Over three thousand years ago Jerusalem was chosen. There are indications it was a place of distinction before, but David’s decision to choose a capital city located between the North and South — as Washington, D.C. is in the U.S. — was decisive.
In the great poet Yehuda Amichai’s imagination, Jerusalem still whispers its original Jebusite name: “Y’vus, Y’vus, Y’vus in the dark.” The silent stones speak of ancient peoples, and even today notes are placed in the wall as if to coax the mute rocks into eloquence.
Through endless songs and photos and explanations people have tried to capture the specialness of a city whose reunification was celebrated this past week. Although writing of his home in Sussex, Kipling may have put it best for lovers of the ancient city of David as well: “God gave all men all earth to love/ But, since our hearts are small/ Ordained for each one spot should prove/ Beloved over all.”
Jerusalem, so often conquered and degraded, is rebuilt and gleams. Once again, as in the time of David, it stands as the undivided capital of Israel, one spot that proves beloved over all.
A man complained to his psychiatrist that he talked to himself and was told that it is commonplace, nothing to worry about. But, said the man, you have no idea Doctor, what a nudnick I am.
The more time we spend alone the more likely we are to grow accustomed and perhaps impatient with our own voices inside our heads. For some it is a good thing: musician and wit Oscar Levant said he was giving up reading because he found it took his mind off himself. For most of us however, other voices are essential even if we are confined to our homes and cannot interact in person.
Rav Soloveitchik once described his Talmud class as follows: When he begins to teach, all of a sudden people appear, “Some of the visitors lived in the 11th century, some in the 12th century, some in the 13th century, some lived in antiquity – Rebbe Akiva, Rashi, Rabbeinu Tam, the Ra’avad, the Rashba, more and more come in, come in, come in. Of course, what do I do? I introduce them to my pupils and the dialogue commences.”
Jewish tradition is a room crowded with voices – loud, soft, witty, wise, angry, despairing, uplifting, Divine. Come and listen – you will feel less alone.
In the 12th century the great sage Maimonides wrote, “One who is ill has not only the right but the obligation to seek medical aid.” Jews have long been overrepresented in the medical field. To take one statistic quoted by Sherwin Nuland (a Jewish Doctor) in his short biography of Maimonides (a Jewish doctor): In the beginning of the fourteenth century, Jews comprised only 5% of the population of Marseilles. Almost half of the city’s doctors were Jewish.
This connection endured over time. In Vienna before the second World War, close to three quarters of the doctors were of Jewish origin.
While some religious traditions forbade medical treatment (Saint Bernard famously declared that monks who took medicine violated the principles of the church), Judaism has long insisted on human healing in addition to Divine mercy.
That danger to life justifies violating the Torah is a principle held by the greatest Jewish authorities (R. Yosef Karo Shulhan Aruch: Orah Hayyim 329:2; R. Meir Kagan, Mishna Berurah, ad. loc., s.v. kemehtza; R. Moshe Feinstein, Igros Moshe: Orah Hayyim I: 132).
Those who have the knowledge and power to save the sick are called upon to do so whenever they can, and medical knowledge is a great blessing. As Maimonides wrote, “Our love of God is commensurate with our knowledge of God’s ways.”
“The Lord is my shepherd…” Few passages in the Bible are more familiar than the 23rd Psalm. It is recited at funerals, at the bedside of the sick and in times of consolation. Its brevity and majesty make it among the most loved poems of all time.
For English speakers, the King James translation of the Psalm is part of the common culture: ‘my cup runneth over’ and ‘I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’
For us however, it is a word often unnoticed that is the most important in the entire Psalm: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me.” The word to notice is “walk.”
The Psalmist is teaching us that we do not stay in the valley. When a mourner is trapped by grief, or a society overcome by sorrow, it is crucial to remember that grief is not a permanent state. The shadow must give way to light. In our time what word could be more poignant? We are all in the valley, but we must not stay there. From 3,000 years ago the Psalmist is reminding us – walk.
I have a book called “Synagogues Without Jews.” It contains photographs of synagogues, many of them beautiful, where the Jewish community no longer exists. All that remains is the empty sanctuary. It bears mute, eloquent testimony to the destruction of Jewish communities across the globe.
In this week when we celebrate Israel’s Independence Day, Yom Ha’atzmaut, there are once again synagogues without Jews. The pandemic has emptied houses of worship and the sacred scrolls stand in the ark awaiting our return.
Unlike the desolate sanctuaries in the book however, we will return to the synagogue. Once again celebrations and song and prayer will rise from the now empty seats and words of Torah will be heard from the bimah.
