Listen Up

Parshat V’etchanan

A program has begun to install padding around many of the lightposts in central London.  Apparently, a number of people have bumped into unpadded posts while texting – and been injured as a result – and thus the need for padding.  This got me thinking about the question of whether or not we’ve become smarter thanks to all our new technology.  The padding project suggests perhaps not.

Another example has to do with ‘google searches’ related to medical care.  Apparently, 1 out of every 50 searches in 2008 was dedicated to exploring some medical condition or another the user felt he or she might possibly have contracted.  What’s interesting to note is that out of the 160 million people in the US – that’s right, 160 million! – who have searched medical conditions on the web, one-third of them have done follow up searches on the most severe possibility of what that condition might be.  In other words, if a person has a headache, rather than pursuing the possibility that he is tired, dehydrated or simply suffering from a relatively common occurrence for much of the world, he will immediately click on the ‘brain tumor’ option offered by the google search.  The reason why: Because that option is the most dramatic, it usually appears as one of the first or second options, while the more common choices are buried much lower – despite the fact that they are most likely the true results.

I was thinking about this situation a little bit as I read parshat V’Ethchanan.  Contained within this parsha, of course, is the most famous verse in the whole Torah – S’hma Yisrael, Hashem Elokeynu, Hashem Echad.  What’s odd to note is the fact that this verse, as famous as it is, and as central as it is to all of Judaism, only appears near the end of this parsha, which itself is at the end of the entire Torah.  Such an important phrase surely deserves a more prominent location; wouldn’t mentioning it right before receiving the Torah at Mount Sinai have made sense, or perhaps as the Jews left Egypt and crossed the Red Sea?  Why is ‘buried’ so far along the way?

This question can be made stronger by the fact that the Sh’ma is essential to recite to accept upon oneself the ‘burden of Heaven’ as our sages call it, and that this acceptance must precede the acceptance of Torah itself.  Surely, then, it would have made more sense for this verse to appear before the Jews receive the Torah at Sinai; again, why is it so late?

I’d like to suggest two answers.

The first is connected to the fact that we always read this parsha after Tisha B’av, and therefore it is suggested that perhaps it should serve some type of comforting role as we move from destruction (of the Temple) to construction (of the nation).  Consider the world “me’odecha” that appears in the first line of the Ve’Ahavta portion of the Sh’ma.  Rashi translates this word to mean one’s money, as in, “One should love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul … and money.”  The Belzer Rebbe translates it differently not as one’s money but rather as one’s ‘very much’ – which actually is the literal translation of the word.  How should we understand loving God with all of one’s ‘very much’?  Simple: One should express love for God in whatever way he or she uniquely excels.  If one has a talent for art, then that’s his/her very much, and he/she should love God in that way.  Similarly, whatever one’s talents might be, whatever one has ‘very much’ of, he/she should love God in that way.

Rashi offers another possibility of this word as well.  Me’odecha is not from the word me’od, but rather from midah, as in measurement, and the phrase should therefore be understood as follows: Love the Lord you God in whatever measure God has given you, whether you are in a good situation or a bad situation.

I understand this teaching to mean that one should learn how to love God both in good times and bad.  The former might be easier, but the latter is no less important.  And this fact helps explain why the Sh’ma appears so late in the game.  If God told us we had to love God at Mount Sinai, in the midst of God speaking from the Heavens directly to us, just after God performed many amazing miracles for us, including feeding us daily with the miraculous manna and guiding us with a cloud of glory, well then, it was probably easier to feel God’s presence and develop a love for God.  Now, just as all those miracles are ending and Am Yisrael is about to enter the land of Israel – where God’s presence will not be felt in the same palatable way, and where miracles will not accompany us wherever we go – well, then, it might be more difficult to feel God and love God.  Moshe, therefore, saves this commandment until now: Yes, it is much more difficult, but it is no less necessary. 

Moshe’s personal life only adds to the power of this statement.  He has asked God repeatedly for the permission to enter the Land of Israel.  In this parsha, God tells Moshe ‘no’ for the last time.  Under no circumstances will Moshe be permitted to fulfill his lifelong dream of entering Israel.  Surely he was devastated … but then he teaches everyone that they must nevertheless love the Lord their God. Even at a time like this, not only can I, Moshe, love God, but I want others to do the same (which, of course, is a great proof that Moshe really loved God, as one of the best ways to show others of our love of something is to somehow get them to love it as well).

**

A second possibility.  Rabbi Shlomo Aviner notes that the Sh’ma has three parts.  The first speaks about the love of God and belief in God.  But that, of course, is hard to achieve without any guidance, so there is a second part, and that’s the commandment within the Sh’ma to ‘speak about this matter’ all the time, since doing so will help cultivate the necessary faith.  And if that’s not enough, you should also engage in Torah study, and ‘teach them to your children’ time and time again.  Torah, after all, is a great way to develop an appreciation of God and draw closer to God.  But this second stage is not enough either; yes, it’s nice to recognize God and learn God’s Torah, but the real test of faith is the ability to bring both of these previous ideas into the real world.  And that’s why the Sh’ma ends with the phrase B’Sh’arecha – into your gates.  Here, Rav Aviner, notes, is the idea that the words we have just recited only matter fully when they leave the theoretical realm of the study of Torah in the Beit Midrash and enter into our gates – which is symbolic of our cities and our livelihoods.  Torah must be applied if it is to mean anything.

And maybe this is why the Sh’ma only occurs so late in the Torah.  After all, it is now that Am Yisrael is about to enter Israel, and therefore it is also now that Am Yisrael really has to learn to apply the lessons of the desert into the real world.  At Sinai, Torah was theoretical.  They had no farms; they had no businesses; they had no State.  So the Torah they learned, and the faith in God they developed, had no place to be applied.  As they set to enter Israel, though, they realized they soon would have to build a state and all the accouterments to go with it.  Torah would finally be taken from the heavens and brought down to earth in a very real way.  And thus it makes perfect sense to wait until now to learn about this commandment.

**

Let’s end with an insight of Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach.  He notes that the essence of the Sh’ma is to ability to unite God – to make God one – which has many ramifications, including uniting all of God’s world.  But we have two eyes and we thus often see division rather than unity.  It’s us versus them.  I’m here and you’re there; I’m on Earth, God is in Heaven.  So, says Rav Shlomo, we close our eyes when we recite the Sh’ma so we can genuinely ‘see’ the unity of God – and the world – much better.  That’s the  work we have to engage in when we recite this verse.

But I don’t believe that’s enough.  Eventually, we have to open up our eyes.  What then?  Do we give up on that unity?  Of course not.  To the contrary, when we open up our eyes, we are to take the dreams we had when they were closed and now begin the hard work of making them come true with our eyes wide open and our bodies fully awake.  Dreaming is only the first step; doing is the realization. 

That I believe is the message of the Sh’ma being placed where it is.  We must not simply live in the dream world – the world of the desert and the miracles of Mount Sinai.  No, we must also live in the world of entering Israel – the real world of work and endeavor.

The True Shawshank Redemption

In the second half of the double-parsha reading of Matot-Masai we read about the individual who accidentally kills another person and how his punishment is to be banished to one of the ‘cities of refuge’ operated by the tribe of Levi.  We further read that this individual must remain in the city – or otherwise risk being killed by one of the relatives of the victim of the perpetrator’s negligence — until such time that the Kohen Gadol dies and a new one is installed.

The obvious question is what is the relationship to this individual who engaged in negligent manslaughter and the Kohen Gadol?

