Letting Go - Loving Torah

N.B. I am currently studying at Pathways Plus (program on Judaism) in Jerusalem, Israel. I arrived here on May 26 and will be here until June 16.

Although I never ended up writing about Passover back in April, a lot of what I’ve been learning in Israel—at least the first week I’ve been here—relates directly to the theme of ‘letting go’—a concept that the holiday of Passover specifically emphasizes. I was also informed that if you’re intent on ‘starting afresh’ in your life—be it getting over an addiction, or wanting to make a significant change—Passover is the time to do it. 

Although Passover ended in April, I am currently still in the process of applying its central lesson.

Moreover, since tomorrow is Shavu’ot—the celebration of when the Jewish people were given the Torah—I feel as though now, more than ever, I should be taking the ‘letting go’ lesson more seriously.

The first class I attended when I arrived here last week was a class on anger and how to deal with it.

I’ve been dealing with a lot of anger issues over the last few years. I’m angry at those who let me down,  angry at the world for being the way it is, angry at society for letting it get this way, but also extremely angry at myself. This is something I’ve been trying to work on for a long time. People have always told me to “let it go”, but I just couldn’t bring myself to actually do it.

There are five different types of people who deal with their anger. There are those who become angry when something doesn’t go their way. There are those who are difficult to anger, but are dangerous when angry. 

There are those who are also difficult to anger, but only slightly affected by it. There are also those who are difficult to anger, but also easily appeased once angered. Finally, at the highest level, there are those persons who are so devoid of ego that they never experience anger.

One of the central sources of anger is pride.

During the class, I experienced a sudden moment of clarity into the last few years of my life. I always used to judge and weigh everything by how much another person hurt me, how someone’s actions offended me, or how someone embarrassed me. I was continuously focused on my own pride and certainly my own ego.

According to Rabbi Shlomo Wolbe, the antidote to anger is patience, or more specifically, tolerance. In fact, the word “porter” comes from the root of the Hebrew word. As we all know, porters are required to carry heavy loads. Moreover, the word “carry” can also be found in the Hebrew word for marriage.

In all relationships, we must be patient and tolerant. Like the song “Lean on Me”, we must help our loved ones carry the load or burden they bear, and in turn, they too will help us with ours. Although our friends or significant others may cause us pain, we—like God, with his infinite patience and tolerance for the sinner until he/she repents—must tolerate the person who hurts us until the person mends their ways.

That being said, Judaism stresses that once you have done all that you can for those that you love, and they continue to exhaust every last ounce of your resources, you must do what’s best for you and let them go. 

Although Judaism encourages us to emulate God, we must always remember that we are not God. Our patience and tolerance is certainly not infinite. But we certainly possess the tools to love with all our hearts.

My struggle with strengthening my tolerance and lessoning my pride began at the beginning of this school year. I have had a number of ups and downs, particularly with friends, and I’ve struggled to the point of physical pain in my attempt to ‘let things go’.

Judaism teaches us that we are meant to feel pain and suffering in order to be spiritually productive.

Only in the last few months have I been able to channel my anger, and my suffering, into something far more productive—the fairly continuous and growing study of Torah.

The holiday of Shavu’ot is a time to celebrate when the Jewish people received the Torah. We celebrate this holiday by staying up the entire night reading and studying Torah. During this holiday, it is custom to read the Book of Ruth which tells the story of a Moabite princess who abandoned a life of wealth and privilege in order to join the Jewish people as a penniless convert. Ruth’s decision to return to the land of her people led to her eventual marriage to Boaz. Their union, roughly four generations later, produced King David—the founder of the Jewish dynasty.

Ruth left a world of luxury and comfort behind her. She turned her back on everything she knew, converted to Judaism, because she felt it was the right thing to do.

Before they were married, Boaz spoke with Ruth regarding his perception of her character. He informed her that her conversion, in many ways, made her more remarkable than Avraham—the patriarch of the Jewish people—since he only abandoned his ancestral home after Hashem spoke to him, while Ruth chose to do so of her own violation.

During one of our ‘reflective’ classes, the head of our Pathways Plus program quoted Hillel the Elder (110BCE). He once asked: “If I am not for myself, who is for me? And when I am for myself, what am ‘I’? And if not now, then when?”

