My journeys into the rabbinate (metaphoric and literal)

 

My long journey into the rabbinate started almost exactly thirteen (!) years ago, when Rabbi Dan Pratt (then, "student rabbi" Dan Pratt) gave a dvar Torah at Beit Daniel in Tel Aviv on parashat Korach. His approach to the text was radically different from what I had learned to expect from an encounter with a traditional and sacred text and from the role of a rabbi in that encounter. Rabbi Pratt's approach allowed me to question the way I had interacted with our tradition and started the process that eventually led me to rabbinical school. How poetic, then, that thirteen years later, I attended my first conference as a rabbi on the week of parashat Korach!

This week, the one that follows Korach, I am in a different kind of journey. Our relocation to Champaign-Urbana ended up being much more complex than we had planned. On Sunday, after we finished loading the container we had planned to use for our moving, we still had 20% of our stuff in the apartment. Karin and I rapidly considered the options and decided to get a U-Haul trailer to transport all that stuff and I would drive the 1,200 miles between Newton, MA and Chicago (with a stop in Champaign-Urbana to leave the trailer).

It seemed easy, except that I had to drive additional 230 miles in order to get the hitch installed in Portland, ME (no-one else in New England seemed to have a hitch for a Honda Fit) and we had been told already we needed to change our car's tires and brakes. All that took most of Monday and Tuesday (besides finishing packing and loading the trailer - HUGE thanks to our neighbors at Herrick House.) I finally left on Tuesday at 5:30pm. I am now writing from New Paris, OH, my second and last overnight stop before I reach Champaign-Urbana and Chicago. Karin and the kids are flying tomorrow, as it seemed totally unfair to ask a 3-year-old and 2.5-month-old to stay in the car for the 20+ hours that this trip is going to take...

So, it's just me, driving for long hours every day thinking about how life has changed in the last 6 years. Despite having been ordained almost a month ago and the rabbinic conference I attended last week, I left Boston still feeling a rabbinical student. The closer I get to Champaign-Urbana, though, the more I feel like Rabbi Cukierman. It will not take me quite 40 years to get from Hebrew College in Newton, MA to my board meeting in Chicago, but it feels that, alone in my car, I am going through the transformation my people experienced in the desert all those many years ago. Singing Yehuda Poliker and Shlomo Artzi, I have been acknowledging how fortunate I have been - especially for the people we met in the last 6 years and for having found in Karin someone as meshugah (crazy) as me, my soulmate and perfect partner.

I just pray that in this new step of our lives we keep up with meeting amazing people and experiencing new things, but that we stop collecting so much stuff!

 

Dvar Torah on Parashat Boh -- A final assignment for a Midrash Halakhah class

 “Mah ha-avodah ha-zoht LACHEM”, “what is the meaning of this ritual TO YOU?” – to “you” and not to “us”, this child asks. And you know what kind of answer the “evil” child that would ask such a question deserves. Or, at least, you think you know.

 This is how Torah instructs to answer this question: “It is the Passover sacrifice to Adonai, because God passed over the houses of Israel in Mitzrayim when God struck Mitzrayim, but saved our houses.” (Ex. 12:26)

When commenting these verses, it is not clear to the Mekhilta whether it is a good sign or a bad one. To the rabbinic mind, on the one hand, it is problematic that your children won’t know the meaning of this ritual anymore, but on the other hand, it should be celebrated sign that many generations in the future, you will have children who will be in contact with your rituals. In any case, there is no sign of the contempt that characterizes the answer to the ‘so-called” rashah. 

 

That harsher approach is developed by Mekhilta when commenting a second occurrence of a child asking about the meaning of the rituals (Ex. 13:14). In that midrash, we get the story of the four children that we know from the haggadah: chacham, rashah, tam, and she-einoh yodeah lish’ol. Three of the children receive answers that seem appropriate to their interests, but the “rashah” is all but excluded from the community: “if you had been in MItzrayim, you would not have been redeemed.”

 

The difference between what the Biblical text says and the way the Rabbis interpret it is astonishing! As we saw, the question that the Rabbis considered “evil” received a fairly innocent answer in the Torah.  There, it was the child that doesn’t ask a question that received the tougher answer (Ex. 13:8.) And nowhere we are instructed to teach the detailed norms of kashrut le-Pesach, the answer that the midrash assigns to the “good” kid.

 

A professor of mine, Rabbi Stephen Pasamaneck, used to say that “the Torah means whatever the Rabbis say the Torah means”, but it is easier for me to accept when they transform “an eye for an eye” into financial compensation than when they transform texts that instruct us to transmit the story of the formative event of our communal history into an attack on the challenging members of our own community. 

