This morning, as the sand and the sea continue their endless dance and the hills surrounding Jerusalem continue to absorb last night's nourishing rain, my best friend is burying her big brother.
He was a young man, the family protector, humorous, a devoted Union member. He and his family have been both cherishing his life and preparing for his death for more than a year, just after his sudden diagnosis with Stage 4 cancer. In his last moments, he was surrounded by friends and family. They gathered to look at old pictures, to laugh, to recall the strong man he was even through most of his battle. My friend had the responsibility and the privilege and the blessing of holding his arm as he died--a great mitzvah, to accompany a dying person who will never have the chance to repay that kindness.
And there is another kindness to be done here, the mitzvah of comforting mourners. I wish with all my heart that I could be with the family at the burial and in the coming days to say, "Hamakom y'nachem etchem," May God, the one who is in all places, comfort you."
"As a mother comforts her son, so I will comfort you." (Isaiah 66:13)
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Pouring Out Prayer
In contemporary Judaism, we think of prayer as something that happens in a very particular place at a very particular time. Prayer is a ritual—some might even say a routine—for the synagogue. In this week’s Torah portion, we had an example of a different kind of prayer, the prayer of Isaac.
Isaac had lain on the stone, wood for the fire below him, and he had looked up at his father Abraham, a knife raised in his hand to sacrifice Isaac, his son, whom he loved. Isaac was spared, the ram slaughtered in his place, but it cannot have been an image easily forgotten. His traumatic near-death is followed closely by the death of his mother, Sarah, and Isaac is lost from the story for a number of verses.
“Va’yetzse Yitzchak lashuach basadeh”—Isaac went out to wander in the field (Bereshit 24.63). What does it mean, “to wander”? The Rabbis of our tradition argue that Isaac went into the field to pray.
If Isaac’s walk in the woods contained prayer, we shouldn’t be surprised. After all, he’s got a lot on his mind. His father tried to kill him; his mother is dead. In his youth, he lost his half-brother Yishmael to the fear and jealousy of his mother. His life has been complicated. His stroll immediately precedes the dramatic first meeting between him and his future wife Rebecca (so struck by the image of Isaac in the field that she “fell from her camel” when their eyes met). He walks, as day turns (literally in the Hebrew) to evening, lifting his eyes to see the caravan of camels approaching with the wife who will soon bring him comfort.
The rabbis who interpret Isaac’s walk in the field as prayer clarify that he walks in order “lishpoch sicho,” to pour out his conversation. My classmates and I spend much time thinking about our own current and future practice as leaders of prayer and as pray-ers. How does—or how can—that prayer relate to Isaac’s outpouring of words?
Abraham Joshua Heschel, in Quest for God, argues that prayer is a combination of the material and the spiritual, a constant balance and interplay between keva (formula) and kavanah (intention). He says, “The body is the discipline, the pattern, the law; the spirit is the inner devotion, spontaneity, freedom. The body without the spirit is a corpse; the spirit without the body is a ghost.”
At the Akedah, the binding and near-sacrifice, Isaac was merely a body and almost a corpse; traumatized, he returned to his life only to find himself a mourner, left to his overwhelming grief, a ghost. I’d like to think that in his prayer in the field, in his outpouring of conversation, Isaac became whole again. His prayer brought together body and spirit, flesh and emotion, keva and kavanah, and prepared him to continue living. Prepared him, even, to love (and to love actively, as I learned from the people at Amichai’s this weekend) and to accept comfort.
The rabbis argue that Isaac prayed, and they use his example as part of the reasoning behind the daily afternoon prayer, which takes place in those liminal hours when day turns to evening. I’m not convinced, however, that Isaac prayed only in a way resembling our contemporary prayer service. His was an outpouring of conversation, not a recitation of fixed texts. Did he converse with God, in a reciprocal dialogue? Did he simply expel his thoughts and feelings in utterances, sometimes forming words and sometimes only sounds?
I’m not saying we should throw out our prayerbooks and wander in the fields. But I’d like to learn something from Isaac’s prayer, especially if that outpouring enabled him to find love and comfort, to turn from what could have been utter desperation and disillusionment towards a new family and a new life.
Isaac had lain on the stone, wood for the fire below him, and he had looked up at his father Abraham, a knife raised in his hand to sacrifice Isaac, his son, whom he loved. Isaac was spared, the ram slaughtered in his place, but it cannot have been an image easily forgotten. His traumatic near-death is followed closely by the death of his mother, Sarah, and Isaac is lost from the story for a number of verses.
“Va’yetzse Yitzchak lashuach basadeh”—Isaac went out to wander in the field (Bereshit 24.63). What does it mean, “to wander”? The Rabbis of our tradition argue that Isaac went into the field to pray.
If Isaac’s walk in the woods contained prayer, we shouldn’t be surprised. After all, he’s got a lot on his mind. His father tried to kill him; his mother is dead. In his youth, he lost his half-brother Yishmael to the fear and jealousy of his mother. His life has been complicated. His stroll immediately precedes the dramatic first meeting between him and his future wife Rebecca (so struck by the image of Isaac in the field that she “fell from her camel” when their eyes met). He walks, as day turns (literally in the Hebrew) to evening, lifting his eyes to see the caravan of camels approaching with the wife who will soon bring him comfort.
The rabbis who interpret Isaac’s walk in the field as prayer clarify that he walks in order “lishpoch sicho,” to pour out his conversation. My classmates and I spend much time thinking about our own current and future practice as leaders of prayer and as pray-ers. How does—or how can—that prayer relate to Isaac’s outpouring of words?
