One of the premises of this blog is that a focus on positive aspects of Judaism can inspire identity and increase commitment more so than the unfortunate all too often reliance on negative aspects — such as fear and guilt. Someone might honestly critique this position by suggesting that yes, a focus on the positive might produce desired results, but it is not an accurate reflection of what Judaism is all about — and truth should matter. In other words, my hypothetical critic will argue that Judaism includes both the positive and negative — both the “Love Your Neighbor as Yourself” as well as all the “Thou Shall Not’s” — and thus emphasizing one area of tradition over the other distorts the reality. Isn’t it simply picking and choosing what you like about the Torah and disregarding the rest? And if so, how can that be justified?
My traditional answer to such a critic is that emphasizing one aspect of our faith over another is not the same as disregarding the other aspect. In no way do I suggest we abandon the “Thou Shall Not’s” … I do, however, think observance of the “No’s” naturally follow once one becomes firmly committed to following the “Yes’s” — for it is then that a person feels inspired, joyous and fulfilled and thus becomes more committed to all things Jewish.
Recently, however, I came across an interesting column by Rabbi Frances Nataf of the David Cardozo Academy. After reading it, I realize perhaps that an additional answer should be offered, and that is that it’s not so bad to pick and choose. For an Orthodox Rabbi that may sound somewhat heretical, but allow Rabbi Nataf to explain:
“In many circles, it has become fashionable to replace the word “history” with the word “narrative.” Doing so is an admission that recorded history is necessarily selective. Otherwise, we would be left with more random facts than we can, or would want to, remember. Thus, history represents a particular culture’s attempt to discriminate between important facts that need to be recorded to better understand itself and less important ones that seem to merely clutter that understanding. Hence the Torah’s selectivity should come as no surprise; some chapters cover several centuries, whereas other events that transpired in a few days or even minutes are recorded in great detail over several chapters.
However, rather than apologizing for this inconsistency as something “unscientific,” the Torah presumes that selectivity is not only necessary but that it can actually be a very positive feature of human consciousness. From this perspective, the Torah records and emphasizes that which is helpful for us to remember and omits what is not. The Torah is also comfortable with selectivity in its legislation. Not all mitzvoth are given the same attention. Some laws require more of our attention whereas others require less.
The commandment to observe Pesach through the generations (Shemot 12:14-20 serves as a particularly apt example of the former: There we find that Pesach is described as a zikaron, a term that in classic usage could best be translated as a memory device and which otherwise is almost always used to describe an object.[1] This anomaly is perhaps explained by the fact that the first set of commands regarding perpetual Pesach observance contains an overwhelming emphasis on the mandate to eat matzah and the corresponding prohibition to eat, or even possess, chametz. This emphasis is further bolstered in two ways. 1) Generally, when we are commanded in a positive commandment, the inverse does not become prohibited.[2] For example, when we are commanded to don tefillin, we are not commanded to not put anything else in their place or, when we are commanded to blow the shofar we are not told to refrain from the playing of string instruments. 2) The stringency of this prohibition’s penalty – of being cut off (karet) is highly unusual in the laws of festivals. At the same time, some of the laws of Pesach, such as the eating of the Pesach sacrifice, or the telling over of the story, are not mentioned at all.[3]
If Pesach is only referred to as a zikaron,specifically in the section that so emphatically deals with matzah, it could be the Torah’s way of telling us that it is the matzah itself that is central to the day being transformed into a zikaron – a memory device. Indeed, matzah, which is essentially hastily baked bread, naturally conveys both the haste of the exodus and the poverty of the slavery in Egypt. It is itself a memory device that can encapsulate the main themes of Pesach if we pay attention to it. Our familiarity with holiday foods can blur the revolutionary nature of marshalling the multi-sensual experience of foods that could turn an entire day into a zikaron. What is remarkable is that the Torah understands that, for a commemoration to have true meaning, it must recreate an experience. The memory has to be personal and not simply something of which one knows about other people. Thus, with all the centrality of recounting the story of Pesach, without matzah, it would remain just a story about what happened to others. It is precisely for this reason that the halacha states that the tale cannot be told without the presence of matzah, thereby turning it into a personal memory which, like all personal memories, can be relived.[4]
And the unparalleled numbers of Jews who keep this mitzvah and have an idea what it is about indicates the success of the Torah’s strategy. What the Torah does by selecting that which is most useful should make us reflect on how to order our own lives and identities. (my emphasis) We experience so many events in our lives which make us who we are. But there are also many events that do not make us who we are. The difference between the former and the latter is almost entirely determined in our own minds. Most of us are not sufficiently self-aware to know that we ourselves choose which events tell us who we are.
The good news is that it still can be otherwise. I am not suggesting that we focus only on our good sides in order for us to be more cheerful about ourselves. The point is seeing ourselves in a way that will help us to develop to our maximum potential.”
***
Upon reading this article, I was reminded of a scientific study I once heard about in which the question of brilliance was explored, specifically asking what is it that enables some people to become a genius and others not. One of the conclusions of that study was quite surprising and somewhat counter-intuitive. A genius, it stated, was not someone who has acquired vast amounts of knowledge but the exact opposite. A genius — and this was born out by exploring the brains of brilliant people — was someone who had the ability to preventoodles of information from entering his or her brain. By possessing less information, but at the same time, the right, or more significant type of information, the genius was better able to access in a more powerful, clear and efficient way the the type of information most valued. Surprising, but very much feasible once you think about it for a moment. When I was a kid, I used to know more information than one could possible ever need to know about Baseball statistics. I knew everyone and everything involved. That information, for some unknown reason, is still in my brain, and I can still recall certain details about teams and players from more than 20 years ago. That may be impressive, but it is also a waste of knowledge (since I didn’t end up going into the sports business, where of course perhaps it would be valuable); and since it takes up space in my mind, and in fact clutters it, it is not a neutral thing but actually a detriment. When I know add new information, information I actually need to remember, it must compete with all this old information to be heard. And since I can’t press the delete button, all that old information will remain a problem for some time. Knowing less, therefore, might have helped me to today know more.
Pirkei Avot – The Teachings of our Sages teaches the same thing when it compares a student who begins learning as a child as opposed to when he is much older. The child is likened to a blank piece of paper; when one writes on it, it is clear what is being written. Teaching an older student, though, is likened either to writing in the margins of a book already written or writing on top of the actual pre-existing print. Obviously, the matter is much less clear.
This idea very much fits in with Rabbi Nataf’s idea above about the importance of selection; of the need to set priorities about learning and behavior, aware that some mitzvoth may be more important for some people to achieve the end goal we are all striving for of becoming a better person and better servant of God. Again, this doesn’t mean that some mitzvoth are unimportant — that they’re intellectual clutter like my baseball statistics, God forbid — but rather that some other mitzvoth might speak to me in a more powerful and effective way … and becoming experts in these mitzvoth, by focusing on them and emphasizing them in one’s life, one becomes better in observing everything.
Joyous Judaism 