 

I don’t know why the Rabbis were so angry at their challenging children and their constant pursuance of meaning, but I find the message carried by this midrash dangerous. If I have learned anything from being a parent is how inappropriate and counter-productive this kind of chastisement is and I want to publicly reject it. I keep it at my Passover seder, as the starting point of a conversation about othering and inclusion, and how to embrace those in our communities who don’t feel totally comfortable with part of our tradition and how to create the safe space for them to explore their questions. 

 

An environment not so different from the one we live in right now in the Jewish community. Last year, Abby Backer, an undergraduate student at Columbia University, visited a synagogue in Stamford, Connecticut, together with JStreet’s president, Jeremy Ben-Ami. Abby tells that, as she was leaving the place,  

 

An elderly woman confronted [her] in the synagogue lobby. “I should spit on you!” she yelled at [her] in front of a group of shocked onlookers. “Excuse me?” [Abby] replied. Glaring, she taunted: “Are you a Palestinian? You must be a Palestinian!”[1]

 

Another professor of mine, Rabbi Reuven Firestone, who is a scholar of Islam, told us that we would be shocked if we searched our holy literature for expressions of lack of tolerance for diversity. The midrash of the four children is certainly one of these expressions, and the reaction Abby experienced in Stamford is a result of the mentality it might engender. 

 

“You are either with me, or against me.” Having grown up in a country that was ruled by a dictatorship, this kind of position is neither unknown nor tolerable to me. Denying the right of members of our community to wrestle with our tradition, with our communal policies, and with Israel, will only result in their alienation and total disengagement from the Jewish community. As a self-fulfilling prophecy, by threatening the “rashah” with exclusion from the community, we are actually sending them away.

 

As we count the days for matan Torah and, as do many of us here, for matan semichah, may we be blessed with the wisdom and the ability to foster communities that open their doors wide and welcome everyone who wants to engage.

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[1] . http://www.jstreetu.org/latest/exclude-me-at-your-own-peril

Dvar Torá: Parashat Shemini (Templo Beth-El, São Paulo)

De acordo com o Rabino Nehemia Polen há pelo menos duas formas de ler a Torá, os cinco livros de Moisés. A primeira forma, que é provavelmente a mais intuitiva, enxerga a Torá contando a história da formação do povo Judeu até a chegada à Terra de Israel. Começamos com a criação do mundo, Adão e Eva, os patriarcas e matriarcas, Abrão e Sara, Rebeca e Isaac, Jacó, Lea e Rebeca. Vamos para o Egito, de onde saímos com Moisés, recebemos a Torá no Monte Sinai e passamos 40 anos no deserto batendo cabeça, brigando uns com os outros e com Deus, até que toda aquela geração morre e uma nova geração consegue chegar à Terra prometida. Nessa leitura, o finalzinho da Torá, as cenas em que Moisés já pode ver Israel, são o ápice, o ponto mais alto da história.

A segunda forma que o Rabino Polen usa para ler a Torá é a da narrativa do relacionamento do povo Judeu com Deus. Nesta leitura, a chegada à Terra de Israel é apenas um detalhe em uma história que tem seu ápice muito mais cedo, quando Deus entrega a Torá para o povo judeu e passa as intruções para a construção do Mishkan, do Tabernáculo no qual a presença de Deus residirá em meio ao povo. Os quarenta anos no deserto, longe de ser esse longa seqüência de brigas é vista como a lua de mel – uma lua de mel na qual as duas partes ainda estão aprendendo sobre o outro, mas mesmo assim uma lua de mel. Relacionamento: esta é a palavra chave desta forma de encarar o texto.

Uma dos atributos mais interessantes desta abordagem dupla que o Rabino Polen propõe é que estas duas narrativas, ainda que bastante diferentes entre si, são simultaneamente verdadeiras, como aqueles quadros em que você vê uma imagem diferente dependendo da forma como você olha.

Mas hoje eu gostaria de explorar um pouco essa idéia da Torá como a história de um relacionamento. Vaykrah, ou Levítico, o terceiro livro da Torá que começamos a ler nas sinagogas há três semanas não é geralmente um daqueles em que prestamos muita atenção. Eu não lembro de ter aprendido suas histórias quando estava nas escolas judaicas aqui e mesmo no semiário rabínico as pessoas preferem focar nas histórias da criação do mundo ou da luta de Jacó com o anjo. Vaykrah, e os intermináveis detalhes dos sacrifícios animais, perderam um pouco da sua atratividade agora que não temos mais o Templo e não praticamos mais sacrifícios.

É aí que a leitura do Rabino Polen fica mais interessante.... para ele, os sacrifícios são apenas o mecanismo, mas o mais importante é o princípio de estabelecermos várias formas de mantermos vivo o nosso relacionamento com Deus, qualquer que seja a forma como entendamos Deus.

