Sapere Aude? Existimare Aude! (Derashah, Rosh HaShanah 5774)

About two weeks ago, I received a long email from a yeshiva-educated man from a Modern Orthodox community. In the last ten years, he wrote, a friend had worked to undermine his belief in Judaism – and had succeeded.

The man described how he had sought answers to his friend's challenges, studying Jewish sources as well as secular science, history and philosophy. He sincerely wished he could believe, find meaning in Judaism, and re-join the world of observance and its lifestyle. His problem, which he eloquently articulated in the most vivid terms, is that he no longer finds Judaism, its claims regarding the authenticity and transmission of Torah, the age of the earth, and so on, intellectually credible. [I would quote his email here rather than rely on this shallow summary, but I would not want to endanger his privacy.]

This young man read a blog post I published a few years ago on the challenges of faith, and it brought him to email me, looking for advice. I won't go into my response here – as I write this derashah, our dialogue is on-going – but I think his situation has a lot to teach us about the purpose of the shofar.

2100 years ago, the Roman poet Horace coined the Latin phrase, sapere aude. It means "Dare to be wise", or "Dare to know". For centuries leading up to his day, there was a movement to know for one's self, to cease trusting received wisdom and instead dare to figure things out.[1] Like Avraham rebelling against the idolatrous received wisdom of his day, להבדיל אלף הבדלות, along came Anaximander, Pythagoras, Socrates, Aristotle, Epicurus, with their own explorations. These were the famous Greek philosophers, and they lived by the belief that the human mind, working hard enough, will be able to solve every mystery and uncover every truth. Don't trust – dare to know.

Fast-forward to 17^th, 18^th century Europe - skipping important history in the interest of time - and we find the Age of Enlightenment, founded on that same slogan of sapere aude. Spinoza. Voltaire. Kant. These men of letters taught that human beings needed to grow up and stop believing things simply because others had said them. Dare to figure it out for yourself! And they gave us modern science, modern philosophy, modern politics, modern university, the modern mind itself.

Our sages' response to each of these two groups was identical: Stay away from them. By and large, the earlier generation banned the study of Greek philosophy, and the later generation banned attendance at enlightened universities. Not because the Sages ignored the mishnah of דע מה שתשיב, that one must know how to respond to heresy. Not because they could formulate no responses to particular claims made by Greek and Enlightenment philosophers. Rather, it was because they saw a threat in accepting the premise that underlay the concepts those philosophers proposed: The idea that the human mind can fathom everything.

In truth, our sages were not the only ones to reject the Enlightenment-era primacy of the brain; it's not the 18^th century anymore, folks. The Enlightenment ended as philosophers came to embrace other isms, and as history proved the bankruptcy of ideologies that emphasize the dominance of the "civilized" mind.

But to return to Judaism, and the reaction of our sages:

Even though Judaism survives on the intellectualism of Torah study,

Even though the Rambam contended that intellectual growth is the true barometer of a Jew's closeness to Gd,

Even though we have the ability and obligation to deduce and comprehend great intellectual truths,

Nonetheless, our sages saw great danger in the confident assertion that we can all "dare to know" everything. [2]

Our sages believed that emphasizing supremacy of the mind would lead to a hegemony of intellectualism, and when intellectualism would come up with ideas that denied religion, Jewish intellectuals would leave Judaism in droves, without cause. Seeing dinosaur fossils and textual anomalies in the Torah does lead to certain conclusions, but those conclusions may not be correct. As anyone who has ever worked with someone smarter than him can attest, our answers, however well-researched and thought-out, are not always right.

The legitimacy of intellectualism is limited by the intellect itself.

What, then, does Judaism propose in place of "dare to know"? Existimare aude, dare to feel. Dare to use your heart – because in moments of great feeling, our more Vulcan side is dampened, and we can hear what our soul is saying. At times of our hearts' sincere emotion and passion, with patient contemplation, as Rav Klonymus Kalman Schapira wrote a century ago in his בני מחשבה טובה,[3] the drumbeat of the dominant intellect is drowned out by the heart, and we are awakened to the messages of our souls.

Our souls declare that we were created by Gd and placed here with a Divine mission. That we are immortal and pure. That the world does not begin and end with that which the intellect can grasp; there is a greater depth and dimension than the mind can fathom.

We can achieve this sensitivity with experiences that inflame the heart with authentic emotion. A waterfall cascading from a mountainside after a long hike. A baby's laugh. A beautiful poem, a concerto, a rock anthem, a subtle painting. An athletic performance. A meaningful book.

So it is that Judaism is structured with an emphasis not only on the intellect, but also, as a complement, on experience.

• We recite Maggid, but we also lean and drink wine and play-act at the Seder.
• We read the megillah, but we also have a feast and give out celebratory gifts.
• We say shemoneh esreih, but we also stand at attention and speak in a whisper.
• We say על חטא and think of our sins, but we also strike our heart.

