that God will harden Pharaoh’s heart and multiply signs and wonders in Egypt.  

What most of us don’t realize is that God doesn’t actually harden pharaoh’s heart  until after the sixth plague – next week, actually- when the Torah finally says that God hardened Pharaoh’s heart.

Many of the commentaries on this Torah portion reflect on the problem of Pharaoh's hardened heart. Some, on the troubling implication that if God hardened Pharaoh's heart, is there such a thing as free will or the possibility of repentance? Others focus on the two main characters who reflect opposite traits: Pharaoh is the arrogant king, full of pride; Moses is the hero, humble and reluctant. But both of these ways of looking at the story take for granted a particular view of the back and forth in the narrative over the hardening of Pharaoh’s heart: that Pharaoh’s behavior is worse as he goes along.
And while most commentaries do accept this way of looking at the story, I stumbled across a comment by Rabbi Moses Schreiber (1762–1839), the Hatam Sofer that completely changed the way I saw the story.  He writes that until the sixth plague, all the plagues and warnings had had no effect because Pharaoh was so deeply involved in his own sin of pride… but with the last plagues, we are told that God hardened his heart, and that that was a sign that God was with Pharaoh. 

The Hatam Sofer is paying very close attention to the language at the end of our portion and the beginning of next week’s. He notices that at the very beginning of next week’s Torah portion, God announces to Moses that he has made Pharaoh’s heart heavy (10:1) and that this follows closely the end of this week’s portion, in which Pharaoh admits the possibility that he might not be doing the right thing. Pharoah says (9:27), “This time I have sinned, God is the Righteous One, and I and my people are wicked.” Although after the plague of hail and rain, Pharaoh one more time strengthens himself against God, the crack has appeared, and God is able to enter his heart. 

It is only now that a change occurs. To stress the point:
Pharaoh isn’t getting worse – this is where he gets better. Until the sixth plague, the aggrandizement, the gadlut, in his heart has crowded out all else. But suddenly, God is able to enter, and that is when the possibility of pressuring Pharaoh to change begins to be possible. When the Torah tells us that God hardened pharaoh’s heart, it shows us that God is in pharaoh’s heart. Pharaoh can no longer keep God out entirely - Pharaoh’s admission that he is in the wrong has made room for God and for change.
The late medieval midrashic collection, the Yalkut Shimoni suggests that this is the beginning of a radical shift in Pharaoh. It describes what happens to him after his downfall at the crossing of the sea: he is sent to Nineveh, Assyria, to become its ruler. He is still there when Jonah arrives to foretell their doom, and it is for this reason that Nineveh repents immediately, and is saved from destruction[i].

We are all the heroes of our own little stories. Even the very powerful spend their time worrying how they will be perceived. They arm themselves with pride and honor – they make their hearts – as the Torah describes pharaoh – kaved – heavy, which has the same root as kavod, honor. They fill themselves up so nothing else can get in, and that makes it difficult for them to change their path, to do right after doing wrong. Pride and arrogance tell them that they can’t show weakness, and thus cannot change their path.  But until they do, until WE do, nothing new can come in.

The context of the words of the Meor Eynaim is this:  when there is gadlut in heaven, and gadlut on earth, there is no conduit to bring down that which allows the world to continue – the kabbalists called it “shefa,” English speakers might call it “divine grace.” To bring down shefa, we have to have someone who does katnut – makes themselves smaller, like God did tzimtzum (contracted Godself) to make room for the imperfection of creation to exist outside of God. To partake of humility is to allow God’s grace to flow through us.

This reminds me of the words of the American Christian theologian Anne Lamott, who spoke about a time when she broke down in grief long overdue, and how that grief helped her realize that it’s okay not to be whole in and by yourself. She said, “The thing about light is that it isn’t really yours; it’s what you gather and shine back. And it gets more power from reflectiveness; if you sit still and take it in, it fills your cup, and then you can give it off yourself.”

