A Time to be Silent and A Time to Speak

According to the Book of Ecclesiastes “there is a time to be silent and a time to speak.”

Our parasha this week demonstrates a time when perhaps it would have been preferable to remain silent rather than to speak. Our parasha is called “Shemini” and its subject is the anointing of Aaron as the High Priest and his four sons as regular priests. Something goes terribly wrong in the process of offering the sacrifices, and two of Aaron’s sons, Nadab and Avihu, are killed when they offer what the Torah calls “strange fire” to G-d. Many commentators understand this “strange fire” to be an unauthorized sacrifice. Aaron’s brother, Moses, offers what I am sure he thought of as comforting words to Aaron. Moses says, “That is what G-d meant when he said, “Through those near to me will I be sanctified and be glorified before all the people.” In other words, he gave Aaron a complex theological explanation of the reason for his sons’ deaths. Do you know how Aaron responded? The Torah says, “And Aaron was silent.”  That was his response.

It is impossible for any us us to know what was going through Aaron’s mind at that time. Was he consoled by those words? Was he puzzled by them? Was he outraged by them? I do know that often we struggle with what to say when we visit a family that has experienced a death. It is one thing to do a shiva call to someone whose parents or spouse lived a long life and passed away at a ripe old age. It is quite another experience to visit a family who has lost a child or whose family member was cut down in the prime of their lives. In either case, words like, “G-d does not give you anything that you cannot handle,” “He’s in a better place now,” “G-d must have really wanted her,” or “G-d must have his reasons,” though well intended,  do not offer the consolation or support the bereaved needs.  If someone does say this to us in our hour of grief, the best response might very well be the one Aaron gave to Moses – silence.

Our Jewish tradition teaches   that we should be silent when we enter a house of mourning, and not speak until the mourner has spoken to us. The most important thing to remember is to listen. The bereaved person may need to talk. It is also appropriate to offer the traditional words of consolation, “May G-d comfort you among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.” Our people have been saying that for over a thousand years. Other than that, sharing a pleasant memory of the deceased with the mourner can be quite consoling. One of the most comforting moments for me when my mother died was when one of her friends shared her memory of how my mother and my father met. She and her husband-to be-fixed my parents up on a blind date! According to her, by the end of that evening my parents were totally in love!

Two weeks ago Middy and I attended a vigil at the Islamic Center in Villa Park in support and solidarity of the Islamic community in the wake of the New Zealand massacre. There were about a thousand people there. Only ten people stood before the microphone and spoke. The rest of us were silent, but our presence spoke volumes. Being there, showing up, was what was important. That is as true at a public vigil as it is at a private house of mourning. Of course, we will always remember our own experienced this last November when  in this very space we held a vigil for those killed in  Pittsburgh at The Tree of Life Synagogue.

As the verse in Ecclesiastes says, there is also a time to speak. Rabbi Elisha Prero of Rogers Park in Chicago sent the following message to his congregation:

"Shortly after the massacre of 11 Jews in Pittsburgh several months ago, I was standing in line at a Dunkin Donuts when an older African American man approached to me and said, “I want to express my condolences for what happened to your people in Pittsburgh.” I was very touched, and I thanked him for his words of comfort.”

Rabbi Prero continues: “A few minutes ago, as I stood in line again at a Dunkin Donuts, I noticed a young man with a Moslem head-covering and was reminded of those words. I told him “I am very sorry for what happened in the mosques in New Zealand. It was a terrible thing.” The young man and his father ………. were visibly moved. They both put their hands on their hearts and said, “Thank you” ….. and shook my hand warmly.”

We may not have all been able to attend the vigil at the Islamic Center two weeks ago. We may also not be used to speaking to a stranger. But think about following Rabbi Prero’s suggestion. If you see a person who is obviously Muslim, you might consider telling them you are sorry for their loss. We may not understand what Moses meant when he said that through the death of Aaron’s sons G-d is sanctified. But expressing our condolences to an individual – and identifying ourselves as Jewish in the process – could mean a lot to the person and is a unique way of “sanctifying G-d’s name.”

Shabbat Shalom

What's Jewish about Marie Kondo.... Parasha Tzav

The late comedian George Karlin is perhaps best known for his 1972 monologue on the seven words you can never say on television. Quaint. Of course, that was before cable TV and Netflix – now you can hear all those words, and new ones that weren’t even invented in 1972 – on television! George Karlin also performed a monologue satirizing our penchant for accumulating all kinds of stuff. I want to share a bit of that with you tonight.