É exatamente isso que o primeiro capítulo de Vaykrah estabelece para a realidade bíblica: um sacrifício diário, pra manter a chama acesa, como as pequenas ações do dia-a-dia que fazemos para agradar alguém a quem amamos. Um sacrifício para ocasiões especiais, quando queremos celebrar algo que aconteceu ou simplesmente dizer um sincero “obrigado!”. Há também sacrifícios para pedir desculpas, tanto para situações nas quais nosso erro foi involuntário quanto para aquelas em que intencionalmente fizemos algo errado.

Pra ser bem sincero, eu tenho alguns receios sobre essa centralidade toda pros sacrifícios como forma de relacionamento com Deus. Primeiro, por que eu não quero nem imaginar o retorno à prática de sacrifícios animais. Mas esse, eu acho, é o receio mais fácil de se resolver: há dois mil anos o Judaísmo tem evoluído sem a prática de sacrifícios, e o entendimento é que agora temos outros mecanismos para nossa prática espiritual.

Meu segundo receio é sobre a falta de espontaneidade em um sistema no qual tudo está planejado e prescrito. Eu sempre fui fã de dar rosas vermelhas em momentos inesperados – eu cheguei a dar 10 dúzias pra minha esposa, quando a gente tinha só um vaso em casa. Cartões românticos quando ninguém imaginava. Declarações de amor no meio do supermercado, em meio às atividades mais prosaicas.

O famoso rabino e teólogo norte-americano, Abraham Joshua Heschel, falava da capacidade de ser “radically amazed”, “maravilhado ou radicalmente surpreendido” no nosso encontro com o mundo, e perceber a presença de Deus nestes momentos. Eu realmente acredito no encontro com Deus lá fora, no mundo, em circunstâncias que não são coreografadas. Mas onde está a possibilidade para ser espontâneo no relacionamento com Deus que Vaykrah estabelece?

Há alguns meses eu tive a minha fascinação pela espontaneidade desafiada. Eu estava liderando os serviços religiosos no meu seminário rabínico e uma das alunas pediu para falar por alguns minutos sobre a mãe dela, que tinha falecido exatamente cinco anos antes. A mãe tinha criado os dois filhos sozinha e parecia ter sido realmente uma pessoa muito especial. Mas o que mais me chamou atenção nas palavras que a minha colega dizia sobre a mãe foi: “nunca houve um dia em que ela não tenha me dito que me amava.”

Eu não tinha certeza se a minha filha podia dizer o mesmo sobre mim. Claro, eu fazia coisas que eram o reflexo do amor que eu sentia por ela, mas será que a mensagem era tão clara quanto se eu dissesse todo dia “eu te amo”? Então eu mudei, e hoje todo dia eu digo pra minha filha quanto eu a amo. O que eu perdi em espontaneidade eu ganhei, eu acho, em clareza na mensagem. E eu continuo, é claro, com as outras ações para que ela não apenas escute, mas sinta quanto eu a amo.

A parashá desta semana traz um pouquinho mais de complicação pra essa história. A cerimônia pra instalar Aarón como sumo-sacerdote termina com um grande sucesso: um fogo veio de Deus e consumiu tudo que tinha sido ofertado. Em seguida, dois dos filhos de Arón, Nadav e Avihu, resolveram ir além do que tinham sido instruídos, e fizeram (na linguagem da parashá) “uma oferta de fogo estranho para Deus.” Imediatamente, eles foram consumidos por um fogo que veio de Deus. A passagem é enigmática e os comentaristas nem sempre têm tido sucesso em interpretá-la. Tradicionalmente, é entendido que eles fizeram alguma coisa errada, talvez eles estivessem bêbados quando trouxeram a oferta, talvez as suas intenções não fossem puras, talvez eles fossem radicais fundamentalistas. A falta de clareza do texto têm permitido que os comentaristas sejam criativos nas suas explicações.

Talvez, eles estivessem literalmente brincando com fogo. Existe uma certa ironia poética no fato de que eles trouxeram “fogo estranho” para Deus e foram tragados pelo fogo.

Mas talvez.... só talvez.... eles tenham tido sucesso em sua oferta espontânea. Talvez Deus os consumiu como consumiu o sacrifício que tinha sido ofertado durante a instalação de Aaron como sumo-sacerdote, um sinal de que Deus aceitava a oferta. A verdade, é que eu não tenho certeza de como interpretar esta história, o que a faz ainda mais interessante pra mim.

Qual é o balanço entre estrutura e criatividade na nossa relação com Deus? E na nossa relação com as pessoas que amamos? E com o resto das nossas vidas?

Como nos entregamos? Quando estamos dispostos a dar de nós mesmos, de verdade, para o sucesso destes relacionamentos?

