Survival and Murder, It’s All In The Beginning

Originally published on Times of Israel.

Human beings have an incredible appetite for being entertained. The television season for the summer of 2013 has just finished, and the fall schedule is slowly being introduced. I mention television because we have just finished celebrating Simchat Torah, the holiday on which we begin reading the Torah once again, and a few of this summer’s reality competitions came to my mind when I began to think about starting Genesis (Bereishit) once again.

Get Out Alive with Bear Grylls, which aired on NBC, took ten teams of two to the raw nature of New Zealand. Following the advice of the show’s host, expert survivalist Bear Grylls, these teams were sent on overnight expeditions through marvelous, and treacherous, terrain. They marched through swamps, scaled mountains, pulled themselves by rope over vast gullies and rode down white water in self-made rafts. Beyond those challenges, the teams also had to find shelter in difficult circumstances, start fires and find food (including “indulging” in the insects Bear Grylls handed to them as power protein snacks). These teams, one of whom was sent home each week, learned how to look at nature and see that everything they needed to survive could be found if they were willing.

The Torah begins with the words Bereishit bara Elokim, “In the beginning of God’s creating”…and the first two chapters of the Book of Genesis are a detailed description of God’s actions in creating the world. At the end of creating the world, God formed Adam, put him in the garden, gave him life and told him that everything was for him except for one tree.

A man like Bear Grylls still lives by the understanding that even in the harshest terrain, God still created the means for human survival. Just look at the fact that where most people see an insect and think “yuck,” Bear Grylls sees protein. Now insects may not be kosher, but Jewish law has always been very clear that saving a life (including one’s own) takes precedence over kashrut.

Certainly God did not intend for human beings to be extreme survivalists, but God did create a complete world in which humankind, His final creation, could find the necessities of survival.

The second reality show that made me think of the opening chapters of the Torah was Whodunnit?, which aired on ABC. This real life Clue-game provided its participants and viewers with one gruesome murder per week. The victim of choice was the show-participant deemed least capable of understanding the clues from the previous murder. (Don’t worry, the actual murders were staged.)

Since Cain and Abel, humankind has been fascinated with murder. Indeed, murder is the plot driver to thousands of books and movies. Neither the Torah nor the Midrashim try to cover Abel’s murder up as a case of manslaughter, an accidental death, which Cain then tried to hide and deny.

Up until the moment Cain slew Abel, it was obvious that human beings could create life and bring forth food from the ground – all of which are part of the natural order God set in motion in the world. When Cain took Abel’s life, it was discovered that humankind also had the ability to destroy.

Some might wonder what is to be gained by studying the Torah over and over, year in and year out. Today’s “hit reality series” demonstrate the words of King Solomon, who said “There is nothing new under the sun” (Ecclesiastes 1:9). Whether it is surviving in nature or tracking a murder, or, for that matter, rebellions, rebellious sons, or family feuds (not to mention a few stories of love, friendship and dedication), the Torah has it all.

In My Element: Sukkot In Montreal

Originally published on Times of Israel.

They say that the holiday of Sukkot is a demonstration of the Jewish people’s trust in Divine protection, a reflection of the Clouds of Glory that shielded the Children of Israel in the wilderness. I never truly appreciated the beauty and spirituality of this idea until my family moved to Montreal six years ago.

Sukkot is known as Z’man Sim’chah’tay’nu, The Time of Our Rejoicing. It’s meant to be the happiest time of the year. For many centuries, when life was far more agriculturally based, this was the time of year when each family brought in it’s harvest. Surrounded by fruitfulness and plenty, it was a time to thank God for His generosity. Today, most Jews aren’t working in the fields, but the autumn still retains that sense of new beginnings. (Certainly many mothers are rejoicing as the new school year begins!)

With the harvest in, or for more modern times with the return of the hustle and bustle of the fall, it is easy for a person to sit back and pat themselves on the back for their achievements. I know that I feel that way come September. As a parent, I praise myself for surviving the unscheduled wilderness of the summer and for having given my children an enjoyable summer to carry them into the school year. (Well they have to have something to write about in those “What I Did On My Summer Vacation” essays!) As an employee in a non-profit, I feel a sense of pride in contributing to our organizations success into the next year.

