In his book “The Art of Rivalry” Sebastian Smee writes about the often bitter rivalries that existed between the great artists of the twentieth century. Matisse and Picasso, Manet and Degas, Pollock and De Kooning, and Freud and Bacon were sometimes friends, sometimes enemies and always in competition with one another. Smee shows that the rivalry made each a better artist.
The notion of rivalry to improve rather than simply destroy is increasingly rare. In sports, the end zone dance is to mock the opposition. In politics, the argument is not for clarity but victory. There is a delight in the downfall of others that goes beyond the normal limits of Schadenfreude. We suffer from an excess of schadenfreudal glee.
“The envy of scholars increases wisdom” teaches the Talmud. Rabbi Johanan was saddened by the loss of his intellectual sparring partner, Resh Lakish, and complained that others just supported his positions when Resh Lakish offered twenty-four objections to each view. Trying to outdo another can make us better.
We are spurred by competition but debased by maliciousness. Time to relearn the precious art of rivalry.
Yes, Sukkot is over, but Rabbi David Bashevkin drew my attention to a beautiful comment that you can remember until next year!
During the grace after meals on Sukkot we recoite the blessing asking God to rebuild the “fallen Sukkah of David.” The blessing comes from the prophet Amos (9:11). The Maharal of Prague points out that when we ask God to rebuild the “fallen Sukkah” of David, we are saying something profound about the nature of a Sukkah. Unlike a house which, when it falls or crumbles, is no longer a house but a pile of rubble, even a dismantled Sukkah remains a Sukkah.
The lesson is one of restoration. The pieces of a relationship may be gathered back up and restored. The elements of something sacred retain their character, because they are awaiting renewal. The Jewish people, scattered, remained one people, not a random group, and when Israel was reborn we reassembled like a fallen Sukkah raised anew.
Sukkot may be over, but the lesson endures forever.
When Rudyard Kipling’s popularity was at his height, the story goes, he used to receive 10 shillings a word for his stories. Two students at Oxford mischievously sent him a letter enclosing 10 shillings, explaining that they had heard of his rate per word, and asking Kipling to send them one of his best.
Kipling wrote back, “Thanks.”
The first words tradition asks us to say in the morning are words of gratitude – modeh ani. We should be grateful for the privilege of each new day that we are able to experience the variety and wonder of this life. If we have eaten, we should be grateful. If we can see the sky, or hear the birds, or greet a friend, we should be grateful. There have always been things wrong in people’s lives, and there is much that needs changing. But to wish for what might be is not to slight the blessing of what is. Modeh Ani, how grateful I am for the sacrifices of those before me, the goodness of those around me, and the God who makes possible the astounding richness of our world.
After Yom Kippur comes Sukkot. Repentance, then rain.
Sukkot actually reinforces the theme of Yom Kippur in a powerful way. The Day of Atonement teaches the brevity of life – who shall live and who shall die. Coming off the day we might feel insecure, knowing that we are fleeting, as if singled out to be momentary beings on the face of time. But Sukkot reminds us that nothing lasts – not the structures of human beings, not even the natural materials from which we compose our homes.
Judaism recognizes only the permanence of God. Everything else moves through the scythe of time.
Understanding that we share this with all living things may not make it painless, but certainly makes it easier. Do you get older? So too does everything, from stars to earth. With a little twist, Gershwin got it right:
“In time the Rockies may crumble/ Gibraltar may tumble/ They’re only made of clay/ But God’s love is here to stay.”
Each of us faces two kinds of intertwined struggles: those with the world and those inside oneself. True, if you change yourself you are likely to act differently toward others, and if you act differently it will trigger changes in the self. Yet we still appreciate that these are somehow distinct. Meditation and prayer we understand as essentially internal. Feeding the hungry or taking part in political demonstrations, for example, we think of as mostly external.There is a large Jewish literature on practicing even if one does not feel the desire to do so, in the belief that action will change one’s internal state. There is also a considerable discussion on what Bahya called “duties of the heart” – the need to train oneself in feeling as well as in practice.The Talmud tells us that Rabban Gamliel used to announce, “Any student whose inside is not like his outside may not enter the House of Study.” Doing what your heart says can be as difficult as feeling what your hands do. So we try to act better, feel more and to align our actions and feelings, divided creatures in an unredeemed world.