Pharaoh, too, had to be broken open so that he could allow something in besides himself. But it isn’t only rulers who often can’t see beyond themselves. We, too, each of us, often get “filled up” with our own worries and preoccupations, and it prevents us from seeing the world and its needs. It is only when we allow into ourselves a crack of something that is not-us that we begin to walk the road to redemption.

[i] ילקוט שמעוני תורה פרשת שמות רמז קעו

דבר אחר בו בלשון שחטא בו בלשון עשה תשובה, הוא אמר מי ה' מי כמוכה נאדר בקדש והצילו הקב"ה מבין המתים והעמידו לספר כח גבורתו שנאמר ואולם בעבור זאת העמדתיך והלך ומלך בנינוה וכששלח הקב"ה יונה לנינוה להנבא עליה להחריבה שמע פרעה ועמד מעל כסאו וקרע את בגדיו ולבש שק ואפר ולאחר מ' יום שבו למעשיהם הרעים ונבלעו כמתים בשאול תחתית שנאמר מעיר מתים ינאקו, לא ידעתי את ה'

Sunday, January 15, 2017

The Spirit Experience at Cedar Lane Unitarian Universalist Church, January 15, 2017.
Reflections for Martin Luther King day.
"The service features inspiring reflections by The Rev. Dr. Susan Newman Moore, All Souls Unitarian, DC, Rabbi Alana Suskin, Americans For Peace Now, Interfaith Prayers (Sikh, Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim), and excerpts from Dr. King’s writings; Special Music by the Howard University Choir."
Rabbi Suskin begins speaking at 52:17.

Wednesday, March 04, 2015

9 Adar Day of Constructive Conflict

On March 3, 2015 I participated in a livestreamed Torah discussion with two colleagues, organized as part of 9 Adar: the Jewish Day of Constructive Conflict
The 9 Adar project seeks to strengthen the Jewish culture of constructive conflict and healthy disagreements. In our ancient texts, it is called machloket l’shem shemayim (disagreements for the sake of Heaven). It means arguing the issues while respecting and maintaining good relationships with the other side, making sure that your personal motivation is to come to the best solution and not just to win, admitting when you are wrong, and acknowledging that both sides might be right. Approximately 2,000 years ago on the 9th of Adar, two major ideological schools of thought, Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai, allowed their disagreements to degrade into terrible conflict. Today, we are using the day to promote the original culture of healthy and constructive conflict.

The conversation was between me,  my fellow Rabbi Without Borders Rabbi Rachel Barenblat of Velveteen Rabbi fame, and Rabbi Joseph Kolakowski (profiled as The Chareidi Rabbi from Virginia, but he's no longer there; rather,he's now the assistant rabbi at Congregation Beth Sinai in Kauneonga Lake, NY and Crescent Hill Synagogue in Rock Hill, NY), moderated by Lex Rofes and Caroline Morganti of Open Hillel. The question we were given was:
The figure of Korach has fascinated readers of the Torah for millennia. To what extent do you sympathize with his mindset, and with his challenge to authority? To what extent, alternatively, do you feel that his behavior was ill-advised, or even malicious? Most importantly, what lessons can we learn about this story as we explore our relationships to conflict and authority today?
Here's what we said:

Sunday, March 11, 2012

Why go?

This article kind of pisses me off.

It's astonishingly backward: first of all the attitude - that moving is in itself a positive good, and that people should pick up and move "just because" is positive, and staying near one's family and friends is negative... is so amazingly bizarre, I have trouble even parsing it.

Really? building a community and remaining in it is bad? Helping to rebuild rather than abandoning everyone else is a sign of laziness? really?

 Second, the assertion here is that people are staying put because they're somehow lazy, rather than that staying someplace where you have a support network in hard times is a smart strategy.

That's pretty bass-ackwards. Remember all that worry we had a decade ago about how people were too busy rushing off and no one was making ties to their communities?

