From Doubt to Faith: Tish'a B'Av

From Doubt to Faith, From Mourning To Joy: Tish’a B’Av

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

When Nebuchadnezzar II, king of Babylon, conquered Jerusalem in the year 587 BCE, his chosen date for setting Solomon’s Temple on fire was Tish’a B’Av (the ninth day of the Hebrew month Av). This choice may have been random; or he may have selected it on purpose. For the ancient Mesopotamians, this season was one of joy and celebration. After spending nearly half a year in the underworld, their deity Dumuzi was resurrected every summer at this time, and Nebuchadnezzar might very well have chosen the date to show the Judeans that whereas our God was now homeless, powerless and on exile, their god had ascended to victory and prominence.

The myth of the death and resurrection of a divinity called “The Favorite Son” was  popular at the time, and it made its way into other myths and religions.

But not in Judaism. This was, after all, the religion in which Father Abraham was told in no uncertain terms not to sacrifice his favorite son, Isaac.

Nevertheless, a day that had been set aside for celebration in the ancient world turned instead into a day of grief and mourning for the Judean nation.

But it didn’t stay that way. At least, not entirely.

In the Jewish tradition, formed by the ancient Rabbis to unify a people that had spread throughout a vast Diaspora, Tish’a B’Av was not just any random date on the calendar. Rather, it became a day set aside for disaster by God Godself. This was the day on which the twelve spies sent by Moses to bring back to the people a report of the Promised Land, returned with bad news: the land was fruitful and beautiful, but impossible to conquer. The majority report, delivered by ten of the spies, caused the people to panic and lose faith in God and Moses. Only Joshua and Caleb reminded them that God was their stronghold, and that as long as they kept their faith, they could indeed overtake the giants and monsters that presently occupied the Land of Canaan. Unfortunately, the people refused to listen and nearly stoned Moses and Aaron to death. This was the first Tish’a B’Av, and it set the precedent for all those that would follow.

The First Temple, built in Jerusalem around 950 BCE by King David’s son, Solomon, was destroyed on Tisha B’Av, as was the Second Temple, destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE. Both destructions resulted in the slaughter of hundreds of thousands of Jews, and many who survived were sold to slavery or exiled to foreign lands.

It was on Tish’a B’Av that the last Judean rebellion against the Romans was crushed in 135 CE. The leader of the rebellion, Simeon Bar Kochba, a man whose vision and bravery caused many to see him as the Messiah, was killed and his fortress, Beitar, was razed to the ground. Following this disaster, the Roman emperor Hadrian changed the name of Judea to Palestine. He also founded a new city on the ruins of Jerusalem and named it Aelia Capitolina, hoping to erase the memory of the holy city from the hearts and souls of the defeated but still-stubborn Judeans.

In the more recent past, other disasters took place on the same date (or, in some cases, a day or two later): The expulsion of the Jews from England in 1290; from France in 1306; from Spain in 1492; and the start of the liquidation of the Warsaw Ghetto in 1942.

In the eyes of some, the dating of these disasters was no more than coincidence. As the Rabbis saw it, however, it was no less than the fulfillment of a divine decree.

But the story does not end with destruction. Just as in the Torah God relents and lets the remnant of Israelites enter the Promised Land, so is God bound throughout history to forgive God’s People, the Jews, when they repent and return to God through faith and good deeds.

By setting Tish’a B’Av in a context of faith, the Rabbis succeeded in transforming sorrow and mourning into faith and hope. As long as the Jewish Nation held on to their belief in God, Redemption was bound to come about. It was their failproof restructuring of the Jewish religion that turned a day in history into an eternal, cosmic event. Our faith became our mission, and as long as we endeavored to fulfill it, our Redemption was imminent.

Jewish tradition calls for the observance of Tish’a B’Av through a number of customs:  fasting for 25 hours; communal reading of kinnot (liturgical poems of keening and grief) as well as the books of Job and Lamentations; and the performance of deeds of kindness and righteousness. These, we are told, are the actions that will hasten ge’ula (Redemption) and will bring salvation not only for us, but also for the entire world.

The Rabbis conclude their remarkable take on this day by teaching that on Tish’a B’Av, on the very day that was set aside for terrible misfortunes and calamities, the Messiah will be born. May our faith and good deeds be strengthened by this belief, so that the day will come soon when all hunger, war, disease and ignorance will disappear from this world once and for all and be replaced by wisdom, love and peace.