Our task is to ensure that Jewish institutions remain strong throughout this crisis. The challenge of the Jewish people in this time is to make sure that our sanctuaries do not become like those in the book – testimony to a community that is gone. Continue to support your synagogue so that the Psalmists’ vision becomes our reality: “Weeping may last through the night, but joy comes in the morning” (Ps. 30:5).
Passover is done, but may I bring one more word about matzah?
Rabbi Simcha Bunim, a great chasidic master, once pointed out the strange sequence in the seder. Matzah represents freedom and the bitter herbs slavery. The seder begins with the Israelites enslaved. Why then do we eat matzah before maror, the bitter herbs?
His answer was that we need to appreciate freedom before we can understand the bitterness of slavery. Matzah must come first. When we lament that we are trapped at home, it is because we understand the joy of being able to go where we wish. Every grievance is the flip side of a gift. We are sad now because we know the joy of earlier times.
Rabbi Bunim was teaching us the art of appreciation even in a difficult time. Although the lesson was from Passover, it remains powerful throughout the year. Gratitude before grievance. Let’s remember that the seder ends in freedom, in the matzah of the afikomen. We cherish the hope that the pandemic will end in freedom and safety soon.
“There was not a house in which there was not death.” The Torah says this with regard to the Egyptians, but it is also a universal truth. Sooner or later in every house in which there is life there will be death.
We avoid confronting that reality. For most of human history people died in the streets or at home. Modern arrangements have made death remote and antiseptic. But the world reminds us that we do not have forever; that life is fragile and fleeting; that refusing to confront the reality of death does not change the fact that we will die.
A pandemic strips the illusion of eternity. Although painful this is essential. We love harder when we absorb the truth that one day we will need to let go. We savor the celebrations and cultivate the young who will follow, that our lives might ripple through the currents of time.
“Teach us to number our days that we might gain a heart of wisdom” says the Psalmist (90:12). Maybe you have to stay home, maybe you have lost or been hurt during this difficult time. But you are alive. You will not be alive forever. Number your days so that when they end you will know peace.
“This is the bread of affliction which our ancestors ate in Egypt. Let all who are hungry, come and eat.”
Why does the second sentence follow the first?
Perhaps we are misreading the famous injunction to be kind to the strangers because we were strangers in Egypt. It might not mean — you were a stranger so it is natural to have empathy for other strangers. For often people react in the opposite way: “I suffered and made it through, so they too can make it through.” Sometimes the difficulty of one’s own experience hardens rather than softens us. The Torah may be teaching, “You were strangers. That might lead you to believe that the experience is survivable and you don’t have to help other strangers. That is wrong. Overcome you callousness and be kind.”
This is the bread of affliction. It reminds us that we are not allowed to use our ancestors torments or our own as an excuse to ignore the sufferings of others. There is no monopoly on misfortune. During a pandemic it is easy to overlook the anguish of others because we are preoccupied with our own distress. Pesach reminds us that we are never permitted to use our hardship as a reason to forget the hardships of the world outside our walls.
This is the bread of affliction which our ancestors ate in Egypt. Let all who are hungry, come and eat.”
Why does the second sentence follow the first?
Perhaps we are misreading the famous injunction to be kind to the strangers because we were strangers in Egypt. It might not mean — you were a stranger so it is natural to have empathy for other strangers. For often people react in the opposite way: “I suffered and made it through, so they too can make it through.” Sometimes the difficulty of one’s own experience hardens rather than softens us. The Torah may be teaching, “You were strangers. That might lead you to believe that the experience is survivable and you don’t have to help other strangers. That is wrong. Overcome you callousness and be kind.”
This is the bread of affliction. It reminds us that we are not allowed to use our ancestors torments or our own as an excuse to ignore the sufferings of others. There is no monopoly on misfortune. During a pandemic it is easy to overlook the anguish of others because we are preoccupied with our own distress. Pesach reminds us that we are never permitted to use our hardship as a reason to forget the hardships of the world outside our walls.
The great Rabbi, the Maharal of Prague in the 16th century wrote that Passover changed the nature of the Jewish people, making them free even throughout the captivities of history. This theme was expressed in the twentieth century by Rabbi Aryeh Levin, the Tzaddik of Jerusalem who used to visit prisons and tell prisoners that genuine freedom began not from without, but from within. In our own time, luminaries such as Nelson Mandela and Natan Sharansky, although in prison, testified that they felt freedom in their souls.
For many of us this will be the first Pesach when we are uncomfortable leaving our own homes, almost as if captives. But restrictions without can create space within. There are universes to be explored in each one of us, and the ocean is no less a world than the sky. Be prepared to dive; in exploration and discovery is freedom. All over the world on the seder night Israel will be singing. The collective chorus proves that thousands of years later, we are still free.