These moments of the heart do  not prove anything about Gd or Torah. None of these moments have anything to say, intellectually, at all. But at these times, our radical, splendid faith shines forth. The brain is exposed for the pallid gray calculator it is, while the soul reigns triumphant.

I should be careful to make this clear: We do not seek to flee from the world of the mind, but to balance it; Intellect must work in tandem with Heart.[4] For all of our Jewish emphasis on the intellect and its calculation, our faith is known only in the soul, and comprehending it happens when we arouse the heart.

Which brings me to shofar, because it wasn't until I received this email that I truly understood the role of shofar in our musaf amidah. For decades I have been troubled: Our musaf features a berachah called Malchiyos which talks about the grandeur of Gd and accepts Him as our King. It then features a berachah called Zichronos which talks about Gd remembering our merits in His judgment. Both of those have simple, clear themes. But then we arrive at Shofaros, and that's just a list of disjoint verses about shofar blasts! Where is the message?

Even the machzor itself seems confused – For malchiyos we have two whole introductory paragraphs spelling out the theme of Divine monarchy, for zichronos we have three paragraphs on Divine judgment, and then for shofaros we get just 3.5 sentences saying that there was a shofar at Sinai and people trembled. Doesn't the machzor have a message for shofaros?

The answer, perhaps, is that shofaros offers a different kind of message, which isn't conveyed by verbal exposition. It's not an intellectual message about a relationship with Gd or a day of judgment. Rather, shofaros is an experience. The point of shofaros is that there was a shofar and people trembled. גם כל העולם כלו חל מפניך! The whole world shook! The point of shofar is the moment when we are taken aback by a mighty blast, when our hearts stir even if we know the sound is coming, when our hearts are caught up and we suddenly feel.

Look at the pesukim of shofaros: ויחרד כל העם אשר במחנה, the entire nation in the camp trembled! ויהי קול השופר הולך וחזק מאד, the shofar's voice was very mighty! וירא העם וינעו, the nation saw and shuddered! And it continues with the shofar of song and celebration and redemption and war! The shofar is the answer to my email correspondent, the shofar dares to challenge the modern hegemony of sapere aude with its own cry of existimare aude! Don't devote yourself entirely to intellectual debate and proofs and rebuttals; there is a deeper truth to be found, but you need to awaken yourself to an entirely different type of knowledge.

Intellect is very important for us, as Jews and human beings. We are meant to use our minds, and to explore. Nonetheless, I believe that if the Jewish community is to survive in a world of universities and scientific achievement, a world which declares that all exists in the province of the mind, then the Jewish community must do one of two things: Either it must completely shut out the world of science and philosophy and take its chances on self-sustenance, or it must teach its children to listen to the shofar, to stir their hearts with experiences of passion and beauty, and to listen to their souls in those moments of emotion and hear what they have to say.

We are about to blow the shofar. In a few moments, I will make the announcements that I make every year, about not interrupting with speech because of our halachic obligation to hear the shofar. This year, though, I would like to change that announcement. Don't interrupt – but not only because of the technical issue of hefsek. Rather, don't interrupt because this is a time to listen with our hearts and to dare to be moved.

This is our chance. I pray that my email correspondent is having the same chance today. This is our opportunity to transcend sapere aude, and to choose existimare aude, and so to come to credere aude – to transcend "dare to know", to choose "dare to feel", and so to come to dare to believe.

---

[1] This isn't necessarily what Horace had in mind with that line, in context, but his words were adopted as a slogan for the Enlightenment movement

[2] Cf. Ben Sira – במופלא ממך אל תדרוש, cited approvingly in the second perek of Chagigah

[3] בני מחשבה טובה, סדר אמצעי ויסוד החברה יא

[4] Cf Wendell Berry, Getting Along with Nature, and the balance of nature and human artifice

Would you kill an Amalekite?

The other day, while in the beit midrash, I overheard a high school student ask his rebbe, "If you had a person from Amalek in front of you, would you kill him?" [For background on Amalek, see Deuteronomy, the end of Chapter 25.]

The rebbe dodged the question in favor of getting to the topic at hand in his shiur, but he suggested that the student ask me. The student hasn't yet come to me, but I do have my answer ready.

I think it's a good question. I think we should overlook the fact that this mitzvah is not real today - that Amalek may well be ideological, that we don't know who Amalek is, and so on. Yes, eradicating Amalek is not a situation we face. But the point of his question is not this mitzvah, per se; rather, the question is how far you would go in violation of human instinct and social norms to fulfill a mitzvah.

Rabbi, you are horrified by the barbaric murder of a British soldier in London. So, Rabbi, what would you do if you believed that Judaism required you to execute someone?

And my answer is that this hypothetical mitzvah would pose a challenge to my emunah [faith], as do many mitzvot; the difference is simply in degree.

To be clear: It's not about agreeing or disagreeing with a particular mitzvah; I take it as a given that killing people who do not pose any clear threat is something we disagree with. Rather, it's about overall faith in Judaism, and the strength of that faith.