Having just finished reading the Book of Ruth—never having read it before—I find it particularly fitting, given what I was taught when I first arrived here in Israel. Ruth let go of everything she had and gained everything because of it in return. It took great courage, but she remained humble and grateful for the opportunity to be part of the Jewish nation.

I too am grateful for the opportunity to study here in Israel, the land of not only the Jewish people, but also of my ancestors. Having visited and left a note at the kotel, I can now appreciate who I am and where I come from. Most importantly, I can now better understand my purpose here on earth.

Be deliberate in judgment; educate many disciples; and set protective bounds for the Torah.
(Ethics of the Fathers, 1:1)

The "Open-Secret" of Purim

N.B. Thank you to Christine for her exceptionally helpful notes (my own were illegible, especially on cue cards) and to Aish Western for hosting such interesting classes and offering insightful reading material.

In The Novel and the Police (1988), D. A. Miller presents a powerful idea regarding Victorian novels: that “the secret subject is always an open secret” (205). Essentially, we – as readers – know that the novel’s secret(s) is (are) known, but we persist in guarding it (them) nonetheless.

For example, Elizabeth Braddon’s Lady Audley’s Secret (1862). The reader is led to doubt Lady Audley’s madness, despite all evidence to the contrary. We learn that her mother was mad, that madness is termed a “hereditary disease”, and that madness primarily comes about in females (remember: this is a nineteenth century text). However, the novel also provides counter-evidence to her madness: her bigamy (Lady Audley’s “secret”), her act of arson and attempted murder all count as crimes in the legal sense and are motivated by a kind of calculated and rational self-interest. Yet, the novel’s conclusion results in her being pronounced mad and tossed into a ‘mad house’. According to Miller, the novel’s secret is not whether or not Lady Audley is mad, but that she must be treated as such. The secret that which is not named: society’s inability to deal with the possibility that Lady Audley is not out of her mind, but very much of sound mind. How could society conceive (conceal, categorize) such a being?

According to Oscar Wilde, secrets are the thing “that can make modern life mysterious and marvelous. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it.”

By shrouding every day events in mystery, they – despite their otherwise banality or seemingly coincidental appearance – suddenly become all the more interesting. We wish to decipher them all the more.

In fact, the “open secret” has a long-standing place in Judeo-Christian thought. In Religio Medici (1643), Sir Thomas Browne describes nature as an open mystery, a mystery-religion paradoxically open to humankind. Essentially, nature becomes an “open book” when we begin to read and interpret every day events and subsequently discover or uncover divine revelation.

For those of you who don’t know, the Jewish holiday of Purim is just around the corner. This year, Purim begins on the evening of March 15 and ends on the evening of March 16 (in the Hebrew calendar, it is the 14^th of Adar).

To give some context to non-Jewish people, let me frame it this way: Purim is our Halloween and St. Patrick’s Day (which happens to fall on the day after Purim this year) combined.

Essentially, we dress up as other people and—you guessed it—get absolutely piss-drunk-stupid.

In Hebrew School, we dress up as the characters from the Purim story, swing our gregors, and eat our delicious hamantaschens. 

When you’re older, you continue to do all of this, but you also drink until—as the sages say—you don’t know the difference between Haman (the villain) and Mordechai (the hero) of the Purim story.

Most people don’t actually realize that Purim is, in fact, the holiest Jewish holiday. When asked “What is the holiest Jewish holiday?” most responses would be “Yom Kippur”.

Brief Hebrew language lesson:

“Pur” in Hebrew means “lots”—as in lottery. In the Megillah (The Book of Esther), we know that Haman—the jackass who wanted to annihilate the Jews entirely (yes, Hitler wasn’t the only one)—drew lots (Esther 9:24).

Moreover, “Yom Kippur” is not the actual name of the holiday. It’s actually “Yom Kippurim”—a day like Purim.

Yom Kippur is the Day of Atonement. We fast, pray, and repent all our sins of the previous year. Essentially, we act like monks for 24 hours.

So how could a holiday that commands you to get so drunk you can’t distinguish between the good guy and the bad guy be the holiest holiday of the year?

Moreover, why on earth would we name the holiday “Purim” after the lots that Haman—the bad guy—drew?

