Tag Archives: faith

Open Letter to My Students 85: And What About the Evangelicals?

In my last Letter, I advocated resetting the traditional alliance between the Jewish community and the African American one. I know, of course, that there are lots of black Jews, who straddle both communities. But my focus was on reaffirming the old alliance between Blacks (who are mostly not Jews) and Jews (who are mostly not black). Now I turn to a new alliance that ought to be pursued: between Jews and Evangelicals (who are mostly white). 

Commentary magazine too has recently argued for such an alliance,[i] but on the grounds that we should join evangelicals in their fight against rampant secularism; more specifically, we should welcome the weakening of the “secular-Jewish alliances built on principles that elites would wield against whites, Christians, and men.” 

I regret that analysis of the problem for a whole host of reasons, but it didn’t take Commentary to convince me of the need to reexamine our relationship with white evangelicals. I’ve been saying that for some time.

In my last letter, I decried the tendency of official communal institutions (both African American and Jewish) to oversimplify, and even demonize, one another, as if all Blacks and all Jews are any one single thing. The same institutional tendency is evident when we assume, for example, that all Evangelicals are white Christian nationalists; or bent only on converting us. 

Of course there are differences between us. We cannot ask evangelicals to give up the essence of their Christianity, which insists on salvation only through Christ; nor their commitment to those ethical stands that differ from ours (abortion, for example). But the whole point of an alliance across boundaries is the willingness to bypass some differences in order to accentuate those commonalities that might lead to the betterment of both parties, and, for that matter (since we are religions, after all) the betterment of the world. 

To be sure, the gap between us Jews and some Evangelicals may be more like an unbreachable ravine. Evangelicals may say that about some Jews as well. But the operative word is “some,” not “all.”

Henry Kissinger is often quoted as saying that countries “have no permanent friends, only interests.” But some eminently quotable quotes are oversimplifications. Neither interests nor friends are necessarily forever, after all; and friendships sometimes survive even when interests differ. I have friends who oppose abortion; or who question the severity of Israel’s war in Gaza. Because we are friends, however, we can discuss these matters respectfully; they hear me out on Israel, and even modify their opposition, or at least question it – even as I hear them out about abortion and concede at least the moral complexity of the issue. 

What we need, then, is personal friendships across religious lines, friendships founded on mutual regard and even fondness for one another. The alternative (for both of us) is to hunker down among “our own kind,” taking refuge in gated communities of the mind where anyone substantially different is labeled “Dangerous.”

Friendships, however, require a common language, and evangelicals use theological language – precisely the language that the liberal Jewish tradition finds difficult. But there is nothing un-Jewish about discussing ultimates like God, Jewish Peoplehood, and the like. Indeed, the doctrinaire avoidance of such conversation is a failing that we ought to correct for our own sake as well. How, then, might we reintroduce ourselves theologically to serious Christians? 

To begin with, we might highlight theological parallels between us. Christians herald the gospel’s “good news.” The Rabbis also believed in “good news,” for which they even provided a blessing (“Blessed is God who is good and does good”), by which they meant not just receiving a nice Hanukah gift but the eventual inheritance of a world to come, actual life after death. We differ on whether the “good news” is realized through Torah or through Jesus of Nazareth. But at least we ought to see the functional equivalence of Torah for Jews and Christ for Christians. We share, as well, an affirmation of human sin and the need for repentance and pardon. The rabbis even believed in grace – witness our prayer Avinu Malkenu with its request choneinu — not just a plea that God “act graciously” (the usual translation) but that God “show grace” to us.” 

We might go even farther and invent a new theological metaphor. Are we Jews and Christians simply accidents of history, two communities who arose side by side and who then, by chance, moved through history together? 

Not necessarily.  

Perhaps our two communities are a theological double helix, making our corner of human history a working-out of some double-stranded spiritual DNA — the unfolding not just of historical events on the ground but of God’s will as well. Historically, after all, we seem indeed to have been slated to circle each other perpetually, and in close proximity, neither separating completely nor becoming one another, but circling, ever circling, so that we might someday act together for a greater good that we call Divine. 

Here is a metaphor that accounts for our common history and that also leads us further (and higher) in our own distinctive callings. To be sure, much of our historical path has not been trod as equals. But the age of blood libels has passed, and here we both remain, graced with the chance to embrace a common commitment to a fateful and faithful partnership, the next step in our 2000-year-old history together.

As I said above, Jews fear that Evangelical Christians harbor proselytizing purposes. But Jews have often treated Evangelicals with intellectual contempt. Hence the importance of this moment, when (to speak theologically again) both of us become Abraham, hearing God’s invitation to “a land that God will show us.” We may not yet know the path to get there, but the world has changed enough for us to suspect that we are unlikely to get there alone. If we always think the way we always thought, we will always get what we always got; and it is time to “get” something new. 


[i] Tal Fortgang and Ella Fortgang,, “The New American Jews,” in Commentary (January 26, 2026). See  https://www.commentary.org/articles/tal-fortgang/new-american-jews-manifesto/?utm_source=envelope&utm_medium=website&utm_campaign=SocialSnap

Open Letter to My Students 81: Recapturing Eternity

It is time to reclaim timelessness, “foreverness,” the way we fit into eternity. But only the right kind.