Also, the cultural assumptions are not well-examined. Could some of the stick-it-outness have something to do with our newer immigrant cultures? Families that stick together to help themselves move up the economic ladder together?

IMO, if this is true (and let's really see if it is), it could well be something to celebrate - people building stronger communities, stronger relationships with their parents, closer ties with their friends. I'm getting kind of sick of hearing how this generation is lazy, blah, blah, blah.

Maybe those who had the good fortune to have been born in a time when getting a job was easy and family ties were less valued could think to themselves for a while that maybe, just maybe, the way they did things didn't work out so well for everyone, and perhaps it's time to do things a different way.

 For example, a family who stays close to their sibs and parents, not to mention friends, well, maybe raising a family in that environment will be less difficult for women, with more people to share the child-care. Hmm, never thought of that? Since men still aren't exactly doing half.

Or maybe, staying put rather than moving is because there might be two people, both of whose careers need to be considered, rather than just one, and everyone follows him whenever he feels like picking up and moving. Oh, yeah, that.

It seems to me that  this article is just a way of expressing certain prejudices of a certain slice of the community - and  doesn't really tell us anything about either the reasons that people are staying put (if they really are). There's lots of economic things to report on out there, can't you NYT writer types find something to do with yourselves?

MIssed me?

I'm back again!

Saturday, October 01, 2011

Forgiveness: Notes for Shabat Shuva

This is what happens when you don't write it all out of ahead of time.
My friends, who requested a copy of this dvar torah, here are my notes, but it's not, I'm afraid, exactly the dvar you got. I hope this will do for you:

Recently, I spent some time on a caravan driving around the country with Clergy Beyond Borders’ on our Reconciliation tour. I spent a ridiculous amount of time in a very small van, driving around from synagogue to mosque to church – by some oddity, the section of the trip I was on was the “mostly mosques” part of the tour- with a Franciscan brother, an evangelical minister, another rabbi, and a Muslim imam. The purpose of the tour was to talk abut how we, as Americans, can heal our country, bring it together in unity and love. We spent a lot of our driving time talking – well, at least when we weren’t all playing with our phones and netbooks, anyhow. But all that driving left us with hours and hours of discussion about our respective religions’ views on all kinds of things. The time I spent talking with my fellow clergy often circled around to the process of forgiving, and so I found myself thinking a great deal about it over the last week.

For all the time we spend this time of year talking about forgiveness, we spend a remarkably little amount of time talking about the process of forgiving, as opposed to the process of requesting it.

On the face of it, it would seem as though asking forgiveness would be a lot more difficult. After all, it is an act of humility to go before someone and ask their forgiveness. It can be difficult to bend oneself to ask for forgiveness. But offering it, can also be difficult.

Imam Yahya Hendi was one of my companions on the trip, and in hearing his personal story, I have to say that I was moved and made hopeful about the possibility of humans forgiving one another – I don’t want to discuss politics too much – that’s not really the point, but Imam Hendi was born in Nablus, and experienced things that would have made a lesser man hate. But Imam Hendi spends his life working to make Muslims, Christians and Jews tolerant and loving of one another – more than that – (this is the “Beyond Borders” part) not just recognizing that we have differences, but that we should celebrate them, because we have different perspectives and we can learn from one another. This is a message he brings to Muslims as well as Christians and Jews; I have heard it. He quotes the Koran, a passage that if God had wanted all people to be the same , God could have arranged it, but rather we were made to be different, so that we could learn to know one another.

Although we don’t hear as much about it, there are in fact directives from Jewish law about how we are to forgive others.

The Rambam (Hilchos Dei’os, ch. 6), who is good at this sort of thing, outlines the procedure for the mitzvah of forgiving others. He teaches that you should not hate a person in your heart, but you should privately ask him or her outright, “Why did you do such and such to me?”