In The Queen You Thought You Knew: Unmasking Esther’s Hidden Story (2011), Rabbi David Fohrman asserts that Haman didn’t just draw lots in order to choose an arbitrary date to destroy us on—he did it to terrify us. As in, he used psychological warfare against us.

That is to say, Haman was leaving the date of the Jewish genocide up to chance, but the Jewish religion is the exact opposite of chance—God is behind the scenes, hidden, but that does not mean he isn’t around.

Why do I bring this up?

The Purim story is found in “The Book of Esther” - not "God is Awesome" or "God Saved the Jews" or "God Loves the Jews". Moreover, the word “God” isn't actually mentioned anywhere in the text. How is this possible if every other holiday goes out of its way to mention God and Purim is supposed to be the holiest holiday?

We mention God in every other holiday because “Big God” (like I mentioned in my first blog post) was present. I refer, of course, to the supernatural miracles such as splitting the sea and 'passing over' the Jewish houses in Egypt.

In Purim, it was “little God”—in the details of the every day—pushing things along.

When we are taught the story of Purim, most people get the impression that the story takes place over a couple of days when, in fact, it takes place over the course of nine years.

Why isn’t God mentioned anywhere in The Book of Esther? Simply: because he’s present in every ‘coincidental’ detail of the story.

In Hebrew, the “Book of Esther” (or the Esther Scroll)—Megillat Esther—means “revealing the hidden”.

Esther—the ‘hidden’ Jew among the many Persian women who came from far and wide to participate in King Ahasuerus’ beauty pageant (the winner of which would become Queen)—was the wrench that was thrown into Haman’s evil plan. She “revealed” herself as Jewish to the King, her husband, at the right moment.

Mordechai, Esther’s uncle, who ‘overheard’ two guards’ plan to kill the King, “revealed” the secret plan to the King and was eventually awarded (through the execution of Haman) for his deed.

So why do we call the holiday “Purim”? To emphasize the irony of Haman’s plot gone awry?

According to Rabbi Fohrman, there’s something more at work here.

In the Book of Numbers, there is a discussion of the “annulment of vows”. The verse refers to “husband”—“a husband will affirm it; a husband will annul it”—but a mere difference of vowels transforms the word to “woman”.

When Mordechai encourages Esther to approach the King in his private chamber - an act that could have cost her her life - to save her people, he interprets the Book of Numbers as prophecy, specifically for her.

The Hebrew word “vepheirena” derives from the word “pur” – pei, vav, reish (Hebrew letters) which equal the word “annul”.

Haman drew lots to annihilate the Jews while Esther “annulled” his genocidal decree (N.B. The King gave Esther and Mordechai the King’s signet ring which would allow them to write whatever they wished about the Jewish people as the King’s word could not be undone. This ultimately meant that they could not undo Haman’s decree (which had been decreed with the king's ring) despite the fact that he was already dead; they could only counter it by decreeing that the Jewish people could fight back against their enemies. Essentially, by countering it, they nullified it, ergo, annulled.)

Therefore, the holiday of Purim was not about random chance but decisive action.

When writing the scroll, Esther and Mordechai knew precisely what they were doing. They were revealing that which was hidden—God—who had been with them (the Jews) all along.

For Miller, the “open secret” does not collapse binaries, but ‘fantasmatically recovers’ them” (207).

So when the sages say that we need to drink to the point where we don’t know the difference between Haman and Mordechai, they aren’t literally saying that Haman and Mordechai are one in the same person.

More broadly speaking, we are all human beings and should make every effort to strive for peace and universal brotherhood. Purim is the holiday which blurs distinctions. At the end of the day, what makes us different is not essential, but that which brings us closer together.

Since The Book of Esther ends on a note of peace carried on through the generations of Jewish people, I’d have to vehemently concur that Purim is the holiest of Jewish holidays.

I wish you all a healthy, happy, and—most importantly—a peaceful Purim.

And if you’re looking for interesting costume ideas that embody the spirit of Purim (drinking, fraternity, and 'blurred lines'), here’s a hint:

Drink up me hearties, Yo Ho!

Can't Take the Religion Out of Being Jewish

In December, I read an article entitled "Can you Be an Atheist and a Jew at the Same Time? David Silverman Says No”. A friend of mine posted it on his Facebook and I subsequently shared it on my wall. An interesting debate ensued which will be the focus of this post.  

