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NJOP
Bereshith Newsletter
September 2000
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Learning
from Mistakes
by Joe Hample
Does
G-d make mistakes? Of course, the traditional answer is no,
but how do we know G-d doesn't make mistakes? Now, this is
just my own opinion, I'm not speaking for NJOP, but I think
we have a need to believe in an ultimate wisdom. We need something
to put in that conceptual slot and that's where G-d comes
in. I'm imperfect, you're imperfect, your parent or child
is imperfect, your boss or landlord is imperfect, Bill Gates
is imperfect -- but imperfect by what standard? Imperfect
compared with whom? Our minds can conceive of a perfect being,
and we need to name it. Two or more perfect beings would imply
two or more versions of perfection, thus marring the clarity
of the concept. Our Jewish idea of striving for the right,
for the one true meaning of justice, requires a single flawless
Deity.
Even so, when we read the Torah, or history, it's hard to
be sure G-d is error-free. Certainly G-d changes direction
a lot. For example: G-d created people and says they're very
good; then G-d drowns humanity because they're so wicked;
finally, G-d promises never to destroy the world again, because
humankind is not worse than one could reasonably expect --
two changes of the Divine mind on the same issue in the space
of a few chapters. But this is a good thing, isn't it? I'm
flexible. It sets a worthy example; it teaches us to be flexible.
A more painful question is why G-d created Amalek, or Nebuchadnezzar,
or Torquemada, or Hitler. Weren't those mistakes? Didn't G-d
foresee the wickedness in their hearts and the damage they
would do? Did something slip through the cracks there? Or
is it possible G-d created these scoundrels on purpose, to
test us or teach us some kind of terrible lesson? Personally,
I'm not able to see it that way. I can't understand these
villains as either G-d's mistakes or the instruments of G-d's
inscrutable will. I have to believe that history's rascals
chose their own wickedness in defiance of G-d. They had as
much power as you or I to choose the good, but they blew it.
G-d may make life difficult, but the silver lining is choice,
the power to choose life. A world without pitfalls would be
a world without choices, and that doesn't have much appeal.
So I really don't think G-d makes mistakes. And I don't think
human mistakes are inevitable, either, in principle.
The worst mistake of all is to obsess about our mistakes.
In the Bible, people tear their clothes a lot when the prophets
scold them for their shortcomings. This is not such a good
idea. Clothes don't grow on trees. Better they should digest
the experience and move on. We never do anything perfectly:
life is approximation. For some reason we tend to see our
flaws more clearly than our talents. We easily become preoccupied
with our defects. I have a big problem with this myself. But
when I catch myself fretting about any little misstep, like
buying groceries and forgetting the eggs, I just tell myself
the fridge will be better stocked than it was before. That's
all we can ask, the opportunity to make things a little better
than they were before.
As you know, the number one High Holiday buzzword is t'shuva:
"return" or "repentance." The word means both going back where
you were before and going forward to a new place of responsibility
and maturity. At the New Year, we're returning to the beginning
of the annual cycle, but also entering a fresh chunk of time
we've never seen before.
Another form of the word t'shuva turns up in Etz Chayim, the
song we sing when we return the Torah to the ark. "Hashivenue,
Hashem, elecha v'nashuvah," Let us return to you, O G-d, and
we shall return. The next line is "chaddesh yameinu k'kedem,"
Renew our days as of old. This is the ultimate prayer, isn't
it? Give us another chance, make us new again, let us start
over again in health and strength and youthful enthusiasm.
That's a powerful prayer for those of us who woke up one day
and realized we are in our forties and still aren't rich and
famous. I feel very close to you; I think I can tell you this
-- sometimes I've been tempted to wallow in what is fashionably
called a midlife crisis. A midlife crisis is when you've been
an adult long enough to realize you don't know how to be an
adult. But you have to treat your errors as an education,
and make the best of being a big wrinkled kid. It has its
moments.
So G-d is out there, or in here, and G-d is watching us live
our people's weird and wonderful story, a story that is never
finished, a story that continues at this hour on this holy
day. It's our responsibility, not just to know this imperfect
story, but to own it, to act out its best elements, to heed
its cautionary advice. That's why our ancestors left it to
us.
Actually, it's remarkable how often we are rescued from our
own folly. It would be too much to say that G-d always makes
things work out in the end: we're not in the messianic era
yet. But we're supposed to believe in the possibility of improvement
and transcendence, in the Divine power to recover what seems
lost and revive what seems dead. And in my life, at least,
it's surprising how often things have worked out in the end,
much more often than I deserved. I've made a lot of faux pas,
but my friends have usually forgiven me. I've fumbled my way
through a baffling career, but that paycheck keeps showing
up twice a month. I've eaten too much, exercised too little,
crossed against the light, but I've survived to tell the tale.
Like Blanche du Bois, I've relied on the kindness of strangers,
but in my case the strangers have largely justified my confidence.