Many (most?) of us who lay claim to belief still live with questions regarding Judaism. We have questions about Gd's actions in the world, the authenticity of our tradition, and so on. The degree to which faith overcomes doubt is the degree to which faith can motivate us to follow Judaism even when our native instincts, or social instruction, would lead us elsewhere.

There are Jews whose faith is strong enough to get them to support Jewish causes with their money, but not enough to get them to run their lives by Judaism's principles.

Some people's emunah is strong enough to lead them to observe Shabbos, or kashrus, but not to "come out" as Jews at work or in a social setting.

Some people's emunah is strong enough for all of these – but they stop short on something more demanding, or more challenging of their belief.

And for many (most?) of us, I expect, emunah would fall short of convincing us to execute an Amalekite who did not appear to pose a threat.

But enough of my response- What would you say to that high school student's question?

Really, King David?

[I found this interesting advice for a Rosh Kollel, at Life in Israel, interesting]

A couple of weeks ago, during a shiur, I was asked how King David could have said, “I have never seen a righteous person abandoned.” (Tehillim 37:25) It's a question I hear frequently; here are three approaches:

1. Radak seems to have been troubled by this question; he appended the word “entirely” to the sentence, in his commentary. In other words, King David meant that Gd doesn't entirely abandon a person - even if it seems that way.

2. Chief Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, in his book, To Heal a Fractured World, offers another explanation:

“There is, however, a magnificent interpretation attributed to the late Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik of blessed memory. He argued that the verb in the verse, raiti, "seen", should be understood as having the same meaning as it has in Esther 8:6... She says: "How can I see [raiti] disaster fall on my people? How can I see [raiti] the destruction of my kindred?" Here the verb means not simply to see but rather: to watch, to be a passive witness, to be a bystander.

“In this sense, said Rabbi Soloveitchik, the verse in Psalms should be read as: "When a righteous person was being forsaken or his children begging for bread, I never merely stood and watched." Understood thus, it has a similar meaning to the command (Vayyikra 19: 16), "Do not stand still when your neighbour’s life is in danger". As the Holocaust historian Yehudah Bauer put it: Thou shalt not be a bystander.

“Understood thus, the placing of the verse at the end of Birkat ha-mazon is beautifully symmetrical. Grace after meals begins by thanking G-d who feeds the hungry. It ends by urging us to do likewise. Having eaten and been satisfied and having blessed G-d, we now remind ourselves of those who do not have the blessing we have just enjoyed, who lack food - the righteous who are forsaken and the children forced to beg for bread. We commit ourselves, in King David’s words, not to stand silently and watch, but to act and bring them help. For we may not rest satisfied while others go hungry. We must heed their cry, as G-d heeds ours.“

3. To the words of Radak and Rabbi Sacks, I would add one more note: The book of Tehillim is neither a work of history nor a collection of prophecies. Rather, Tehillim is an archive of prayers.

Tehillim is King David’s monument to Faith, a record of his relationship with his Creator throughout the epic struggles of the most embattled figure in all of Jewish Scripture. From family strife to national upheaval to international conflict, from punishment and rejection and distance from Gd to cycles of sin and repentance and love and longing for the Divine, from public humiliation to the vision of a triumphant Temple built, King David expressed in words the extremes of human emotion he experienced through the numerous religious apices and nadirs of his seventy years of life.

Through that lens, the words, “I have never seen a righteous person abandoned,” may be more prayer than assertion. The king who had known dire circumstances—poverty, flight, life as a fugitive before King Shaul in the land of his foes, a son Avshalom who attempted to kill him in pursuit of his throne, another son Adoniyahu who staged a feast while his father lay on his deathbed in an attempt to claim the throne for himself—pledged fealty to Gd, saying, “Despite all of the suffering I have seen and experienced, I have faith that You would never truly abandon the righteous.”

We invoke this prayer at the close of our Birkat haMazon, as part of our own assertion of faith. “The man who trusts in Gd is blessed, for I believe Gd will not abandon a righteous person, or his descendants. Gd will give strength to His nation, and He will send them shalom.” This is King David’s prayer, and ours as well.

What is your answer to the question?

Are all midrashim to be taken literally?

Several weeks ago I came across interesting 13th century comments recorded in the Shiltei Giborim [on the Rif] to Avodah Zarah 20. These comments address the question of whether midrashim are intended to be taken literally. You can find a text of the Hebrew - corrected from manuscripts - on-line here, along with some very important footnotes.

Here's a quick translation of the Shiltei Giborim's words:

Know and understand that there are three paths in midrash:

1) Some [midrashim] exaggerate, as Chullin 90b says, "The Torah spoke words of emptiness, the prophets spoke words of emptiness, the sages spoke words of emptiness," such as in Deuteronomy 1:28 "great, fortified cities in the heavens," and Kings I 1:40 "the earth split due to their voice."

There are many of these, like the words of Rabbah bar bar Chanah in Bava Batra 73b; these were exaggeration, for people speak thus.

