RE:VERB NINETEEN / SANCTIFY / Terumah
A weekly torah takeaway by Amichai Lau-Lavie

A year-long Jerusalem Journey, action by action, verb by verb. Each week I pluck a verb from the Torah portion and set it reverberating both with its context and with my own. Let's make this a conversation, and talk our walk.


February 25, 2009

Newark International airport was celebrating Black History Month this past Sunday. A stage was set up in one of the food courts and a beautiful African American dancer was performing solo, with a playback of a Gospel choir praising the Lord in full volume, Amen Hallelujah.
People stopped to watch. I was sitting at gate C108, waiting to board a flight to Tel Aviv, sipping tea and loving the music. Nearby, a group of Hasidic men stood facing a wall, praying Mincha, the afternoon prayer. A Jewish orthodox girl, slender, long skirt, long sleeves, about 15, stood up a few seats away from me, clutching a prayerbook and praying – davening is the Yiddish word-- fervently, facing the same direction as the men. I watched her closely, lips moving, furrowed brow, body swaying, but tense. She was very focused, ignoring the crying babies nearby, the folded stroller that she was practically standing on, and the gospel music overhead. And then she was done, stood straight, closed the book, kissed it, sat down. Clapping was heard – the dancer was bowing to the audience and the choir, with ‘Jesus take me hooooooooooooooooooome’ took it home and ended. Amen.

There in that public square, a bland airport terminal, the sacred was experienced in multiple ways-- simultaneous, overlapping, mutually respectful, or at least tolerant of each other. The dancer had her eyes closed, as did the young Jewish girl, and both stood out in time and space by their very public (but also very private) acts of devotion. They performed their duties: they sanctified the moment.

And I watched, inspired by these gestures of faith, and wondered: Religion meeting art meeting commerce in the global marketplace –– meet and compete? It made me think: the place of religion in the public square-- perhaps one of the key challenges of the 21st century. Can there be a respectful co-existence of ‘private’ expressions of the sacred, in relation to each other – and in relation to the shared ‘secular’ arena?

This is a personal challenge: how do I honor the sacred in my every day busy life? How do I – do we --sanctify our here and now, while so often – physically and metaphysically – on the move, on our way to or from ‘home’?

This challenge of building a home–of sanctifying space and time in the ever shifting public square--is also on Moses’ mind this week, as Exodus rolls on and the new game in town is called ‘build a tabernacle’.

"Make me a sanctuary so I will dwell among them" (Ex.25:8). God’s new instruction to Moses and his people demands an elaborate, costly production. For many chapters ahead of us, starting with this week’s tale ‘Terumah’ – ‘the Donation’ – we will follow Moses and his construction crew on a detail by detail description of the building of the first sacred place in Jewish history, gold tassels and all. In due time, this moving tabernacle will, well, move – and eventually graduate to a Jerusalem mountaintop marble temple which will topple, twice, until all we have left today are local substitutions, including a random airport wall, facing east.

We've got plenty of upcoming Torah portions discussing the Tabernacle in which to deal with the timeless philosophical issue of ”who needs a house for God if God is everywhere.” For now, I just want to reflect on the basic human urge to ‘sanctify’ reality – to access the transcendental through tangible action that defines our values, beliefs and sense of self.

Sanctifying is an art. Done alone or with others, the act of sanctifying is this delicate art of making meaning of a moment, and really meaning it.

It’s hard to teach ‘sanctification’ but somehow – we all know how to do it.

Imagine putting just the right number of candles on a birthday cake and turning off the lights, and then getting whoever's there - even in a restaurant full of strangers - to sing ‘happy birthday!’ Even if this is not an ‘officially religious’ act – is this not sanctification of time and place? Or, choosing that one perfect song from the soundtrack of your life, there on your IPOD, in the middle of the subway on a hard day, sitting there with headphones on crying and rewinding and playing again – that’s you in the corner, gaining your religion… Not another strange modern example of sanctifying the moment, of building a sanctuary in the midst of life?

Sanctifying isn’t really about the place – tabernacle or temple or church, not necessarily – it’s mostly about the experience, the gesture, the yearning. The 13th century Book of Zohar puts it beautifully, quoting the same verse from Exodus: "Build me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them"-- The Divine dwells among ‘them’--the people who come together to sanctify life – and does not dwell inside ‘it’ – the sanctuary. It’s not about the building as object – it’s about the act of building. Maybe all temples and sacred places are just there to remind us that the human soul is the seat of the sacred – residing within each and every one of ‘them’ – us – and not only, if ever, within the tabernacles of the world.

Anyway. I got on that plane, feeling more centered and focused, grateful to the dancer, and the davening girl for their inspiration, and hummed holy gospels all the way home.

RE:VERB EIGHTEEN / READ / Mishpatim
A weekly torah takeaway by Amichai Lau-Lavie

A year-long Jerusalem Journey, action by action, verb by verb. Each week I pluck a verb from the Torah portion and set it reverberating both with its context and with my own. Let's make this a conversation, and talk our walk.