Even when our mistakes do lead us to grief, it's important
to pardon ourselves and turn the page. No use adding the insult
of self reproach to the injury of misjudgment. We can use
the word t'shuva for any change of direction, whether moral
or pragmatic, and certainly for the decision to leave our
mistakes behind. If you're ever tempted by self-recrimination,
just ask yourself: does the past exist in any physical sense?
Or is the past just shadow and memory, just a storage area
in the mind? We dare not shrug off our sins against others
because only our victims can forgive us. When we are our own
victims, however, we must be willing to forgive ourselves.
I like to think of the past as a library of experience, where
you can look up any type of choice or action and get a clue
as to the probable outcome. The past is reference material.
We're fools if we don't draw the appropriate lessons from
the past, but we're equally foolish if we let it poison the
present and future. At this season of repentance and renewal,
I urge you to learn from your mistakes, then dismiss them.
Don't let them make a mockery of your feast. Cut those mistakes
out of your heart. Banish them to the desert, and let G-d
heal your hurt, feed you from the banquet of peace, and soak
you with the well of redemption. L'shana tovah. Joe Hample,
a Systems Engineer, is the membership committee chair at Sha'ar
Zahav in San Francisco, CA, and a public speaker on Jewish
topics. not just to know this imperfect story, but to own
it, to act out its best elements, to heed its cautionary advice.
That's why our ancestors left it to us. Actually, it's remarkable
how often we are rescued from our own folly. It would be too
much to say that G-d always makes things work out in the end:
we're not in the messianic era yet. But we're supposed to
believe in the possibility of improvement and transcendence,
in the Divine power to recover what seems lost and revive
what seems dead. And in my life, at least, it's surprising
how often things have worked out in the end, much more often
than I deserved. I've made a lot of faux pas, but my friends
have usually forgiven me. I've fumbled my way through a baffling
career, but that paycheck keeps showing up twice a month.
I've eaten too much, exercised too little, crossed against
the light, but I've survived to tell the tale. Like Blanche
du Bois, I've relied on the kindness of strangers, but in
my case the strangers have largely justified my confidence.
Even when our mistakes do lead us to grief, it's important
to pardon ourselves and turn the page. No use adding the insult
of self reproach to the injury of misjudgement. We can use
the word t'shuva for any change of direction, whether moral
or pragmatic, and certainly for the decision to leave our
mistakes behind. If you're ever tempted by self-recrimination,
just ask yourself: does the past exist in any physical sense?
Or is the past just shadow and memory, just a storage area
in the mind? We dare not shrug off our sins against others
because only our victims can forgive us. When we are our own
victims, however, we must be willing to forgive ourselves.
I like to think of the past as a library of experience, where
you can look up any type of choice or action and get a clue
as to the probable outcome. The past is reference material.
We're fools if we don't draw the appropriate lessons from
the past, but we're equally foolish if we let it poison the
present and future.
At this season of repentance and renewal, I urge you to learn
from your mistakes, then dismiss them. Don't let them make
a mockery of your feast. Cut those mistakes out of your heart.
Banish them to the desert, and let G-d heal your hurt, feed
you from the banquet of peace, and soak you with the well
of redemption. L'shana tovah.
Excerpt from speech given on Rosh Hashana 5760 by Joe Hample |
Strengthening
Our Commitment
by
Rabbi Efrem Goldberg
Well,
Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, is fast ap-proaching, which
means it's about time to make those resolutions and commitments:
"This will be ‘THE big year,' the one in which I actually
follow through on my promises of self-improvement, character
development and religious dedication," or "This Rosh Hashana
and Yom Kippur will be a definite turning point in my life
and I will begin to maximize my potential."
Will this year be like every other year? Will we again dread
the Rosh Hashana service, constantly checking our watches
and seeing how many pages are left? Will we still feel anxiety
as Yom Kippur day approaches, dreading the long fast and seemingly
endless day of prayer?
Or maybe, just maybe, this year can be different. Perhaps
we will actually be moved by the High Holiday experience and
use it as a basis for growth. Perhaps we can make "this year
different from all other years?" (To borrow a phrase from
Passover.)
To begin the quest for a more effective Rosh Hashana, it is
good to re-examine the nature of the day. Interestingly, if
you search for the theme of Rosh Hashana in the Torah, you
will discover a very different description than you might
expect. Although most Jews think of the Jewish New Year as
a day of judgment, a day on which G-d sits in the Heavenly
courts punishing the sinners and rewarding the righteous,
in the Torah you find no mention whatsoever of a day of reckoning
in connection with Rosh Hashana.
In fact, the only reference in the Torah to anything normally
associated with Rosh Hashana is to the shofar: "G-d spoke
to Moses, saying. Speak to the children of Israel, saying:
In the seventh month, on the first of the month, there shall
be a rest day for you, a remembrance with shofar blasts, a
holy convocation. You shall not do any laborious work, and
you shall offer a fire-offering to G-d" (Leviticus 23:23-25).
Where in this passage is the fire and brimstone? Where is
the seriousness of a day on which our lives hang in the balance?
There is none -- because Rosh Hashana is about something much
deeper.