2) Some of the midrashim present miracles, in which Gd demonstrates His might and displays amazing and shocking deeds, as in Daniel 10:7, "And I, Daniel alone, saw the vision, and the people with me did not see, etc." And Yonah ben Amitai who was swallowed by the fish and spat out. And many others like this.

Many of these are found in the words of the sages, such as Bava Batra 58a regarding R' Bena'ah marking caves, and Bava Batra 58a with a magician digging in the caves of the dead. All of those were miracles, as were performed and revealed to the prophets, but not for other people.

There are many of these, like the deeds of Rabbah bar bar Chana, things which are shocking which Gd showed His pious people who believe in Him wholeheartedly.

3) In some of the midrashim the sages intend to analyze Scripture with any means possible, relying on Tehillim 62:12, "Gd said one thing; I heard two." And so Yirmiyah 23:29, "For My words are as fire; this is the word of Gd. And they are like a hammer, splitting stone." They learned from this that one sentence may lead to many meanings, as explained in Sanhedrin 31a.

Do not be shocked by this; you often see that even a normal person speaks a complex message with two facets, and certainly words of wisdom spoken with Divine inspiration. Along these lines the sages analyze a passage in any way they can analyze it, saying (Shabbat 63a), "The passage does not depart from its simple meaning," which is the essence, and regarding all of the midrashim which are drawn from it, some of them are of the essence and close to the literal read and some of them have a small hint [in the text].

You see what one of the sages taught in Taanit 5b, "Yaakov our ancestor did not die." One sage replied to him, "Did the eulogizers eulogize him and embalmers embalm him and buriers bury him for nothing?" And he responded, "I am analyzing the passage." Meaning: I know he died, but I intend to analyze the passage in any way it can be analyzed, and if the midrash cannot be as it sounds, the passage still offers a hint that one could say "he did not die" as Berachot 18a says, "The righteous live even in their death," for their names and memory and deeds live eternally.

A similar case is seen in Shabbat 30b, in which the exegete taught, "Israel will produce cakes and fine clothing," as it is written, "There will be pisat bar in the land." [See Rashi there, for the connection between pisat and cakes and clothing.] A student mocked him, noting that Kohelet 1:9 says there is nothing new under the sun! To which he replied, "Come and I will show you an example of these items in this world." He went out and showed the student mushrooms. The sage was informing him that the midrash could be explained in a manner which was close to it; the original verse was teaching that the Creator would provide great goodness in the world.

Similar statements occur in other midrashim

They said in Yerushalmi Nazir 7:2, "Are the midrashot amanah? Learn them and receive reward." It is explained that the sages did not state the midrashim as matters of faith [emunah] and as the essence, but to increase the meanings of the text and analyze all of its facets, such that they might include a hint. Links to text and hints are among the paths of Torah study, regarding which it is said, "Learn them and receive reward."

Regarding one who mocks their words it is said (Divrei haYamim II 36:16), "And they mocked the messengers of Gd… and made light of His prophets." In various places we find that they were punished for mocking the words of the sages. Learn from the student who mocked the words of the sage who was analyzing Yeshayah 54:12, "And I will make your windows of gems," and they showed him from heaven, for the honour of that sage, that the words of the sage were accurate and one should not mock them, and the student was punished. (Sanhedrin 100a)

What Diax's Rake omits

A couple of weeks ago I finished reading Neal Stephenson's Anathem. It was mostly a good read, although there were definite portions in which I wondered where the editors had gone; dragging is not a strong enough word.

Stephenson's depiction of a universe (or, to use his term, cosmos) in which theoretical science advances without a practical arm, in which the nature of the laws of reality is itself a debate between schools, and in which theoretical science is conducted with what we would recognize as religious discipline and devotion (complete with a sort of monkhood, savants in place of saints, and rituals which would be at home in a church), is fascinating.

[I did think his Ita were an attempt at a Middle Ages European caricature of the Jew, with the relationship between the Ita and the avout throughout the story approximating what may/should have happened between Jew and Christian when the walls of the ghetto came down in the 18th and 19th centuries. Not sure how I feel about that.]

I have many thoughts on the book and its ideas, but right now I'm thinking about Diax's Rake, which is a stark and challenging rule: One should not believe a thing simply because he wishes it were true. [I see that this site links it to an idea of Thucydides.]

The book presents conflict between those who believe what they can prove (theors), and those who believe what they wish (enthusiasts). Diax's Rake (named for the rake used by the legendary Diax when chasing enthusiasts out of a shrine to logic and science) amplifies Stephen Hawking's recent pronouncement that heaven is a "fairy story" for people who are "afraid of the dark." As Diax would have put it: You can't prove there is a heaven – so you lack the right to believe it.

Left with this binary system, dividing the universe into proven and unproven, I would be forced to drop my belief in Judaism. I cannot prove most of the 'facts' set forth by Judaism – the existence of Gd, the creation of the world ex nihilo, the presentation of Torah at Sinai, the validity of the prophets, the existence of an afterlife, and so on.