[This year, 2020, Tish’a B’Av will be observed July 29-30]

© 2020 by Boaz Heilman

The 42 Steps: Matot—Mass’ei.20

The 42 Steps: D’var Torah for Matot—Mass’ei

July 17, 2020

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

We like to collect mementos, souvenirs of places we’ve been to or experiences that hold meaning for us. Whether it’s a rock found on a hike in the Carmel Mountains or on the hills of Jerusalem, a touristy knick-knack from an exotic location, or a magnet from each State in the Union that we have visited, we all have our collections. Like songs from a particular era, our souvenirs hold memories for us, they take us back to other places and times. They help us keep track of where we are today, and where we’ve been along the way.

With this week’s Torah reading, (the double portion Matot-Mass’ei, Numbers 30:2—36:13), the book of Numbers, the fourth book in the Torah, comes to a close. In this concluding section we are given a list of all the places the Israelites stopped at along their journeys in the Sinai Wilderness—forty-two stops in all—each bringing up memories, some good, others not so much. Still others are a mixed bag. So at Mt. Sinai the Israelites receive the Ten Commandments. But also at this very time and place—the most awesome moment of God’s revelation—they give in to temptation and bow down before the Golden Calf.

Forty years later, as their travels come to a close, right before they ford the Jordan River, with all the hope and jubilation the Israelites might have felt at that moment, they are also about to be thrown into mourning over the loss of their guide and teacher. Mt. Nebo is the spot from which Moses will see the Promised Land—but where he is about to die and be buried.

Yet it’s more than memories that these souvenirs hold for us: It’s lessons, too. The Torah is a roadmap for us, marking not only where we were, but also what we learned there.

For all its grandeur and vision, the Torah is really a microcosm of Jewish existence. We have been wandering not only forty years, but rather thousands of years. We have seen empires come and go, civilizations rise and fall. We have lived through revolutions and civil wars. We witnessed pogroms and crusades. We’ve seen golden ages become dark ages, and back again.

And through all these, our understanding both of life and its meaning has continued to evolve, grow and mature.

As a people, however, we tend to mark the successes of our existence, our miraculous escapes from persecution. What all too often we overlook is our failures. It isn’t only the complaining in the desert, or even the worship of the Golden Calf. It’s the zealotry of Pinchas, whose murderous rage sets an example for all zealots who do not hesitate to kill in the name of their belief. It’s the genocide of the Midianites, the indiscriminate killing of all men, women and children and the looting of all their possessions.

That we have come a long way from these horrific memories does not cancel or erase them from our Torah. They are always there, their purpose to remind us of the dangers and pitfalls we need to circumvent.

Our successes must never blind us to our failings. Our rich contributions to humanity must never cover up mistakes that we also made along our long history.

Today, bitter dialogue is arising between Jews and members of the Black Lives Matter movement. Unwelcome reminders of what has been termed “Jewish privilege” are flung in our faces. And while we can come up with responses to some of these, others are not so easy to excuse. While the African slave trade was neither invented nor financed by the Jews, there were Jewish slave traders. And there has been cultural appropriation. Jewish and non-Jewish musicians, including George Gershwin, Benny Goodman and many others—used blues, jazz and other musical idioms developed by Blacks to their own advantage and gain.

We can always find excuses: these very Jewish musicians also helped popularize black music and bring it to the attention of the white cultural elite, paving the road for eventual recognition of the Black contribution to American—and world—music.

And we can also find excuses for the pawnbrokers and the Jewish merchants who opened up shops in Black neighborhoods—when they couldn’t afford (or weren’t allowed in) other, more expensive locations.

But it’s also vital that we recognize that there were Jews who definitely took advantage of their color and money: absentee slumlords who failed to maintain and upkeep their buildings. Real estate and property developers who conspired to keep people of color segregated. Racism is evident in some of the language we use and even in the beliefs some Jews hold. We are, after all, product of the culture of which we are part, to which we contribute but from which we also absorb and draw sustenance.