Elsewhere he also notes, "It is forbidden to be obdurate and not allow yourself to be appeased. On the contrary, one should be easily pacified and find it difficult to become angry. When asked by an offender for forgiveness, one should forgive with a sincere mind and a willing spirit. . . forgiveness is natural to the seed of Israel." (Mishneh Torah, Teshuvah 2:10)

[One who sincerely apologizes three times for a wrong committed against another has fulfilled his or her obligation to seek forgiveness. Shulchan Aruch OC 606:1]. The corollary is, of course, that if one doesn't forgive a sincere person who asks forgiveness three times, the wrong now rests on the person who refuses to forgive.

But, notice something that’s quite different here than the process of asking forgiveness: unlike repenting, offering forgiveness requires governing one’s own heart. For repenting, much of the process – after one realizes one has done wrong- is action. Admit your wrong and confess to God, confess and apologize to the victim, make restitution, and then refrain from doing it again. But for forgiving… how does one make oneself sincere and open? What if the offense was a serious betrayal?

How can an abused child forgive the parent who abused them – even if they no longer are abusing them, and even if they have begged forgiveness? Must they? What about someone whose husband or wife has cheated on them? Or the child of a murder victim; can they forgive the murderer?

How can one genuinely turn one’s heart with sincerity towards such a person and say, “I forgive you for the wrongs you have committed against me?”

For me --and I am ashamed to admit it-- I think it’s far more difficult to forgive, than it is to ask forgiveness. I don’t mean trivial things: people cutting me off in traffic, or mild irritations or offenses. But there are offenses that I’ve felt in my life that I’ve had a terrible time letting go of. There is a certain level of pride that one has to let go of to forgive, as well as to be forgiven. I struggle with it, all the time.

There’s an international charity that is known for their work in British prisons, called The Forgiveness Project. There are several videos that their participants have made as part of their learning process. I was struck by this quote in a video made by one of the participants Declan Kavannagh – he doesn’t say, but from clues in the video, I would guess that he was an IRA member:

“Forgiveness means giving up all hope of a better past.”

Forgiveness of a serious wrong is difficult because it requires us to admit two things – first that we have no control over much of what happens in the world; it is the same humility that shabbat’s prohibitions are supposed to inculcate within us – that ultimately, we are creatures in the world, whose fortunes are not in our own hands. If we refuse to forgive, we can hold onto the myth that we are in control, that we can protect ourselves. Being angry can give us the illusion that we are in control, even if we aren't Letting go of that... is very difficult.

But in love, there is no protection. Love requires us to be open and to risk hurt. Intimacy can only happen when we are willing to stand unmasked and truthful before another.

Forgiveness requires us to admit the risk that comes with love. When we are betrayed – as eventually we all will be, one way or another, by the imperfections of other humans-- we have to risk being hurt again. The only other choice is to stop being in relationship – with anyone. There is no choice, other than this – to risk other people whom you love hurting you, or hurting you again, or not being in relationship with other people. Only God will never betray us – humans will – if only because in the end, we die and leave our loved ones alone.

Even when the person does tshuva, we cannot know if their tshuva is sincere, or if it will ever be complete – that if they are in the same position again, they won’t repeat their action.

Forgiving another person means we must recognize that the person we thought we knew, might become someone else, might, in fact, already be someone else. But forgiveness also frees the other person to walk down a fresh path if they choose it. If we don’t forgive them, they are held in one moment of their lives forever, unable to leave it. Only when we stop holding them in that one moment of wrong are the free to choose another path and walk down it.

Perhaps that is why the Talmud tells us that one who forgives, is himself forgiven.