But there is a third possibility, beyond logic and desire: Received tradition, believing in something because another person, whose account you trust, was able to prove it and relayed it to you. I believe in Sinai because the story of its experience [and I equate experience with proof] has been passed down in a chain of tradition I trust. I believe in prophecy because the stories about it have been passed down in a chain of tradition I trust. And so on.

I'm not proving anything, but I'm also not believing on the basis of a wish. I'm believing the accounts of others.

In a sense, believing in the accounts of others isn't really different from the theor believing in an idea that was already proved by some great thinker, without needing to demonstrate the proof himself. But I see it as different, because in the realm of theors it is given that the theory could be replicated today, and in the realm of religious tradition it could not.

Much to think about here. On the whole, a very interesting and challenging read. I recommend it.

Faith vs. Intellect?

In a post back in March ("Anti-Academic Judaism") I discussed a trend, in some Jewish circles, against the intellectual, analytic approach of academia; there is a school of thought which views such a derech as a dangerous challenge to religious faith.

In a thought-provoking debate in the comments, as well as on another blog, various posters discussed multiple aspects of the issue.

Last week, in preparing a Shavuot shiur, I came across the following relevant passage in Rav Kook's Orot Yisrael (Chapter 1); I think one could take it in multiple directions, but I like it anyway:

The original Hebrew:

חולשת האדם גורמת, שבהיותו מוכשר למחקר שכלי יוחלש בו יסוד הנטיה האמונית, ובהיותו שלם באמונה הוא עלול למעט בהשכלה וחכמת לב. אבל תכלית דרך הישרה היא, שכל כח לא ימעט את חברו, ולא יתמעט על ידו, כ״א יתגלה בכל מלא עזו, כאילו היה הוא השולט לבדו. כת האמונה צריך שיהיה שלם כ"כ כאילו אין לו שום אפשריות של מחקר, ולעומת זה צריך שיהיה כח החכמה כ״כ מעולה ומזורז כמו לא היה כלל כח של אמונה בנפש. ״אדם ובהמה״ — ערומים בדעת ומשימים עצמם כבהמה.

My translation:
"Human frailty causes a person who is gifted in intellectual analysis to have a weaker inclination toward faith, and a person who is whole in faith to reduce his intellectual insight and wisdom of the heart. But the goal of the straight path is that each strength not reduce the other, and not be reduced by the other, but rather that both be revealed in their full strength, as though it alone was in control.

"Faith must be as complete as if there was no possibility of analysis, and complementing this must be a force of intellect which is elevated and energized, as though there were no force of faith in the soul. "Man and animal (Tehillim 36)" – clever in intellect, and making themselves as [unthinking] beasts."

What do you think?

Anti-Academic Judaism

[Take a look at Circling the Gates of Jerusalem on Adar, at the Muqata]

Some months back, a friend noted the rising popularity of a rabbi whose approach is rather anti-intellectual, anti-academic. It fit, I thought, with the recent attraction to Breslov, to Chabad, to Rav Amnon Yitzchak (who I discovered, a couple of weeks ago, is a lot of fun to watch on YouTube when you’re stuck in a rut on a Motzaei Shabbos working on a shiur) and so on.

This trend is surprising in that it has taken hold among Jews who go to university, who live in an academic world.

On the other hand, it actually makes a lot of sense, based on an observation by another friend, Dr. L, a professor of religion at an American college.

Dr. L noted the rise of kabbalah in Christian lands in the later Middle Ages, and he argued that the popularity of mysticism at that moment in Jewish history was not coincidental. This was a time when the Church forced Jews to attend sermons, to participate in debates, and to otherwise face Christianity on an intellectual level. The Christians of the time believed that their faith could be proved correct through analysis and debate. All they needed to do was bring Jews into the proper forum, and the Jews would readily convert.

Jews, of course, had no way to win – either ‘lose’ the debates and accept Christianity, or continue in stubborn insistence that they were right and be accused of heresy.

Faced with this dilemma, Jews found a third approach, orthogonal to the playing field. They abandoned intellectual debate altogether, and adopted a school of thought which, by definition, could not be debated and discussed in any rational way. It had its own givens and stipulations, it was neither provable nor testable, and it did not claim fealty to any logical system or extant, accessible text. This was mysticism, and its adoption made perfect sense. If I can’t debate you, I can refuse to debate you.

And I suspect a similar appeal in today’s anti-academic, anti-intellectual adoption of faith-based and mysticism-based Judaism. (This is not to question the legitimacy and meaning of these approaches; they are Torah, too. I'm only discussing why they enjoy such popularity now.)

The world of the university lays claim to truth, and it’s very hard to argue the point against a world of scientific scholarship. To argue the point from a scholarly perspective is to invite charges of naivete at best, and dishonesty at worst, from the legions of people who believe that Judaism cannot be reconciled with scientific analysis.

To concede the point is to be forced to convert, so to speak.

And so many of today’s Jews opt out, choosing anti-intellectual schools of kabbalah or emunah peshutah (simple faith) or chassidus of custom rather than logic (a form of orthopraxy?), rather than engage in what they fear is a losing battle.

