When I was growing up, I used to listen to records of GI Joe or Sci Fi stories that came with an accompanying book. The reading was punctuated by a high pitched beep that cued the listener to turn to the next page. It always seemed forced and artificial. Whether or not you have a chance to finish the words yourself, let alone take them in and reflect… It’s time to move on. Not that GI Joe vs. the String Bean Monsters from Outer Space was likely to require much rumination…but still.
These past few days, under much more serious circumstances, I have felt like I have been listening to one of these records. Seven weeks of bloodshed… of anguish over Israeli teens abducted and murdered, heartbreak over the brutal slaying of a boy from East Jerusalem, terror of rockets and fragments showering down on Israeli cities, despair over faces and names of Palestinian men, women, and children getting lost in both the sheer number of victims and the knowledge that the ordinance that took their lives was aimed at a cruel and deadly foe that hides underground and plots the death of as many Jews as possible. And after all these days of violence, a cease fire that lasts longer than 24 hours. Beep. Turn the page.
And yet, even with uncertainty about the significance of the current hiatus and with great certainty that the bigger story is far from over, there is something comforting about the forced and artificial cue to move on.
After all, this very concept is built into the structure that underlies Jewish time. The last three weeks the conflict paralleled the darkest period in the Jewish calendar and the day the cease fire began to take hold was Tisha B’Av, the fast to relive the sorrow of Jerusalem’s fall and the brokenness that endures in the world. However, our tradition teaches that even before this darkest of days is over it is possible that the messiah has come into the world. And the next Shabbat is the occasion of Nachamu, the comforting words of Isaiah promising that the night ends and peace will dawn. Beep. Turn the page.
Three weeks of decreed darkness, capping months of terrifying bloodshed, now gives way to seven weeks of consolation. Seven weeks that lead us to Rosh Hashana and its promise of a brand new year of possibilities. The Shofar sounds. Beep. Turn the page.
“There is a time to be silent and a time to speak.” So says the author of Kohelet (Ecclesiastes) in a famous chapter that begins by telling us, “there is a time for every matter under heaven.” Yesterday was Tisha B’Av, a fast day which traditionally commemorates the destruction of the first and second temples in ancient Jerusalem and all subsequent tragedies to befall the Jewish people. Last night, as I studied together with congregants, we looked at a story found in the Talmud (Gittin 55b) that attributes the destruction of the second temple to sinat hinam—baseless hatred. The story demonstrates how powerful emotions such as humiliation, pride, shame, inaction, and revenge unleash a destructive series of events on the people. And it all begins with words—an act of speech that contains the power to hurt and to harm in real, material ways. At every turn in the story, the question must be asked, “what if he had said…? What if they had said…? Did they say something in private? Should they have spoken in public?” I am a struck by the complexity of applying the Jewish ethical teachings on shmirat lashon (guarding the tongue) —taking great care with our words and lashon hara (literally “evil tongue”)—negative speech/slander/gossip in real life situations. When must we speak out, and when ought we to consider silence in order to listen, observe, and witness?
Over the past few weeks I’ve read with sadness as some friends online have shared that they have been “unfriended” or have themselves “unfriended” someone with whom they have a profound difference of perspective over the war between Israel and Hamas. These are indeed challenging times as we consider the impact of our words and the challenge of responding to Kohelet’s observation with thought and care—when is it a time to be silent and when is it a time to speak?
There have been times when speech is absolutely necessary. Those representing Israel must speak in the public sphere; to the media, to the UN, to the people of Israel and the people of Gaza. Those who seek to defend Israel’s absolute right to defend itself from terrorist attack must gather and speak in public venues to demonstrate that Israel does not stand alone. Those who investigate and learn something that can further our understanding of the practices and tactics of Hamas, and of the Israel Defense Forces, must speak. And there are times, using the tools of social media, that we feel that we must share information that illustrates an important truth or an important need.
When, then, might it be a time for silence? I have read literally hundreds of postings and articles on the war this past month. Some I like, because they accord with my already pre-existing opinions and positions. Some I find challenging, because they share a perspective that, while it may contain important truths, are inconvenient because they do not accord with how I wish to frame things. There are things that I read, and I think most of us know them when we see them, that are so strident in how they express the certainty of one way of looking at things that it appears that the primary goal is to antagonize those who see differently, and not to educate on some important matter of fact. Those are the moments when it is easy to be drawn into a war of words—and when, in fact, we might do better to remain silent. I can like something without hitting “like” and I can disagree with something without needing to use the blunt tools of social media expression to bring the poster to task for what I perceive to be their misguided perspective.