Raba said: He who forgoes his right [to exact punishment] is forgiven all his iniquities, as it says, Forgiving iniquity and passing by transgression. Who is forgiven iniquity? One who passes by transgression [against himself]. (BT. Rosh Hashana 17a)

If we don’t free the one who wronged us, by forgiving them, it becomes our sin, as well – because we prevented them from becoming a new person, and held them back, in a sense making more sinners in the world. In psalm 121 (:5) it says, יי צלך על יד ימינך God is your shadow (tzel) at your right hand. The Baal Shem Tov understands this to mean that if we are compassionate, God will be compassionate, as well. The Maor eynaim (commentary on Brachot) says,

האדם הוא כמו שמראה בעצמו כך מתראה למעלה אם בגדלות הוא מעורר למעלה בגדלות, ואי אפשר להאיר לעולם גשמי כזה

“a person is a mirror, just as he reflects himself, so is that reflection made above: if he is full of greatness (gadlut) then so it will be above and it is impossible to bring light into the world this way.

The context of this is that when there is gadlut in heaven, and gadlut on earth in the tzaddik, there is no conduit to bring down that which allows the world to continue – the kabbalists called it “shefa,” English speakers might call it “divine grace.” To bring down shefa, we have to have someone who does katnut – makes themselves smaller, like God did tzimtzum to make room for the imperfection of creation to exist outside of God. To partake of humility is to allow God’s grace to flow through us.

But I also like the simple, out-of-context reading, which reminds me of something the Christian writer Anne Lamott wrote:

In writing about acceptance of grief – which is perhaps similar to acceptance of the possibility of hurt—she said this, “The thing about light is that it isn’t really yours; it’s what you gather and shine back. And it gets more power from reflectiveness; if you sit still and take it in, it fills your cup, and then you can give it off yourself.”

I think it is hard, hard to accept our lack of control over the world. Forgiving others means admitting that we can’t make ourselves safe in this world. And it’s true, we can’t. But we can help make others safe, by forgiving them, and letting them be free to make new choices, instead of holding them in their old ones.

In doing so, it doesn’t make us any safer, but it does connect us to God, both in modeling God’s compassion for the world, but also in being a conduit for that shefa, that flow of the divine that allows the world to continue to exist. When we forgive, we can channel a little of it into that person, even if only for a bit, and perhaps that will make all the difference.

This doesn’t much help us in figuring out the “how,” though, so I want to suggest two things. First, When you’re getting ready to follow Rambam’s directive and go ask the person, “Why did you do this?” or when you’re getting ready to meet with someone who has wronged you, and you know they want to make things right, have a plan in mind – figure out for yourself what kind of resolution or restitution would satisfy you. Be realistic, of course, But ask yourself, “what can I accept?” What would make this specific wrong, right?

Second, It is customary to say, each night before going to bed, a repetition of the shema. There is a prayer that many people join to it:

“Master of the universe I hereby forgive anyone who has angered or vexed me or sinned against me either physically or financially, against my honor or anything else that is mine, whether accidentally or intentionally, inadvertently or deliberately, by speech or by deed, in this incarnation or in any other; may no one be punished on my account. May it be your will, Lord my God and God of my ancestors that I shall sin no more, nor repeat my sins, neither shall I again anger you more do what is wrong in Your eyes, The sins that I have committed, erase in Your abounding mercies but not through suffering or severe illnesses. May the words of my mouth be acceptable before You, Lord my Strength and my Redeemer.”

Much of this comes straight from the Talmud – (BT Yoma 86ff). It is, I think, a way to practice being forgiving. Most of the time, there will be little or nothing to forgive. But when some time comes, perhaps being in the habit of saying the words, will help each of us feel a way through the hurt towards releasing our control over the harms of the world towards us, and releasing a little reflection of light, instead.

The Talmud comments on a verse that comes from this week’s haftarah, “Great is penitence, for it brings healing to the world, as is said, “I will heal their affliction, generously will I take them back in love.” (Hos. 14:5) (BT Yoma 86a)

We live in a broken world. The sparks of creation are still scattered, and it is up to us to find and restore them. In the act of forgiveness, perhaps we are able to lift up a little of the spark of holiness in both ourselves and the one who wronged us, as they join together for a moment, and shine.