The World We Choose To Live In: Domestic Terrorism And The USA

The World We Choose To Live In

Domestic Terrorism And The USA

Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 26, 2018

Before we begin this service, I want to put in a word of gratitude.

I am—we all are—deeply indebted to this country for the many gifts and freedoms it has granted us. For the Jewish People, this isn’t something that we take for granted. Our history has taught us that freedom and security are often at the whim of a land baron, tyrant or emperor.

I am—we all are—grateful to the United States security agencies for apprehending a suspect in the recent spate of IED’s—pipe bombs that were mailed to people who have served our country in the highest positions of government: Presidents Barack Obama and Bill Clinton, former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, former Attorney General Eric Holder and former CIA Director John Brennan, among others.

It’s easy—too easy—to blame one person, a group or an entire political party based on the actions of one cowardly and crazed individual. But before we do that, let us remember that violence is, unfortunately, a hallmark of the human race. From the earliest times of humanity, from the first set of brothers in the Bible, Cain and Abel, we find violence and murder. 

For better or for worse, our country is infatuated with violence. We glorify the weapons and uniforms of our military and police. In a different category, we idealize and idolize violence and crime, from Billy The Kid to Bonnie and Clyde; from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid to Al Capone and—more recently—James “Whitey” Bulger.

You could even say that our country was born through violence, and that it survived through violence—the Revolution and the Civil War, respectively.

In the 1960’s we saw violence perpetrated by the Radical Left—the Weather Underground and the Symbionese Liberation Army among others.

We’ve witnessed assassinations of national, religious and political leaders.

We’ve seen lone-wolf violence and mass shootings at schools, movie theaters, and concert arenas.

More recently, there has been a surge of violence from the Alt Right, groups aligned with neo-Nazis, racists, misogynists and homophobes. The pipe bombs sent to Democratic Party leaders are only the latest example of this violence.  

We are a nation steeped in violence.

Perhaps we are no different from any other group of human beings anywhere else on the globe.  

But we believe that we are different, that we are better, that we live in a country of law, justice and order, in a country where people respect the freedoms of speech and expression.

And as long as we believe that, we must try to live up to our own expectations.  

I’m not talking about restricting any freedoms, including the freedom to bear arms. I’m talking about trained behavior, educated behavior, compassionate behavior, respectful behavior.

Evidently humanity isn’t born to be gentle and compassionate. These are traits that must be learned and practiced daily in order to become inherent in our society.

But that’s not what we are seeing in our movie theaters, in our video games, in the news that we are presented every day, morning noon and night.  All these are permeated with shootings and explosions, bloodshed and murder, violence and intimidation.

If that’s who and what we choose to be, then we are on the right track.  But if we are going to try to live up to the ideals of the United States of America, then we need to do something about the culture we live in.

We need to retrain ourselves to respect one another even if we disagree; we need to listen to one another even if our opinions differ. 

V’ahavta l’rei-acha kamocha, “love your neighbor as yourself,” the Torah teaches us, and we need not only to memorize these words, but to practice them on a daily basis, on a moment-by-moment basis.  

Only so will we begin to see a change in the public atmosphere, in the social discourse around us, in the behavior that we see and follow by example.

We are grateful that the dozen or so pipe bombs that were sent to public leaders this time did not explode. We are lucky in that way, because God knows what that would have led to in these troubled times.

We are grateful that the post office workers, the police, FBI and other security agencies acted together and with due speed to capture the man suspected of mailing these bombs. We salute the men and women who acted unhesitatingly to ensure the safety and security of our people and our land.

We can only pray that this violence will cease and disappear. We can only hope and pray for better, more peaceful and loving times.

© 2018 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Prayer for Pittsburgh

A Prayer for Pittsburgh

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 27, 2018

Another active shooting scene. 

Sabbath peace broken, Sabbath holiness desecrated.  

There are no words, no words of consolation. There are no prayers, even God is mute tonight.