As a pulpit rabbi, I look out each High Holidays at a different congregation. The year before we chanted “who shall live and who shall die.” I see absences – people who were there the year before who are no longer there. Bereavements have left spaces in our community.
The congregation is also different because I have learned about many of my congregants in the interim. Some have married or had children; others divorced or suffered some sort of personal setback or tragedy. Some have come to speak to me and confided something about their lives or the lives of those close to them. I do not see the same people I saw the year before. Everyone changes with increasing intimacy.
When you have been a rabbi in the same congregation for over twenty years, the boundaries of family and friendship, community and congregation become porous. We are a Beit Knesset, a house of gathering. And each year we gather to reflect on losses and gains, struggles and strains, joys and blessings that time has brought us all. Another year has passed: Shevach L’el Boreh Olam – Praise to the Source of all. Shana Tovah.
On Rosh Hashana we repeat U’vchein ten Pachdecha which is literally – grant your fear. Since fear seems such a negative concept, why is this phrase so central to the prayers?
Fear can be a more powerful motivator than love. You may love others, but a police car behind you will be more effective in getting you to drive safely than the love of the driver in front of you. And while it is true that fear sometimes prevents us from doing what we might, it is also true that a bit more fear might help prevent us from doing what we ought not to do.
We fear being hurt, but how much do we fear hurting others? We fear missing out on what life has to offer, but how much do we fear missing out on enabling others to take advantage of life’s joys? The fear we pray for makes us broader, not more narrow, kinder, not clenched and closed.
Judaism is based on love – “you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart.” Rather than denying other emotions however, it raises them to a level where everything we are, even our fears, can contribute to holiness.
In this month of Elul before Rosh Hashana we blow the shofar each morning after the minyan. Several years ago I used to listen to the shofar masterfully blown by Rabbi Mark Fasman, who was also a concert trumpet player. I once asked him why he chose the trumpet and he gave a beautiful answer: “I wanted to play an instrument where the music came from inside me.”
What Rabbi Fasman said reminds us of the shofar’s lesson. We use various kinds of tools and instruments in the world, but the music must come from inside of us. In our prayers, we ask that all creation look to God, but primarily our own souls, for God leaves it to each person whether they will be prayerful, grateful or indifferent.
In this season of repentance the shofar is often compared to an alarm clock, intended to wake the sleeping soul. But it is also a reminder of the breath — the ruah, spirit, within each of us that, if stirred, can create music.
A beautiful question-and-answer in the name of the Gerer Rebbe: When strangers come to visit Abraham (Genesis chapter 18), e Torah tells us that Abraham, who was in God’s presence, rushes out to visit the strangers. The Talmud comments on this that we learn it is more important to greet strangers than to bask in the Divine presence.
The Rebbe asked – we learn this lesson from Abraham, but how did Abraham know? How did he have the chutzpah, the audacity, to walk away from God to greet the strangers?
His answer: It is actually because Abraham was in God’s presence that he went to greet them. To feel the Shechina, the Divine presence is to be moved to do a mitzvah. God’s will is expressed in our conduct toward one another.
In the Jewish tradition, devotion to God is less a theological question than a behavioral one. Closeness is exemplified through a life of mitzvot, in prayer that moves one to action, in ritual that is reflected in community and kindness. Abraham was uplifted by encounter to open his home and his heart.
Almost every week public figures are attacked or embarrassed for what they have put on social media. We are reminded of the perils of ease – make your thoughts too quickly public and you are likely to regret it. We have forgotten the old advice of slowly counting to ten, of writing something and then revisiting it before you publish.
There are merits to meeting resistance. Easy lends itself to excess. Forage for food and you probably won’t overeat. Open the refrigerator full of food and you probably will. If you have to test your argument, think about it, practice it, it is likely to come out more moderate and defensible. Those things I have regretted writing or saying have almost always been too reactive and too fast. Slowness needs to be constantly reinforced: interestingly, both slow up and slow down mean the same thing.
Slow and steady — Aesop was right after all. But I suspect the reason the turtle won was that the hare, rushing along, kept bumping into people, making enemies and getting into arguments. Slow down; think before you speak, or post. Be a turtle.