“That’s all your house is: a place to keep your stuff. If you didn’t have so much stuff, you wouldn’t need a house. You could just walk around all the time.

“A house is just a pile of stuff with a cover on it. You can see that when you’re taking off in an airplane. You look down, you see everybody’s got a little pile of stuff. ………And when you leave your house, you gotta lock it up. Wouldn’t want somebody to come by and take some of your stuff.. ….Sometimes you gotta move-- gotta get a bigger house. Why? No room for your stuff anymore. Did you ever notice when you go to somebody else’s house, you never quite feel a hundred percent at home? You know why? No room for your stuff. Somebody else’s stuff is all over the place! And if you stay overnight, unexpectedly, they give you a little bedroom to sleep in. Bedroom they haven’t used in about eleven years. Someone died in it, eleven years ago. And they haven’t moved any of his stuff! Right next to the bed there’s usually a dresser or a bureau of some kind, and there’s NO ROOM for your stuff on it………” 

And recently I learned about a Japanese woman named Marie Kondo  who has become an international celebrity by writing a book on getting rid of that stuff. The book is entitled The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing. She even has a reality show on Netflix which helps American families declutter their homes. According to Newsweek magazine, she has developed the Konmarie method which involves dividing your “stuff” into five categories – clothes, books, paper, bathroom-kitchen-garage, and sentimental stuff. Then, in that order you begin by putting everything in a single pile, then go through the stuff in the pile one by one choosing whether to keep or get rid of something by whether each item “sparks joy.” When an item “sparks joy” it is because you feel a certain connection, even love, for that item. She even encourages people to express gratitude toward the stuff that a person is going to discard. She maintains it lessens the feelings of guilt that goes along with separating from your stuff.

Somehow this feels very Jewish to me -- and not just the part about "guilt". The idea of separating “stuff” into categories before deciding what to keep and what to discard – isn’t that how G-d created the world, by separating into categories? The world is just one big mass of “tohu va-vohu’ when G-d begins to separate things out – the dry land from the waters, the light from the darkness,  before moving on to create categories of things, the fish, birds, land animals, humankind. And consider the idea of expressing gratitude even to the shirt you never wore because “the shirt taught you that you do not like to wear shirts like this. By doing this it will become clear what is necessary to you.” It reminds me of the kabbalistic teaching that there are holy sparks scattered about the world from the shattered vessels of creation to be redeemed even in inanimate objects. According to Martin Buber, the 20^th century Jewish philosopher and theologian, Chassidism teaches that “even the most profane deed can be done in holiness, and whoever performs it in holiness raises up the sparks. In the clothes you put on, in the implements you use, in the food you eat, in the domestic animals that work for you, in all of these are hidden sparks which yearn for redemption, and if you treat things and beings with care and good will and faithfulness, then you redeem them. G-d gives you the clothing and the food belonging to the root of your soul, so that you may redeem the sparks in them.”

In our parasha this week we read about the sacrifices preformed daily by the Kohens, or priests. The Kohens had to insure the sacrifices brought by the people of Israel were offered properly. He had to be quite careful -- a mistake could invalidate the sacrifice, and sacrifices could be expensive. But in addition to being commanded about the offerings, the priests were also commanded to clean up after themselves. Sacrifices left residue – ashes. The priests could not call in a Temple custodian to remove what remained after an offering was burned. He had to do it himself.

Not only were the sacrifices themselves considered holy, the residue they left was considered holy. The priest had to dress in his priestly garments in order to remove the stuff left over. He had to carry it to a holy, pure place, where he deposited it. To put it in kabbalistic terms, even that which we discard as garbage has within holy sparks. Even what we get rid of contains a vestige of the sacred.

The Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Hassidism once came to a town for the Days of Awe. He was told that the rabbi of the town led all the confessional prayers with song. When the Baal Shem Tov asked him why he sang these prayers, that rabbi answered: “Imagine a servant cleaning the courtyard of the king. If he loves the king he is very happy cleaning the refuse of the courtyard, and sings and whistles while he works. That is what we are doing when we cleanse our hearts and souls, which are God’s sanctuaries and courtyards.”

On the days of Awe we examine our lives and sweep away our sins. Although there is a certain solemnity to these days, there is also joy, which is expressed in the melodies that we sing. The same can be said of Passover, when we clean our houses. Of courses it is work, but it is a work that should also give us joy as we both literally and figuratively perform the sacred task of cleansing and purifying in anticipation of our Festival of Freedom, which symbolizes a new beginning.