The Talmud teaches that we should not comfort the mourners at the time of their most intense grief. Indeed, there is no—there CAN be—no consolation tonight for an ongoing crime of hatred. Today’s terror attack may be over, but anti-Semitism is an ongoing crime; it’s been ongoing for thousands of years now. 

I do not call for revenge. Sometimes even justice seems impossible. We will need time to digest what happened today: an assault rifle—reportedly an AK 47—and three handguns used to spread death in the Tree of Life Synagogue. 

To bring mayhem, murder, and violence into a house of prayer chills us all, Jews and non-Jews alike. A house of prayer is a place we go to in order to find safety, sanctuary, peace; to find oneself; to find God.

We’ve seen other attacks on houses of worship and community centers in America: Sikh and Buddhist temples, African-American churches, Muslim mosques, Baptist churches. They are all crimes of heinous hate. As with all those others, so we here today will have to find a way to move on, to absorb our sorrow, to put it all in some sort of perspective.  But I’m afraid that tonight I just don’t know how to do that.

I don’t know how to quell the anger I feel within me as I witness yet again the hatred that still continues, the hatred that killed so many of my own family, along with six million other Jews just one generation ago, in the accursed Holocaust.

I don’t know what to do with the horror; the fear; with the memories, still so recent, still alive, of Jews being killed, tortured, burned alive in their synagogues, that today’s hate attack awakens in so many of us. 

I don’t know how to handle the grief I feel tonight, for the eleven men and women (so far “only” eleven, with at least two more still in surgery, still fighting for their lives tonight), whose lives were so cruelly cut short today, for the only crime that they were Jews. At this point we don’t know yet how many men, how many women; we only know there were—thank God—no children among the dead.

I would like to start some sort of healing process by feeling and expressing gratitude: for the first responders, Pittsburgh Police officers, FBI agents, and SWAT teams that acted heroically, rushing into the synagogue selflessly, heroically, despite the live fire that was directed against them.  I am grateful for the ER doctors and nurses who responded swiftly, showing up within minutes and beginning to treat the wounded where they lay, in the pews, on the floor. I am grateful to the surgeons and other medical workers who continued the caretaking of the injured in the area’s excellent hospitals.

I am grateful for the unity and community support I sense around me. We are all in this together. When our days of grief and mourning will be over, we will need to gather yet again, at homes, schools, at houses of worship; to discuss how we’ve come to this point. We’ll need to talk about the hatred, the radicalization, the incitement to violence that we see and hear around us today.

But at this point all we can do is sit in silence. We need to take a moment to reflect on the terrible events that transpired today at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, PA, but whose implications will continue to reverberate in our society for a long time yet to come. In our silence, let us feel not anger, not vengeance, not even fear. Let us feel, rather, love, and pity. Love—for one another; for the community and families of the victims of today’s mass shooting. And pity—for our nation and the current state of our nation. Let us reflect.

My friends, during the next few days we will pray not only for God’s comfort and consolation, we will also pray to find within us the strength to end the hatred, to silence the hateful rhetoric we hear all around us; to put an end to the anti-Semitism, the racism, xenophobia, homophobia and misogyny that poison our nation.  May we all come to comprehend fully the power that words have on us—the power to move us to love, help and support; but also the power to provoke hatred, violence and bloodshed. May our thoughts and prayers tonight be accompanied by acts of loving-kindness and righteousness.

May God bless us all with safety, security and peace. 

May God comfort all mourners and console all the bereaved among us, to which we say, Amen.

Lessons Our Fathers Taught Us: Vayeira 2018

Lessons Our Fathers Taught Us: Vayeira 2018

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

We rabbis often display a keen sense of righteousness.  We know what’s right, we speak of it often, and we do so with weighty authority. Somewhere along the way, whether yet in rabbinic school or through listening to other, more worthy preachers, we also pick up a certain voice, a rhythm and cadence that manage to convince everyone that we know whereof we speak.

Well, tonight I choose to speak of something that—for a change—I know very little about: Raising children.