February 19, 2009

"Where they burn books, they will also burn people." Heinrich Heine, the Jewish-German author wrote this famous line in his 1821 play ‘Almansor’ –referring to the burning of the Q’uran during the Spanish Inquisition. A century later – Heine’s books, among many other Jewish books both sacred and secular, were burnt in Berlin’s public squares and his kin, also, exterminated by the Nazis.

I don’t think there are any books by Heine in the Valmadonna Trust Library Exhibit of rare Jewish books that is on display this week at Sotheby’s New York – but this incredible private collection of some 11,000 books and manuscripts, up for sale at a beginners’ bid of 40 million dollars, does bear witness to the sagas of many burnings, and persecutions and exiles–both of books and people. But that is not the real story here – the real story here is that of the triumph of the book – the passion for the transmission of the Word. This is a passion I know something about, and I guess it’s hereditary. In my quick one week work trip in NYC I’ve come to the exhibit as often as possible – inspired intellectually and emotionally, moved by the intense reactions of others around me.

Passion is a word that is often associated with collectors –and the man who is responsible for this fantastic collection – my uncle Jack – is a good example for zealous passion. Jack Lunzer– one of my mother’s siblings (My late Uncle Henry, about whom I wrote here a few weeks ago, was #2 of 8 siblings, Jack is #7, my mother, Joan, is #8) has always been the colorful one, the fabulous and eccentric uncle. He’d come visit us in Israel, or we’d visit him in London, and he always wore Safari suits (he did a lot of business in Africa) and always talked about the books. His collection of rare Jewish books was his favorite topic of conversation and his main thing in life. I remember Passover Seders with him at the King David Hotel in Jerusalem – he’d bring different copies of rare Hagaddahs and would pass them around, carefully. Visiting his home in London was always an adventure – on the way to the kitchen I’d pause in one of the parlors or hallways to take out some random tome and delve in. There were books everywhere. His was a contagious passion. By the time I was fifteen I was so taken by his love of books that I decided to become a librarian. I spent the next few years in Jewish libraries (let’s be honest here – I was totally BORED by Talmud study in my various Yeshivas, cut classes, and started delving into Jewish history and literature via the books – this was my only way out – or, rather - in.) I even went to a few auctions with him and became obsessed with knowing all there is to know about the history of Jewish books. In time, my interest changed – from the object – the book itself– to the subject matter – what the books were about. But my first love was the object – the older, rarer, and more unique – the better. To this day, thanks to Uncle Jack’s inspiration – I find old books irresistible.

It’s curious that the passion for the books –that of the thousands of people who flocked to Sotheby’s this week – isn’t so much for the content –but for the context – what these books represent. These rare ‘things’ tell the history of the transmission of literacy, become portals for the big story of Jewish life and for the bigger picture of human survival. These books became a way to make sense of our stories – as individuals and as families, and tribes, and communities. Getting lost inside a book is one way of finding one’s self. Getting lost inside a Jewish sacred book or a Jewish library is the way to find one’s connection to this baffling and fantastic thing called Jewish identity. Maybe that’s why the 10th floor at Sotheby’s has been packed with so many eager viewers. Uncle Jack – rather tired at 84, surrounded by some of his protective daughters and grandchildren (Hi, Carolyn!) and dressed very elegantly in tweeds (no safari suits anymore) received visitors like the royalty he always wanted to become. (For the record, he IS the Count of Valmadonna – a sleepy town in Italy that is somehow associated with his late wife’s family. As a property owner there he got the title too. Fun! As a kid I loved boasting that my uncle is a count. But he really wanted a British knighthood and almost got it after the famous Talmud deal with Westminster Abbey in 1980. Oh well, he may not get to be Sir Jack after all.) At Sotheby’s this past weekend he was mobbed by people asking him for autographs and though he grumbled, I think he loved it. And I think they wanted it because they too got infected by his passion for the books and for what the books represent – a peek into eternity, a sense of what it really means to be ‘the people of the book’.

Curiously, the passion for reading a book actually begins in this week’s installment of the Torah – the Five Books of Moses that serve as the heart and soul of Jewish literature and can be found in many extraordinary forms in the Valmadonna library.

There are different and contrasting descriptions of what exactly happened at Mount Sinai and what accounted for the Revelation. This week’s version, found at the end of the Torah portion called ‘Mishpatim’ gives the most robust account of literacy in making – Moses is both writing – and reading out loud – the words of the Covenant between the Divine author and the first generation of readers – or rather – listeners. This is the first time in the Torah that the act of reading aloud – ceremonially – from a written text is mentioned. It is, thus, the beginning of the story of how we read our story.

“And he took the book of the covenant, and read in the hearing of the people; and they said: 'All that God has spoken will we do, and obey.' (Exodus, 24:7)

The 40 million dollar question is, of course, what IS that mysterious ‘Book of the Covenant’? It can’t be the Book of the Torah itself because it’s still happening as he reads it– so was there a book that is now lost? A lost scroll? Is this an allusion to the Ten Commandments? Or is this a metaphorical description of the moment in which our ancestors actually became the People of the Book?

The actual object may never be an actual item on display but the story lives on, live and inspiring – the human adventure of reading begun.