Call it a post-modern Orthodoxy.

Aspiring to defy Gd

What Soren Kierkegaard did for Avraham’s faith in Fear and Trembling, someone with an equally eloquent pen ought to do for Moshe’s defiance.

Kierkegaard wrote, with moving, powerful, dramatic beauty, of Avraham’s Akeidah, his decision to follow Gd and bring his son Yitzchak as a korban. He decried those who would infantilize Avraham’s obedience to Gd, who would view it with “the child’s pious simplicity.” He demonstrated, vividly, that this Akeidah was not an act of simple faith, but, rather, a soul-wrenching, terrifying, faithful devotion to a shockingly cruel Divine demand.

Someone ought to do the same for Moshe Rabbeinu’s multiple defiances of Gd, celestial acts which are yet fodder for so many aggravatingly simplistic divrei torah.

Like every 7th of Adar, as I observe Moshe Rabbeinu’s yahrtzeit this year I am awed by a new aspect of that human being whose life, whose power, overwhelms anything I can fathom. This year, it’s his defiance.

Moshe defies Gd multiple times, in multiple scenarios, including:
Gd orders Moshe to return to Egypt and save the Jews; Moshe declines.
Gd instructs Moshe to give the Jews the Torah on the 6th of Sivan; per the gemara, Moshe alters the date to the 7th of Sivan.
Gd declares His desire to destroy the idolatrous, rebellious nation; Moshe denies Gd the opportunity.
Gd informs Moshe that he will die; Moshe instructs Gd in choosing a new leader.
Gd instructs Moshe to remain in the desert; Moshe rails against his fate, before finding acceptance.
And yet, through it all, Gd describes Moshe as בכל ביתי נאמן הוא, the most loyal member of the Divine house. ככל אשר צוה ה' את משה, Following every word Gd instructed Moshe, so Moshe spoke and so Moshe did.

The more I contemplate it, the less I comprehend it.

Or to borrow from Kierkegaard regarding the Akeidah, “The older he became the more often his thoughts turned to that tale, his enthusiasm became stronger and stronger, and yet less and less could he understand it.”

Tanach is filled with people who refuse Divine instructions. Pharaoh. Bilam. And, on the good side, Yonah.

What marks Moshe’s refusal as unique – although Yonah’s has elements of this same character – is that his is not denial, it is defiance.

Pharaoh says, “Who is Gd, that I should listen?” Bilaam says, “Gd will have to follow my will.”

Moshe, on the other hand, accepts the reality of Gd fully, accepts the Torah of Gd fully, accepts the service of Gd fully. Moshe believes in Gd, he does not deny Gd’s existence or authority.

It seems to me that Moshe’s awareness of Gd is what fuels his defiance. He is Gd’s child. His refusal is born out of love for Gd, in the way that adult children often absorb and practice their parents’ values, and yet – in fulfilling their understanding of those same values – defy their parents’ instructions.

And so Avraham is labelled by Gd, אברהם אוהבי, “Avraham who loved Me,” but Moshe is labelled בן ביתי, a member of My household, the one whom I loved.

I never cease to be enthralled by Moshe. He is so far beyond anything I could ever become, and yet his story speaks volumes to me as a person, as a rabbi, as a Jew. His is iconic leadership and iconic abandonment, iconic selflessness and iconic self-awareness, iconic devotion and iconic defiance, iconic failure and iconic success.

יהי זכרו ברוך.

An Approach to the Challenge of "My Jesus Year"

The New Birth Megachurch in Lithonia, Georgia. The Christian Book Association’s annual conference. Ultimate Christian Wrestling. A Christian rock concert.

A young man named Benyamin Cohen - my wife’s classmate growing up, actually - realized in his early 20’s that he wasn’t finding meaning in Judaism, and that many of his Bible Belt Christian neighbors seemed a lot more passionate about their religion. So he visited those venues I just mentioned, and others, on a tour of Christian life, to see what it was that so inspired them. He recorded his experiences in a book, My Jesus Year.

Cohen’s search for religious passion reflects a problem I think many of us face. Based on my own experience and my conversations with Jews here and elsewhere, I know that Benyamin Cohen is not the exception; he is the rule. Many, if not most, are frustrated; Judaism, and particularly prayer, doesn’t “do anything” for them.


There are two main types of prayer, and I believe prayer doesn’t move us because we are dissatisfied with the first type, and unable to achieve the second.


The first type of prayer, which is found early on in the Torah, is Needy Prayer, the request of a supplicant seeking assistance.
• Kayin does it, pleading with Gd after he is punished.
• Avraham uses prayer to beseech Gd for aid, seeking forgiveness for Sdom, and an heir for his legacy.
• Yitzchak and Rivkah are childless, and daven for help.
• Yaakov is afraid of his enemies, of Esav and Lavan and then Esav again, and he davens for protection.
• And we read in this morning’s parshah that the Jews in Mitzrayim, suffering in slavery, cry out to HaShem for relief from their pain.