I do that because this week’s Torah portion, Vayeira(Genesis 18:1—22:24) includes the story of the Binding of Isaac, the harrowing drama of the child born to Abraham and Sarah and then nearly offered by his father as sacrifice to God. This story has been visited and revisited countless times. It’s been topic of endless discussions, and still remains mysterious and unresolved to this day. What was God’s purpose in requesting this sacrifice—after promising Abraham progeny and seemingly fulfilling the promise through Isaac’s birth? What was Abraham thinking in agreeing? Was it all some great hoax? A misunderstanding, as some propose? Additionally, there’s Sarah’s silence. Did Abraham leave her guessing, as he does with all the other characters in the story?  And—most urgently—why did Abraham not protest, as he had done just earlier in the portion, when God informs him of  His intention to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah?

The Midrash teaches that the Binding of Isaac was the tenth and most challenging test of faith that God put Abraham through. If so, it was a cruel gesture, one that led to heartbreak and tragedy. How could God be so vicious and heartless?

In lieu of trying yet again to solve these puzzles, I want to approach the subject from a different perspective. Rather than this being a test of the relationship between God and Abraham, can this story be a lesson that Abraham might have been trying to teach Isaac?  A lesson about life, or perhaps about faith and God?

In earlier Torah portions and stories, we’ve seen several examples of parents—or other teachers—failing to teach their children and pupils. Adam never tells Cain that killing his brother is wrong. Noah doesn’t begin to warn his neighbors about their violent ways; nor does he clarify for his sons the rights and wrongs of sexual ethics. 

We don’t know much about the way Isaac is brought up or taught by his parents. Born to aged parents after years of inability to conceive, presumably, in their eyes, he can do no wrong. Isaac is protected by his mother’s eagle-sharp eyes. That much we know with certainty. But we hear not a word about what his father might be teaching Isaac about God, or about life and the challenges of living as an outsider, a foreigner, follower of a different religion, different in so many ways from his friends and neighbors.  

Perhaps the ordeal at the mountain was Abraham’s way of introducing Isaac to God? 

But if so, what kind of God was he showing his son? A cruel, intimidating master, not to be questioned, one whose will was, is and forever will be inscrutable and impenetrable.

Abraham could not have known in advance that God would stay his hand and forbid forever the practice of child sacrifice. Nor could either he or Isaac have known the power of tears or prayer to reach Heaven’s gate and to change God’s will—a concept that would become key in Jewish philosophy and, in the future, play a preeminent role in our Yom Kippur liturgy.

So what exactly was Abraham trying to teach his son, Isaac?

What do we, parents, grandparents and teachers, try to teach our children? What are some of the most important lessons we try to impart to them?

We try to give them survival tools; to teach them a trade; to advise them of life’s dangers and pitfalls, and how to be prepared for the many challenges that are bound to come up. We teach them about right and wrong, and about being loving and helpful to family and community. We teach them to become responsible adults rather than remain adolescents, forever demanding more.

Ultimately, however, more than anything else, we try to teach them to be independent. We don’t want our children to constantly look to us to hold their hand or be there for them at every moment.  Inevitably, the time will come when we won’t be there, when there will be no one to phone or text with a question or request. And then what? If we don’t teach our children how to find their own truth in a complex world, how will they know what to do when the need arises, as it inevitably will?

In our own day, much has been written about the longer adolescence that millennials are enjoying. This is due both to better health and nutrition, but also because of societal expectations. It isn’t that we coddle and shield our children so much as we are reluctant to let go and let them grow up. Even without becoming helicopter parents, we protect and shelter them probably longer than is necessary, for the simple reason that we can, and because we love them and are hesitant to let them fend for themselves in a dangerous world. 

On the other hand, the shortage of affordable housing and a tighter job market mean that many of us have to go on supporting our offspring for longer than ever. It isn’t choice so much anymore, as necessity. Politicians and sociologists go back and forth blaming, on the one hand, excessive permissiveness and, on the other, a starker reality.

Ultimately, though, we have to admit that we just don’t know.  After all, what is so wrong with helping out and being there for our children for as long as we can, and they need us?  Is it such a disservice to them, especially at a time of great social and economic change, to support them economically, emotionally or in any other way we can?  Is there such a thing as too much love?