Abraham Joshua Heschel, in Quest for God, argues that prayer is a combination of the material and the spiritual, a constant balance and interplay between keva (formula) and kavanah (intention). He says, “The body is the discipline, the pattern, the law; the spirit is the inner devotion, spontaneity, freedom. The body without the spirit is a corpse; the spirit without the body is a ghost.”
At the Akedah, the binding and near-sacrifice, Isaac was merely a body and almost a corpse; traumatized, he returned to his life only to find himself a mourner, left to his overwhelming grief, a ghost. I’d like to think that in his prayer in the field, in his outpouring of conversation, Isaac became whole again. His prayer brought together body and spirit, flesh and emotion, keva and kavanah, and prepared him to continue living. Prepared him, even, to love (and to love actively, as I learned from the people at Amichai’s this weekend) and to accept comfort.
The rabbis argue that Isaac prayed, and they use his example as part of the reasoning behind the daily afternoon prayer, which takes place in those liminal hours when day turns to evening. I’m not convinced, however, that Isaac prayed only in a way resembling our contemporary prayer service. His was an outpouring of conversation, not a recitation of fixed texts. Did he converse with God, in a reciprocal dialogue? Did he simply expel his thoughts and feelings in utterances, sometimes forming words and sometimes only sounds?
I’m not saying we should throw out our prayerbooks and wander in the fields. But I’d like to learn something from Isaac’s prayer, especially if that outpouring enabled him to find love and comfort, to turn from what could have been utter desperation and disillusionment towards a new family and a new life.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
The Hope
The Israeli national anthem is called “HaTikva”—“The Hope.” Back home in the United States, all the talk is about hope, and change, and potential. “Yes, we can,” everyone is chorusing as they cry in joy, hug strangers, pinch themselves to make sure it really happened: we just elected the first Black President of the United States, we ousted a Republican administration that rolled back civil liberties and trampled our Constitution to pursue war.
In our Israel Seminar, a course designed to explore the formation of the Jewish State and to see how conceptions of Israeli national identity have changed over time, we have been discussing the challenge Israel faced, at its founding just 60 years ago, in creating a unified nation out of a collection of disparate ethnic, religious, and political groups. With a commitment to open immigration for all Jews, Israel faces the unique challenge of absorbing newcomers and integrating them into Israeli culture. Israel can be seen as a melting pot or as assimilationist or as multicultural. It’s not simple, and it’s not static.
The United States, of course, is touted as the world’s great melting pot, a unique meritocracy where anyone can “make it.” On November 4, many Americans, for the first time in their lives, felt that this was true for them, that the American dream included them, that the promise of “America” was extended to their lives, their dreams, their hopes. This morning (6 am Israeli time), as I read the results online, I felt a sense of pride and promise in my own country that I think was only sharpened by being so very far away—in so many ways—from the pluralist democracy that just elected Barack Obama to the highest office in the land.
You can practically hear the fife and drum in the background, I know, but I do think the American project—a commitment to pluralism and a Constitution that is both enduring and flexible—is an admirable one. I don’t want to live anywhere else (as beautiful as Israel is). My only disappointment today comes from the cracks in the unity that Obama praised in his speech. In California especially, the American commitment to pluralism, the project of allowing disparate communities with disparate voices to live side by side, was rejected with Proposition 8, the anti-gay-marriage ballot initiative.
President-Elect Obama addressed the nation on Election Night with a message not only of hope but of unity. A nation of so many ethnicities and identities, America is not, he said “a collection of red states and blue states” but remains the United States of America. He called his election a call to “reclaim the American dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth that out of many, we are one.” He asked what will happen “if our children should live to see the next century.” “What change,” he pondered, “will they see?” My hope, voiced from Israel, is that the change we will see is the change we have begun to make with this election, a change toward greater pluralism.
In our Israel Seminar, a course designed to explore the formation of the Jewish State and to see how conceptions of Israeli national identity have changed over time, we have been discussing the challenge Israel faced, at its founding just 60 years ago, in creating a unified nation out of a collection of disparate ethnic, religious, and political groups. With a commitment to open immigration for all Jews, Israel faces the unique challenge of absorbing newcomers and integrating them into Israeli culture. Israel can be seen as a melting pot or as assimilationist or as multicultural. It’s not simple, and it’s not static.
The United States, of course, is touted as the world’s great melting pot, a unique meritocracy where anyone can “make it.” On November 4, many Americans, for the first time in their lives, felt that this was true for them, that the American dream included them, that the promise of “America” was extended to their lives, their dreams, their hopes. This morning (6 am Israeli time), as I read the results online, I felt a sense of pride and promise in my own country that I think was only sharpened by being so very far away—in so many ways—from the pluralist democracy that just elected Barack Obama to the highest office in the land.
You can practically hear the fife and drum in the background, I know, but I do think the American project—a commitment to pluralism and a Constitution that is both enduring and flexible—is an admirable one. I don’t want to live anywhere else (as beautiful as Israel is). My only disappointment today comes from the cracks in the unity that Obama praised in his speech. In California especially, the American commitment to pluralism, the project of allowing disparate communities with disparate voices to live side by side, was rejected with Proposition 8, the anti-gay-marriage ballot initiative.
President-Elect Obama addressed the nation on Election Night with a message not only of hope but of unity. A nation of so many ethnicities and identities, America is not, he said “a collection of red states and blue states” but remains the United States of America. He called his election a call to “reclaim the American dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth that out of many, we are one.” He asked what will happen “if our children should live to see the next century.” “What change,” he pondered, “will they see?” My hope, voiced from Israel, is that the change we will see is the change we have begun to make with this election, a change toward greater pluralism.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)