This past Saturday, sitting at the back of Congregation B’nai Jeshrun on the Upper West Side with two-year-old Alice on my lap, I held open a copy of the Torah and carefully read chapter 24 in Exodus. Alice pointed a finger at the words, looked at me with furrowed brow and said ‘Read! Book!’

So there you have it, from Moses, to Uncle Jack, to little Alice – the tree of knowledge that sprouted in Genesis keeps growing. The walls of Sotheby’s gallery bear witness to this noble tradition of reading: “Make books your companions” read the words of the 12th-century Spanish Jewish scholar, Judah Ibn Tibbon. “Let your bookshelves be your gardens.”

Torah Tales

Local comedian translates Biblical stories in creative ways

By
Jane Charney

Storahteller Aaron Freeman


Aaron Freeman recently added another line to his already lengthy resume: Torah maven, the traditional storyteller who translated the Hebrew Torah into local language. The comedian, radio personality and author says his latest professional incarnation is a natural progression of his love for all things Jewish. He wants to tell great stories, and there isn’t a better story than Torah, he says.

“We who spend a lot of time reading and interpreting the Torah see it as the most interesting, fascinating stories,” Freeman said on the eve of his first cyber performance in the virtual Second Life environment, where he’s known as Joyous Pomegranate. “And they are even more astonishing the third or fourth time you hear them. The story we thought we were telling three years ago could not be more different from the exact same story we’re telling today. Every year I go, ‘I can’t believe I missed that.’”

Freeman’s Second Life performance was part of Worldwide Storah, a weekend dedicated to the art of Torah translation. Storah is a method of bringing Torah stories alive through simultaneous translation from Hebrew into the vernacular – mostly English among the recent crop of Torah mavens. In addition to the Second Life event, Worldwide Storah hosted events in London, Jerusalem, Miami, New York City, L.A. and eight other cities Feb. 6 through 8.

Amichai Lau-Lavie, an Israeli-born teacher of Judaic literature and a performance artist, revived the lost art of Torah translation and re-imagined it in a twenty-first century way as Storahtelling. The roots of Storahtelling lie in the translations that accompanied traditional synagogue Torah services until the early Middle Ages. For almost two millennia, Hebrew was primarily the language of ritual, and congregations needed translators to convey the meaning of the passages.

Freeman, who was one of the first to adopt Storahtelling techniques, recently became a congregational Torah maven, the official Torah meturgaman (translator in Aramaic), at his congregation, Aitz Hayim Center for Jewish Living in Highland Park.

Storahtellers bring their own skills and preferences to the translation. Freeman, who composes his own translations, treats each portion differently depending on the content. Sometimes he might involve the congregation, asking members to stand in for the pharaoh and Moses, for example. Other times, he takes a more direct storytelling approach, using intonation, facial expressions and gestures to help convey the meaning. Freeman also draws some inspiration from the Torah-based comic strip he created with his wife, artist Sharon Rosenzweig.

For his duties as a Torah maven, Freeman often wears traditional Persian garb in reference to the Persian roots of Torah translation. He couldn’t find a Persian costume in the virtual world, though, so his Second Life avatar – “a fairly athletic black guy” – sported dark blue Moroccan kaftan and trousers.

In his Feb. 8 Second Life ritual, Freeman used a pre-recorded Hebrew version of Parashat Beshalach, which tells about both the parting of the Red Sea and the first gift of manna. He then translated the text of the Torah portion. He guided his avatar using the keyboard and spoke into a microphone mounted on his computer. Although the figurine couldn’t recreate Freeman’s usual highly animated facial expressions, it conveyed some of the story via gestures Freeman assigned to it. Freeman says guiding the avatar is akin to performing a marionette show.

Freeman’s avatar led a Torah service in the cyber environment Second Life Feb. 8, marking the first time a Torah service had been performed in virtual reality

Even when he doesn’t have to guide an avatar, Freeman finds each Storahtelling ritual demanding.

Biblical Hebrew provides a unique challenge: Jewish sages have debated the meaning of certain Hebrew words for centuries, so some interpretation is always necessary.

“Every translation is a commentary,” Freeman says. “There is no such thing as a literal translation of biblical Hebrew.”

Humor and a basic belief in positive outcomes help overcome some of the challenges, Freeman says. An observant Jew who grew up Catholic, Freeman has forged a steadfast connection to Judaism because “Jewish observance ameliorates the worst aspect of American life for me. The consumer culture makes us endlessly aware of what we do not have without counterbalancing it with gratitude for the mind-numbing bounty that we enjoy,” Freeman says. Jewish observance requires the constant expression of gratitude for everything – from a glass of water or a piece of bread to having woken up and being healthy. That makes Freeman “guaranteed to be happy; you can’t be grateful and pissed off at the same time,” he says.

Freeman is also grateful for Fridays. “How can you not love a religion that has a mandatory party every week? For the Jews, eating drinking and partying every Friday is not just a good idea, it’s the law. Got to love that!”

RE:VERB SEVENTEEN / CHOOSE / Yitro
A weekly torah takeaway by Amichai Lau-Lavie

A year-long Jerusalem Journey, action by action, verb by verb. Each week I pluck a verb from the Torah portion and set it reverberating both with its context and with my own. Let's make this a conversation, and talk our walk.