“Cleanliness is next to G-dliness,” goes the saying. Few of us have understood how true that expression is.

Shabbat Shalom

Coming to the Aid of Your Enemy

Contemporary essayist Steve Goodier tells a beautiful story about his 11 year old son, Robert, who was being bullied at the school bus stop by some older boys. Steve called the school principal and was told that the school would call the boys’ parents. He was also advised to call the police. Steve wasn’t sure what he would do, but asked the principal to hold off calling the boys’ parents.

The following day Robert glanced out the window and saw the two bullies standing outside the house waiting for him to step out. “Those are the guys who beat me up!” said Robert in alarm. Steve was deciding what to say to them when his wife Bev stepped in. She opened the door and invited the boys in for some ice cream!

The boys seemed a bit confused, but, being teenagers they shrugged their shoulders and accepted the offer. Once inside, Bev introduced herself, her husband, and their younger son. “And, of course you know Robert,” she said. She even introduced them to the family dog.

They sat around the table eating ice cream, and Bev drew them into a conversation. Eventually she mentioned that she understood that there had been some problems at the bus stop.  She suggested that there were perhaps some misunderstandings that could be talked about, and that afterwards they could all be friends. The boys agreed, and they continued talking as they finished their ice cream. The troubles at the bus stop ceased, and never occurred again.

I have to admire the wisdom of this mother in helping her son to reconcile with these two older boys. Had the parents followed the advice of the school principal and called the police, it may have stopped the behavior but intensified the feelings of hatred that the older boys felt toward their son. It made me think of the verse in our Torah reading for this week – “If you see your enemy’s donkey laying under a burden, you shall not pass by. You must raise the donkey with him.” Lending your enemy a hand does the same thing that inviting the boys for ice cream does – it allows your adversary to catch a glimpse of your humanity, to see you as a person, not simply as a target of ones hatred.

There is a similar verse in Deuteronomy which reads, “If you see your brother’s donkey or ox fallen on the road, do not ignore it; you must help him raise it.” Surely it is much more difficult to go to the aid of an enemy than it is to go to the aid of a friend or brother. It is easier, and more natural, to stop to help our friend. But such is human nature that we might not always want to attend to the plight of our brother.  We might be tempted to turn the other way, or to hide when a friend needs our help. Therefore the Torah commands us to reach out to a friend in need, as well as to our enemy who requires help.

But be it coming to the aid of a friend whose donkey is laying on the road under a burden, or coming to the aid of an enemy whose donkey is laying on the road under a burden, we must not forget that there is a third party in this equation – the donkey! It is the donkey that is really suffering, laying under a heavy load, unable to raise itself. How could we let our animosity toward another person get in the way of helping a suffering animal? The animal has done us no harm. Should our hatred toward its owner stop us from relieving its pain? The rabbis of the Talmud maintain that this verse comes to teach us that preventing suffering of animals is a divine law from the Torah.

 Innocent third parties often are the ones to suffer the most when people become enemies or hold grudges against one another. Think of the suffering of children of divorced parents who hate one another so much that the children they both love suffer tremendously. Think of the children of estranged siblings who never get to develop relationships with their cousins. Think of the suffering of ordinary citizens when political leaders and their parties view each other as enemies and cannot work together. If the rabbis of the Talmud are concerned about the suffering of a donkey when two people are enemies, how much more so should we be concerned about the suffering of innocent human beings caught between people who will not work together because of hatred?

The New Testament claims, “You have heard that it was said, “You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy. I say, “Love your enemies……” Although Hebrew Scriptures never teaches that one should love one’s enemies – a goal perhaps too lofty to achieve in real life – it does not teach us to hate our enemies either. Rather, the Book of Proverbs gives the following advice, “If your enemy is hungry/give him bread to eat/ If he is thirsty, give him water to drink/ You will be heaping live coals on his head/and G-d will reward you.” Proverbs is telling us that the best way to channel one’s natural impulse to hurt an enemy or to see them suffer is to be kind to them. 

Or, invite them in for ice cream.