The “right kind” is not new; and it takes two forms. Individually, eternity is some form of “moreness” in which we participate after we die; and, possibly, before we are born as well: an eternal soul, perhaps, that transcends our corporeal being and produces our deepest form of identity in this, our earthly state. There is also a corporate dimension, the way even our tiny lives contribute to a larger destiny for humanity – if not an actual eternity, at least an “almost” one, in that we see our impact joining that of others and stretching out at least as long as our planet survives (some 7-8 billion years or so).

Despite the impossibility of producing evidence one way or the other, we have believed in at least one of these two eternities for almost all of human history. Despite the  same impossibility of producing evidence one way or the other, many people now disparage that belief – with terrible consequences. Among them is the urge to carve out ersatz experiences of eternity: oases of quietude or of hedonistic pleasure that deny reality round about them. Like William Wordsworth, “The world is too much with us.” By “getting and spending,” he added, “we lay waste our powers.”[i] Not so us. We conclude, falsely, that by “getting and spending,” we can escape the noise around us while the world goes away.

Alas, the world never does go away. 

A case in point comes from Jenny Erpenbeck’s remarkable novel, Visitation. A woman moves into a spacious lakeside estate, what she calls her “piece of eternity.” In the perfection of being that followed, “her laughter was the laughter of today, of yesterday and just as much, the laughter of twenty years ago,” as if time were “at her beck and call, like a house in which she can enter now this room, now that.” 

But the world intrudes. It is the early days of Nazi Germany; she must ignore the fact that the property has been “purchased” from Jewish owners who were forced to “sell” it. Then the war doesn’t go well, and the woman’s finances are drained. When the war finally ends and Soviet soldiers utterly ransack the place, the woman bemoans their “drilling a hole in her eternity.”[ii] Her remaining years are spent stranded in Communist East Germany. She is clearly on the wrong side of history. 

Now let us extend the story. With her false eternity fading away, the woman discovers she will inevitably age, sicken, and disappear into the nothingness of death, that, for her (with no real eternity to draw upon) must be like the black hole of dying stars that suck up the light of the universe and never give it back. 

“Mass,” say the physicists, is the amount of matter in an object, the extent of its resistance to being buffeted about by change. What if humans have not just physical mass, however, but moral mass as well, measurable by the extent to which we resist being thrown into dismay by the events of the moment? What if moral mass is augmented by imaginative mass, the capacity to think beyond the moment, to see ourselves as part of a larger cosmic plan where the “almost” eternity of history and the actual eternity of a soul are better measures of what matter? 

We need not make do with counterfeit eternities and the knife wounds of history that perforate it. We can look to those real eternities of which we are a part. Eternity is not a carved-out part of life; life is a carved-out part of eternity.

I said that there is no real evidence of either eternity, but where there is no evidence, the Talmud suggests there may at least be intimations: finite intimations, that is, of infinite realities.  Shabbat, for example, is an intimation of the world to come. Yom Kippur is shabbat shabbaton, “a sabbath of sabbaths” where the gates that open onto rebirth and a betterment of time never close. 

So too we have humanity’s own intimations of timelessness: Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata for example. And nature’s own intimations too: a harvest moon; sunsets over the ocean; and stars – the endlessness of starry nights, stretching into vastness. Like ultra-rationalist Emanuel Kant, I too am filled with awe by “the starry heavens above and the moral law within.”

Medieval rabbis ascribe special necessity for congregations gathering on the High Holy Days not just to pray together but to pray out loud together so that “individuals may learn from one another.”[iii] What must they learn, if not the intimation that none of us need face the future alone? The High Holy Days also spotlight the absence of those who once sat beside us but are no more. I hear Kol Nidre and sing Avinu Malkenu in a room filled with people and a space that is resonant with those who once heard and sang as I still do, but who are gone. I am part of a generational chain, dedicated to the promise that goodness, sweetness, and kindness will prevail. 

When artificial attempts at manufacturing eternity are hollowed out by the terrors of time, I remember that no amount of leakage can make actual eternity less than what it is. Take away a million, a billion, a trillion, from infinity, and you still have infinity.  Bombard eternity with however many attacks on the human spirit, and you still have eternity. These days of anger, confusion, and fear, are real. But what keeps me going is the High Holy Day intimation that in my own little way I am part of something more capacious, part of two kinds of eternity that are just as real and maybe even more so. 


[i] William Wordworth, sonnet, “The World is too much with us,” composed c.1802. 

[ii] Jenny Erpenbeck, Visitation. Original German, Heimsuchung, 2008. English ed., Susan Bernofsky, trans., New York: New Directions Publishing Corp., 2010, pp. 52, p. 51, 54, 55.

[iii] See, e.g., Mateh Moshe, by Moses ben Abraham of. Przemyśl, 1591, Section 693.