Another time when silence may be better than the wrong words, or well-intentioned but clumsily expressed words? When I read the postings from my dear friend, a Muslim married to a Palestinian, who is in pain. I notice that she does not share political pieces, but simply her pain at bearing witness to the pain and suffering of her people. Could I counter with questions about who has caused those deaths and injuries, or talk about the use of human shields? What would be the purpose of my words? What is the emotion and the need expressed in her words? My silence could, of course, be interpreted as a lack of caring. But my silence is meant as an expression of respect—respect for the reality of the pain and suffering. I wish to say nothing that will diminish my friend’s pain. My friendship is more important.
As we discussed these, and other scenarios, in our gathering last night, what became clear to us all is that it is very difficult to discern with clarity when to speak and when to remain silent. Simply carrying that awareness might bring with it a humility that accompanies our word—an awe that contains within it the knowledge of how much, in any moment, we don’t know. There are times when we still must speak, and times when we still must respond. But, perhaps, if we take a little longer to reflect on our felt need to do so, and our perception of someone else’s need to express something different, our words can contribute more to all that we seek to create, and do less harm to our friendships and to our society as a whole.
Tisha B’Av (Aug. 5th), which commemorates the destruction of the Temple also marks the seven week countdown to Rosh Hashanah. Seven weeks. What will the rabbi at the services you attend in seven weeks talk about? Israel? For sure, but what will she say? Immigration? Not so sure about that one—it might depend where you live. Will he suggest that you give yourself the gift of time away from your electronics, from what Joshua Ferris in his latest novel, To Rise Again at a Decent Hour, calls your Me-machine? Your rabbi might say that, so politely nod, ‘cause he’s right. Yes, you already know it. But then again, most of the great wisdom your rabbi can share is something you already know, but still find it hard to accomplish.
With seven weeks prior to your rabbi’s high holiday sermon, as rabbi tax-season now starts to ramp up, make him or her a suggested topic list. In fact, narrow it down for your rabbi, he or she might very well thank you. Better still, but certainly annoying (so worth it!!), agree with 10+ fellow congregants about 3 or so topics that you genuinely have questions about and let the rabbi know that y’all have some expectations for real answers to your collective real questions.
“Rabbi, what does Judaism have to say about the existence of my soul?”
“Rabbi, we’re curious about what Judaism has to say about a shift to greater nuclear energy? Should we fully legalize pot in our state too?”
“Rabbi, what does Judaism say about my gay cousin?”
“Is heaven for real? Are there dogs?”
“Don’t tell me right away, Rabbi, not another ‘on one foot’ answer. Open your books. Ask your colleagues. I want Judaism to guide my life and to answer my questions, so take your time. If you speak to what really concerns me, if you tell me the truth, even a partial-truth as you understand from our vast tradition, it will be worth it! I’ll give you seven weeks.
Here is a topic you might consider suggesting. In this mid-term election year, how about articulating a strong, clear Jewish position on gun control? “Rabbi, should there be a limit on our Second Amendment right?” For most, school hasn’t started yet, so there is no school shootings to speak about. The problem with speaking about gun control after a school shooting is that one can be dismissed as reactionary. A place to start might be from the short piece by my colleague, Menachem Creditor, Peace in Our Cities: Rabbis Against Gun Violence.
There are many great topics, so suggest some to your rabbi—make the High Holiday experience relevant to your real concerns. So why did I suggest gun control? It was on my mind. Yesterday, August 4th, James Brady died. Mr. Brady was Ronald Reagan’s Press Secretary when he was shot during an assassination attempt on the president. After that, Mr. Brady became a tireless spokesman on behalf of curtailing gun sales, and gun violence.
When he was pressing for the Brady bill, Mr. Brady dismissed as “lamebrain nonsense” the National Rifle Association’s contention that a waiting period would inconvenience law-abiding people who had reason to buy a gun. The idea behind the waiting period was to give the seller time to check on whether the prospective purchaser had a criminal record or had lied in supplying information on the required documents.
Mr. Brady said that five business days was not too much to make purchasers wait. Every day, he once testified, “I need help getting out of bed, help taking a shower and help getting dressed, and—damn it—I need help going to the bathroom. I guess I’m paying for their ‘convenience.’ ” -New York Times (Aug. 4, 2014).