February 11, 2009

Too many choices – Swiss vanilla pecan, raspberry chocolate, or 35 other varieties? A. & I walk out of the ice cream parlor, each with a different flavor of choice and immediately resume our heated debate about the tougher choice ahead – who do we vote for in the Israeli elections, just a day away?

Difficult choices this time around and difficult to keep friendships intact when the divides are so deep and emotional, especially on the big issues. For many, myself included, the big and defining issue of these elections was/is how Israelis relate to the ‘other’ – and in particular- Israeli Arabs. A. and I take a deep breath before we part ways, shake hands, nod curtly and say goodnight – walking away in disagreement about what he calls pragmatism and I call racism – the complex reality of Israel 2009.

Now it’s the morning after. The race is over and the juggling for a coalition government is in full speed between the two large parties. But the defining factor that will determine the next prime minister is the party that has emerged as the third biggest – ‘Israel is our home’ – an Extreme- Right party, led by Avigdor Lieberman, that won 15 seats on a fierce anti Israeli-Arab campaign. Never before in Israel’s political history has such a radical and extreme voice been so central and critical – potentially undermining the democratic and moral core of this nation. This IS a democracy – and choices do reflect different segments of the populations, but many here are pausing to ponder how this happened, and what are the implications –how will this new political reality shape the moral character of this society? For some, Lieberman’s position is the very essence of Jewish survival. For others – this demonizing of the other is anything but authentically Jewish. This conversation is intense – a complex socio-political-religious narrative as ancient as the Bible. And maybe that’s where it all starts – so when we try to analyze this alarming reality, a peek at the way our ancestors dealt with being on either side of the ethnic minority divide is not a bad idea.

The weekly Torah text, coincidently, provides us with the first political process of elections in Jewish history. The portion is called ‘Yitro’ – named for the Pagan priest of the Nation of Midian (Jethro in English) who is the mentor and father in law to Moses. Yitro is no Hebrew, and his daughter, Moses’s wife Zippora (for whom Zippi Livni is named), the first First Hebrew Lady is no Jewess either. And yet, this important Torah portion, which includes the dramatic transmission of the Ten Commandments on Mount Sinai, is named for this non-Jew, and honors his political-civic wisdom: thanks to his advice Moses was able to establish Israel’s first judicial system. Note Yitro’s exact language, as he instructs Moses to choose Israel’s first cabinet: ‘…pick out of all the people - able men, who fear God, are men of truth, and hating unjust gain.” (Ex.18:21) Interestingly, when it’s time for Moses to implement his father in law’s suggestion he only focused on the first category – ‘And Moses chose able men out of all Israel, and made them heads over the people, rulers of thousands, rulers of hundreds, rulers of fifties, and rulers of tens.’ (Ex. 18:25) Moses goes for leaders who can deliver and de prioritizes the charge for faith, honesty, and scrupulous behavior – maybe Moses knows something realistic about Jewish leaders (then and now) that Yitro doesn’t. But the key action here is ‘CHOSE’ – ‘va’yivchar’ – just before inviting the Hebrew Nation to strike a deal with God and to officially become the ‘chosen people’, Moses initiates a process in which local leaders are chosen and a system for administering justice is installed. This important moment in the birth of the nation is attributed to a Non Jew – who honors the God of Israel and blesses his son in law before departing back to Midian. Yitro will always be remembered by us as the outsider, the other who has taught us how to govern. This is an important precedent, a reminder of how ethnic and racial differences can be respected, not regarded with hate.

So what does all this have to do with modern politics? Midian is just one historical example of ethnic ‘other’ in close contact with Israel’s notions of cultural, political and religious survival. But it’s an example of how things can work right – not just how they can turn out ugly. This, for modern day Israel – is an important reminder.

20% of Israeli citizens are Arabs (mostly Muslim, with a smaller Christian minority and a sizeable Druze community – for whom Yitro is an important prophet) and they also constitute 25% of Israelis under 25. The level of their civic participation and dignified co-existence is key to the survival of both people on this land – and radical approaches such as Lieberman’s are endangering this delicate balance.

It’s important to remember that Lieberman is not operating in a vacuum – there has been a shift in the dynamics between Jewish and Arab citizens of Israel. Since the mid 1990’s the Israeli Arab vote has shifted from mostly supportive towards Israel’s Zionist agenda (and voting for main stream Israeli political parties) towards greater ambivalence and even hostility. Many reasons are cited - the collapse of the Oslo peace process, the ongoing socio-financial marginalization of this population, the 2nd Lebanon War, and the most recent war in Gaza – these factors and others have left deep scars on a population challenged by dual allegiance to its Arab identity and to the nation within which they have been granted citizenship since 1948. For Israel – this is the real test of democracy: can this be a state for its citizens – ALL its citizens? Or is this a Jewish state with some tolerant nod towards ethnic others? Can there be hope here for noble co-existence or will racist politics dictate the public policy and popular vote? This challenging issue of ‘Ethnic Minorities’ is not unique to Israel – it is currently remapping demographic and geographic reality across Europe and is no stranger to the US narrative either – but here, with so much explosive energy already in the air – the fire is getting hotter.