Amongst the traditional answers:

1) The Kohen Gadol, as spiritual leader of the whole nation, bears some responsibility for the actions of every member, and therefore it makes sense to connect the two in some way.  The take home lesson here is that our leaders should express concern over – and influence the change of - inappropriate behavior amongst the masses.

2) The opposite – namely, that the Kohen Gadol is so holy it would be a disservice to allow such an unholy person the ability to ‘mix’ with him, and therefore he must be kept separate.

3) Maybe the issue is not related to the Kohen Gadol or the unintentional killer.  Maybe the person we should be focusing on is the relative who is so angry by the death of his kin he is prepared to kill – if given the chance – the person who accidentally took his relative’s life.  Certainly it’s important to always remember, but one must also be able to move on with one’s life and put the anger aside.  It doesn’t do anyone any good to remain angry one’s entire life over a injustice, least of all the angry person himself nor the relative over whom he is angry.  Perhaps the death of the Kohen Gadol awakens within the relative an awareness of this fact, that life is too short to bear grudges eternally.  Not that he needs to become best friends with this killer, but he certainly doesn’t need to let him ruin his life as well (as he did the first victim).

In this regard, I am reminded of a story of two monks walking in the forest.  They come to a raging river; on its banks is a young woman afraid of crossing.  One monk offers the young woman his shoulder; he lifts her up, carries her across the river, puts her down and says his goodbyes.  A couple of days later, the second monk turns to the first monk and asks him about the earlier incident.  “Brother, was it appropriate for you to have carried that woman on your shoulder?” he asks.  The second monk responds: “Brother, I only carried her for a few moments.  You’re still carrying her in your heart a few days later.”

***

I would like to offer another possible connection between the Kohen Gadol and the accidental killer.

To do so, let’s look at another incident in this week’s double parsha, namely the request by the leaders of the tribe of Reuven and Gad to remain on the other side of the Jordan river as their brethren enter the land of Israel — “since they have abundance of sheep, and this land is good for sheep.”  Moses is quite upset with this request as it suggests a certain amount of callousness towards the rest of the tribes on one hand, and an over-concern for material matters on the other.  And indeed, most commentators assume Reuven and Gad sin in making this request, focusing too much on their own financial goals as opposed to the communal goals of the nation as a whole.

One commentator, though, offers a radically different approach.  Maybe, just maybe, Reuven and Gad didn’t intend to be selfish at all.  Perhaps they were saying something quite selfless instead:  Moses was already told that he would not enter Israel, which means he most likely would die ‘here’ on the other side of the Jordan.  Who would watch over ’him’ – his grave, his legacy?  Perhaps Reuven and Gad were offering to do exactly this, to create a Jewish presence in the area where Moses would find his eternal resting place; they would visit his grave, protect it, and promote the area as a way of promoting the man himself.  Of course, given Moses’ humble nature, he would never allow such a thing; therefore, Reuven and Gad had to offer a ruse of sorts, arguing that they were doing it for selfish reasons as opposed to the selfless reasons they actually possessed.

Do I believe this interpretation is the right one?   I’m not sure – but what I find interesting is the desire by some commentators to find the good in every situation, to ‘judge everyone favorably’ as our Rabbis suggest.  Far too often we forget that this too is a mitzvah, and as a result, far too often we take the easy way out and find the bad in others rather than do the hard work of searching for the good, and then the even harder work of cultivating the good and bringing it out in the person.

***

Maybe this insight can offer another approach to our initial question of why the Kohen Gadol must die before the accidental killer is set free.

Consider for a moment the difference in the way the modern world punishes its criminals and the Biblical/Talmudic path for the same people.  In the secular world, people are put into prison; and once there, they very often learn how to become better criminals.  Being surrounded by people ‘worse’ then themselves, there is little incentive – and even less guidance – to elevate oneself out of the morass of the criminal life.  Contrast that now with Jewish law.  By and large, there were no prisons at all.  Someone committed a crime and he was punished immediately; but then he was allowed to re-enter society.  The closest thing we had were these ‘cities of refuge’ described in this week’s parsha.  But notice how different they were to today’s prison.  Most strikingly, of course, rather than surrounded by other – usually more hardened criminals – the accidental killer was surrounded by Levites and Kohanim, the spiritual leaders and educational guides of society.  No doubt this environment had a positive impact on the ‘prisoners’ — and maybe, just maybe, it not only saw that this negligent individual had the potential to become better, but it also understood how this potential could be cultivated. 

When the Kohen Gadol died, a new Kohen was elevated in his place.  Until the day before, this second Kohen was nothing special, but now he changed his status.  Perhaps we ‘set free’ the accidental killer on this same day because we now believe it is possible that people can change – if we help them – and the experience of being led by Levites for a period of time has made him ready to reenter society.

Believing is Seeing

In the first parsha of the Book of Exodus Moshe meets God at the burning bush and is commanded to lead the Jewish people out of Egypt.  Moshe, of course, is a little skeptical and quite hesitant to take on this monumental task.  He expresses his concern thus: “Who am I that I should go unto Pharaoh, and that I should bring the children of Israel out of Egypt?”  (Exodus 3:11) Rashi comments on this verse that Moshe was in reality asking God two questions: 1) Who am I to lead the Jewish people?  Certainly there are more qualified and worthy candidates.  And 2) even if I was qualified, why do the Jewish people deserve such kindness?  They, too, are not overly worthy to merit such personal concern from the Creator of the World.  Or to quote Rashi directly, “And even if I am important, how did Israel merit that a miracle be done for them?”

In the very next verse, God answers Moshe’s challenge by assuring him that God will “be with you” — so even if you’re not worthy, don’t worry, you won’t be alone.  Regarding the second question — i.e., what merit do the Jewish people possess? — God is much more circumspect: “They will serve God upon this mountain (Mount Sinai) when you Moshe bring them out of Egypt.”  What does that mean?  Moshe asks God why the Jews deserve a miracle to be performed on their behalf and God simply says they will leave Egypt and one day arrive back in this same place that Moshe and God are now conversing.  Maybe this fact is interesting, but how does it satisfy Moshe’s concern?

To begin to answer this question, let’s try a little experiment.  Take your left hand and stretch it out all the way in front of you.  With the back of your hand facing you, raise the index finger of this hand in the air.  Now take your right hand and place it about six inches in front of your face, and then raise the index finger of this hand, too, straight in the air.  Close your left eye.  Do you best to align the two fingers so that the one on your right hand basically covers the one (further away) on your left hand.  Now move your right hand (and finger) ever so slightly to the left so you can now see both fingers.   Feel free to reread these directions to make sure you’re ready before moving on to the next step.

OK, now that you’re ready, I want you to quickly close your left eye and immediately open your right one.  After a minute or so, switch eyes again; and then again; and then again. 

If you did this experiment correctly, your right finger should have ‘jumped’ from the left of your left hand finger to the right of your left hand finger.  And then ‘jumped’ back.  If that didn’t happen, you’re probably left handed (and therefore you should do the exact same thing above … except everything in opposite), or your hands are too close to one another.

Assuming it worked, the question you might be asking is: Why? 

The answer is relatively simple.  Each of our eyes actually see things differently.  That might come as a shock at first, but upon further thought, it shouldn’t.  After all, they obviously are separate from one another, and therefore would have different angles — and different perspectives — on whatever they’re looking at.  The real question, then, is how do we see things so smoothly when both eyes are open?  If our eyes are seeing things differently, why don’t we see both images at the same time?  Why do we see only one?  The answer is we don’t actually see with our eyes.  We see with our brains. 