But at the same time we must not lose sight of the fact that anti-Semitism is present in many of the statements we hear coming out of the Black Lives Matter movement and certain individuals. Anti-Zionism—the latest form that anti-Semitism has taken in its long evolution—is prevalent on college campuses and in many of the liberal media. A prominent member of the editorial staff on the New York Times—Bari Weiss—resigned a couple of days ago, citing bullying and harassment from other staffers. This, too, is part of the culture we live in today, where Jews more and more are excluded from public debate and representation.  And it doesn’t stop only with words. Desecration and vandalism of Jewish cemeteries and synagogues, violent assaults and mass shootings at places easily recognizable as Jewish-owned or catering to Jews have risen in the double digits.

Obviously not all of these acts can be attributed to anti-Semitism among People of Color. The rise of neo-Nazis and other far-right extremists is equally worrying.

We Jews cannot be complacent about any of this. In an interview given two days ago, former NYPD Commissioner Ray Kelly warned that “We are in a dangerous place in history,” and that Jews should “protect our communities.”

And how exactly should we do that? Most synagogues and JCC’s already have armed security guards at their gates. Perhaps we should now learn to build golems, like the famous Golem of Prague?

As we continue to watch events unfolding on city streets; as we continue to follow political debates on the media; whatever position we take, we must always also remember to stand up for ourselves. Supporting the rights of other minorities does not diminish our responsibility to ourselves, to the Jewish community and to the entire Jewish people.

What a timely reminder we find in these concluding portions of the Torah’s Book of Numbers, as Moses chides two of the twelve tribes of Israel who choose to dwell outside the borders of the Promised Land. Does that mean that they won’t come to the aid of the other Israelites as they struggle to establish and defend themselves, Moses inquires with both anger and indignation. To which the members of the tribes of Gad and Reuben answer, we will always be there for our brethren!

The question of what we Jews must do to protect ourselves has always been part of our culture. All along our history, some Jews sought to disappear rather than stand up, to hide rather than fight back.

This is one of the stones I have picked up along my many stops along my path in life, a reminder that I must not be silent when my people are threatened. It’s much more than a magnet on my refrigerator or a song on my playlist: It’s a vow I have taken, one I will not renege on, one which will always be there before my eyes. I will not be pushed aside or silenced.

As a Jew, I will continue to engage in the ongoing struggle to free the oppressed and to integrate the disenfranchised, excluded and subjugated.

But at the same time I will continue to demand for myself and my people the very same freedoms I demand for others—the right to exist, to define myself, to defend myself and my people against all our detractors.

We have learned much since our early days as a civilization. Our accomplishments and our missteps have taught us much about the rights and wrongs of warfare; about civil rights; about justice for all human beings, regardless of color, gender or creed. Our history and culture are always there to remind us that we have come a long way from Sinai to where we stand today.

Today we stand together: One people, one God, one humanity, “with liberty and justice for all.”  This is our path, no matter how many steps it will take to get there.

© 2020 by Boaz Heilman

Rebuilding America: Independence Day 2020

Rebuilding America: Independence Day 2020

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Not often, but just sometimes, I long for the simpler days of the past. Not even the recent past, but rather those ancient days of the Torah and Prophets. In truth, I don’t look at those days through rose-tinted glasses. I don’t think there were fewer problems then—only simpler solutions. Take this week’s Torah portion, Chukat, and specifically the sacrifice ordained in its first few verses, Deut. 19:1-12, the ritual of the Red Heifer.

Little is known about this strange and mysterious sacrifice. Intended to atone for unspeakable sins committed by an individual or community, it’s said to have been offered either seven or nine times during the entire time that the Temple stood in Jerusalem.

Some commentators say that the original sin which necessitated this law was the worship of the Golden Calf. Another story, from the Midrash, explains that it was meant to exorcise demons. In either case, it was a purification ceremony. Its hopeful effect was to remove guilt from the community, so that all could go about their business with a clear conscience. Simple, neat, and effective. How sad that we don’t have this kind of reset button in our own day. How much we could all use it, as individuals and as a nation.

244 years ago, this country was founded on the principle of freedom, justice and equality for all. A wonderful ideal—but like all ideals, difficult to achieve. Several things stood in the way.

For one thing, white settlement in the New World was based on colonialism, the belief that countries could impose their religious, cultural and economic systems on other nations and lands. And even though religious freedom was one of the goals of the original Pilgrims, not all religions were equally accepted.  The right of Jews to practice Judaism was a hard-won freedom. And then, of course, there was slavery, born of economic necessity, greed, and inherent racism.