In the article, Silverman, a self-identified atheist raised by Jewish parents, encourages Jews who don’t believe in God to “come out” to their family and friends as atheists.

After much personal struggle, Silverman finally asserted that Judaism—a religion—is incompatible with atheism.

He makes an important distinction between Jewish culture—which is regionally based—and the religion itself. What all Jews have in common though, he realized, was the Torah.

I commend Silverman for his efforts and his views, as I wholeheartedly agree with him.

Despite his beliefs (or non-beliefs as the case may be), he is married to a woman who attends Orthodox services during High Holidays but who is, ultimately, Reform in practice. They both have agreed not to force their views on each other and they have a successful and loving marriage. Moreover, Silverman gave the Old and New Testament to his daughter, among other commentators on said works, and asked her to decide for herself about God’s existence.

This is how I envision my own future. Religion is not something that should be forced on anyone and I have no intention on forcing it upon any of my hypothetical children. I will, due to my own beliefs regarding Judaism, introduce my children to it, but I will not expect or demand them to follow in my footsteps.

Growing up, I defined myself as “culturally Jewish” as did (and do) many of my friends back home.

I take issue with this for the following reasons:

As Silverman himself points out, Judaism is a religion, not a culture. There are aspects of Jewish living, however, that are culturally-based such as the food, music, habits, etc. But there are many things that Jewish North American families participate in that are certainly not “cultural practices” but are most definitely religious ones.

I was raised in a Reform household. Due to my limited knowledge, I assumed my experience (8 years of Hebrew School, a bat mitzvah, attending synagogue during the High Holidays, family dinners—including substantial prayers recited in Hebrew—for said holidays, lighting the Shabbat candles, keeping kosher in the house, and attending a Jewish sleepover camp) were the sum experiences of all North American Jewish children. Out of all these experiences, the only “cultural” experience would be the latter—attending a Jewish sleepover camp. There are religious aspects to this particular experience, but it is on the whole a cultural experience.

That is to say—if you went to Hebrew School, you prayed every day. Who exactly were you praying to? If you had a bar or bat mitzvah, what is the significance of participating in such a ritual when in secular society you are not actually an adult until you are 18/19/21—in whose eyes are you now an adult? If you attend synagogue or read from the siddur/haggadah with your family during the High Holidays, what exactly are you celebrating and in whose name? If you light the Shabbat candles with your mother, who are you envisioning as you close your eyes? If your family kept kosher, whose law was it that commanded you to do so?

I ask these questions for a purpose. I ask them because I wish to assert that being “culturally” Jewish has nothing to do with being Jewish.

You can't take the religion out of Judaism just as you can't separate being Jewish from religion. 

People who are raised Jewish can certainly engage in Jewish cultural practices, but to be Jewish—in any shape or form—means not only to accept the existence of God, but to believe in God.  

There is no separating God from Judaism. If you don’t believe in God, that’s perfectly fine. You can certainly engage in Jewish cultural practices and practice Jewish philosophy (which would be far more meaningful than the former) but that doesn’t make you Jewish.

 I know that’s hard to hear, but let me tell you why.

As a child of Jewish parents, especially if your mother is Jewish, you are—according to Judaism—a Jew. And even if you aren’t a religious or observant Jew, you can still certainly be Jewish. Judaism isn’t, after all, all or nothing.

However, if you do not believe in God, then you don’t believe in the Jewish people, and therefore—if you define yourself as culturally Jewish—don’t believe in yourself. Let me explain.

According to Jewish history, everyone started off “Jewish”. Because everyone was of one faith, there was technically no such thing as being Jewish because there was no need to make the distinction.

When God flooded the world, Noah—descendant of Adam and Eve—was left to repopulate. There was a period of roughly 292 years between the flood and Abraham (born 1976 BCE). It took the ancestors of the Jewish people almost 300 years to return to monotheism. It then took another ~400 years before Moses and God’s presentation of the Torah to the Jewish people.

But my point in bringing this up is that the Jewish people didn’t actually come into existence until the moment they were given the Torah. All other nations rejected God’s words, but this group of people—the Jews—accepted it.

Many people claim that they are “proud” of their Jewish heritage. Perhaps, to them, this means that their grandparents survived the Holocaust. I do not, and would never, deny anyone their right to feel proud of their Jewish heritage, whatever that may be. I myself am certainly a proud Jew.