And then comes Sukkot. It’s a lot of fun. All around us families are busy hammering and drilling. From Rosh Hashana onward, the landscape of our neighborhood is transformed as each family builds themselves a small booth in which they will eat and (for some, not all) sleep. There are sukkot made of hard plastic, the prefabs that have transparent window panes and faux wood design. There are the Sukkot made of canvas, their walls pulled taut by ropes. And there are my favorite sukkot of all, the ones with wooden walls cut down by the owner, sanded and varnished. Each one of these many types of booths is made kosher by the addition of s’chach, the natural roofing that is meant to only mostly protect the sukkah dweller from the elements. The roof of the hut must be made from anything of plant origin that is now detached from the ground but has not undergone any manufacturing process nor had a previous use nor may it be edible. In order to be a proper sukkah, there must be enough s’chach so that there is more shadow than sunlight. It may not, however, be so dense that one is unable to see the larger stars at night or that the rain cannot penetrate.

The permeable roof and the coming of winter is what makes Sukkot in Montreal (or any other Canadian city) a holiday that I both rejoice in and dread. Although I have yet to experience it, my husband and other natives to this city have described sitting in their sukkot watching it snow. Should I say that again…snow!! Some years I’ve bundled my children up in their snowsuits before coming to dinner. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to eat a meal in a hat, scarf, and gloves while looking like a mini-Michelin man?

So on Sukkot, Jews around the world eat delicious food that once upon a time would have been made from the food that we ourselves had grown, sitting in a unit of temporary construction and hoping that it doesn’t rain or snow or that a cold wind doesn’t blow through. This is why Sukkot is known as the time in which we demonstrate our trust in God. Sitting outside reminds us that no matter how successful we may feel, no matter how fruitful our bounty, it is that way because God sent the rains at the right time and the right place, that He kept the crop healthy or the specific business in the black

On the flip side, it is not a holiday that one only celebrates if one has been successful. Those who have had tough years also go out to the sukkah and are commanded to rejoice on this holiday. Let’s be honest, all people go through good times and bad, and the last few years have been particularly difficult for many people. The rejoicing that we do on Sukkot is also a reflection on the fact that this holiday immediately follows Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, the Day of Judgement and the Day of Atonement. We rejoice because we have done it…we have gone through the heavenly courts and we assume that our atonement has been accepted. In fact, it is customary to throw oneself into the mitzvah of Sukkot by beginning the building process the night after Yom Kippur. It’s a demonstration of the joy in performing the mitzvah. It’s a statement that we will trust in God yet again this year.

This year, we are lucky that Sukkot begins in mid-September. The morning before Rosh Hashana it was beautiful and warm. Children were wearing shorts. I had hopes that this year would be beautiful and glorious. And then the weather began to change. Mornings and evenings are significantly colder… You see, I’m a cold person by nature, so from the beginning of our move here I was very nervous about the Montreal Sukkot experience. (My husband, being incredibly thoughtful, found a large outdoor heater that he attaches to the sukkah wall each year. It’s nice, but if I move to the right or the left, I lose the heat).

It may seem trivial, but fear of the cold is the way I demonstrate my trust in God. It’s a reminder to myself that God makes each day beautiful or stormy, and that what control I think I have of my own world is constantly being course-corrected by a far greater power then myself.

If you are interested in learning more about Sukkot, Jewish Treat’s Guide to Celebrating Sukkot is an excellent and free resource. Click here to download. 

 

Judaism's Multiculturalism

When my oldest child was three years old and learning about Passover, he told me that "the goyim" were bad. I nearly washed his mouth out with soap. Not only did he and I then have a lengthy conversation about the negativity associated with that word, but I also spoke about it to his teachers.

The us and the them is a big theme in Judaism. We rejoice in the concept of God choosing us to receive the Torah. We view ourselves as a separate and distinct nation in the world. But one lesson I have had to make certain that my children understand is that being chosen does not mean one is inherently better, only that one has a different mission in the world.

Some people in my neighborhood have asked me why I care so much about children learning the word "goyim." Firstly, I explain to them that while it may be a generic term that simply means nation (and is actually used in application to the Jewish nation as well), the way people speak the word, their intonation, has made it a slur - one which many non-Jews are familiar with as a negative term. Secondly, and far more personally, is the fact that my husband is a convert and his entire family, who are wonderful, generous and accepting people, are not Jewish.

Judaism is a religion divided between looking in and looking out. We try to strengthen ourselves spiritually while also involving ourselves in making the world a better place. And while we may have historical reasons for fearing other nations and practical religious reasons for keeping an emotional distance from them, that doesn’t make us better.