The inevitable conflict between the ideal and the real led to disastrous results that are still with us  today. Throughout America’s history, the sins of the fathers were visited upon the children, and today we still find racism, anti-Semitism and white nationalism ripping apart our society.

If only there were some simple ritual that, like the ancient Israelites, we could undergo to solve these problems!

Unfortunately, there isn’t one. And although we have been making headway, step by step, amendment by amendment, the road ahead is still unclear and perilous.

Now it feels as though America is under attack again. Not only from the COVID virus, nor so much from foreign countries (though this danger is always there)—but rather from within. Today, our society and nation are suffering from wounds that have never healed and are still painful, still bleeding.

How did we get here? From a group of individualists seeking freedom and unity, today we are a people who have turned against one another, with some groups intent on imposing their own beliefs, their own way of looking at God, lifestyle and mission, upon others, with little or no tolerance for other possibilities. The prejudices of our past are still an inseparable part of who we are today. They determine where we live, what we do, where and how we educated our children, and how we protect ourselves from real or perceived danger.

It would be easy to put the blame on the virus, or the political system, even climate changes. But though these are powerful factors, they are not in themselves the root cause of the riots and demonstrations that have been taking place in almost every city in America. Yet they do serve to tear the veil from our eyes, making visible what we so conveniently veered our gaze from until now.

As we look forward, in a short six years, to the 250^th anniversary of the founding of our nation, we have much to contend with. Though the goals of the Founding Fathers were noble, our path has not been guilt-free. Our nation was founded on colonialism, our homes built on land taken by force and violence from Native Americans. Our entire economic system is based on cheap labor—and until not too long ago, on actual slavery. To this day, our socio-economic system is defined by gender, color, race and religion. This is what has delineated property lines, demarcated our inner cities from outlying suburbs. This is what led to an hierarchical education system; a healthcare system that discriminates between those who can afford medical attention and those who can’t; and a judicial structure that singles out and victimizes People of Color.

The United States is a political experiment unique in all history. Unlike nations that can claim a past going back to ancient days, sharing a common history and fate; unlike empires that sought to unify through domination and subjugation, our country was formed with these unique ideals: That freedom is the right and privilege of every individual; that Government is neither exempt from the law nor above it; that unity emerges from the collective effort and contributions of the many. This, at least, is what the Fourth of July has always meant for me. When I look at the Stars and Stripes, what I see is the potential for greatness, just as the millions who arrived at the shores of America looked through the harbor mists and saw the Statue of Liberty standing for the promise of acceptance, opportunity, and equality. But this glorious vision is only true for some, not for all. For those who came as slaves, for those who were driven from their native lands, America was far less than all that.

And that is what we—we, I say, all of us, of all genders, races, religions and philosophies—must fix if this nation is to find healing. Once upon a time, it was possible for a high priest to slaughter an animal and offer ablution for our sins. Today, we must be the priest. It’s up to us to atone for those sins by which we have benefitted. “You shall not stand idly by your brother’s blood,” the Torah teaches us. We must not profit from the suffering of others—that’s the basis of human morality and the teaching of every creed, faith and religion.

On this Independence Day, it is incumbent upon us not to look with arrogance and self-righteousness at our past, but rather with humility and questioning at our future. At his inaugural address in 1961, President John F. Kennedy challenged us to, “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.” Today we must ask ourselves a similar question: What can each of us do to heal our nation, to bind our wounds, to make us whole again, whether by voting, demonstrating, patronizing businesses owned and run by People of Color, or simply by engaging in conversation and learning about conditions we turned a blind eye to in the past.

Perhaps, in the end, it’s just as well that the Torah’s Ritual of the Red Heifer isn’t practiced anymore. It made it too easy to find forgiveness, to go on with life, to return to a situation that we called normal. What we know today is that there is no silver bullet, no magic reset button, only the hard work of reconciliation and rebuilding America.

244 years ago, our Forefathers laid the groundwork for a great nation. Today, we must be its builders, replacing worn structures with new ones, paving roads and bridges that will take us forward, not backwards; making sure that when we say, “with liberty and justice for all,” we really mean “all” and not “just some.”

May the day come soon when prejudice and intolerance will be gone from this nation and this earth, when true equality will enable each of us to reach the potential for which we were placed on this earth.

May this be God’s will.

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman