From the Bimah: Jewish Lessons for Life

I have been thinking a lot about something that many of us—not all, but many—have in common: brothers and sisters.  I have been in a deep brother and sister place this week for two reasons. I am the youngest of six children.  My five older siblings live in different places. Two live in Los Angeles, one in New Jersey, one in Denver, and my sister Jill and I live in Newton.  This past Monday night, for a brief, incredibly sweet, totally-to-be-cherished nano second, we were all in the same place together, Brooklyn, for the wedding of Jill and Steve’s son Ari to his wife Esther.  Between geographical challenges, health challenges, Covid, and life, the six of us don’t get a chance to see one another altogether in the same place nearly as much as we would like.  The last time all six of us were together was at another nephew’s wedding in Denver before the pandemic.  So it felt incredibly special, and rare. And, just as we were dancing at Ari and Esther’s wedding, my brothers on Shira’s side of the family, Ari in Jerusalem, Daniel in Atlanta, and I were concluding saying Kaddish for our father after the 11 months.  Every morning, and every evening, in Jerusalem, Atlanta, and Temple Emanuel, we said Kaddish for our father, and it was deeply meaningful that we were doing so together in our respective cities.  This past Tuesday we said our last Kaddish.   Sharing the wedding and the Kaddish with brothers and sisters made me think about the special blessing, and special challenge, of brothers and sisters. A deep paradox lies at the heart of the sibling relationship.

There is a Jewish holiday that few know, Tu B’Shevat, the new year of trees, celebrated next Wednesday night and Thursday, January 24-25. If Passover is the most broadly observed holiday, Tu B’Shevat is among the least observed—a holiday about trees in the dead of winter. To prepare ourselves for the holiday next week, we are going to study three stories about trees: A story about a tired and thirsty traveler who is nourished and renewed by a tree’s shade and fruit and gratefully offers the tree a blessing. Taanit 5b-6a. Shel Silverstein’s classic children’s story The Giving Tree (1964) is the antithesis of the first story. In Silverstein’s tale, the human has no gratitude and just keeps using the tree, taking and taking until reducing it to a stump. Why is a story about an abused tree and an abusive human a bestseller? What does this troubling story teach us, and how are we to understand its apparent popularity? The story about a person who plants a carob tree that will not yield fruit for 70 years because he had inherited carob trees that had been planted for him by others. Taanit 23a What do these stories about trees teach us about us?

January 13, 2024

Our reading this week, parshat va’era, features otot u’moftim, signs and wonders, that are intended to persuade Pharaoh of God’s power and therefore that he should let the Israelites go. The problem is, while the signs and wonders are indeed powerful-- a rod turning into a snake, the Nile turning into blood, millions of frogs jumping up and down--the signs and wonders do not succeed in their appointed task: Pharaoh remains unconvinced. Our reading reminds us that signs and wonders do not work. In one of the Talmud’s most famous stories, Rabbi Eliezer tries to prove that his theory about the oven of Achnai is correct. He tries to do this with signs and wonders. Rabbi Eliezer said to them: If the Halacha accords with me, let this carob tree prove it, whereupon the carob tree was uprooted from its place and moved one hundred amos. Unconvinced, the sages said to him you cannot bring proof from a carob tree. He then said to them: If the Halachah accords with me, let the water canal prove it, whereupon the water in the water canal flowed backward. The sages said to him: You cannot bring proof from a water canal. (Bava Metzia 59B) Today we talk about why it is that signs and wonders never work. They never convince the unconvinced. Even the tenth plague—there was no home where a first born was not dead—persuades Pharaoh only temporarily. But he soon changes his mind and mobilizes his army and cavalry to pursue the Israelites at the Sea of Reeds. In the end, the Egyptians are never persuaded. They are defeated. They drown. We bring some learning from Sheila Heen, the head of the Negotiation Project at Harvard Law School, about why even the most powerful arguments and signs and wonders never convince the unconvinced. And we talk about signs and wonders that do work and that we can believe in.

If a picture paints a thousand words, then a screen shot I saw this week conveys a truth that we need to reckon with.  The screen shot shows the different realities of New York City and Israel on New Year’s Eve.  New York:  fireworks. Israel: taking fire, the glare of missiles and rockets that Hamas still manages to fire into Israel.  New York: people on the streets, reveling, counting down in anticipation, 5-4-3-2-1, Happy New Year! Israel, another night in the bomb shelter? What do we do with this asymmetry? 