Open Letter to My Students 76: Peace of Mind

Primo Levi, recently released from Auschwitz, recalls a savvy confidante warning him, “The war is not yet over – not for you.” Indeed, on July 4, 1946, the few remaining Jews in the Polish town of Kielce were herded together and clubbed, stoned, or stabbed to death.  In 1946 as well, Jewish survivors elsewhere, barely alive from concentration-camp starvation and forced death marches, languished in Displaced Persons camps with nowhere to go. Even here, 64% of American Jews claimed personal familiarity with anti-Semitism. 1946 was not a very good year.

How amazing, then that in 1946, the leading book on the New York Times best-seller list was authored by a Rabbi from Boston, Joshua Loth Liebman, and entitled Peace of Mind. 

“This is the gift that God reserves for special proteges,” Liebman wrote. “ Talent and beauty God gives to many. Wealth is commonplace, fame not rare. But peace of mind – that is the fondest sign of God’s love.” 

Peace of mind is an inner virtue: not something we gain from life’s experiences, but something we take to them, to help us make it through them. Think of the biblical Aaron, who suffers the sudden death of his two oldest sons. The Torah defends the event as divine punishment for offering “alien fire,” an obscure sin that neither the Talmud nor the commentators explain very satisfactorily.  I read the account as a case of “grasping at straws,” like Job’s friends who imagine all suffering must be deserved. It isn’t. When inexplicable tragedies strike — through hurricanes, earthquakes, and such – we too call them “acts of God,” without really meaning it.

What matters, however, is not the logic we supply but the response we manage to muster. Aaron, the Torah says, is silent. He endures the loss and moves on.

With all our sophistication on dealing with bereavement, we tend nowadays to fault him for not venting his anger, railing at God, crying foul. I don’t necessarily recommend such stoic silence, but I do marvel at the Torah’s picture of Aaron the father who takes even the tragic death of his children with apparent equanimity. 

 By contrast, when King David’s son Absalom dies (while in armed revolt against him, no less), David laments, “Oh my son Absalom, Absalom my son, would that I had died instead of you.” What do we learn from Aaron that we do not see in David?

Every biblical hero is painted with faults, but also redeeming virtues.  Abraham almost sacrifices his son, but is faithful; Moses loses his temper, but is humble; And Aaron? Aaron’s failure is his compolicity in making the golden calf. What is his distinctive virtue?

From Passover to Shavuot, the period we Jews are traversing at this very moment, we read our way through Pirkei Avot, the rabbinic book of wisdom par excellence. I love the instalment that says, “Be among the disciples of Aaron, loving peace and pursuing it.”  Aaron’s genius, apparently, lies in the attainment of peace. 

But not just any peace.

We normally think of peace as something external, peace between individuals or nations.  Aaron was apparently sensitive to that – too sensitive in fact, to the point where he placated the stormy Israelite rebellion at the foot of Mt. Sinai by letting them build the golden calf that was later seen as Aaron’s moral downfall. But I doubt if Aaron could have much luck in the world today. Peace between Ukraine and Russia? Peace for Israel and its Hamas neighbors? It if were just this outward sort of peace, I don’t think Jewish tradition would have bothered mentioning it. Aaron was not anticipating Machiavelli; he was no Henry Kissinger. 

So whatever his success at internecine or international intrigue, the peacemaking for which he was reputedly famous was something else altogether — not peace without, but peace within, the kind of inner peace that allows Aaron the father to go on in life despite the trauma of two lost children. Aaron had mastered Joshua Loth Liebman’s peace of mind.  

We especially need peace of mind when other forms of peace are lacking. Sooner or later, we all discover our lives spinning out of control.  We wake up one day with a rare disease that we thought only other people get; a drunk driver barrels into us and cripples us for life; we discover that someone we love has lied to us; undergo a miscarriage, suffer mid-life crises and problems with aging; lose a job and all the collateral damage that comes with being jobless. 

All the more so is that true of our times today, when we cannot even keep up with the daily barrage of news; when no matter how hard we try, we wonder if we are making a difference. How in the world do we get through all that? How do we sleep through the night and manage to get up and face another day? 

Only with what Liebman describes and Aaron epitomizes: the inner serenity of soul, the peace of mind that lets us separate briefly from the ongoing traumas that afflict us. I don’t mean deceiving ourselves, declaring ”’Peace, peace!’ when there is no peace,” as Jeremiah puts it. I mean harboring our inner resources lest we deplete ourselves utterly and become a problem to those who love us, and even to ourselves.

“Loving peace of mind and pursuing it” is the only armor we have against life’s inevitable and in tractable trials. It was Aaron’s secret and I try to make it mine as well.

Open Letter to My Students 75: Do I Believe in God?

Google “Song, ‘I Believe’” and you get some sixty entries. The most famous dates to 1953, and has been sung repeatedly by the likes of Mahalia Jackson, Elvis Presley, Glen Campbell and Barbra Streisand. “I believe above the storm the smallest prayer will still be heard; I believe that someone in the great somewhere hears every word.”

Conclusion: Americans may believe in different things, but they all believe in believing. 

I am never surprised, therefore, when people ask me if I believe in God. When I pose that question at congregations where I teach or consult, most people hesitantly raise their hand, but only when given a choice of “Yes, but….” Mostly, Jews avoid the question.