Yesterday, while activating my right to choose – I found myself crying. I stood behind the cardboard booth, holding the piece of paper with my party of choice and I closed my eyes and prayed – actually prayed – that my voice will help bring peace and that justice will prevail in this part of the world, so passionately and painfully struggling to be humane and honest and happy.

I cried with hope, and with sadness, and with deep pride of being a descendent of a heritage that honors justice and honors diversity and celebrates plurality and values all others as equal partners in the healing of the planet.

I believe that we are no longer merely the chosen people – rather - we are the ‘people of choice’, and I hope that we will rise above the fears and choose to embrace all those values that Yitro endowed us with – truth, and ability and hatred of vice and commitment to justice.

If only this was as easy as choosing an ice cream flavor...

RituaLab On Campus
RituaLab @ Wesleyan University
by Justin Wedes

The Storahtelling crew hit the campus of Wesleyan University in Middletown, CT, last weekend for an intimate and intense evening of prayer, song and introspection. Led by Naomi Less, the team also counted upon the musical musings of accordionist Justin Wedes, deep acoustic bass pickings and sermon-ing of David Schiller, and rhythmical doting of percussionist and puppeteer Anna Sobel. Before about 50ish students and community members at Wesleyan's Jewish programming house, The Bayit, Naomi and crew ushered the eager Shabbat-comers into a meditative enchantment deservedly entitled Her Majesty's Shabbat Service.

Of course a great Yom Tov doesn't end after a round of Shalom Aleichem and a hearty Shabbas meal- and The Bayit's grand nosh was one for the books!- but continues into the night with song, discussion and all-around enjoyment. So we found ourselves conversing in the many small and large overlapping circles of Wesleyan's tight-knit Jewish community. Reflecting on the central theme of our service- the oppressors that act as Pharaohs in our over-scheduled everyday lives- we spoke of the amazing struggles of living in the modern world and still remaining reflective and spiritual, "multi-tasking but meditative". We spoke of the joys of New York and the joys of Middletown, and finally we spoke of music: music of every variety and with every intention behind it. Near the end of the night, with the dessert table emptied and the only remaining audience members singing post-meal nigguns in a circle at the corner of the room, I instinctively reached for my cell phone to check the time before our long journey back to the city. Hesitating, I remembered the oppressors in my life- and quickly turned back towards the ruach-filled circle of singers without a care for all other matters.

REVERB: SIXTEEN / ARMED / B’Shalach
A weekly torah takeaway by Amichai Lau-Lavie

A year-long Jerusalem Journey, action by action, verb by verb. Each week I pluck a verb from the Torah portion and set it reverberating both with its context and with my own. Let's make this a conversation, and talk our walk.

February 4, 2009


ARMED

Uncle Henry passed away this past Sunday in London; he was 97 years old and died peacefully – a blessing. My mother, his youngest sister (they were 8, now only 4 are left) is sitting Shiva for him at home here in Jerusalem and the past two days have been a nonstop event – the announcements, the phone calls, the rituals, the logistics, the endless stream of mourners and visitors – and, here and there – the quiet moments for reflection, and for fond memories, and for mourning the loss of a loved family member. Early this morning, over a cup of tea, my mother talked about the privilege of letting go peacefully: ‘When one is born, one’s fist is clutched tight, like grabbing on to life, but most often when one dies – one’s hand is open, extended, having let go of life – nothing else to hold on to.”

Thoughts of mortality, birth, and passages of all sorts resonate in this week’s Torah tale, B’shalach, which takes our ancestors, finally, out of Egypt, across the Sea of Reeds, and onto the highroad of freedom. The birth of this nation is accompanied by many deaths – the Hebrews who were left behind, the slain Egyptian firstborns, the drowned Egyptian soldiers… And the Hebrews, on their way to the promised land – are like newborn babies – their fists are clutching tightly, grabbing on to hope, to fresh matzos – and, surprisingly, also to weapons.

Weapons??

The biblical reference here is vague– “…and the Israelites left Egypt armed” (Ex. 13:18) (the Hebrew word is hamushim) – and this vague term enables different interpretations and symbolic meanings. Most classical interpreters and translations suggest that Israel were armed with weapons (interesting how the word ‘arm’ is extended to describe that which is held by the arm – at times - a weapon). If they did take arms along, it was perhaps a sensible choice – but does it make the fleeing Hebrews into an armed resistance movement? And if so, should it change the way we, and others, view our image, our history, our legacy? (In current Israeli media and official military reports the word hamushim is used to describe armed Palestinians – targets precisely because of their bearing of arms. Interestingly, the relatively neutral term has all but replaced the term mehablim – “terrorists” -- in mainstream Israeli media-lingo. But were we the original Hamushim?)

Curiously, this rather important item on the Exodus packing list didn’t make it to the Passover Hagada. How have we “forgotten” about this episode in our long history of bearing arms? No sword, to the best of my knowledge, has ever been added to any Seder plate and most of us haven’t even been told about it. Is the image of Jews bearing weapons back at our birth as a nation so troubling as to be worthy of collective repression?

Not necessarily. The precise meaning of hamushim here is inconclusive, and equally plausible readings other than “armed” tell a very different story that has nothing to do with weapons. The word can be also read as being derived from the root hamesh – five and describing not what was carried, but who and how many actually left Egypt. The Aramaic Targum Yonatan (known in modern academic circles as the Pseudo Jonathan Translation) renders Exodus 13:18 as: “And every one of the sons of Israel, with five children, went up from the land of Egypt.” No guns, just demographics. The Targum’s choice is unique, but it is similar to an oral tradition that is also cited in the rabbinic Midrash Tanhuma which acknowledges that hamushim means “armed” but points out that it can also be read as meaning that only one out of five Hebrews left Egypt. It adds: “Some say one out of 50 left, and some say one out of 500. Rabbi Nehorai says: only one? out of 5,000 left Egypt.” (Midrash Tanchuma, B’shalach 1)

This radical reading reminds us that not everybody is willing to take the leap of faith into the unknown future. It challenges us to imagine ourselves with five minutes to pack and flee – would we have left the familiarity of suffering in Egypt in favor of an obscure, and possibly already populated promised land? Or would we have been among those who stayed behind? The implications go into the psychological and political aspects of life: How does this challenge relate to our personal and collective attempts to get out of the familiar narrow straits and onto the road toward more freedom, prosperity, peace?

We may never know for sure whether our ancestors left Egypt clutching their fists and bearing arms or whether they left many of their loved ones behind, or both. But we do know that they left oppression behind, and packed bread of affliction, drums for worship, ancestral bones and high hopes for the journey home. They also packed their stories – our memories - and stories carry values, more important than valuables. Those stories are our real legacy, more important than missiles or tanks or arms of any kind - as they keep challenging us to remember who we once were and to strive to become who we really want to become. What is left of my uncles’ life? Of anybody’s life or legacy? What really lingers are the stories – life lessons turned into memories – into that which arms us for a life lived fully.

I sit here in my parents’ living room, late at night, everyone’s gone, and a candle is flickering in memory of the departed. Memories and stories told all day float in the empty room. I too let go and extend my fist open, and rest, briefly, in peace.

RE:VERB: 15 / BLESS
BO
A weekly torah takeaway by Amichai Lau-Lavie

Join me for a year-long Jerusalem Journey, action by action, verb by verb. Each week I pluck a Biblical verb and set it reverberating both with its context and with my own. comments welcome, let’s talk the walk.

January 28, 2009


"God Bless You"– this common post-sneeze sacred invocation that has gone completely secular is uttered endlessly and mindlessly around the world. Just like 'God Bless America,' this is often simply a polite figure of speech, a civic, civil nicety. In Hebrew you say "La'brioot" – "to health."

The cultural differences are interesting but either way, these are expressions of empathy, and I've been intrigued by this word/concept--empathy--for about a week now. How come there is no word for "empathy" in Hebrew? No exact translation, that is – Israelis say "empatia," one of many foreign words that migrated into Modern Hebrew and stuck. It's a telling fact, though, that words like 'empathy' or 'pluralism' or 'text' do not have an Israeli life of their own. These days, I wonder not only about the missing word in Hebrew but also about the collective ability to exercise the word's imperative: to feel empathy towards others, esp. others in distress, and esp. others in distress who are very much 'the other.'

Ten days since the ceasefire in Gaza, and many efforts at rehabilitation take place– physical, emotional, political and diplomatic. But for many here in Israel, the anger remains. Maybe I shouldn't be surprised. Merely suggesting the expression of empathy towards the people of Gaza, alongside support for the IDF soldiers and the people of Sdeort, gets many Israelis – including family members and close friends – furious. Calls for empathy and care for the estimated 20,000 Gaza residents who are now homeless is met with pursed lips: "let Hamas help them, its their own fault." Empathy, generally recognized as "the ability to sense and understand someone else's feelings as if they were one's own," seems to take a backseat to her fierce and frugal sister -- survival. "I just can't afford to be thinking about them right now" M. tells me. I get this approach but it drives me nuts. ‘You’ve been in NY for too long’ B. tells me ‘this is how we roll here, remember?’ This isn’t helping either.

There are, thankfully, other voices, and other initiatives that think and do otherwise. L., for instance, a 27 year old student from Jerusalem who teamed up with another student and organized within 5 days a 7 truck convey of emergency supplies to Gaza, thousands of Israeli donations of clothes, food, blankets and personal letters from Israeli citizens to the families beyond the border. I met L. at the weekly Zohar class we attend at the Hartman Institute – who knew she was such an organizer? She didn't sleep for a week and offered many of us a way to be really helpful. I helped by carrying boxes. The story hit the media two days ago -- even Al Jazeera wanted to interview her…

And meanwhile, I've been asking people for Hebrew translation for 'empathy' – heads are scratched, options offered, all admit that there is no one single perfect Hebrew word for it. Yet. How long has it been missing? How come there isn't one?

"In essence," L. tells me, mid-carrying-boxes, "'love your neighbor as you love yourself' is the root of empathy – and Judaism's core concept – but I guess it got lost in translation. isn’t this in the Bible somewhere?"