There are few times in the Jewish calendar where it is more important to remember that every human being than at Sukkot. Among the unique rituals performed on the holiday of Sukkot were the additional offerings that were sacrificed in the ancient Temple. On the first day of the holiday, 13 young bulls were sacrificed, on the second day 12, on the third day 11, on the fourth day 10, on the fifth day 9, on the sixth day 8 and on the seventh day 7. In total, 70 bulls were offered. Sukkot is the only holiday on which the number of the sacrifices varies from day to day.

In the Talmud (Sukkah 55b) Rabbi Eliezer explains that these 70 offerings are brought "For the [merit of the] 70 nations of the world." Rashi, the famous 11th century commentator, explained that this was, "To bring a forgiveness [offering] for them [the 70 nations], so that rain shall fall all over the world."

This became one of my favorite facts about Sukkot, even long before I became part of a "multi-national" family. I continue to make certain that my children understand that long before it became the norm to respect people of all nations (which, let’s face it, only became a more universal standard in the 1960s), our ancestors were virtually including all of the people in the world in our sacred ceremonies. And it wasn’t only virtual, non-Jews were also allowed to bring sacrifices to the Temple.

Strange as it may sound, I look forward to the opportunities afforded me when my children say something narrow-minded. It’s natural for children to see their world in black and white, and it is my job to teach them that respect for all people is an inherent part of our tradition.

I'd Rather Be Barefoot

This Dvar Torah was written as part of a group that says Tehillim/Psalms together during the month of Elul (through Yom Kippur).

Unlike the common stereotype of women, I hate shoe shopping. Come to think of it, I don’t particularly care for shoes in general. Any one who knows me well, knows I prefer to be barefoot most of the time. Perhaps that is why, for the last several years, I have been fascinated by the prohibition of wearing shoes on Yom Kippur.

Although I grew up in Pennsylvania, my childhood memories of Yom Kippur are all Brooklyn based, and one of the strongest images in my mind is of men and women dressed to the nines wearing bright white sneakers. How odd everyone must have seemed to the non-Jews driving past - but then again, the Talmud records that the rabbis of the Roman era wore sandals made of bamboo, reeds and palm branches (Yoma 78 a-b)...sounds very comfortable.

So what does this whole deal with shoes mean?: I understand fasting as a means of connecting to the spiritual over the physical, but what do shoes have to do with it?

Through various citations, the Talmud comes to assert that one who is unshod is afflicted (see Yoma 77a-78b). Ok, so the real heart of my question...why don’t we go barefoot on Yom Kippur? I, for one, would be overjoyed.

This is a particularly intriguing question when one recalls the fact that when Moshe approached the burning bush, God instructed him to remove his shoes. Joshua was similarly commanded by the Host of the Lord just before entering the land.

Why then do we not try to emulate these great men?

In both cases, the Torah states that they had to remove their shoes because they were standing on sacred ground, they were in the Divine presence. Perhaps God required Moses to remove his shoes so that while he was in the Divine presence, the ultimate spiritual Source, he could stay connected to the physical. After all, our physical selves are that part of Adam which God made from the ground, the adamah. 

Alas, the truth is that as holy and pure as we try to make ourselves or our shuls (or our living rooms, where many of us women daven), it isn’t all quite up to merit a shoes-off approach. In fact, one is not supposed to daven without shoes on unless one lives in a society where being barefoot is considered respectful and one would go barefoot in the presence of a king.

For thousands of years, almost all shoes were made of leather (ok, some places had wood). Now leather is made from animals and perhaps that is the key to the reason that LEATHER shoes, not all shoes are prohibited.

Moses needed to be barefoot in order to stay connected. When I am davening, I am far from being at risk of connecting so strongly to the ultimate source that my neshama, my spiritual essence, may not wish to stay with my guf (body).  I should only be at 1/100th of that level! But on Yom Kippur I want to connect to the greatest spiritual part that is within me, and therefore I refrain from that connection coming from my animalistic side (as represented by the leather). The issue of shoes on Yom Kippur, the affliction we must make, is not about comfort. It is about the leather itself. On Yom Kippur we are meant to be striving to be like angels - pure spirituality. In seeking to enhance the spiritual, one does not want to be tied down by one’s more animalistic nature.