This type of prayer makes a lot of sense; I need something, Gd can provide it, so let me ask. I don’t even need to believe anything in order to do it; what do I have to lose by trying?

But if this is the defining display of our connection to Gd, if my every prayer is a request for something or even a Thank You for something, then this prayer, and the relationship it represents, are fundamentally doomed.

A connection based solely on petitionary prayer cheapens our role as human beings, as speaking spirits, as the singular nexus of the sacred and the mundane. Truly: Would we sink so low as to exclusively dedicate our audiences with the Creator to a shopping list?

Indeed, when the Talmudic sage Rava witnessed another sage praying for an extended period of time, he mocked him, saying, “He is abandoning the eternal life [of Torah study] in order to pursue temporary life!”

More than that:
• Prayer which focusses on filling our needs is bound to be uninspiring for us. Who finds fulfillment in filling out a grant application, a scholarship form? Further, who won’t wonder, “Doesn’t Gd already know what I need? Why must I jump through these hoops?”
• And what happens at times when we don’t feel a need, or we don’t feel a need that we think Gd will fill? Then, without a purpose, why pray?
• And, of course, we notice those prayers which do not come back with a “Yes” stamp, and we wonder, “Is there a Gd listening to my prayers at all?”

And so this supplicatory prayer, though accompanied by snappy tunes, or recited slower or faster, with new phrases or old, with or without improved translations and commentary, ultimately loses any personal connection and becomes a rote artifact of obligation, neither spiritual nor satisfying.


Which brings us to the second model of prayer: Relationship Prayer.

This second type of prayer is found more rarely in the early going in the Torah, but it is present.
In the Torah’s most obvious example: When Avraham was convalescing from his bris milah, HaShem appeared to him. “וירא אליו ה', HaShem appeared to Avraham.” Why? For what purpose? What message did Gd convey to Avraham?

The Torah doesn’t say; instead, the Torah moves on to a visit by three messengers, and then the destruction of Sdom. But what happened during HaShem’s visit to Avraham?

The answer is… Nothing. Avraham’s association with the Divine is not restricted to a petitioner’s plea or even to the communication of prophecy; Avraham can also simply BE with Gd, can sit at the entrance of his tent and contemplate the Gd who created Avraham and Sarah and all around them.

This is prayer as relationship - and, as Avraham’s descendants evolve, it becomes their ideal form of prayer.


Certainly, it takes a while. In upcoming parshiyyos we will see the Jews, led by Moshe, call out to Gd in need - at the Sea, and when they need water and food. Moshe himself will pray to Gd multiple times for the very survival of the Jewish people, and he will seek forgiveness for their sins.

But we will also witness the emergence of this new paradigm, at Divine decree. Gd will declare, “ועשו לי מקדש ושכנתי בתוכם, Make a sanctuary for Me, and I will dwell among them,” and with this He will revive that Divine visit to Avraham, and a type of prayer that is not Supplication, but Relationship.

The korbanot, the offerings the Jews would bring to Gd in that sanctuary, were not associated with requests and needs; there were no personal offerings in that Mishkan. Rather, the Jews brought the קרבן תמיד, a twice-daily offering which marked a national, on-going relationship with Gd.

This relationship, centered on a building known after all as the אוהל מועד, the Tent of Meeting, is described liturgically as “שמה שכינה שכינה לך, There the Shechinah, HaShem’s presence, resides, waiting for you.” Not waiting for you to come ask for things, but waiting for you to visit, to say Hello, to renew that conversation which began when HaShem visited Avraham after his bris milah so many years ago.


In truth, Relationship Prayer is as difficult as needy Petitionary Prayer, but for a different reason. Petitionary prayer may be difficult because it is inherently uninspiring, but Relationship prayer is challenging because it demands something of us, a currency we concede most stingily: It demands Trust.
• The Avraham who can commune with Gd after his circumcision is the one who trusted Gd and followed Him from Mesopotamia to Elonei Mamrei.
• The Jew who can communicate with Gd at the Mishkan is the one who trusted Gd and followed Him out of Egypt, into the desert.
• And the Jew who will find Gd today is the one who trusts Gd, who permits himself to believe.

Trust is the reason we can have this relationship, the ingredient that allows our prayer to evolve.


The Christians I have met in Cohen’s chapters - the wrestlers, the musicians, the baseball players, the megachurches - share this common thread: Trust. The people Cohen describes, the people who are invested, the people who attend and sing and cheer and fund these Bible Belt institutions, are people who trust this deity of theirs. Before they love, they believe, and everything follows from there.

A Jew who spends a great deal of time second-guessing himself, who finds relativism in every sphere of life, is going to have a hard time suspending his questions and doubts long enough to believe. Even as he bows in Shmoneh Esreih, this Jew observes himself from the outside and asks, “To whom am I bowing?” Even as he begins a meal by washing his hands, he wonders, “What if there is no Creator, and all of this is just an obsessive charade?”