And for good reason: it isn’t a Jewish question altogether.

To be sure, the entire rabbinic tradition just assumes the existence of God. But belief is less central for Jews than for Christians. That is because, from their very inception, Judaism and Christianity went different ways. 

Christianity was popularized by Paul, a first-century Greek-speaking Jew from Asia Minor; so was influenced heavily by the Greco-Roman philosophical tradition that asked questions of belief. Rabbinic Judaism, by contrast, remained true to the biblical focus on behavior: what we should do, not what we should believe. Classical Christian literature is theological; the Jewish equivalent is legal. 

 To be sure, Jews are not uninterested in matters of faith. But we are quicker to doubt tenets of belief and slower to adopt them officially. 

The church father Tertullian (160-240) is usually credited with saying, credo quia absurdum, which religious sceptic Voltaire (1694-1778) translated as “I believe because it is absurd.” Although Tertullian may not actually have said it[i] (let alone meant it that way), it is sometimes cited as a justification for believing in what science and reason doubts. Isn’t that the point of faith after all? 

Not necessarily. When I say I believe in my son, I may have all kinds of evidence to back up my statement. And in any case, I certainly don’t mean that I believe in his existence. Similarly, when I say that I believe in myself, I have in mind trusting my ability to make good decisions, not deciding after some serious doubt that I exist. Does “I believe in God” affirm God’s existence? I don’t usually use the expression “believe in” that way.

We might, of course, ask, “Do you believe in Big Foot or the Loch Ness Monster?” There we do question actual existence. But is God like that? 

If you press me, I’d say I do believe in God, but the way  William James did: not because the evidence supports it; and certainly not because it is absurd; but because there is no evidence either way — if God is beyond time and space, what kind of evidence could there even be? And where there is no evidence, James declared, we should choose to believe whatever will help us live a better life. It’s like the question we ask of a new acquaintance, “Does he like me?” If we wait for certain evidence, we will never trust enough even to begin establishing a friendship.[ii] So we assume the best and see what happens. 

So too with God. I don’t assume (for example) that God inevitably heals the sick; I have evidence against that. But believing in “God,” as some supportive presence beyond me that explains the order in the universe while affirming the good and the just within it is something that I find helpful. As I said in an earlier letter, faith is a strategy we employ more than a thing that we “have.”

But we need not go that far. For over a century now, we have known that to get at what words mean we need to watch how they are used.[iii] Instead of asking if we believe in God, we should ask how we use the word God in the first place. 

If my cancer test comes back negative, I may say, “Thank God.” If I promise to attend your wedding next year, I may add “God willing.” I do not believe that an entity named God saved me from cancer or cares whether I attend your wedding. God is not an entity altogether. When I say these things I am simply testifying to the extreme importance of “escaping cancer” and “getting to the wedding.” I use the word God to name those things that are of inestimable importance to me. My life is richer for elevating them that way – a whole lot better than “Gee whiz, I’m cancer free,” or “Yeah, I’ll try to get to your wedding.”

God is not a piece of furniture in my life; not some thing that I feel obliged to describe and refurbish on occasion, to make God fit nicely with other things in which I believe. God need not be a thing to still be a reality: something like loyalty, love, beauty and harmony. I experience all of these and have words for them.

When it comes to God, I start at the wonder that the human condition entails. At hand right now are a return of spring and life and color and joy; a family Passover seder; a newborn baby cousin; a multitude of new ideas that even at my age I find exhilarating. At hand too are daily headlines that testify to the loss of honesty, integrity, love and compassion — attributes that I consider essential. I invoke “God,” as the best means I have to do these things justice. 


[i] https://www.cambridge.org/core/journals/church-history/article/abs/i-believe-because-it-is-absurd-the-enlightenment-invention-of-tertullians-credo/69340C3AF8366E79BCF3BDD804DED82E

[ii] William James, The Will to Believe And Other Essays in Popular Philosophy (New York: Longman, Green and Co., 1897) pp. 23–4.

[iii] Cf., e.g., Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations (1953: 4th ed. London: Blackwell, 2009); J. L. Austin, How To Do Things With Words (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1962). For a nice summary of this school of thought at Oxford, see Nikhil Krishman, A Terribly Serious Adventure (New York: Random House, 2023).

Open Letter to My Students 69: A Box of Chocolates?

Maybe Forrest Gump was right: “Life is a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re gonna get.”

I think about life at this time of year, with the High Holiday hopes in my rearview mirror and the immediacy of Sukkot upon us  – especially with Sukkot’s mandatory reading of Ecclesiastes – whose topic is exactly that: the meaning (or meaninglessness) of life.

My long-time friend, a Catholic priest, Dick Vosko, invariably sends me his own carefully crafted Rosh Hashanah wishes, and this year, he included Ecclesiastes 1:13, “I applied my heart to seek and to search out by wisdom concerning all that is done under the sky. It is a heavy burden that God has given human beings.” 