As I imagine it, when James Brady reaches heaven he is no longer in a wheelchair. He is greeted by his late family and friends, even President Reagan, who, thanks to the miracle that is heaven, is no longer limited by the Alzheimer’s he once had. Then, the two of them, guided by the gift of wisdom and eternity, amble over to Charlton Heston, who, while he lived played Moses in the Ten Commandments, and than later in life became the celebrated spokesman for the National Rifle Association. Brady and Reagan, together, pry Heston’s rifle “out of his cold dead hands.”
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The world is in chaos. An airplane with more than 300 people shot down over Ukraine. Hundreds of thousands of people killed in Syria. A fundamentalist Islamist regime has swept through large swaths of Iraq and initiated mass torture, murder and exile of Christians and other non-Muslims. A war between Israel and the terrorist group, Hamas. The exodus of thousands of children from Central America to the United States and the humanitarian crisis along our southern border. The daily deaths of young people from gun violence in our urban centers.
All of these events and even more not mentioned have yielded endless discussions and debates. How to address each conflict? How to handle the humanitarian crisis of Central American children? Who is right? Who is wrong? One can see people vigorously discussing these matters during Shabbat lunches and online through social media. Oftentimes, these discussions become accusatory and disrespectful. We believe so strongly in our position that we become personally offended when one disagrees with us.
The time has come to recommit ourselves to respectful disagreement.
This coming week we will mark the 9th of the Hebrew month of Av. The day is the moment when the Jewish people mourn our losses as a people: The destruction of the Temple (both the first and the second); the exile from our land; the Spanish Inquisition, the Crusades, the Holocaust. We engage in a full day of intensive mourning rituals and powerful liturgy meant to evoke the indescribable horrors in our hearts and minds.
One of the most powerful pieces of liturgy is the Arzei HaLevanon, in which the deaths of some of the brightest, most profound Torah leaders of the Jewish people are recorded in agonizing detail. This is read twice in the Jewish calendar: Once on Yom Kippur and the second time on the 9th of Av. There are slight differences between the two readings. Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik zt”l understands the disparities to indicate a difference between the purposes of the two readings. On Yom Kippur we recount their loss in order to inspire repentance while on the 9th of Av we recount their loss in order to simply mourn what we have lost.
What did we lose? Our tradition teaches us that “Torah scholars increase peace in the world.” Maimonides understands this to mean that learning Torah brings more peace into the world than any other pursuit. How is that possible? When one opens up any page of Talmud one will discover it is full of disagreements and arguments!
Perhaps it is because it is not that we argue that is the problem. There will be differences of opinion. People will see things from different vantage points. It is how we argue that is the issue. The very best of the Torah sages, including and most notably the ones we mourn for on the 9th of Av and on Yom Kippur, reflected the very highest ideal of how to hold opinions and disagree with others. They modeled respectful disagreement. On the 9th of Av we cry over their loss. We cry over their horrible deaths and we cry over our failure to live up to the model they set forth.
We are in dark and difficult days. We are inundated with different viewpoints and perspectives thanks to social media and we cannot shy away from these conversations during our social gatherings. This 9th of Av let us reflect on not how to disagree less but how to better and more respectfully disagree.
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As of yesterday, Monday July 28th, we Jews have begun “The Nine Days.”
You may not know what I’m talking about, and if you don’t, part of me is glad about that. Let me explain my hesitancy.
The secular date July 28th doesn’t mean anything specifically Jewish, unless of course you are talking about July 28th 1998, the day which the Cleveland Jewish News recalls as the day “Monica Lewinsky receives transactional immunity so that she can testify against President Clinton”—Jewish milestone indeed!!
“July 28th” is actually a Gregorian date. So really, how secular is it? But, that’s an issue for another time.
On the lunar-with-idiosyncratic-solar- modifications calendar, which is more often referred to as “The Jewish Calendar”, yesterday was not July 28th, but the first day of the month of Av. The ninth day of the month of Av, in Hebrew Tisha B’Av, is what my father calls “the day of destrrrrrrrruction.” After almost 50 years in America his English is impeccably clear, but you can tell when he is translating from Hebrew to English in his head when his R’s get elongated.
The Ninth of Av is indeed the day of destrrrrrruction. The day recalls the destruction of the First Temple, the Second Temple, the defeat by the Romans of our short lived Bar Kokhba rebellion, the 1290 Expulsion from England, as well as the end the expulsion from Spain in 1492. It’s a pretty crappy day (click here for observances for Tisha B’Av).
During the nine days, from the 1st of Av to the 9th, there is a sense of gloom and doom, which, during this time of war between Israel and Hamas is easy. Traditionally, during these nine days one does not see movies, go swimming, celebrate anything (except a Brit Milah, but even then the celebration is traditionally muted), eat meat, drink wine, or even launder cloths (9th of Av rituals).