The story of the Binding of Isaac, as it appears in the Torah (Gen. 22:1-19), is short and cryptic, told in a few masterful brushstrokes. Yet we learn so much from the few words exchanged between father and son; we infer even that much more from the silences between the words. Isaac is no fool. He sees the tools for the sacrifices and inquires about the missing lamb. Abraham responds by saying that God will see to the lamb. Isaac understands. He wonders about the love his father has for him, but is reassured by the tears he sees coursing down the aged, furrowed cheeks. Yet ultimately he is placed and bound upon the altar, and then he knows for certain. He understands that he has entered a new stage in his life, one in which he can no longer depend on his father, one in which he will question even God’s will and ability to protect and defend him. At that moment, not knowing whether he will live or die, Isaac understands, more than ever before, that he is no longer a child. Something has changed, and he comprehends fully the lonely isolation inherent in existence and life. 

At the next moment, however, both Isaac and Abraham learn a fateful lesson: the power of prayer. 

There is no certainty in prayer, but there is faith and hope.

After this momentous experience, Abraham names the mountain Adonai Yir’eh—the place where God sees. At this moment, Abraham understands and teaches Isaac that God is not heartless, that God sees the tears of the suffering and lonely, that God hears the prayer of the needy and destitute. Even without any words exchanged, Isaac understands. However, he also recognizes another truth: that from now on he must fend for himself. Nothing can be taken for granted, not a father’s love, nor even God’s promise of protection. We must be strong in ourselves, because there are no guarantees in life, no exchanges and no returns.

For the rest of his days, Isaac will wonder and reflect about the meaning of love, trust and faith. He will forever try to comprehend fully the lesson he learned that day on the Mountain of Seeing. 

As for Abraham—his story is now nearly done. There are a few duties left to be fulfilled, but as far as teaching his son about God and life, he has done all he could and more. He has taught Isaac all he knew. His heart now filled with a stronger, yet sadder, faith than ever, Abraham is ready to face the last years of his life.

And we—Abraham’s descendants? Are we doing all we can? Are we being over-protective? Have we done enough to provide our children with the tools they will need to face an uncertain and even dangerous world? 

We can only hope so. 

But at this time, wise words attributed to many and various sources come to mind: Give your children roots and wings. Roots to know where home is; wings to soar with, to imagine, and to create new worlds.

And may we all find the wisdom to know both how to love our children and protect them, but also how to give them freedom, strength and independence. 

© 2018 by Boaz D. Heilman

Noah: A Tale of Three Faiths

Noah: A Tale of Three Faiths

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

October 12, 2018

This week’s Torah portion is Noah (Genesis 6:9—11:32).

Noah, we are told, was righteous in his generations.Whether he would have been among the righteous in other, future generations is a question that’s been debated since the story was first told. 

In this week’s Torah portion we read Noah’s story: The story of the flood and the ark, the raven and the dove, the rainbow and the olive branch.Unlike many of the children’s illustrations which depict happy monkeys frolicking while giraffes and elephants lounge on the ark’s sunny deck, the Torah’s version of Noah’s Flood is a dark story, with a dark beginning, middle and end.

It also has a pretty depressing epilogue. After the flood, Noah, wracked with guilt, succumbs to alcoholism. One terrifying and dark night, something unnamed but quite terrible happens between a drunk and naked Noah, and one of his sons. 

Still, the Torah rewards Noah for his righteousness, blemished as it may be: Shem, the eldest of his three sons, will become the father of the Semites, the people from whom Abraham will eventually arise.

But the Torah’s narration isn’t there yet. There’s one more story to tell before we get to Abraham: The story of the Tower of Babel. 