The Hebrew for “heavy burden” is inyan ra, variously described by commentators as “obscure” or “meaning uncertain.” So I asked Dick where he got his translation. Following his lead (and adding some research of my own), I discovered several options: 

  • Literally, inyan ra  means “a bad matter,” as if life were a bad joke being played upon us.
  • The classic King James Bible (KJB,1611) and the early American Protestant Bible, the American Standard Version [ASV, 1901]) translates it as “sore travail.” 
  • The old Jewish Publication Society translation  (JPS, 1917) converts the old English “travail” into “task” giving us “a sore task.” 
  • The newer JPS translation (NJPS, 1985) and a standard Protestant Bible (NRSV, 1989) prefer “an unhappy business.” 
  • Dick’s “heavy burden” competed with “terrible burden,” in three other Bible translations: New International Version (NIV, 1984, 2011); God’s Word Bible (Lutheran Church Missouri Synod, 1995); andNew Heart English Bible (NHEB, 2008).

However you look at it, this is hardly a cheerful message: Has God really saddled us with “sore travail,” “a sore task,” “an unhappy business” or “a heavy/terrible burden”? Is life a bad joke? Dick chose “heavy burden” because he had in mind the Hamas attack and ensuing war, and thought that for Jews this year, life is indeed a heavy burden. I appreciate his sentiment. 

In context, the inyan ra refers back to the eleven Ecclesiastes verses leading up to it: the ennui that sets in when we are so jaded as to believe that life is nothing but havel havalim, “vanity of vanities [KJB],” “utter futility [NJPS],” or “utterly meaningless [NIV]” (take your pick); because “there is nothing new under the sun,” or (as we might say), “Been there, done that.” Rabbinic midrash[i] focuses on the vain accumulation of wealth and even wisdom. Greed is never be satisfied; we can always have more. As to wisdom, think back to all the stuff you learned in College and how little of it you remember.

The choice of Ecclesiastes for Sukkot is probably just chance. An 8th-century source lists all five scrolls (Ruth, Song of Songs, Ecclesiastes, Lamentations and Esther) as holiday readings.[ii] But reliable manuscripts for that book list only four: they omit Ecclesiastes. Ecclesiastes was added later on (the 11th century); at some point, scribes who were used to reading it assumed it had always been read, but had somehow dropped out of the 8th-century account. So they mistakenly added it back in.   

In other words, eighth-century Jews were reading Lamentations on Tishah B’av (when the Temple was destroyed) and Esther on Purim (Purim is derived from the Esther story). They also read Ruth on Shavuot and Song of Songs on Passover (two of the three harvest festivals). That left one scroll (Ecclesiastes) unread, and one holiday (Sukkot) with no reading. So the two were later matched up to fill the double void.

Adding Ecclesiastes to Sukkot was consequential. In biblical times, Sukkot was known as the holiday for experiencing joy,[iii] not “sore travail,” “an unhappy business” and a “heavy burden.” To this day, the prayer introducing it (the Kiddush) calls it “the time of our joy” (z’man simchateinu). Does the addition of Ecclesiastes suggest we should hedge our bets — change it to “time of joy and of carrying the weight of the world”? How can life give us family and friends, laughter and love, but also suffering and sorrow; not just all that is good, but much that is bad – even a Hamas attack (on, of all days, Simchat Torah, the day following Sukkot, which will never be the same again). 

But that’s the point: life is not just untrammeled joy. Any given moment of any given day can bring happiness or sorrow, good or bad — exactly what Deuteronomy records (v. 30:15) as God’s own judgement of the human condition: “I have set before you life and good, death and bad.”  We are urged to choose life and good (v. 19) but the tragedy of the human condition is that regardless of what we choose, the bad (not just the good) can come our way.[iv]

Nature itself can be cruel. Even if we somehow reversed global warming, we would still have hurricanes, tornadoes, and earthquakes. And regardless of what we choose, other people get to choose too: there are genuinely bad people out there. And sooner or later (we hope later, but it can happen sooner), we die. Life is indeed an inyan ra: not (if we are fortunate) entirely “sore travail” or “an unhappy business,” but for all of us, at times at least, “a heavy burden.” The hardest lesson of all is the realization that we are not in charge down here. 

Forrest Gump was only partly right. Who knows what any given day will bring? “You never know what you’re gonna get.” But it’s not all chocolates!

The “end of the matter,” the final word, as Ecclesiastes puts it (v.12:14), is “Revere God and keep God’s commandments.” That sounds a little too pious for me. It resonates poorly in age when reverence for a supreme anything rings hollow, and when the very idea of being commanded runs counter to our rampant individualism. But beneath those ancient words lies a timeless message: that there is something beyond us to which we owe allegiance, a “something” we Jews call God. We do what we can to choose life and good; even knowing that we will all get sick, all suffer losses, all die someday – some of us sooner than we wish and more tragically. But the nobility of the human condition still stands: we have minds to choose wisdom, hearts to embrace love; a conscience to know good from bad, and a habit learned from childhood to put one foot in front of the other: no matter what the future holds.  


[i] Midrash Rabba to Kohelet 1:13. Cf. Ibn Ezra to our verse, “It is called inyan ra because human being occupy themselves with things that will never prove satisfying.”