My hesitancy in pointing out The Nine Days for those who don’t already know about them already is ultimately this: One sad day is enough. Our sages teach that all these terrible things happened on the same day so that our calendar would not be cluttered with sadness—so why extend centuries old grief? It is my contention that our troubles are numerous enough that we don’t need to extend ancient grief beyond the singular date of Tisha B’av.
But this year The Nine Days are different. Israel is at war. There are Israeli casualties to mourn and innocent, non-terrorist Palestinians to mourn as well. These are indeed “days of destrrrruction.” For Jews who, like me, do not usually observe The Nine Days, perhaps this year we should.
If you do not ordinarily observe The Nine Days, or, if the concept is entirely new to you, consider forgoing some everyday comfort you enjoy as an act of solidarity with those who are mourning personal loss because of war.
Give up one personal comfort every day, not including Shabbat, from today until the 9th of Av as an expression of your heart’s desire to reach out in consolation, comfort, and support (This year, the 9th of Av falls on Monday, August 4th at sundown).
This week, we have heard endless blatheration on what Trayvon Martin should have done, whether Zimmerman was legally culpable, whether he was morally culpable. I’ve been told by people who know the law that the case couldn’t have turned out any other way.
I can’t stop thinking about this case – as is true of so many of us. Not because I’m shocked by the outcome. Quite the contrary. But because I’m shocked by the reactions of people I know to the outcome. Not everyone, of course. but the litany of excuses from people whom I otherwise like or respect, I just find it amazing to hear them.
I’ve read up on the law, on the case. I’ve seen a recent study about Stand Your Ground laws and how they increase racism in the courtroom. I’ve read the responses from black men, who fear for themselves, or their children, or who merely speak with resignation. I’ve heard from friends whose children are black boys, who are worried about the risks they take whenever they walk out the door.
Over the last year, I’ve tried to be more open in my opinions; to listen more carefully and more openly to those who disagree with me about things I consider fundamentally important. It is difficult, sometimes, but I find myself able to do it. But this is different. I simply cannot hear one more person saying that Martin was a thug, or that he should have done something different: what could he have done?
I have written my pieces on Judaism and gun control. I’ve nothing to add. I realize this blog is supposed to be a repository of Jewish text or wisdom, but I’ve nothing to add here either. Today, I am only thinking of the children of color whom I have worked with in Barry Farms who, with their families, did the best they could with the almost nothing that they had, and whose chances of getting out are low, and further stymied by the recent upending of affirmative action programs in colleges, and the uprooting of voter rights protections, and who if they do get out, may simply face a violent death because someone is afraid of their skin, knowing nothing about them, and then, if they are gunned down, will be put on trial for their own murder.
We have just passed through Tisha B’Av, in which we mourn the destruction of the Temples, twice. First for idolatry, and again for sinat chinam, baseless hatred. This smacks of both. Our societal idolatry of the individual, the individual’s right to do whatever makes them feel good, even if in the aggregate, the lives of many others are damaged or destroyed; the hatred of those – sometimes even without our noticing- who frighten us, because of their skin color, or origin, or religion.
I excuse myself from none of this, because I live in this society, and I benefit from its institutionalized racisms and privileges and because I haven’t done enough to change it.
In my exile from the just and the true and the good, I sit and I weep. Perhaps at least I know I am in exile. Perhaps that is at least a start. That’s it; I have no other words for you.
This is real and you are completely unprepared!
This is probably the best title of a book ever. Written by Rabbi Alan Lew, This is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared takes the reader through a journey of personal transformation which begins with the holiday of Tisha B’Av commemorating the destruction of the first Temple in Jerusalem and concludes with the joyous holiday of Simchat Torah where we celebrate finishing the year Torah reading cycle. He argues that Tisha B’Av which we just observed yesterday, Sunday, July 29th, marks the start of the Jewish high holiday season. The high point of which is Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Rabbi Lew asserts that in order for someone to be properly prepared to do teshuva, repentance, and start over with a new slate in the New Year, we need to start a period of self reflection now. Today!
You have seven weeks until Rosh Hashanah. Seven weeks to reflect on the past year. Think about those things you did well, and those not so well. Identify those people you need to ask forgiveness of and begin the process of asking. This is real. The time starts now. Do not wait until Rosh Hashanah to start this spiritual process.
May your time of reflection uncover new realizations. May you be strengthened by your process. And may you be written in the Book of Life.