Shabbat Shalom

The Importance of Listening

Did you know that Sitting can be harmful to your health? An analysis of 13 studies of sitting time and activity levels found that those who sat for more than eight hours a day with no physical activity had a risk of dying similar to the risks of dying posed by obesity and smoking. People who sit for long periods of time – for example, at our desks, in front of a computer, watching television – are more prone to increased blood pressure, high blood sugar, excess body fat around the waist and abnormal cholesterol levels. Yet, research also shows that 60 to 75 minutes a day of moderately intense physical activity countered the effects of sitting for eight hours. That’s the good news. The bad news is that few of us get 60 to 75 minutes a day of moderately intense physical activity. The Mayo clinic suggests other things we can do – take a break from sitting every 30 minutes, walk with your colleagues for meetings instead of sitting at a desk, stand up while on the phone or watching television. The message is – the impact of movement, even moderate activity, can be profound.

As we move toward the conclusion of the Book of Exodus, we encounter what to us appears to be the  rather strange ceremony of the ordination of Aaron and his sons into the priesthood. The Torah instructs Moses to take the blood of the ram of ordination, which has been slaughtered, and place that blood on the ear of Aaron and his sons, on the thumb of Aaron and his sons, and on the big toe of Aaron and his sons. Commentators have long tried to make sense of this ritual. Philo, a Jewish philosopher who lived during Roman times in Alexandria, Egypt, understood this ceremony to be symbolic of the ideal human being. The blood was placed on the ear to symbolize the person whose ear heard the suffering of others; upon the thumb to symbolize that the person would take action; upon the toe to symbolize the righteous path that this person would follow through life. In other words, the ideal human being was not one to sit around, to stay put, to be inactive. The ideal person would be listening, doing, acting, moving forward.

Rabbi Nachman of Breslov once said, “If you are not a better person tomorrow than you are today, what reason do you have for ‘tomorrow’.”  We ought not to sit and be complacent. “Tomorrow” is there so that we can grow and improve ourselves. “Tomorrow” is there so that we can help others to improve their lives. We should strive to be advancing and to be helping others to do the same.

There is a famous verse in the Psalms that describes a person who invests his or her time and energy in meaningless endeavors. These people are compared to a lifeless idol. The verse goes, “They have mouths but do not speak, eyes but do not see, ears but do not hear, noses but do not smell. They have hands but cannot feel, feet but cannot walk, nor can they make a sound in their throats. Those who make them will be like them, as will those who trust in them.”

To seal your mouth so that you do not speak up; to close your eyes so that you do not see; to block your ears so you do not hear; to bind your hands and feet so that you do not take action – this is indeed a type of spiritual death, a way of being in the world that is static, inert,  lifeless, unmoved and unmovable, like those gods fashioned out of wood or stone.

Last week I spoke about Judaism as being a religion of “listening”, “paying attention,” “heeding”, of understanding, a religion of focusing on what is truly important in the world. The word that encompasses these meanings – Shema – is not only the first word of our most important prayer, it is a word used in the Book of Deuteronomy no less than 92 times! It is no coincidence, therefore, that the ordination of the priest begins with placing the blood of the ram of ordination on his ear. All action begins with hearing, with understanding our own needs as well as the needs of others. But we need to learn what to listen for, and what values we should pursue.

It reminds me of the story of two men who were walking in a very busy city. There were cars honking, busses rumbling, people talking on their cell phones, street musicians playing, policemen blowing their whistles, jackhammers pounding away at construction sites. Through this cacophony of sounds, one man points to a tree across the street from where the two are walking. “Do you hear that beautiful songbird in the tree over there,” the first man asked his fellow.

The second man looked at his friend in disbelief. “No way you possibly hear a bird singing in all of this noise,” he exclaimed. The first man looked at his friend. “Let’s go see,” he said. They crossed the street and looked up into the tree and sure enough, there was a bird there chirping away.

“That’s impossible,” said the second man. “You must have super-human hearing to have heard that.”

“Not at all,” said the first man. “Let me demonstrate.” He took a coin out of his pocket, held it straight out, and let it drop on the sidewalk. At the first plunk of the coin hitting the pavement, all the cars stopped honking, all the musicians stopped playing, all the whistles fell silent, all the jackhammers stopped pounding, all the buses stopped rumbling and all people stopped talking on their cell phones. They all turned to see where the coin had fallen. “See,” he said, “it all depends on what you are listening for.”

Judaism teaches us what we ought to listen for. That listening, in turn, ought to spur us to action. The Torah tells us that Abraham was singled out so that he and his descendants can keep G-d’s way by doing what is just and right.  Note the emphasis of doing, of action. As our sages say, we are not obligated to complete the task, but neither are we permitted to ignore it. Sitting can be detrimental to our health, both physically and spiritually. May we always be on the move.

Shabbat Shalom