E, lembrando de Nadav e Avihu, eu me pergunto se há situações nas quais eu me entrego tão completamente a uma relação – com outras pessoas, com Deus, com meu trabalho – que esta entrega absoluta – ainda que bem sucedida - acaba me anulando, me destruindo, me consumindo completamente.

Material pra pensar no Shabbat... Shabbat Shalom!

In defense of Jewish pluralism

(cross-posted from the Official Blog of Hillel at the University of Florida)

Jeff Kaplan, UF Hillel's program director, posted a message with doubts about the value of pluralism (click here to read it). This is my reponse to him:

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Dear Jeff,

This is a long answer to a very provocative post, so bear with me...

One of the things I am most passionate about our Jewish tradition is its respect for multiple (and sometimes competing) claims for truth.

• In midrashim, one of the oldest forms of interpreting our sacred Torah, the expression "דבר אחר", "another opinion", is repeated over and over and over, bringing different interpretations in conversation with each other;
• The Talmud is basically a record of sages holding opposing opinions and debating them, sometimes reaching a common conclusion, sometimes not;
• One of the most traditional forms of publishing a chumash (the five books of Moses) is called Mikra'ot Gedolot, and it presents different commentaries side by side with the Biblical text: the opinions of Rashi, Ibn Ezra, Rashbam, Ramban, Seforno and others. The amazing thing for me is that these commentaries will quite often disagree with each other – even Rashbam will frequently argue with the words of his grandfather, Rashi.

In the Jewish tradition, we don’t sweep these different perspectives under the carpet, we rather bring them to the forefront and thrive in learning from multiple points of view. As you can see, the Jewish tradition has always been very pluralistic in nature.

Pluralism is not about blending opinions and erasing differences; it does not require everyone to agree, or to hold to the same values. Pluralism is about honoring the differences, bringing them to talk to each other and growing from their encounter. Jewish pluralism is neither about asking egalitarian students to go to a minyan with a mechitzah nor about forcing Orthodox students to go to a minyan in which men and women pray side by side. Pluralism doesn't even require students to give up on their belief that a mechitzah is "the most egregious symbol of an 'oppressive and antiquated Judaism.'" (just to quote the way you defined a possible position.)

What Jewish pluralism, at its most elementary level, does ask from our students (and from us as part of the Hillel staff) is to recognize that Jewish choices very different from their/our own are also legitimately Jewish and belong in our building. A more sophisticated implementation of pluralism creates the space for people holding different opinions about the mechitzah (or the role of women in religious life) to talk with sincere curiosity about each other's point of view.

That does not mean that Jewish pluralism cannot have boundaries - the truth of the matter is that we always have them and it is very healthy to make these boundaries explicit. What are the positions that, if held by someone, would place him/her outside our tent?

At the Rabbinical School of Hebrew College, the decision was made when the program was created eight or nine years ago that it would be pluralistic, yet religious and egalitarian. This decision, with which I don't necessarily agree, in practice prevented Orthodox and Secular students from joining our program. Despite that, it brings together an amazing breadth of opinions that makes for very interesting, sometimes challenging and difficult, conversations. Most of the time, you will find multiple perspectives on any subject you propose at our Beit Midrash (hall of study) - but the unifying factor that brings all of us together is our commitment to learning from each other and in holding the premise that we all have a seat at the table.

Another very good reason to be pluralistic is that it is much more engaging that settings in which everyone agrees. This week in school, for example, we heard about Israel from Danny Gordis and from Naomi Chazan, very different perspectives that illuminated our own and were very really thought-provoking!

Some years ago, before I started studying at Hebrew College, I learned a text that presented the process of Revelation at Sinai as a projection of the "Heavenly Torah" (a mystical object that God keeps for Godself) into our human reality. If you remember your physics' classes from high-school, projections depend not only on the object being projected (the Heavenly Torah, in our case) but also on the surface on which the projection is being cast (in our metaphor, the people present at Sinai served as the surface.) The fact that they were all different from each other made Revelation different for each one of them and for each one of us, perhaps the source for the honoring of different perspectives in our Jewish tradition. God did not ask people to get rid of their differences so everyone could receive the same message, rather God took advantage of the variations on the "projecting screen" to give us a more vibrant, colorful and engaging Torah than we would have had otherwise.

Likewise, our student denominational groups don't need to disperse for our Hillel to be truly pluralistic; they are co-responsible for the richness of the Jewish experience we provide to our students. As long as we all agree in honoring the different perspectives we bring to our Shabbat dinner table after services are over, our disputes will all be "for the sake of Heaven." (*) Let them continue and let's celebrate them!

(*) A famous text from Mishnah Avot 5:17 states that "Any dispute which is for the sake of Heaven, shall in the end be of lasting worth; but that which is not for the sake of Heaven, shall not in the end be of lasting worth."