Wisdom. We could all use it now. Many of us had hoped and prayed for a better 2024, a happier 2024, a more peaceful 2024. But now that we are in 2024, we are faced with the same stubborn challenges of 2023, deepened. The election cycle in America. The ongoing war in Israel and Gaza and the simmering threat of war with Hezbollah.  Ongoing tensions on our college campuses, including one five miles from Temple Emanuel. In the face of all this complexity, what might wisdom look like, and where could we get it?  Today we examine two classic Jewish stories on wisdom: Solomon, who urges splitting the baby down the middle, in response to two women who each claim to be the mother, and Joseph, who plans for the lean years during the years of abundance. Both the Bible itself, and the rabbinic tradition, link these stories. What is the relationship between Solomon’s wisdom and Joseph’s wisdom, and what does each offer us now?

A member of TE, Dr. Heller is a respected member of the Hebrew College MEAH Bible faculty and has taught many courses at TE. Dr. Heller combines her passion for biblical text with her academic background in Jewish Studies and Comparative Literature and holds a Ph.D. from NYU.

My grandfather was a curmudgeon, especially this time of year. He would start to get grumpy mid-November, when Christmas lights started going up around town and his mood would really sour after Thanksgiving when retailers began blasting Christmas carols. Then a simple trip to the grocery store would send him muttering angrily under his breath up and down the aisles and then all the way home. His mood wouldn’t improve until February when the last decorations were finally packed away. I never fully understood what exactly my grandfather had against Christmas, but I somehow unconsciously adopted some of his feelings. For a long time, Christmas music at the mall or at grocery stores would put me on edge. Christmas lights made me think about climate change. And if anyone wished me a Merry Christmas, I would rush to explain I don’t celebrate but that I hope they had a good holiday season. But then something shifted.

With Rabbi Michelle Robinson

The prayer life of the Jewish people gives voice to contradiction and dissonance. On the one hand, all week long we have been singing Hallel, in which we acclaim how God saves us: I called on Adonai; I prayed that God would save me.... God has delivered me from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling. I shall walk before Adonai in the land of the living. On the other hand, a poem by Israeli Asaf Gur, called Kadish, offers a different reality. Yisgadal V'yiskadash Shmei Raba And no one came Many thousands called Him on Shabbat morning Crying His name out loud Begging Him with tears just to come But He ceased from all His work No God came And no God calmed Only Satan celebrated uninterrupted Dancing between Kibbutzim and the slaughter festival... This poem evokes the spirit of the Kaddish we recite on Yom Hashoah: Yitgadal Auschwitz Vyitkadash Lodz Sh'mei raba Ponar... What do we do with this dissonance? Is the Joseph story helpful? When Joseph is sold into slavery, when he is unjustly sent to prison for a crime he did not commit, when he lives as a prisoner, three times the Torah says "The Lord was with Joseph." What does that mean, and what does that mean to us?

Ever since October 7, I have been living in an anxiety-filled, doom-driven stupor.  All day, from the moment I wake up until I go to bed at night, I check my news apps compulsively and obsessively, worried that there will be some new development that will rock my world the way that horrible attack did. At night, I delve deeper.  I doom scroll.  I read every new article I can find. I search for stories and testimonies I haven’t read yet.  We sleep-trained the baby, so now he mostly sleeps through the night (thank goodness), but I’m still waking up every few hours just to check, to make sure nothing has drastically changed. In the morning, every morning, Solomon and I have the same conversation. Solomon shares his concern about how much I am marinating in all of this. I share how essential it feels to know what is happening. After all, if I don’t read the paper, how would I know that Oakland is having a teach-in where teachers have been given lesson plans that include books for kindergarteners with pages like “I is for Intifada, Intifada is Arabic for rising up for what is right, if you are a kid or a grown-up! ” How would I know that 93 members of the House refused to acknowledge that anti-Zionism is Antisemitism . If I am not up to speed with what is happening in the world and what is being said about it, how will I possibly engage with young adults who write to me that they aren’t sure they can come to Yisod anymore because they are decidedly pro-Palestine. How will I help young adults to process what is happening and to maintain their connection to Israel if I don’t know what they’re reading and seeing and responding to?