[ii] Massekhet Sofrim, 14:1. 

[iii] Cf. Leviticus 23:40, Deuteronomy 16:15, Nehemiah 8:17. And, as the Rabbis remember it, Mishnah, Sukkah, 5:1. 

[iv] On the connection to Deut. 30, see Rashi to our verse. 

Open Letter To My Students 67: A High Holy Day Message from Home

I do like to write about “home,” especially when Rosh Hashanah rolls round and people head home for the holidays. Never mind the reality: broken homes, dysfunctional families, aging parents, and the mystery of undying sibling rivalry. Charles Henry Parkhurst, the reforming Presbyterian pastor who brought down New York’s infamous Tammany Hall, got it right when he said, “Home is heaven for beginners.” 

At the new year we become beginners all over again. Out with the old; in with the new; new year’s resolutions, or, for Jews, t’shuvah, literally, “returning” to God, but also to our childhood selves, the innocence we left behind when we took the wrong turn toward mistakes and misdeeds. Our prayer book calls the holiday yom hazikaron, the day when God remembers us, a somewhat frightening possibility, except for the fact that God, we say, is merciful – like the parents we either have or wish we had; parents, that is, who welcome us back home no matter what we’ve done out there in the world. “Home,” says Robert Frost “is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”

Home is the name we give to the comfort and safety of belonging, while “not at home” means being always on guard against ever-looming disaster. So Rosh Hashanah emphasizes the positive: the guarantee that however much we may have strayed into a world where anything can happen, Rosh Hashanah brings us home to safety. 

But then comes Yom Kippur. If Rosh Hashanah is the guarantee of being back home again, Yom Kippur is a study in potential exile. Just a couple generations back, synagogue goers wept with shame over the misdeeds they might have done without even knowing it; they trembled from the fearful possibility that an obsessive accountant-God kept careful ledgers of it all.  Not that I am advocating that kind of guilt-ridden religion; we are well rid of it. But it did reflect the recognition of what a life poorly led might come to. To this day, we say over and over again on the High Holy Day supplication, Hashiveinu eilekha, “Bring us back to You,”  O God, which is to say, bring us home. An all merciful God must surely have inaugurated the open-door policy of letting us in long before Robert Frost wrote about it.

Even more poignantly, there is that Yom Kippur prayer Sh’ma Koleinu (“[God] hear our voice”) which we are supposed to say as if standing before the almighty Judge and passionately pleading our case. The central entreaty is this poignant line: “Do not throw me out” – the worst case scenario! We’ve completed a year of managing the world outside, a year of struggle, disappointment, and outright pain – which, God knows, this past year has been; and then we make it back home, only to have our parents throw us out. 

The High Holy Days are a frightening bungee jump from on high, where we almost land safely on firm ground, only to get yanked back up to the giddy state of free-fall: home for Rosh Hashanah; then thrown out on Yom Kippur. 

We can, if we like, avoid that roller-coaster nightmare: sit silently through services; give in to the boredom (which is easy to find); and then leave, unchallenged and unchanged. I can hardly blame people for doing that. The liturgy can be impenetrable; the verbiage endless; like getting lost in a Wagnerian opera because you do not understand the German and cannot relate to characters with names like Walktraute, Grimgerde, and Schwertkleite. Services should come with an accompanying program alerting you to the highlights, telling you what to look for, and informing you that prayer is not so much something you go to as it is something you must enter into. You should also be warned that if you mistake the prayers for prose instead of poetry, you will find the service alienating. Yes, “alienating,” itself an echo of exile, homelessness, home-sickness even.

The biggest mistake is focusing on a High Holy Day message of times past, seeing Yom Kippur, say, as a Jewish version of Eugene O’Neill’s Long Day’s Journey Into Night, just a misery-soaked diatribe on human unhappiness, sin, and guilt – which indeed, is what it was in medieval times (and still is, in many synagogues). Too many people leave too early, missing the final N’ilah service, where the day’s desolation gives way to the ecstatic discovery that we really do get to start again. Remade, reborn, and refreshed, we dare undertake another year of exploration “not at home.” Back to business; back to work; back to school; back to an uncertain future but with all the promise of youth at its best; back being young and eager, even if we are old and jaded.

The metaphor of returning home is overrated. In real life, our childhood home is something we grow out of — a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there again. The High Holy Day homecoming too is a temporary fix. It ends. We venture forth again to life. But we manufacture other homes along the way, informed, perhaps, by the High Holy Day drama in two acts: both Rosh Hashanah’s joys and Yom Kippur’s trials.

The adult homes we make must indeed be shelters from life’s storms, but they are never actual heavens, as Pastor Parkhurst wrongly imagined them to be, because as much as we emerge from the High Holy Days with the hope of new beginnings, we ourselves are no longer just beginners. Whether there is some kind of heaven where we eventually find an eternal home I do not know. But until I find out, I happily have recourse to what Sigmund Freud called the reality principle. Life is not a bowl of cherries, but it’s not just sour grapes either. It is a day-by-day grind; but day-by-day joy and satisfaction as well. We will spend next year commuting back and forth from the homes we make to the work we do; and pray that both will be surprisingly rewarding.