Yes the eyes bring in the information, but it is the brain that processes that information — two different views, for example — and produces a seemless picture of what is in front of us, of what we eventually ‘see’. 

What does this idea — that seeing is not done with the eyes alone but actually requires the brain as well to make sense of what we see — have to do with Moshe and the Children of Israel? 

To answer that question, we have to look at a comment from – of all people — Sigmund Freud.   Though not a regular commentator on the Torah, Freud did write a fairly popular book on the ‘character’ Moshe.  It was his last book, and it was entitled Moses and Monotheism.

Among some of the claims he makes in this book is the fact that the Moses character is anything but unique.  To the contrary, the story of Moses is a fairly popular ‘myth’ that exists in a whole host of cultures.  Gilgamesh, Oedipus, Cyrus, Romulous, Sargon, Paris and others are but a few examples of other Moses’s.  Each of these individuals, after all, was abandoned at birth by his natural parents, found by someone else who raised him, and then returned at some point in time in the future to his rightful position.  Gilgamesh’s father had a vision that his son would one day grow up to kill him, so he tossed him out of a tower — but unbeknownst to him, the baby landed on the back of an eagle and was gently placed on the ground where a poor passer-by rescued him and then raised him.  Oedipus, of course, was abandoned to the cruel forces of nature by his parents, as well, once they heard from the Oracle that he would grow up to kill his father and marry his mother.  Again, a poor person passed by and took pity on the baby — and then eventually gave him to a royal couple in a distant land.  Cyrus’s father, too, thought his son would grow to become a threat, so he also attempted to kill him but, as the pattern continues, was foiled.  In each of these cases — and many more — the abandoned child grows and one day triumphantly returns to the royal household to claim his rightful position.

As you can see, much of their story is also Moses’ story. 

To a religious Jew, what does this mean?  If Moses is not unique, if the same story happenned before, is our Torah not unique as well?  Is it all just a myth?

This question can be made even more difficult when one considers other ‘myths’ existing in concurrent cultures that paralleled other Biblical stories.  The Creation narrative, for example, has a counterpart in Sumerian culture called the Enuma Elish.  And, of course, there is the Epic of Gilgamesh that closely parallels our flood story as it appears in the Noah narrative.

What does all this mean?  Is the Torah just one more ancient collection of myths? 

Here’s where our finger experiment begins to be helpful.  Seeing, as you will recall, is not done with the eyes alone.  One must look with the brain as well.  

The eye might see similarities in these stories, but the brain knows this is but the first — and superficial — set of input.  The picture is not finished until it has had its turn.

And once it does, we realize that while these stories are similar, there are also key differences — and these differences make all the difference.

For example, in the Sumerian story of creation, there are many gods and they’re all fighting to see who is strongest.  The creation of man is not purposeful but rather an accident.  The focus of the story is on the gods; man’s existence is both incidental and inconsequential.  In the Biblical account, man’s creation is central and very much purposeful.  It’s all a part of God’s plan.   Our existence, therefore, is imbued with meaning.  The difference in the two flood accounts is even more pronounced.  In the Epic of Gilgamesh, the gods want to destroy mankind because they’re making too much noise and have become a nuisance.  In the Noah narrative, however, the flood is punishment for humanity’s immoral behavior — not because we’re annoying to God but rather because we treat one another poorly.  Not because we’re inconsequential but because we’re not living up to our potential.  God cares about how we behave.  And there’s an opportunity to change the decree.  If we do teshuva — if we repent — we would alter God’s plan.  We unfortunately don’t, and that’s tragic – and God mourns as well — but it doesn’t diminish our importance but simply highlights it.  

Nachum Sarna, among other Biblical and ancient near east scholars, notes that Biblical Jews would not only have heard of these other stories but probably would have been extremely familiar with their details.  That’s important, for when they heard the Biblical account, they would have heard the differences stand out loud and clear.  They would have understood — they would have ‘seen’ — the deeper meaning in the differences of the two stories.  Take, for example, the Gilgamesh flood story.  It ends with a raven being sent out to herald the end of the flood.  In the Biblical account, of course, the raven was sent first, while it is the dove that eventually symbolizes the end.  A raven represents evil, and no doubt people who heard the Gilgamesh story knew that its appearance was a bad omen for the future of mankind.  The flood might have ended, but humanity is still without meaning and Godly protection.  Life is still – to quote Hobbes – nasty, Brutish and short. 

Ahhh, but what about the Biblical narrative and its dove ending.  Obviously the reader was to take a different message home — humanity has hope, God cares for us and things are looking up. 

A difference makes all the difference.

Allow me to offer an analogy to drive this point home.

As we all know, greenhouse gas emissions is a real environmental problem.  What we may not know, however, is that ruminents — that’s cows, sheep and other cud-chewing animals — are some of the worst polluters.   Their emissions – passing gas in the form of belching, burping and, well, there’s no nice way to say this, so I’ll just have to say it, farting — are 25% more potent than the emissions of a car.  All told, the methane produced by these animals represents a 50% greater carbon dioxide threat to the environment than the entire transportatation industry.

Interestingly enough, Kangaroos don’t produce methane.  Somehow the bacteria in their stomachs break down waste in a much more environmentally friendly way.  As a result, some environmentalists have suggested that people stop eating cows and throw some ‘roo burgers on the grill instead.  For Kosher consumers this is obviously not an option, so it was with great interest that I read about another related solution: Somehow try to transplant the bacteria that normally resides inside a kangaroo’s stomach into the stomach of a cow.  If this plan were to work, the cow would no longer produce the offending – in more ways than one - gas.  The result: One day soon, perhaps, when you come across a cow, something will be quite different.  Yes, he will look like a cow.  And yes, he’ll sound like one as well, not to mention taste like one too.  But he won’t smell like one.  In this regard, he’ll be a kangaroo inside – and that will make all the difference. 

That, I believe, is what all these parallel stories outside of the Bible are as well.  Yes, they exist.  To ignore them is simply silly.  It is not an act of faith but rather ignorance.  To ignore their differences, though, is even sillier.  Yes, they may appear on the outside to be similar, but on the inside they’re really a kangaroo.  Something totally different.  And that difference makes all the difference. 

***

Let’s now return to Freud’s initial point.  Yes, Moshe’s story exists elsewhere.  But not really, for as we already know, there’s got to be much more to the story than at first glance.  And indeed there is.

Consider but a few important distinctions between the life of Moshe and the lives of all these other individuals.  Moshe’s parents did not want to kill him; they were trying to save him.  Not so with the others whose parents feared their child would overthrow them.  And, of course, Moshe was not after his own glory — as all these others were when they finally returned to their position of royalty — but rather, he was interested in spreading liberty and freedom to others.  His story is not about hoarding wealth, taking power from one and keeping it for himself, but rather taking power from one and diffusing it to all. 

And most importantly, when Moshe realized that it was time to return ‘home’ — to return to his true self — he wasn’t returning to royalty and wealth and power.  He was returning to his suffering people.  His true lot was not separate from others, but rather with the masses.  It was not to elevate himself above others, but rather to elevate the others. 

The message of the Moses story, therefore, is the exact opposite of all these other individuals.  It is a story of freedom, equality and human dignity.

Freud missed all that, and therefore he missed the whole story.

***

Before ending, let me add one more thing, for I believe there is a deeper point here as well.  Remember our very first question — what was the merit the Jewish people possessed to inspire God to perform a miracle on their behalf?  If you recall, we were somewhat confused by God’s answer, for all God said was that someday the Jews would return to Sinai.