However, my pride stems from an awareness of thousands of years worth of history and the understanding that, without God, there would be no such thing as Judaism, as the Jewish people, as Jewish heritage.

I commend and encourage Jews to take pride in their Jewish heritage. I also strongly encourage people to indulge in Jewish cultural practices and practice Jewish philosophy. My point, however, is that Jewish heritage is more than just about Jewish food, Jewish rites of passage, and Jewish sleepover camps.

Our heritage is that we chose. We chose God, his commandments, and his teachings.

Those who say they are “culturally Jewish” but shy away from any kind of “religious” talk—particularly in denying the existence of God, or even in choosing not to acknowledge that God has anything to do with being Jewish—then they are actually saying that the Jews, as a people, do not exist and never existed because no God ever presented them with the Torah: the foundation and very core of Judaism.

Our ancestors witnessed God presenting the Torah to Moses.

In Exodus (19:9), God said to Moses: “I am going to come to you in a dense cloud, so that the people will hear me speaking with you and will always put their trust in you.”

Through this act, the Jewish people heard God speak to Moses. He became their prophet and their champion.

Our Jewish heritage is that we witnessed and received the Torah.

There is one very important prayer, one that is known to most Jewish children, because it is usually recited to them before they go to sleep, or drilled into their heads in Hebrew School. My parents never sung it to me as a child, but I certainly recited it three days a week for eight years while attending Hebrew School.

I refer, of course, to the Shema.

The first six words of the Shema are: Shema Yisrael Adonai eloheinu Adonai ehad.

In English: “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.”

Often, the last letter of the first and last words of the Shema verse are written in larger print in the siddur (prayer book). These letters form the word “ed”—witness—and remind Jews to witness God’s sovereignty by leading exemplary lives (since humankind was made in “God’s image”). Just as the Jewish nation witnessed God speaking to Moses, we are reminded, every day, of God's existence by reciting this prayer.

In the New Testament (Mark 12:28-31), Jesus is asked: “Of all the commandments, which is the most important?” Jesus responds with these very words (and of course, eventually, love thy neighbour).

The shema is an interesting prayer because it is usually said when we are alone before we go to sleep. Reciting the shema is one’s declaration of faith and commitment to God. It also expresses our connection to God and the Jewish people, and how we are all connected to each other.

To end my post, I would like to share with you the following story. It is a story that has now been told to me by three Rabbis. I first heard it at the Aish conference and each time I've heard the story, I've cried. 

In 1945, after the Holocaust, Rabbi Eliezer Silver—founder of the Vaad Hatzalah (Rescue Committee)—sought to locate hundreds of displaced Jewish children who were given up by their parents at the start of the Holocaust in order to save their lives. Many of these children were raised in convents and monasteries. 

These children lost more than just their parents and relatives—they lost their Jewish heritage and identity.

Rabbi Silver was given knowledge that one monastery in the Alsace-Lorraine region of France sheltered a number of children whose parents deposited them there before the start of the Holocaust.

Upon his arrival, the monk informed Rabbi Silver that there were no Jewish children there. The list of Jewish names Rabbi Silver presented to the monk could easily have been any other (non-Jewish) German child.

Rabbi Silver asked if he could return to the monastery later that evening before the children went to sleep so he could speak with them.

When he returned that evening, he entered the large dorm room and began to sing the Shema.  

While he sang, other children began to sing with him. Many cried and called out for their mothers. Upon hearing the prayer, they were immediately reminded of their parents, their home, and who they were. 

The shema enabled Rabbi Silver to return these children to their families and their Jewish heritage.

I know many of my friends who define themselves as “culturally Jewish” most likely do not recite the shema when they wake up or before they go to sleep. I myself am only just working towards doing that.

You certainly do not have to say the shema every night to be Jewish, but some part of you does need to believe in the existence of an omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent being.

You don’t need to call Him God. But you should be aware that, without him, Jewish people wouldn’t exist. 

And that includes your Jewish “cultural” indulgences as well.

To all those “culturally” Jewish people: the next time you light your Shabbat candles, wish someone L’Shana Tova (tikatev v’taihatem), or read from your Pesach Haggadah, please ask yourselves: 

Who exactly am I praying to?

M.B.