If you think about it, this portion is a wonderfully constructed tale. It is symmetrical, with two spectacular images poised at either end: Noah’s Ark and the Tower of Babel. Both are monumental in size, yet both are doomed to failure. The Ark is as large as a football field; the Tower—though never finished—is intended to reach all the way into the heavens, past the clouds, into the very realm of the gods. There are, of course, also many differences between the structures, but even these are masterfully woven into the story: the Ark is built by one man: Noah. The Tower, on the other hand, requires the participation of the everybody in community. Each and every citizen of the land took part in the task.  Yet they all acted as one. “Behold,” notes God, “they are one people, they all speak one language” (Genesis 11:6).  Like a colony of bees or ants, they are all working together, single-mindedly, intent on one purpose—reaching the heavens. Between these two images, the arc of the story is capped with yet one more brilliant vision, the total opposite of the earth-bound Tower and the inundated Ark: A simple bird, The Dove, soaring high above the clouds, then emerging through the rainbow with an olive branch in its beak.

But there is also one glaring asymmetry in this portion. The Babylonians speak. Noah doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t ask “why me” when God tells him to build an ark; he doesn’t object when God restricts him to taking aboard only two of each living creature. Surely he must have realized how unfair this was! Why didn’t he protest? But Noah does not utter a single word. Only silence.

The depth of the tragedy in which he was a silent partner would haunt Noah for the rest of his days.

Parshat (the portion of) Noah serves a function in the larger story of Genesis. It explains how Adam and Eve’s world evolved into the world we know, a world of many lands, peoples and civilizations. But in the telling, it also has important lessons to teach about Faith. Why were these early attempts to reach God doomed to failure? What is it that Abraham, ten generations later, gets about God, that Noah doesn’t? Noah is described as being so righteous that he “walked with God.” Why is that wrong? 

Nor is the sin of the Tower of Babel so clear. All that the people of the land say is, “Come, let us build ourselves a city, and a tower whose top is in the heavens; let us make a name for ourselves, lest we be scattered abroad over the face of the whole earth (Genesis 11:4).” What could go wrong with that? Even if we set aside the arrogance that their words imply, don’t we all want to acquire a good name, a good reputation, and perhaps to leave a legacy? Don’t we, at least secretly, wish to represent our time and place in history? To be—to use a currently popular idiom—in the room where it happens? 

How did Noah fail? And what was the sin of the builders of the Tower of Babel? 

Looking again at the two stories, we can begin to understand the lesson of this Torah portion. 

Noah builds an ark, a water-tight vessel with only one single window forty feet up. The ark has no rudder, no oars and no sails. Tossed by the waves, both Noah and the Ark are totally dependent on the mercy of God. But Noah’s faith is perfect, leaving no room for doubt. God will save him, he is certain of that, and that’s enough for him. However, this kind of faith leaves no room for questions, no possibility of indicting God for acting in bad faith towards God’s creation. By wiping out almost all existence, God has shown Himself to be just like all the other gods people had been worshipping for ages: An angry, willful, murderous god. But Noah does not protest. He says nothing. He is silent. 

Noah fails his test of faith. His understanding of God is both incomplete and cowardly. Abraham, on the other hand, will argue, he will shake his fist; he will demand justice from a God who wants to be seen as Eternal Judge of Truth. But not Noah. Noah acquiesces.

Now, in total contrast to Noah in his Ark, the dwellers of Babylon are on dry ground and solid footing. Yet they too understand the very real dangers of life. The gods they worship can’t be trusted. They are fickle, distant, uncaring. Survival can’t be left up to them. They—the people—want to be in charge of their own lives and destiny. No thanks to these feckless gods. The tower they’re building is meant to take them up to the gods’ very abode, where they can contend and perhaps even defeat them.

But a faith that relies only on your own might and power, leaving no room for God’s spirit in your life, is no faith at all. The Torah makes a mockery of the Babylonians, as their plans to dominate the universe are scuttled and turned to dust.

Parashat Noah is a tale of two faiths. One relies too much on God, the other attempts to dominate God. They are both lacking and deficient. Both are doomed to failure. 

Yet the story does not end there. The portion ends on a hopeful note: The birth of Abraham. A new story is about to unfold, the story of the Jewish People and their faith—a faith that is both worldly and heavenly, a faith that accepts God’s will but reserves the right to question it—a people and a faith that still exist to this day.

© 2018 by Boaz D. Heilman