Now we can understand how this cryptic response makes perfect sense.  Rashi argues that this return to Sinai IS the merit Moshe was asking about.  One day in the future, Rashi argues, the Jewish people will return to Sinai and accept the Torah, and it is for this great act that God is now prepared to save them.

How can that be? you might ask.  It doesn’t make any sense.  God is rewarding them for something they haven’t even done yet.  It’s not a part of the story, so how can it be included?

The answer, of course, is that we don’t see with our eyes but rather with our brain.  True, the event of Sinai has not yet happenned.  We can’t yet see it.  But faith means ‘seeing’ something that’s not there, understanding that there is a parallel reality not obvious but no less real.  Sometimes this unseen reality will be deep within something, hidden from the physical eye, such as the fundamental lessons of the Bible narrative that can only be seen when contrasted with the relatively similar stories of other ancient cultures.  Other times this reality will be unseen because it hasn’t yet happenned.  That might bother the eye, but the brain understands it without a problem.

I once heard the following story.  A man had a sudden heart attack and almost died, but miraculously was saved at the last moment.  When he awoke, he asked his Rabbi why he survived.  “What great deed did I do to merit this wonderful miracle?”  The Rabbi learned with him the Rashi we just explored.  “Maybe it wasn’t some great deed you already did,” responded the Rabbi.  “Maybe you were saved for some act you are going to do.” 

What we plan to do in the future doesn’t seem to be a part of our story.  Or at least it shouldn’t be.  After all, it hasn’t happened yet.  But for those people of vision — those who see with their eyes and their brain (and for that matter, their heart as well) — well, then, the future is also a part of who they are, and a part of their story now. 

And the lesson for us, therefore, is quite simple.  When we look at life — whether we are looking at our situation, our friends, our family — we must remember there is always much more than meets the eye.  Our situation might include something wonderful that has not yet happened, so don’t despair.  Our friends and family might possess some quality deep within that we can’t yet see, so don’t diminish.  There is greatness all around — at least for those who can see.

A Mischievous Smile

Here’s an interesting experiment.  Next time you’re in conversation with someone, listen carefully to each of the word used — and then select one of them.  Then, each time the person uses this particular word, smile.  After a few times — he or she uses the word, you smile (but don’t tell him you’re doing so) — you will notice something quite interesting.  The frequency that this word appears in your conversation — the frequency with which this person chooses to use the word — will go up dramatically.  Apparently, the ‘smile’ reaction subconciously inspires him to offer it more and more, thereby fulfilling some fundamental need to bring (what he believes is genuine) pleasure to you.

This experiment is not only interesting, but also — if you have the time to invest — a great way to mess with people.  Wait until someone uses a really odd word, something that they probably don’t use that often nor would they want to.  Then, on cue, smile.  Hopefully he’ll use it again and you’ll be there.  If you do this for a month or two, you’ll get him to dramatically increase his usage of that word, and eventually, he’ll make it part of his vocabulary repoitoire — and he’ll have no idea why.

Aside from such fun, this experiment also helps to explain a somewhat troubling question about one of Judaism’s great heroes — Moses.

The Midrash says that Moses had at least ten other names besides the one we all know him by, including:

Yered (ירד), implying descent.  Miriam gave him this name, for because of him, she went down (yarad) to the Nile to see what would become of him. Alternatively, Moses was called this name because he brought the Torah down to the Jewish people, and the Divine Presence back down to this physical world.

Avigdor (אבי גדור), master of the fence. According to the Yalkut Me’am Loez, he was called this (by his grandfather, Kehat), because “since Moses’ birth, G‑d has fenced in Pharaoh, not allowing him to continue his decree to drown Jewish infants.”

Chever, (חבר) meaning, companion, or connector. Either because Moses connected the Jewish people with their heavenly Father, or because he prevented Heavenly retribution for their sins. Some say that Amram, his father, gave Moses this name, because Moses was born after his father had once again joined his wife after having divorced her.

Avi Socho, (אבי סוכו) Father of Seers. He was given this name by his grandfather, Kehat (alternatively, by the nurse who helped Moses’ mother raise him), because Moses would grow up to be the “master” (avi) of the seers (sochim) and prophets.

Yekutiel (יקותיא-ל), from the root kavei (קוה) meaning hope. His mother Jochebed called him this name because she had hope and trust in G‑d that He would return Moses to her. Alternatively, because she foresaw that Moses would be the Jewish nation’s great hope.

Avi Zanuach (אבי זנוח), literally, “master of rejection.” Aaron, Moses’ brother gave him this name, saying “My father rejected my mother, but took her back because of this child.” Alternatively, because Moses would make Israel reject idols.

Tuvia (טובי’ה), implying goodness.

The Jewish people called him “Shemaya (שמעי-ה) ben [the son of] Nethanel.”  They predicted that in his days, G‑d would hear (שמע) their prayers.

Ben Avitar (בן אביתר), son of pardon, since Moses was the Jewish son who would solicit G‑d’s pardon (ויתר) for the Jewish people’s sin of the Golden Calf.

Levi (לוי), so named after the tribe to which Moses belonged.

OK, so here’s the question.  We see that Moses had a number of names, and many of them were given to him by some pretty important people, including his mother and father.  And yet, we know him primarily as Moses – a name based on the Egyptian language and given to him by Pharoah’s daughter.  She gave him this name when she ‘pulled him’ from the Nile river as a new born baby.

Isn’t it odd that the name we all know is his Egyptian name?  Joseph had an Egyptian name, too, but his family didn’t use it — and as a result neither do any of us today.  Yet Moses is somehow different.  With him, despite a plethora of other great options, it is his Egyptian name that remains.  Why?

The traditional answer is that since Batya, Pharoah’s daughter, gave it to him, and since she’s the one who saved his life, using this name teaches us the importance of gratitude.  Yes, we could use any of the other names; by using the name given to him by the woman who saved his life, though, we emphasize how important it is to recognize her sacrifice and devotion.

I’d like to offer another possibility, one that gets us back to the experiment we began with.  There, as you will recall, how we reacted to the words used by others in turn inspired within them a certain reaction to the words they used in the future.  Might the same occur with the use of names?

I think yes.  When I was in high school, for example, people on one summer trip started calling me Mad Dog.  I have no idea why, but the name stuck nevertheless.  I must admit, when people started using this name, I sometimes felt myself living ‘up’ to it.  So, for example, when we would be playing football, I might be a little more aggressive than usual, or perhaps even play a little rougher than I was accustomed.

Today, I sometimes play basketball with a bunch of guys who are much faster and younger than me.  They call me Rabbi — as in “Rabbi, quick pass me the ball!”  I must tell you that the name Rabbi has just as great an impact on me while playing ball as “Mad Dog” did years ago.  AFter all, once someone starts calling you Rabbi — as in, ”I’ll cover Rabbi” — it makes it much more uncomfortable to start cheating, fouling or otherwise play dirty (which, unfortunately, is the only skill I have that gives me a chance with these guys).

Perhaps something like this happenned with Moses as well.  When he was young, there were many names out there that people might use to call him.  Each name conjured up different feelings within Moses, and perhaps inspired him to act a little differently depending on the name used.  What might have his feelings been when he heard the name Moses?

For starters, of course, he might have remembered that it was given to him by Batya when she saved his life, when she ‘pulled him’ out of the water (the literal translation of the name).  Perhaps he then thought of how fortunate he was; after all, while he was ‘pulled from’ the water and saved, every other male baby at the time was murdered by Pharoah.  He was alive, but they were all dead.  Perhaps that inspired him to think how fortunate he was, and how much he owed the world.  Perhaps that made him feel obligated to ‘live’ for all those who didn’t make it.  And perhaps, in thinking about all this, he became more courageous (yes, I could be fearful, but I’m representing all these people who never made it); more motivated to do good in the world (because they can’t); more filled with a sense of mission.  

After all, when people are given so much – as no doubt Moses must have felt when thinking about how his life was spared – people often realize that they must in turn give so much back.

Might people have noticed this reaction (the ‘smile’)?  Might they have noticed that whenever they called him Moses – and thereby reminded him of his destiny – he actually lived up to such heady responsibility?  And they, in turn, used the name more and more often.  He becomes greater and greater everytime we use that name, so let’s use it again and again.

The lesson for us is obvious: We must explore our own lives and realize how fortunate we are as well.  That we are alive; that we live in freedom; that we have our health and our ambitions to improve the world.  And then, once we realize that we’ve been given so much, it’s time for us to repay the favor and begin to give.

Why Menasheh is a Jewish Name

How many Jews do you know are named Josef (or Yosef in Hebrew)?  Probably a bunch.  And what about Yehuda?  Also a fare number I would guess.  But what about Menashe?  Here, I would imagine, the number plummets.  No one names their child Menashe.  That fact, in and of itself, is not so interesting; no one names their kids a lot of names.  However, in Parshat VaYechi, just as Jacob (Yakov) is about to die, he calls in his grandchildren Ephraim and Menashe and gives them a blessing.  And part of that blessing Jewish parents throughout the generations have offered their own children, including children today.  Indeed, the prayer that our children “May you be like Ephraim and Menashe” is a weekly refrain at Shabbat dinner tables across the world.

Why?  If Menashe is not a good enough name to name our children (and that is understandable, as subsequent ‘Menashes’ as well as specific descendants of this first Menashe were not always stellar models of Jewish leadership), why in the world do we bless them with the hope that they ‘will be like’ Ephraim and Menashe?  What’s so special about these two boys that inspire us to bless our children to be like them?

Perhaps the answer to this question can be found in another question: When the two boys approach Yakov, Yosef their father configures them such that Menashe the older one will have Yakov’s right hand placed upon him while Ephraim, the younger one, will have Yakov’s left hand placed on him.  This is quite natural, as the ‘right’ symbolizes strength, and it is appropriate to give the ‘stronger’ blessing to the older child.  Yakov, however, changes things around and crosses his hands, thus offering the better blessing as it were to the younger Ephraim rather than the older Menashe.  Why?

The answer to this second question is a story.

Over Chanuka I travelled to the North of Israel with my family and some friends.  On the last day of the trip I suggested we visit a Museum in Zippori, a small town that once served as the site of the Sanhedrin and where Rabbi Judah the Prince wrote the Mishna.  The kids, as you might imagine, were less than thrilled with this suggestion, but I convinced them it would be well worth their while, arguing that the museum there is one of the best in the country.  I had not visited there for some ten years, but “if memory served me correct” I said, everyone would be blown away by how well done and inspiring the exhibit was.  Unfortunately, memory did not serve me correct.  What I had thought was a multi-media tour de force was in actuality just a few glass panels of the time-line of Jewish history.  I had thought there would be amazing graphics, advanced computers and spectacular interactive experiences.  None of that was there (though thankfully the kids still had a great time as the site also has archeological digs and beautiful views and lots of places to run around in and explore).

So what happenned?  How did my memory fail me so?  The answer unfortunately has to do with my profession – Rabbi – and my achille’s heel – a love of talking.  Apparently, the last time I had visited the site I was with my parents.  Apparently we saw these same simple panels of glass with a Jewish history time line.  But rather than skipping right over them as I did with the kids, my parents – perhaps because they had not seen me for some time, perhaps because they have a high tolerance for pain — humored me and allowed me to wax (I hope eloquently) for a couple of hours about everything I knew about Jewish history.  Just a few one-line entries on the different panels — such as “Judah the Prince edits the Mishna” — apparently was all I needed to offer lengthy lectures on a variety of subjects.

Memory is a strange bird.  Scientists now know that we don’t remember everything exactly as it happenned.  That would take up too much of our brain’s harddrive.  Instead, we remember the ‘emotion’ of the experience, and then file that away in a safe place. When the time comes to recall the event, we recall that ‘emotion’ and then recreate the event’s extensive details based on the somewhat smaller memory the brain actually saved.  That’s what happenned with me in Zippori.  I remember having a great time – remember, I love speaking.  I remember it being very informative, and I remember it taking a long time.  I just assumed it was due to the exhibit itself; I was wrong.  As it turned out, it was because I’m a human wind bag.

Now what does all this have to do with our question? 

Simply this: Don’t trust your memory.  It can play tricks on you.  And for that reason, don’t dwell in the past too much either.  It may or may not be real.  Rather, draw inspiration and guidance from the past, but don’t live there.  To the contrary, live in the present, make an impact now.  And, of course, plan for the future. 

This is a message I believe Yakov wanted to share with his children and grandchildren … especially as they entered the next stage of their lives, one that would unfortunately come to include slavery in Egypt.  When people suffer, they might naturally look backwards and recall the ‘glory days’ — the time when everything was so much better.  And then they might just as naturally forget about trying to make their daily lives any better, or think about the future altogether.  Yakov wanted to make sure that didn’t happen.

And how do I know this?  I don’t, of course, but there is one big clue in the way he gave his blessings to his two grandsons.  Remember, he switched hands, so that his stronger hand rested on the younger.  Why?  What did he know about Ephraim that made him favor him over Menashe?

One possibility is that he knew absolutely nothing — except for their names.  But that’s all he needed.  The name Menashe comes from the word forget.  Rabbi Jonathan Sacks suggests that Yosef named Menashe, the older son, this name as a way of trying to forget all the suffering he had endured — fighting with his brothers, being sold into slavery, being wrongly accused by the wife of Potifar, being thrown into prison …  Yosef had a lot to forget.  But, of course, when you name a child ‘forget my past’ it’s very hard to do anything but.  A few years later, though, he had another son, and this one he named Ephraim, which means God has made me fruitful (or perhaps, I will be fruitful).  Yosef’s perspective has entirely changed.  Now he is filled with gratitude, not bitterness.  Now he is looking at life as invested with meaning and hope.  He has accomplished something important, and not only that, he will continue to accomplish, to ‘be fruitful.’ 

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch offers another explanation of the root ‘nasheh’ which stands at the center of Menasheh.  Perhaps it doesn’t mean ‘to forget’ but rather ‘to be a creditor.’  [This interpretation comes from Rav Hirsch's understanding of the root of the word for women, Nashim.  He says that historically women have been creditors - having lent out more than they have received in return.  But someday soon they will become collectors, which is to say everything they gave out will be returned.]  If this interpretation is correct, then Yosef wasn’t trying to forget the past necessarily, but he might still have been bitter over it.  I feel like a creditor, he was saying, which means that he felt he had been taken advantage of (which of course he was).  The result: He felt that he deserved the right to focus on himself, worry about his needs and stop giving to others.  ”I deserve it” is the cry of the wronged creditor.  But again, after a few years he has another son.  By now he realizes that all his experiences had meaning.  He is now ready to ‘be fruitful’ — to give to others, to look outwards rather than inwards.