So I turn to search for empathy in Exodus and check out this week's Torah tale – BO. It’s got the Prime Time coverage of the actual moment of the Exodus – the last midnight in Egypt. The firstborn of Egypt are slain – and there isn't a home in the land that has not been struck by death. Amid the screams, the king relents – demands that they leave the land – and offers the most audacious invitation for empathy:

"Take both your flocks and your herds and be gone; and bless me also" (Ex.12:32).

He's asking them for a blessing?

How can he expect Moses and his people to have anything but hatred in their hearts towards him? And yet he asks. And we are invited to consider, seriously, his request. Can we bless the enemy – then, now?

And let's say we do decide to grant him a blessing – let's pretend that empathy swims in our veins – what blessing would he receive? What blessing would you offer the ruler who has ruled over your misery?

This past Sunday evening, right after the Zohar class (in which L. updates us that the convoy of trucks, courtesy of the UN, made it into Gaza and that the supplies have already been delivered) I walk over to my parents’ house to have dinner. it’s a 10 minute walk, the evening is cold and crisp, and on the way I ponder this question – who is my Pharaoh? Would, could, should I bless him? I recall the psychological/mystical reading that the Zohar offers the Exodus saga – this is all a description of our inner drama. The oppressed slaves are within me – yearning for more freedom, for more autonomy, for more self expression, Moses is my inner drive for growth, my connection to the Higher Self, and sometimes this inner Moses will resort to strange tricks or fierce strikes to get its point across. And Pharaoh – Freud would call him ‘ego’, and I see him as that part of me that refuses to change, yet knows he – I – have to change in order to grow. Can I have empathy towards my inner resistance? Can I have empathy towards my fellow Israelis who have no empathy?

After dinner with my father (my mother is out at some lecture) I sit with him and open a Torah and read the verses with him and ask – what blessing would you have given the king?

My father, who is no Pollyanna, may or may not be thinking of his Nazi jailers, or the Hamas fighters or any other mythic or historical 'Pharaoh' as he quietly, and with great empathy, offers this version of a blessing to the King of Egypt: "May your river continue to flow."

God Bless him.

(And, If you were to bless the Pharaoh – what would your blessing be?)

Inaugural Maven: Knockin’ on Pharaoh’s Door
By Annie Lewis

A newly minted Maven apprentice, I sit in the pews of the Reform Temple of Forest Hills, as Brian Gelfand and Shawn Shafner orchestrate a translation for multiple generations of Parshat Vaera.

The cantor escorts the Torah around the room like royalty and images of the week’s Inauguration flicker in my mind; the bundled masses, assembled, endless, across the Mall. This Shabbat, in Queens, all in the congregation become the Hebrew slaves on the cusp of sea change.

Moses returns to the land of his birth, to recruit his long-lost brother Aaron for a mission. He notifies him that God has commanded them to confront the Pharaoh, to demand he set the Hebrew slaves free. Moses appeals to his brother to accompany him to Pharaoh’s office to take action. The incredulous Aaron brushes off Moses with his pampered palace upbringing, perceiving the plan as naïve at best. Aaron has been a slave all of his life and has little faith that things can be different. With the chance of change low, and the cost of confronting power high, Aaron prefers to leave things the way they are. As we journey through the parsha, Moses and the community members urge Aaron and one another to imagine the possibility of a better day and to take the leaps of faith to make it happen.

The first aliyah is for those like Aaron, who have doubts. They gather under the shelter of the super-sized Storahtelling talit. For the second aliyah, Maven Shawn calls up to the Torah - the micro-managers, the obsessive compulsives, the control freaks - all those who want things their way. A wave of laughter ripples around the room. People nudge their partners, parents and kids. They giggle and bicker and at last the chosen ones find their way up to the bimah, ready to receive their Torah. The energy in the room shifts and we are there; the story is a mirror for who we are in this moment on this day. After the aliyah, the congregation reasons with Aaron to consider playing a part in the Divine plan:

“You’ve got nothing to lose,” one young woman asserts.
“Now is your chance. The Pharaoh knows Moses,”
“Better get out before the Ottoman Empire comes to power,” an astute student advises.

At last, the wary Aaron has a change of heart, and decides he will speak truth to Pharaoh’s hard heart. However, before he and Brother Moses set out to knock on Pharaoh’s door, Aaron calls for a blessing from all of those in the room who know what it’s like to take leaps of faith, for all those on the verge of making bold moves with unknown outcomes.

After the stories and the blessings, some signs and wonders on Pharaoh’s floor, and the journey of two brothers reunited, the rabbi weaves Bob Dylan’s “The Times They are A-Changing,” into the Aleinu, a prayer about what is to come.

This Shabbat Vaera, we are part of a nation under new leadership, energized, questioning, bracing ourselves for all that is on the way. I think of the passengers balanced on the wings of an aircraft just two weeks earlier, waiting to cross freezing water. I pray for courage, grateful to a God who still carries us out on Eagle’s wings.

I am grateful to Brian, Shawn and the Forest Hills community members for an experience of revelation. For Torah that is living water, an infinite reflecting pool that meets us where we are, reminds us how far we have come and helps us imagine how we might one day be free.

Ki hem hayenu v’orekh yameinu
For (the words) are our life and the length of our days

DRAGONROD, or Empathy in Goshen?