Before October 7, our children were blessed to live in a world where their Jewish commitments were not an obstacle to making friends or fulfilling their dreams. Yes, there has always been some anti-Semitism. But for the most part, our kids could be who they were, without hiding anything. Our job was to inspire them to give voice to all parts of themselves: their love of sports; music; drama; dance; and their Jewish lives. You can do soccer and you can do Judaism. It’s an and. That task now feels quaint. To the extent that our children love Israel, and the Zionism that made Israel possible (which is how we have educated them), they will face a world in college that is explicitly hostile to those commitments. Some might be tempted to disconnect from the hot mess, too depressing and complicated. Some might be bullied into silence. If they still love Israel, they become at best Marrano Zionists. Still others might be tempted to turn on Israel and claim that it is an illegitimate state. But in the bullying anti-Israel climate of today’s college campus, among universities whose presidents cannot condemn genocide against the Jewish people as against their university’s code of conduct, who among our 18–22-year-olds would have the moral courage to stand against the tide and say: I stand with Israel. I am a proud Zionist. Yes, there surely are Jewish students who are out as Israel supporters even today, and we are proud of their moral courage. But it is not easy. How do we help them? We will examine texts about Joseph in Egypt in the Torah and in the midrash; Robert Putnam’s classic American Grace; and Dara Horn’s People Love Dead Jews to talk about how the challenge of educating our children Jewishly has changed dramatically as a result of October 7. How do we prepare our children for the world they now face?

This morning has been so beautiful, so joyful, just what we needed. Daniel’s Bar Mitzvah. Eli’s Bar Mitzvah. Ronna’s birthday. Elizabeth’s naming, three generations of love. And the reason it is especially joyful is that things have been so dark. Eight weeks of war later, with no clear end in sight, we don’t know when it’s going to end, we don’t know how it’s going to end, it’s dark. What the hostages who have been freed have reported about their captivity, what they had to endure, is dark. The hostages who have not been freed, what they and their families are going through, is dark. The hostages who have been murdered, dark. The resumption of war, and what that means for Israelis who are now in battle, and for Gazans who are caught in the crossfire, who have been so ill served by Hamas, is dark. What do with do with all this darkness? I have wrestled with this darkness. I have found two positions that are not helpful. I have tried disconnecting from the heartbreak. Not reading the news. Following only sports stories. But I know that is not okay. And I have fallen into a rabbit hole, following the news obsessively, worrying all the time, not sleeping through the night. That doesn’t help anybody. Is there a way to engage the darkness without becoming dark? Is there a way to engage this depressing reality without becoming depressed? Is there a way to follow a story that generates heart ache and heart break every day without falling into a rabbit hole? The holiday of Hanukkah offers us some helpful insight here.

An envelope structure is a great way to tell a story. The story begins with a place, an event, a memorable moment. Stuff happens. The plot unfolds. And the story ends back at the same place or a newer, deeper version of the same event or memorable moment. A classic example of an envelope structure is God, Jacob, and Bethel. Last week’s reading: At the beginning of Jacob’s dangerous journey, when he is alone and vulnerable, God promises to be with him, to protect him, and not to leave him until he comes safely back home. Jacob pours oil upon a stone, creating a pillar at a place called Bethel, which the Torah notes used to be called Luz. (Genesis 28: 13-19) This week’s reading: Many years later, Jacob now has four wives, eleven sons and his daughter Dinah. He and his large family have made it back home to Canaan and survived his reunion with Esau. It seems like God has fulfilled God’s promises. The Torah self-consciously and intentionally creates an envelope structure: God said to Jacob, “Arise, go up to Bethel and remain there; and build an altar there to the God who appeared to you when you were fleeing from your brother Esau. (Genesis 35:1) Thus, Jacob came to Luz—that is, Bethel—in the land of Canaan, he and all the people who were with him. There he built an altar and named the site El-bethel, for it was there that God had revealed Himself to him when he was fleeing from his brother. (Genesis 35: 6-7) God parted from him at the spot where He had spoken to him; and Jacob set up a pillar at the site where He had spoken to him, a pillar of stone, and he offered a libation on it and poured oil upon it. Jacob gave the site, where God had spoken to him, the name of Bethel. (Genesis 35: 13-14) Promises made at Bethel. Promises fulfilled, duly noted, and celebrated, at Bethel. Clean. Neat. Tidy. Or not? What do we learn about the apparent envelope of Jacob’s story that can help us make sense of our own reality that is not clean, not neat, not tidy?

We hear a lot these days about “the college campus,” and I just want to note, it is important to remember that every student is different and every student is experiencing his or her campus differently. I don’t speak for all college students, perhaps not even most, and what I’ll share today is my perspective based on my experience. I strongly encourage you to continue to talk to other college students you know – ask them how they have responded to their unique campus climates, and what they have been thinking about over the last 7 weeks. In that spirit, when I think about my Jewish peers on the Columbia campus, here are a few types that come to mind.