Whichever interpretation one prefers, we now have enough information to answer both of our questions.  Yakov preferred Ephraim because he wanted to emphasize the importance of faith in the future and the need to enter that future with others.  This was no doubt a difficult message for him to offer his children and grandchildren.  After all, he had suffered a tremendous amount as well.  He lived a good portion of his life in exile as well.  He had been tricked by family and had his life threatened – and forever altered – by a brother as well.  Yet, rather than dwelling on the past, something that might have been quite natural as he lay on his deathbed, Yakov uses his last moments of life to focus on the future.  Yes we all suffer.  And you now what, my descendants are now going to begin a very dark period of time where they will suffer even more than I did in my youth.  No matter.  Make sure you always focus on the future and believe that things can get better.  Because if you maintain your faith, they will.

This idea, in turn, explains why we bless our children today with the blessing of ‘may you be like Ephraim and Menashe’ even though we don’t really want them to actually be like Menashe.  We bless them not because of anything they did in particular (or not necessarily – I’ll talk about that in a minute), but rather for who they are.  They are the first grandchildren that interact with their grandfather.  Even Yakov didn’t have this type of relationship with his grandfather Abraham.  Yakov blesses them to emphasize the need for continuity, the need to look beyond your own life and even the life of your children.  Consider all future generations.  They too are your progeny.

***

There might be another reason why we bless our children to be like Ephraim and Menashe, and this has to do with the second interpretation we offered above (Rav Hirsch’s).  If you recall, we used his insight not emphasize the future but rather the need to work with others.  That, too, fits perfectly with why we might be interested in praising Ephraim and Menashe.  After all, they are the first brothers in the Bible who don’t fight.  Really.  Consider the list: Cain and Abel, Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau, and of course Josef and his brothers.  Talk about disfunction.  But then come along two kids who we might expect to be rivals for their father’s attention and to be his heir.  But we don’t see anything like that all.  Which is a very good thing, because eventually Jewish history requires brothers (and sisters) to get along.  Case in point: The next sibling group we are introduced to is composed of Moses, Aaron and Miriam.  Their ability to work together is what saves the entire nation of Israel.  Indeed, Jewish peoplehood is built on their family strength more than anything else.  Until Ephraim and Menasheh, though, they had no model to emulate – only disunity and hatred.  Ephraim and Menasheh change all that, providing a powerful example of the importance of friendship amongst siblings.  And that, it seems, is something quite worthwhile to praise and bless at a Shabbat table every week.     

The answer to this question is a story. I forgot. We can’t rely on memory. Have to live in present and future.

What does Yakov know about boys. Nothing, just name. Menashe – to forget. Also creditor. Both inwards rather than outwards. Took courage to give this blessing. Especially as they go to slavery. Hope. Unity.

This is answer why Ephraim and Menashe. They’re grandkids. Represent future. That’s what we bless.  Another related reason, parallel to r. hirsh. don’t fight. becomes model for moshe and aron. blessing is to move forward, faith, action and together.

Baby Einstein Ain’t No Einstein

The following are some remarks I offered to a recent Bar Mitzvah boy upon the conclusion of his reading from the Torah for the first time.  I think these sentiments are applicable to others as well, especially to all parents and children concerned about education.

***

Parents, of course, are willing to do almost anything in order to give their child a head start.  One place to observe this desire is with the current obsession amongst some to jump start their baby’s ability to begin speaking.  In this regard, the several billion dollar industry known as Baby Einstein videos plays a prominent role.  The hope is that once young children absorb enough of these language loaded videos they’ll be able to duplicate some of the introduced words themselves.  

A new book out – Nuture Shock – however suggests the exact opposite takes place.  Not only does Baby Einstein not improve a baby’s language skills, but it might actually impede them.  The reason why?  Because the child sees cartoon characters speaking, and learning language doesn’t work that way.  We need to see actual people actually speaking; when it’s performed by cartoon characters, and the words don’t match the lips, it sounds — at least to a baby — as little more than gobbley goop.  Language, after all, is not just words alone but also the context in which it is used (that’s why, by the way, it sounds like a person is speaking louder – up to 20 decibels louder in fact — when we (adults) can see them speaking as opposed to just hearing them without seeing them).

Apparently, Baby Einstein videos are not the only failures in this regard either.  Another tactic is to place a word-o-meter in the baby’s carriage to gauge just how many words he or she hears everyday.  Presumably, the more vocabulary the baby hears, the quicker he or she will be able to pick up language.  But that turns out also not to be true.  Children of lower socio-economic status often hear far less words a day — let’s say in the 500-800 range — than a baby in a higher bracket — who may hear more than 1,500 words a day (apparently, well educated and well healed people like to talk a lot).  But according to the Nurture Shock studies once again, this ‘advantage’ in hearing more words does not translate into an advantage in speaking words.

So what helps then?  Apparently only one thing and one thing only — and that’s not parents willing to talk more, but actually parents willing to listen more.  According to a groundbreaking study, a parent who instantly turns and listens to the child when he first tries to articulate a word – even when that attempt might be nothing more than a pronounced gurgle — is the parent who will see the best results.  It’s the ‘turning’ to the child — which also includes touching him, embracing him, making eye contact with him and otherwise letting him know that you’re all theirs and awaiting their genius pronouncements — it’s all this that really matters.  The confidence and interest afforded the child in turn encourages them to try again and again, and it is the constant attempts that help a child learn how to speak.  It’s not the adult’s input that helps, but rather the child’s output, their experimentation, their own desire to learn.  The parent’s actions are important, however, as they help cultivate that desire by offering a warm and supportive environment for it to develop.

OK, so what does this have to do with a Bar Mitzvah.  When a child reads from the Torah for the first time, it’s somewhat akin to a baby first learning how to speak.  The reading is the child’s ‘first words’ as an adult member of the Jewish community.  We, of course, want that child to ‘speak’ more, to get involved within the community, to take on more mitzvoth and to offer their unique contributions to the development of the Jewish people.  How do we ’give’ them the tools to learn how to speak thus?  Well, if we follow the above insights, we don’t force feed them.  We don’t overload them with information.  It’s not up to us, but rather up to them.  They have to want to learn, and they have to experiment with ’speaking’ as adults.  The more they practice – and the more room we allow them to practice – the better they’ll speak.  The process must be one of bottom-up not the other way around.  Of course, to encourage the bar or bat mitzvah to seize the moment, parents and the community need not sit back disinterested completely.  To the contrary, we must warmly embrace them as they first start to speak.  We must pay attention, look them in the eyes and reassure them that we love them and support them.  Then they’ll have the confidence to try on their own; and then they’ll actually learn.

A bar mitzvah celebration is that warm embrace.  It’s the whole community coming out to ‘hug’ the boy or girl.

The Spirituality of a Treadmill

For a few months now, a group of young men from the neighborhood have organized a weekly full court basketball game in the courtyard of our shul.  During this whole time, one of the organizers has consistently invited me to join the game.  Until yesterday, I did my best to resist these invitations — the guys are younger, faster and taller than me; I haven’t played basketball for probably 20 years; and I’m out of shape.

But then my friend offered one last word of encouragement: Don’t worry if you’re not that good.  We have a lot of guys who aren’t so good, and some that even have never played before.  We even have one guy from England.

With that, I decided I could probably play with these guys. 

But obviously aware that I would be terribly out of shape if I didn’t first prepare a little, I decided to begin ‘working out’ a few weeks before my inaugural game.  Basically this entitled me getting on my treadmill and jogging for 30 to 40 minutes everyday.  As my distance clocked increased – from 3 to 4 to 5 to 6 kilometers – I began to feel pretty good about myself … and ready to begin playing basketball.