Chutzpah and Whining Are Not Just For Children

Originally published on Times of Israel

Because Yom Kippur is observed on Shabbat this year, there will be no Friday night kiddush or late-night snacking on the next day’s cholent. When Yom Kippur and Shabbat coincide, however, it is not the Shabbat meals that I miss most, but one of my favorite prayers of the High Holidays: Avinu Malkeinu.
Avinu, Malkeinu – Our Father, Our King. It is such an incredibly understandable concept. The combined phrases create a powerful image of the essence of God’s relationship with the Jewish people. And I think that it is an imagery that I began to understand even more after I became a parent.

How hard it must be for God to be the parent of the Jewish people! He faces all of the challenges of parenthood multiplied by the millions, and multiplied again by the generations that have come and gone.
Imagine God’s perspective on just a few of the most common challenges that parents face:
Whining: Every parenting book has a section on whining, and every parent struggles to deal with it. There are few sounds that make me as short tempered as the high pitched whine of a child demanding something for which they never even asked nicely. The Torah is filled with stories of the Israelites whining while in the wilderness: We want meat. Where’s the water? Etc. Those were national incidents, of course. But as individuals, we all whine to God. Even for the little things: “Oh,
come on, God, why can’t I find a parking spot.”
Chutzpah: The Jewish people aren’t called a stiff-necked people for nothing. I mean, what sort of chutzpah is it that the Israelites built the golden calf even as Moses was heading back down from Mount Sinai with the Ten Commandments. We remain a people of chutzpah who are continually
standing up to God. There are the big cases, you know, like the fact that many of the leaders of the Communists, who were anti-religion, were Jews. But there are also my own bits of chutzpah, the
times when I know what the right thing to do is, but I flaunt my desire to do what I prefer.
Sibling Rivalry: I don’t know any parent of more than one child who doesn’t feel frustrated when the bickering starts…and it is most often over the silliest of things, like whose turn it is to feed the fish. Just as Korach and 250 of his followers tried to change the hierarchy of leadership in the wilderness, the Jewish people have found incredible ways of splintering ourselves throughout the ages. Sadly, despite the efforts of many, it often seems as if the situation only continues to deteriorate.
So we the Jewish people aren’t easy children, which is perhaps why we also recite the 13 Attributes of God’s Mercy on Yom Kippur, since they stress God’s infinite patience. From a parent, one expects mercy, love and forgiveness. We appeal to God as Avinu because we want God to look at us and see us as His child, because when all is said and done, at the end of a long day when one’s child has perhaps misbehaved or been particularly difficult, a parent still wants only that which is best for the child.
At the same time as we appeal to God as a parent, we must bear in mind that He is the Ultimate King, Malkeinu. This is a far less emotional sentiment. A king controls the fate of his subjects. He rules with judgment and justice. He is detached. At the same time, He is held in awe and esteem. (As a parent, I relate to this aspect of God as well. In my own house, I strive to judge each situation fairly. It is an incredibly difficult task.)

“Our Father, Our King, be gracious with us and answer us, even though we have no worthy deeds, act with us in righteousness and goodness and save us.” This year I may not have succeeded in being the person, the parent or the Jew that I had hoped to be, but please treat me with the love of a Parent and the desire for compassionate-justice of a King.

Do I Let Him Fast?

Most people look at Yom Kippur with some trepidation about fasting. Perhaps they check the weather, hoping that it will not be too hot, or create strategies on the best ways to make it through the day. That’s an adult view of fasting.

My son, who is now nine, has a different perspective. Each year he asks me if he can also fast, and each year I tell him that it is not healthy for a child to fast - especially one with his metabolism. When he asks, I recall my own youthful enthusiasm for fasting and the friendly competition that used to spring up between the cousins in our family.

I’ve learned a lot about Jewish law since I was a child, and my son is benefiting from a full Jewish education; so this year, as we began to speak about the holidays, he made certain that I remembered that, according to the Shulchan Aruch, the Code of Jewish Law, a child should begin practising to fast at the age of nine. As he explained to me, this means fasting until mid-day, although I have also read that it is best to begin with waiting an extra hour or so before breakfast on Yom Kippur morning. From my point of view, it means that my son is no longer a young child; I must not only learn to let him spread his wings, but teach him how to do so as well.