Open Letter to My Students 63: Passover Thinking for This Year of Trauma

The world is broken. And getting worse. So why I am still optimistic?  

            Just a few decades ago, the Iron Curtain fell, a grand coalition for freedom blanketed Europe, even Putin was an American ally, and I wondered then why other people were so pessimistic. 

            The optimistic/pessimistic divide seems to be baked into our brains, some of us leaning positive, others negative. Given both sides’ ability to argue their positions, it is hard to escape the conclusion that reasons follow — they do not precede — our sunny or cloudy disposition. Our predisposition toward one side or the other makes us see the evidence differently.

            Optimism/pessimism can be mapped onto another divide: liberal/conservative. Liberals see a world where change heralds promise; conservatives see a world change implies loss.  

            And indeed, researchers have tracked both optimism/liberalism and pessimism/conservatism to different regions of the brain.[i] We are hardwired to lean in one direction or the other. 

            In 1901/02, William James applied the two dispositions to religion, calling optimism the religion of “healthy-mindedness” and pessimism the religion of “the sick soul.”[ii] James’s nomenclature betrays his own psychological makeup: he suffered intense periods of depression, and wished to be “healthy” like other people. So ignore the unfortunate terminology. His point remains. Pessimistic religion emphasizes the preponderance of evil in human history. Optimistic religion stresses the positive presence of God and the steady evolution toward a better time to come.

            We actually need a balance of both. Evil, after all, is real. Pessimists make too much of it; optimists ignore it at their peril. 

            All of which brings us to the Passover Haggadah, and the story we tell about ourselves this year.  

*

            The rabbinic celebration of Passover began centuries before book culture. With no  written text to fall back on, whatever got said at the seder was made up on the spot – following, however, an agreed-upon outline. “Start with [Israel’s] degradation (matchil bignut); then finish with praise [to God] (um’sayem b’shevach); and seal [the message] with redemption (v’chotem big’ulah). More colloquially, “Tell the story of Israel’s degradation and praise God for redeeming us from it.”[iii]

            But what is Israel’s “degradation” and (by extension) its opposite, “redemption” from it? Two third-century Talmudic Rabbis, Samuel and Rav, debate that point.[iv] Samuel offers the obvious answer. Degradation is “Our ancestors were slaves to Pharaoh,” in which case, redemption is “God freed us” from it. Rav, by contrast, identifies true degradation as “In the beginning, our ancestors were idolaters”; redemption was our conversion to worshipping the one true God. For Samuel, degradation is imposed from without; for Rav, it is what we do to ourselves. Both positions are included in the traditional Haggadah.

            By the Middle ages, a list of things that count as redemption — any one of which would have been enough to merit praise of God — was assembled into a list, called Dayyenu (“It would have been enough”). By then, rabbinic theology had fastened on the centrality of human sin as the cause of Israel’s various historical bouts with degradation; so the crowning act of redemption was seen as the establishment of the Jerusalem Temple with a sacrificial cult that provided atonement. Jews settled down to await a messiah who would build a third Temple, the necessary means to atone sufficiently to end Jewish degradation at the hands of the nations. In William James’s scheme of things, we had become a religion for sick souls. 

            Animated by emancipation from medieval ghettoes and aflame with the promise of modernity, nineteenth-century Reform Jews rejected Judaism’s sin-and-punishment mentality. Their 1908 Haggadah added a Dayyenu line: yes, God “built for us a temple,” but God also “sent to us prophets of truth and great leaders in each generation to bring all hearts nearer to the divine kingdom of righteousness and peace.” In 1923, “great leaders in each generation” was changed to “made us a holy people to perfect the world under the kingdom of the Almighty, in truth and in righteousness.”

            Either way, this modernist version of our sacred story replaced the “sick soul” perspective with optimistic “healthy mindedness.” 

            Is degradation persecution from without (à la Samuel) or something we bring upon ourselves (à la Rav)”? Or a combination of both? Is ultimate redemption dependent on God (forgiveness of sin, bringing a messiah) or on us (acting “in truth and righteousness,” “great leaders in every generation,” being a “holy people”)?

            Rarely have these questions loomed as large as they do this year. The many chapters of the Haggadah’s evolution give us lots of leeway in answering them. Looming over any answer we might choose to give, however, is the Haggadah’s judgment, “Not just once, but in every generation, enemies arise to destroy us [degradation], but the Holy One saves us from them [redemption].” The entire statement is hard to accept as literally true. Anti-Semitism is indeed always around, to some extent, but lots of Jews in lots of generations have lived pretty happy lives. And we would have to expand the idea of divine intervention to include our own capacity for maximizing good over evil.  

            Whatever our story, then, do we emphasize the negative (anti-Semites are always out to get us; there is no progress: first Pharaoh, then Hitler, now Hamas) or the positive (we are empowered to affect redemption; there is progress: from Egypt to Sinai and a promised land; a post-Shoah State of Israel and healthy diasporas; a reconstituted Jewish future when the war ends)? 