Boy was I wrong.  After about 2 minutes of running up and down the court, I was totally winded, gasping for air.

How could this be?  At home, I had been running for nearly an hour without any problem. *

And that exactly was the problem.  The physical activity of running relatively slowly on a treadmill is nothing like running full speed (which by me is still relatively slow) in a competitive basketball game.  All physical activities are not the same; and all physical activities are not necessarily good preparations for other physical activities.

The same can be said for spiritual activities.  What might be required in one situation might not be helpful for another situation.  

Such is the case with Jacob when he hears the news that his son Joseph is still alive in Egypt and has invited him – and the entire family – down to Egypt to live during the difficult days of famine currently gripping the entire world.  Jacob is obviously thrilled by the news, but he is also apprehensive.  Specifically, he is worried that going down to Egypt may not be so temporary.  What happens if the family assimilates and forgets its traditions?  What if they never want to return to Israel?  What happens if they are not allowed to return — as indeed does happen when the Egyptians, once friends, eventually enslave his family (and the Jewish nation that emanates from them)?

As a result of these fears, Jacob prays to God before leaving Israel and entering Egypt.  When he does, he calls out to the ”God of his father, Isaac” — and God answers him by that same appelation.  One one hand, the use of this name is not at all odd; of course it makes sense to call to the God of his father.  What is odd, however, is that Jacob purposely omits his grandfather’s name, Abraham.  After all, in times past, God was called the “God of both Isaac and Abraham.”  Why the omission here?

Perhaps this is the answer:  Abraham was known to be a trailblazer.  He was the first to initiate the relationship with God, and indeed the founder of the religion.  He was creative, courageous and took great risks spiritually and otherwise to lay the groundwork for the Jewish people.  In contrast, Isaac was more insular.  He was ‘slow and steady’ – mantaining many of the innovations of his father Abraham but not adding new ones.  His role to consolidate the accomplishments of Abraham, not to innovate.

Perhaps when Jacob approaches Egypt, he realizes that Jewish history is entering a new stage.  Outside of our land, the spiritual requirements of survival will be different than those within the land.  The people will need to look inwards, strengthen their commitment to one another and maintaining their tradition; otherwise, the strong forces of Egyptian society might simply overwhelm their unique way of life.  The spiritual preparation provided by being an Abraham would not be appropriate.  To innovate and take risks might spell disaster. 

On the other hand, the commitment to maintenance modeled by Isaac might be just the thing needed to insure success in the Diaspora.  So Jacob prays to the God of Isaac for help, because it is this type of spiritual preparation that will guarantee the proper result.  

Of course, what makes this idea so powerful is its corollary.  Yes, it might be necessary for a Jew in the exile to turn inward, to play it safe, because indeed, if he or she took too many innovative risks, the danger of being overwhelmed by the majority culture would be great.  However, once a Jew has returned to Israel, well then, one perhaps can return to the ‘God of Isaac AND Abraham.’  Surely, we must continue to maintain the accomplishments of the past – the maintenance of Isaac – but at the same time we should also feel committed to following the footsteps of Abraham.  The innovator.  The courageous.   The trailblazer.

Returning to Israel allows the Jewish people to think out of the box, to consider creativity a positive force not a negative danger.  And just as Abraham is the initiator of Judaism — the original or most authentic Jew as it were — returning to this way of life also allows us to return to ourselves, to be who we truly were meant to be. 

*Of course, my style of running on a treadmill was not necessarily the most challenging. At times, I would sometimes get off – maybe even get a snack – but let the treadmill continue running.  When I would return, I was always amazed at how many calories I had burned during my snack as well as the distance covered.

When Not Giving is Giving

In Biblical times, and as an echo we continue to hear today, one of the foundations of Israeli society was the system of tithing, or giving maserot.  There were many different kinds — such as trumah, which was food separated from the gathered harvest and donated to the cohanim, or priests; ma’aser rishon, which was given to the levi; and ma’aser sheni, which was set aside to be eaten only in Jerusalem during certain years in a 7 year cycle (the first, second, fourth and fifth) or ma’aser ani, which was given to the poor during the other years of this cycle.

There was also something called demai, which literally means ‘Da Mai?” or in English, “What is this?”  This tithe came about from a concern the Sages had about people unlearned in all the above tithes (and others not mentioned). 

The concern was simple: If these people didn’t know the exact details of the required tithes, or worse, they didn’t even know that such requirements existed at all, then it was obvious that they could not be trusted to fulfill such obligations properly.  Therefore, if one found oneself taking (either through purchase or as a gift) food from such people, it would obviously be unclear as to whether or not the food was properly tithed.  “De Mai? – What is this?” … Is this food properly tithed or not?  We don’t know.  If the food was not in fact tithed — certainly a possibility in this case – then the receiver of the food would be violating a command if he or she ate the food.  To solve this problem, the Sages commanded one to tithe (or maybe re-tithe, depending on the reality) the food himself.   Now it was no longer in a state of doubt, and therefore there was nothing to worry about anymore and the food became permissable. 

That’s the law.

But as is often the case, the Sages also instituted an exception to the law, and it is with this exception we are able to appreciate a deeper lesson of this system. 

The exception is as follows: If the purchaser of demai was a poor person, then he or she did not need to tithe the food acquired from a person unlearned in the laws of tithing.  In such a case, we change the presumption; whereas in general, we assume that the unlearned person did not tithe properly so we better do so ourselves just to be sure, in this case we assume that the unlearned person did tithe properly.  Why?  Simple — because assuming the former would put an extra obligation on the poor person that he or she might not able to meet.  Our goal should not be to place any additional burdens upon such people unless absolutely necessary, and here it’s not absolutely necessary since obviously there is a chance that the initial person did tithe properly.

The goal of tithing was to insure that all were cared for in society, such as the Cohanim and Leviim who did not own their own land.  It would, therefore, make little sense to insist on a strict interpretation of the law if doing so might hurt the weaker members of society. 

And thus we see once more example of the spirit of the law influencing the letter of the law.

To learn more about this idea, see Maseket Demai, Chapter 3, Mishna 1, as well as the Rambam and his ‘Perush HaMishna’ there.

O’ Say Can You See

At the end of Parshat VaYelech, Moses calls the Torah a ‘song’ and commands the Jewish people to remember this song.  The next week’s parsha, Ha’azinu, is clearly a song as well, and many commentators suggest that it is to serve as a paradigm for the entire Torah.  The question is why – Why is the Torah compared to a song?  Why not call it a megilla – a scroll?  Or a sefer – a book?  And more importantly, what does it mean for us that the Torah is a song?

Regarding the first question, a recent study conducted with Duke University students is perhaps instructive.  A large group of these students were asked to write down the words of the Star Spangled Banner.  This should have been a relatively easy task considering how often all of these students had heard the national anthem sung over the years.  And yet, they were on average only able to reproduce 32 words. 

The experimenters then played the music to the Star Spangled Banner — but without any words — and allowed participants to hum the tune as they tried again to write down the words of the national anthem.  This time, Duke students were able to recall on average 52 words — obviously much better.

[Unfortunately, there are actually 81 words in the Star Spangled Banner, which I guess means Americans are not so great at remembering the national anthem under any circumstances.  Consistent with this fact, I once read about a website dedicated exclusively to PUBLIC performances in which people flubbed their rendition of the national anthem.  In one, a famous singer is seen 'cheating' as he tries to read the words of the anthem off his hand during a rendition before a baseball game.]