All of our relationships, including religious relationships, are founded on trust - and so the Jew who wishes to experience passion in prayer, who wishes to experience some religious epiphany in shul, must look past the question of tunes and translations and ask himself the first, most basic question: Do I trust? Do I allow myself to trust?


Every time Israel becomes involved in a war, certain stock photographs of soldiers circulate by email. There’s the picture of young men trudging in a line to the front. There’s the picture of children heading into bomb shelters. And there’s the picture of a soldier perched on a tank, praying as the sun rises. Or a unit gathered to hear krias hatorah. Or a rabbi helping a solder put on tefillin.

To be sure, some soldiers turn to Gd at that point as supplicants, because there are no atheists in a foxhole; for them, perhaps, prayer is a hopeful means of asking Gd, who may or may not exist, for help. But for the rest, prayer is a function of their basic, lifelong trust in Gd and the Torah, a trust that gives them a relationship that remains with them even in the toughest times.

This relationship is what Benyamin Cohen was seeking in My Jesus Year, and this is what Avraham Avinu had - and, if we can permit ourselves to trust, then it is a relationship we will enjoy as well.

-
Notes:

1. I can't recommend the book My Jesus Year itself, because I am very uncomfortable with the author's derogatory description of his father throughout the book. It is lashon hara and character assassination.
The book is also written in Bloggish rather than formal English, complete with misplaced apostrophes and unique grammar. That's the author's choice, of course, but it rubs me wrong in a book produced with a major publisher.

2. There is a third, hybrid type of prayer, but I felt it was more a classroom topic than a derashah topic: Rav Chaim of Volozhin, the main student of the Vilna Gaon, in his Nefesh haChaim that even when we pray for our needs, we don’t pray because we want something for ourselves; rather, we turn to a Gd who cares about us, with Whom we have a relationship, and we say, “If You care about me, then my suffering must also cause You pain - and I wish for You to fill my needs so that Your pain will end.”
What a remarkable prayer - Gd, give me what I want so that You will be happy! This prayer bespeaks so much more than a petitioner before a king; it is the conversation of two lifelong friends, whose shared heart wishes only the best for each of them.

3. Rava's sarcasm is on Shabbat 10a.

Faith, Objective and Personal

A wise rabbi once advised me that I would have to choose between “rabbinic social work” and a more intellectual rabbinate. The more I see, though, the more I understand how the two depend on each other, and how the former is, for most people, far more important than the latter. The intellectual is indispensable, but the Torah's address to the personal is far more crucial and makes a far greater impact on our lives – not only in terms of 'feeling good,' but in terms of addressing core matters of Emunah (faith).

For many people, objective intellectual questions like, “How old is the universe - really?” and “Did yetziat mitzrayim happen as theTorah describes it?” are not inherently important. They bother many of us only when we are troubled by more subjective, personal issues.

For many people: When we are spiritually “positive”, when we perceive purpose in life and its pursuits, many of us experience little difficulty in accepting traditional views on these matters of rational analysis.

On the other hand: When we have felt spiritually unsettled, when we have sought Gd and not found, when theodicy and its associated issues have occupied our minds, when we have not seen our meaning and place, then no intellectual answers have sufficed, and these questions have loomed large as challenges to our basic belief in Gd and Torah.

I write these thoughts because I recently came across a great compendium published by the Rabbi J.B. Soloveitchik Institute a few years back, on what would have been the Rav's 100th birthday. It's entitled, “A Study and Program Guide to the Teachings of Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik.”

On Page 14, in Michael A. Bierman's biographical essay on the Rav, the author cites an insight from R' Reuven Ziegler, into the Rav's approach:
Thus, the Rav chose to address primarily issues related to the human existential situation: the possibility of experiencing faith within contemporary society, the relationship between the fundamental attitudes of modernity and religiosity, and the experiential crisis of the contemporary believer.
He states clearly at the outset of “The Lonely Man of Faith” that he does not want to deal with the abstract, intellectual side of the problem of faith and reason, but rather with its existential dimension: “Theory is not my concern at the moment. I want instead to focus attention on a human life situation in which the man of faith as an individual concrete being, with his cares and hopes, concerns and needs, joys and sad moments, is entangled...”

That's exactly “it” for me – the experiential crisis, the cares and hopes, concerns and needs, etc. Those are the engines driving my own faith – and, from what I have seen, that of others.

In eleven years in the rabbinate, I have answered many times over the questions of evolution and the like, and I have watched others do so as well, but regardless of how the answers were offered and to what type of audience, I have never seen them as well-received as a strong, well-developed and well-delivered approach to personal spirituality, to prayer, to theodicy, to life.

Lives don't change, in my experience, from insights into the Oneness of Gd or Divine incorporeality, or analyses of the historical and biblical Plishtim, or derashot on Avraham's openness to guests, or pilpul on who is obligated to sit in a Succah. Rather, lives change – and I have seen it – from the way Judaism addresses “ a human life situation in which the man of faith as an individual concrete being, with his cares and hopes, concerns and needs, joys and sad moments, is entangled.”