            One thing is certain. The Haggadah in all its forms emphasizes redemption. However bad our degradation, we conclude with the image of Elijah the prophet, and “Next year in Jerusalem.” I will end my seder as I always have – as Jews everywhere always have: with the promise of redemption.

            The late Rabbi Michael Robinson (z”l, may his memory be a blessing) recalled visiting Israel and tripping over some loose pavement. Shaken by the experience, he pulled himself onto a nearby bench to recover.  A rather pious-looking man passed by (a rebbe perhaps ?) and asked what happened.

            “I fell,” Rabbi Robinson explained.

            ”No,” said the rebbe, “You got up.”

            The Haggadah reminds us that Jews are the People who get up. 


[i] Cf., e.g., https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/conservative-and-liberal-brains-might-have-some-real-differences/#:~:text=The%20volume%20of%20gray%20matter,threats%2C%20is%20larger%20in%20conservatives; https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3807005/.

[ii] William James, Gifford lectures, 1901/02; published as The Variety of Religious Experience (1902: Modern Library Ed., New York: Random House, 1994), Lectures 4-7.

[iii] M. Pesachim 10:4,6. Those portions of the Mishnah between “Start with [Israel’s] degradation (matchil bignut); then finish with praise [to God] (um’sayem b’shevach)” in Mishnah 4; and “seal [the message] with redemption (v’chotem big’ulah)” in Mishnah 6 are later insertions. The verbal form (matchil, um’sayem, v’chotem) demonstrate that the three phrase go together.

[iv] Pes. 116a.

Why Faith Matters

Abraham’s centrality for Western civilization has been debated ever since the earliest Christians described him as the paradigmatic “man of faith.” Salvation, they concluded, arises through “faith” (what we believe) not through “works” (what we do). The Rabbis, by contrast, emphasized works over faith.

But Abraham as a paragon of faith is part of Jewish tradition too. Only through faith in a God who summons him does Abraham leaves home and family altogether. Rav Soloveitchik has provided an entire treatise entitled ”The Lonely Man of Faith.” Faith matters in Judaism.

How could it not — faith is inherent to being human! It takes faith to imagine that anything we do at all has importance in the long run. We have little or no control over our personal fate; we cannot predict what will happen to those we love; when we die, we take nothing with us; and, frankly, how much do we remember about even our grandparents, not to mention their grandparents? The entropy of time washes memories away.

It is also not clear that what we do has any long-term impact on history, which we wish we could control but, obviously, cannot. It takes faith to act as if life is worthwhile despite regular personal setbacks and in the face of traumatic global events we never expected and have trouble controlling now that they are here.

Soloveitchik traces the human experience of faith to the Bible’s very beginning. He links the Bible’s two separate accounts of creation (Genesis 1:1-2:4; and 2:5-2:24) to parallel aspects of human nature. The first story addresses the need to be creative. “Fill the earth and master it,” God says (1:28) — in other words, “Be productive; do something.” The second narrative, however, focuses on God’s giving us “the breath of life” (2:7). Its concern is life itself: not what we fill our lives with doing but what the point of all that “doing” really is. This deeper question addresses what we mean by redemption, or (as Christians prefer saying) salvation. Story One highlights accomplishment; Story Two underscores redemption.

From childhood on we are trained to value accomplishments but, eventually, accomplishments pale. That is the message of Ecclesiastes: “Utter futility! All is futile. What real value is there in all the gains we make beneath the sun?” If that sounds jaded, just consider how history is filled with accomplishments that do not matter anymore. We go to school to get a job, get a job to build a career, build a career to get ahead, get ahead to get further ahead, and so on. But to what end? “Accomplishment” is simply what we do; “redemption“ is the certain sense of why we do it. Redemption derives from faith in a transcendent purpose, a higher ideal to which we owe allegiance. Judaism calls that God.

We are back to asking whether we are saved by works or by faith — by accomplishments, that is, or by redemption. Accomplishments satisfy the human thirst for creativity, but will not suffice at moments when we are forced to wonder why creativity matters in the first place. Faith alone can tell us we amount to something, even when we feel like failures; when devastating illness interrupts our plans; and when we die so poor as to have little sense of material accomplishment or so young as to be unable even to conceive of a lifelong project, let alone to see it through. Only faith provides the redemptive certainty that we matter regardless of how our accomplishments turn out. And only faith can measure our accomplishments in the first place.

The Bible introduces Abraham as someone of no accomplishments at all; we get no biography of him whatsoever (the Rabbis have to make all that up). Abraham’s single claim to fame is that he responds to God’s call to undertake a journey in faith. He will face disappointment after disappointment; struggle with the land to which he is summoned; lose the battle to save Lot; banish his first son Ishmael; prematurely bury his beloved wife Sarah; and die virtually alone, far away from Isaac whom he once almost sacrificed. But his faith in a God whom he never sees will not flag.

Why are Jews so heavily invested in accomplishment, but not redemption or faith? Why are we so ready to dismiss the possibility of God, of being called, and of measuring ourselves without accomplishment as our center? The challenge is hardly to be like Abraham the great accomplisher. It is to face the possibility that we are called, like Abraham, to have faith in redemption, no matter what we manage to accomplish.