If putting the words of the Star Spangled Banner to music can help us recall the words, perhaps putting the Torah to music can do the same — and not just with regards to ‘recalling the words’ but also in terms of remembering the values and integrating the emotions inspired by the Torah into our daily lives.

But that’s only half the story — the part that tells us why Moses would want to present the Torah as a song.  The other half relates to what we are supposed to do with that information.  When we sit down to learn the Torah, does the fact that it was written as a ‘song’ inspire me to do anything differently? 

Here, too, an interesting study might shed some light on this matter.  In this study, a group of people were asked to memorize some words.  Some of the people were asked to memorize the words in a classroom setting, while others were asked to memorize them … under water!  In scuba gear!  A little while later, both groups of people were asked to recall the words they had learned, but with a twist.  Part of the people who memorized the words in the classroom were asked to recall them in the same classroom, while another portion of this first group was asked to don scuba gear and go underwater … and then try to recall the words.  To no one’s surprise, the group that was asked to recall the words in the classroom did significantly better than the group asked to recall them under water. 

But here is where it gets interesting.  A portion of the second group — those that initially memorized the words underwater — were asked to recall the words above ground in a classroom setting; another portion of this second group were allowed to return under water and asked to recall the words there.  To everyone’s surpise the group asked to recall the words under water did significantly better than the group asked to recall the words above ground.  This despite the fact that as they attempted to recall the words they also had to deal with all their scuba gear, the pressures of paying attention under water and while dodging boats and fish alike.

From this, the scientists conducting the experiment concluded as follows: When asked to remember things, humans do much better when they are in the same place and doing the same thing as they were when they first encountered the thing they are being asked to remember.  A startling additional experiment further proved this point: A person who learns something while a little drunk will actually remember that item better when he/she is once again a little drunk as opposed to being entirely sober.

These experiments have relevance to us as we attempt to learn Torah — or better, re-learn the Torah as it was first given to the Jewish people thousands of years ago.  Since it was originally given in song, it suggests that we will have a better chance of properly recalling it — properly understanding it — when we try to do so in a state of song as well (kind of like humming the music to the National Anthem helped people recall that song better than when they simply tried to remember it without the music).  By being in such a state, we will have better access to what it’s all about.  We will hear its ‘music’ and understand its pace — we will grasp the emotions within it and uncover the unspeakable yet irreplacable inspirations it is trying to convey.

On a practical level, this does not mean we should reread the Torah only when music is being played (though that might not be a bad idea in certain situations when that music puts one in the right mood to ‘receive’ the information — i.e., when music makes us happy, we might be better able to open our hearts and minds to more Torah than if we were sad, which often limits our horizons and ability to receive).  Rav Kook would say that the ‘music’ of the Torah is not just the music, but also the feelings, the joy and the meaning found within it.  If one learns Torah and ignores any of the emotions the Torah is trying to convey to the reader, but rather views it purely as an intellectual exercise, this student will have missed a good part of what the Torah is about.  If he only sees the details, but misses out on the big picture that God has chosen to communicate with us, that God has written a ‘love song’ as it were, well then he will have misunderstood the essence of the Torah.

The Kosher Bookworm

Below is the recent review of my book, The Accidental Zionist, that appeared in the Long Island Jewish Star.  To order the book, visit your local Judaica store, or shop online at Amazon.com.

The Kosher Bookworm: “The Accidental Zionist” by Rabbi Ian Pear

In Alan Jay Gerber, Atlantic Beach, Exclusive, Feature, Hashkafah, Israel, Kosher Bookworm, Opinion, Review, Yeshiva University on June 24, 2009 at 6:50 am

Reviewed by Alan Jay Gerber
Issue of June 26, 2009 / 4 Tammuz 5769

Let me start by saying that this is a very informal, somewhat irreverent book –– zany at times about subjects that are dead serious. To put a smile on the face of an impending disaster takes some doing, and in this Rabbi Ian Pear succeeds.

The basic premise of the book is that we, the Jewish people, are in
deep trouble. Surprise! When aren’t we in trouble? In good times we
have trouble and in bad times we have tzores. What’s new about that? Well, in this book we are presented with a series of challenges that reflect the views of a man –– a rabbi –– who is a YU grad (and proud of that) and a ba’al teshuva, who takes his religious beliefs very seriously. Rabbi Pear has degrees in law from New York University’s School of Law and in international relations from Georgetown University’s School of Foreign Service.

Today, Rabbi Pear is the founding rabbi of Shir Hadash, a popular Jerusalem-based shul, educational institute and community center. Before going to Israel he spent a summer as a guest rabbi at the
Atlantic Beach Jewish Center just after the stewardship of Rabbi Basil
Herring and before Rabbi Samuel Klibanoff assumed the rabbinate of
that distinguished shul.

Given this eclectic background, one should not be surprised to see a
book so brazen and challenging, by so young an author, be written as a
warning against secular nationalism and in defense of religious
Zionism.

What I found most endearing about this book was the sharp focus that
Pear places on his deep devotion to the religious component of the
State of Israel’s purpose for existence. To me, this focus is
everything. Without our belief in the divine origin of our claim to
Eretz Yisrael, all else is worthless –– yes, absolutely worthless.
A godless nationalism, however phrased in eloquent secular terms, is
not relevant to our people’s quest for a homeland in the Land of
Israel. Pear places this divine claim as the predicate for all that
comes in train when it involves the safety, security and wellbeing of
Israel.

And mind you, this predicate transcends all of our religious
denominational divisions, particularly that of the Mesorati
(Conservative) movement in Israel who share the same exact belief in
the divine origin of our historic claims to Israel.

In addition, Pear clearly defines how halacha-based ethical
monotheism, and an ethical behavior and lifestyle, is at the essence
of the Jewish people’s purpose as an agent of G-d’s rule on earth.
Basically, Israel is the base for such a message to go forth to all
mankind. There is no other purpose for both our existence as a
separate nation among the nations of this world and for Israel’s
existence as an “Am Segulah,” a treasured, chosen nation. Despite a
powerful military, a promising high-tech economy and a magnificent
higher educational system, we, as a nation, according to Pear, are
only defined by higher spiritual criteria. And how right he is, with
no apologies and no misgivings.

Pear’s style of writing, as noted before, helps to make these
arguments all the more understandable because of their charm and
obvious sincerity. While at times a bit much, his personal anecdotes
do make their points obvious to even the most casual of readers. This
helps to strengthen arguments that when presented by others seem
forced or embarrassingly clumsy at best. In Rabbi Pear’s pen, they are
presented with a smile by a man confident in his intellectual skin as
to the justice of his beliefs.

Toward the conclusion of this book, the author quotes from one of
America’s premier Jewish theologians, Rabbi Dr. Eliezer Berkovitz, of
blessed memory, who said the following that should serve as the
capstone to this review. He states as follows:

“The concept of Israel as a holy nation [should] not only not
conflict with the universalism of Israel’s prophets, but actually lead
to it as its own logical completion. The idea of a holy nation is not
to be confused with that of nationalism. The goal of nationalism is to
serve the nation; a holy nation serves G-d. The law of nationalism is
national self-interest: the law of a holy nation is the will of G-d.
In nationalistic ideology, the nation is an end in itself; the holy
nation is a means to an end.”

No one else could have said this better than Rav Berkovitz, and Rabbi
Ian Pear knew this, and had the grace to share his words with us.