Storahtelling Solo-Maven Show in Jerusalem
January 24, 2009

by Amichai Lau-Lavie

Empathy has been on my mind a lot these past few weeks – inspired, ignited by the political situation and the hardening of hearts all around me. I walk no moral high ground and am hardly a peace activist, but the fact that ‘empathy’ is so often perceived here in Israel as a left-leaning political statement and not as a basic human, humanitarian (and Jewish) value is really frustrating to me. It feels like there is no room for real conversation about it – so last weekend an opportunity came up to have an open conversation (disguised as Storahtelling performance) about empathy.

Saturday Morning, inside a large public dining room/social hall, 200 Israeli and American college students take their seats, semi circle, facing a long table, with a Torah scroll on it, covered in a bright green prayer shawl. Holding the 10 foot tall ‘rod of Moses’ (a plank of wood I picked up that morning in the parking lot outside) I lead a Storahtelling performance in Kiryat Moriah - an educational conference center in Jerusalem. The organizers of this encounter program wanted the group to have a positive interaction with the Biblical narrative and an open conversation about the role of Bible, ritual and Jewish values in the lives of these students. No problem. I chose 20 verses from the weekly Torah portion, and focused on the moment when Moses actually launches the Exodus Campaign. His first act is to wow Egypt with feats of wonder – his famous rod (handed over since Adam and Eve, according to one legend) and transforms the object into a living alligator (snake is a mistake in translation, the King James Bible suggests Dragon!!). But nobody is impressed and he needs to up the power. This is where the conversation comes in:

I placed the group in role: 'Imagine you are the people Israel, in the land of Goshen, minimum wage migrant workers, slaves to the system, oppressed and abused – when this guy comes up with a plan to get you out. This is the town meeting in which you need to decide, oh Israelites, if you are going along with the Exodus Campaign, support your leader Moses and agree to a violent series of strikes against Egypt, your host/oppressor. Can I see a show of hands – how many are in favor of violence as a way to achieve our freedom? Can I see a show of hands for those opposing violence? Who’s on the fence?’

The room was not split evenly. Most voted for violence and when asked to explain used the rhetoric familiar to us all and demonstrated in the Exodus text– only power will save the day. And also – God said so. Those who spoke for non-violence spoke of Gandhi and of not harming innocent others and won’t it just come back to haunt us later? There was tension in the room- the conversation happened in ‘split screen’ – the story and our reality.

'Well, what about all those dead Egyptians?' I ask. 'Should we even consider the pain of the enemy?? Can one want to be free and still feel for the one preventing the freedom? Can I have empathy to my upstairs neighbors who (having just broken up with his girlfriend) blasts loud music late at night, can he have empathy to the girlfriend who ditched him, can any one of us have empathy towards any random beggar on the street, or the wounded child in Gaza, the firstborn of Egypt?'

There was a long silence, and then everybody wanted to say something.

One young woman was adamant in her reply: NO. I have only this much energy to care for others and at times like these (was she talking Goshen or Gaza?) I only have room for care for my own people. There isn’t always the privilege of having empathy for others. Many agree. One Israeli, politely, stood up and said – you can’t ask this question and expect us to believe that it is a neutral question. The moment you are suggesting we express empathy you are positioning yourself on one side of the political equation. It’s not fair to those of us who think differently. Another guy challenges him – what about ‘don’t do to others what you don’t want done to you?’ and so on.

I wrap is up with a comma, not a period. More will be discussed later- this was just a trigger for further questions.

The Rod of Moses closes the show. It is the same stick with which he will one day strike the rock for water instead of speaking to it – and the price he will pay is high – access to the Holy Land – denied.

Sometimes we need to speak, not strike. And sometimes – often, though maybe not always – empathy is key.

The Storahtelling performance is followed by a short discussion about this form of ‘translating’ ancient scripture to modern reality and how we get to use these inherited tales to address human values and dilemmas in our personal and collective lives. Heated conversations erupted after the show – small clusters of people stood and debated. Many came up to me to keep on talking, animated, charged. I eventually left them to continue probing the limits of empathy and went to my parents house for a Shabbat lunch. I leave the 10 ft. long pole back in the parking lot.

Personal Testimonial: BECOMING ISRAEL at Limmud NY

by Yael Tzalka, Program Coordinator, Limmud NY

Saw BECOMING ISRAEL at Limmud NY 2009

Becoming Israel highlights the stories of three individuals from different eras, beautifully intertwined together through time. Many generations of people have laid the foundation for what Israel is today. People of different religions, nationalities and generations have taken a part in what has ‘become’ Israel.

Becoming Israel shows us that we too have had a part in the making of Israel. But more than anything it shows us that just like Jacob, we wrestle with G-d, with Israel, with Judaism, with the importance of our history and our influence on its future- no matter where we come from.

Becoming Israel will have audience members leave with questions that will sit on the soul for days, letting us ponder how we each individually molded the complicated and gorgeous land so many of us call home. Becoming Israel had the audience moved and captivated as they connected with the idea that we all wrestle with the pressing issues that Israel faces yesterday, today, and tomorrow.