Until now, following the guidelines of tradition, there has only been one Yom Kippur restriction that I have required my children to observe - the prohibition of wearing leather shoes. Of the five Yom Kippur restrictions (food/drink, washing, anointing, wearing leather shoes, and marital relations), only the wearing of leather shoes is considered not to have an effect on children’s health. My children, of course, are also incredibly enthusiastic about not washing on Yom Kippur (or making certain to wash only up to the first knuckles), but I think that might be for other reasons than piety.

I’ve always liked fasting on Yom Kippur. Granted, I always head into the holiday with anxiety about it, wondering if it will be difficult. Afterward, however, there is a tremendous sense of accomplishment. More than that, most years, the act of fasting has actually helped me to focus on my spiritual, rather than my physical, needs. Not at the beginning of the day, mind you. Then, in addition to the Yom Kippur prayers, I am often focussed on telling myself that I am not hungry and planning how I will survive the long day. Rather, somewhere in the early afternoon, my need for physical satisfaction wanes. I gain a sense of myself as more than a Diet Coke craving chocoholic. Perhaps the most fascinating fact about the Yom Kippur fast to me has always been my lack of interest in breaking the fast afterward. I’m just not hungry. In fact, I often wish it wasn’t yet over.

Will I let my son fast this year? The choice is no longer really mine. As much as I may wish to deny it, I do see a difference in him from last year. He makes choices for himself and assumes opportunities for independence. The choice I do have is to make his practice fasting something meaningful rather than an opportunity to gloat in front of his younger sisters. Perhaps I will invite him to join me in some of the prayers or ask him to use that extra hour before he eats to contemplate what Yom Kippur means to him. And since it is the Day of Atonement, perhaps I will use that time to apologize to God for all the times I forget to thank Him for this wonderful child.

 

 

It's About The Relationship

Originally published on Huffington Post.

Every year on Rosh Hashana, the shofar is sounded like the trumpets of a royal herald. The shofar is made from the hollowed-out horn of a kosher animal, most preferably a ram. The ram's horn is symbolically connected to the story of the "Akeidah," the binding of Isaac, when Abraham demonstrated that he was willing to have such faith in God as a merciful King who sees the greater landscape of time and history with such clarity that He would ask Abraham to bring his only son to a mountaintop as an offering. Abraham brought Isaac, but just as he was about to make the offering, an angel called out to stop him. Abraham lifted his eyes and discovered a ram caught in the thicket and sacrificed it in Isaac's stead. (The Torah uses the term "bring him up there as a designated elevation offering" but does not instruct Abraham to actually sacrifice him.)

The Akeidah is a narrative that inspires a wide range of emotional reactions, from indignation that God would make such a request to awe at the depth of Abraham's devotion. In my life, I would even say that I have, at different times, reacted both ways. As a parent, I fervently pray that I am never asked to even contemplate such a scenario. As a spiritually striving Jew, I long to have the type of relationship with God that would allow me to not hesitate when faced with challenges.

According to the Book of Genesis, Abraham did not have a static relationship with God. He felt so comfortable with his relationship with God that he questioned and confronted Him. Abraham's relationship with God was the next step in human spiritual development.

There is a fascinating commentary by Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo ben Isaac, read more on him here) on the verse: "And all the plants of the field were not yet upon the earth because God did not cause the rain..." (Genesis 2:5). Rashi explains that up until the sixth day of creation, the grasses and plants had not yet fully sprouted because they were waiting for the rain, and the rain was waiting for Adam, who was created and prayed for it. God waited because He wanted Adam to turn to Him and ask Him.
The day that Adam was created, the day that Adam first made a request of God, is the day on which we now celebrate Rosh Hashana. In fact, the holiday is also known as Hayom Harat Olam, the Birthday of the World. (Click here to read more on Hayom Harat Olam.)

In comparing these two stories, Adam asking for rain and Abraham's willingness to bring Isaac as an offering, it could be said that Adam represents the basic level of relationship that a human being should strive for with God. It represent the parent-child relationship, in that a child naturally feels comfortable asking a parent for both that which he needs and that which he wants. Abraham, on the other hand, represents the more advanced relationship in which a person is willing to go above and beyond his/her comfort zone. This can be compared to the ideal relationship in a marriage.

Few people, if any, have the spiritual awareness and relationship with God that Abraham had. However, we each have the ability to emulate Adam and begin our relationship with God simply by turning to Him and asking for that which we need.