While some sources call Rosh Hashana the anniversary of the
creation of the world, it is actually the anniversary of the
creation of humankind -- which coincided with the 6th day
of creation. Celebrating the creation of humankind begs the
question: Why were we created? Why did G-d create a world
with the human being at the center of it?
Remember, G-d is infinite and omnipotent -- G-d is perfect.
By definition, G-d has no needs and no wants, so why did He
create a world of people? The conclusion must be that G-d's
creation of the universe was a most perfect act of altruism
and love, as the verse in Psalms (89:3) says, "The world is
built of love." Creation didn't fulfill any need or desire
of G-d, since He has none; rather, creation was a gift born
of pure motivation and benevolent intention -- something that
we, as finite beings, can come close to but can never achieve.
G-d created the world to bestow good on His handiwork.
What is the good G-d bestows? Since G-d is the source of all
good, the greatest gift of good is to know G-d. Man was created
as a creature capable of experiencing G-d. So far, so good
(no pun intended), but how do we experience G-d? How do we
connect and develop our relationship with Him? The closeness
of our relationship with G-d is determined by the same variable
that dictates the depth of any of our relationships in life
-- commitment. Commitment isn't about lip service and platitudes.
It is about the desire to give and to please, even if this
requires personal sacrifice or compromise which serves to
strengthen the relationship. Ultimately, these sacrifices
are negligible compared to the joy and satisfaction one experiences
from the closeness of the resulting bond.
The same is true in building a relationship with G-d. We need
more than a casual commitment that expresses itself once or
twice a year, and we need more than a shallow commitment that
doesn't go beyond lipservice. To truly make our existence
meaningful, G-d and G-d's will must be a foremost priority.
Commitment takes constant growth. It entails a consistent
climb to get closer to our Creator by trying to obey more
of what G-d desires, not just doing every ritual by rote.
The mitzvot are about adding meaning and purpose to the mundane
actions of our lives and thereby attaining closeness to G-d.
The holidays create a cycle full of landmark growth opportunities.
The values and ethics of Torah fashion an approach and attitude
to life to give us direction in our decision-making and help
us shape our priorities. Mitzvot are more than just dictates
from the King, they are (on a basic level) what we can "give"
to express our commitment to G-d. When we fulfill G-d's will,
our relationship blossoms.
So why is judgment associated with Rosh Hashana? Because each
year, on the anniversary of humanity's creation, G-d reviews
the decision to create humankind by examining humanity to
see if they are achieving their purpose. Judgment, which is
the by-product of the birthday celebration, does not define
the character of Rosh Hashana, nor does it necessarily set
a sad and depressing tone to the day.
In truth, the judgment of Rosh Hashana is incumbent upon us.
To make this Rosh Hashana different, and to have our experiences
impact on us in a lasting way, we must ask ourselves if we
are doing our best to gain the greatest good. Are we sincerely
committed to developing our relationship with our Creator
through mitzvot?
We live in an incredible time. The world, and, more specifically,
the Jewish people, are learning a profound lesson from one
individual, Senator Joseph Lieberman. He makes a greater contribution
to the Jewish people through the way in which he leads his
everyday life, than through any policy or decision in which
he may participate. The tests and challenges to his convictions
are enormous; and yet, he shows us that keeping kosher is
more important than a state dinner and Shabbat supercedes
the campaign trail.
We too have obstacles and tests. We can succeed, but only
if we are honest with ourselves. If we fail, the greatest
challenge will be before us as we assess whether we are serious
about growth or we are looking for an out.
If we take this period of time and use it to ask ourselves
these important questions, hopefully, a year from now, we
will be able to say "this WAS a big year."
Rabbi Efrem Goldberg is a member of the Boca Raton Community
Kollel and runs the Boca Raton Synagogue Explanatory Service. |
Sukkot-Beyond
the Shofar Blasts
by
Robin Kline
I
used to be a lox and bagel Jew. I lived in New York, knew
some Yiddish words, and as a kid, I cheered for Sandy Koufax
and saw "Fiddler on the Roof." Of course, our family always
went to synagogue on Yom Kippur to say Yizkor for my father,
had Seders on Passover, lit candles on Friday night and had
a mezuzah on our door, but that was pretty much it. I never
went to synagogue on Saturday morning, or understood what
went on there. There were Orthodox Jews and then there were
the rest of us. Somewhere there was an invisible line in the
sand and we knew on which side we belonged.
When I became a mother, however, having a Jewish home and
giving my children their heritage became very important to
me. Our growth began simply. I was tired of feeling like an
outsider when I did go to synagogue. If my children could
learn Hebrew with a tutor and if I wanted my children to value
the importance of learning, what was stopping me from doing
the same thing? And when I voiced these thoughts, instead
of seeing an invisible line at our synagogue, I found an outstretched
hand. I began to learn Hebrew and our tentative and occasional
appearance at the Shabbat Learning Service became a monthly
ritual. Last December, we began our regular attendance at
the Friday night service; and, when we learned that our beloved
Learning Service rabbi was making aliyah (moving to Israel),
we began going to the regular service in the main sanctuary
on Shabbat day. Now we feel completely at home there as well.
We have learned that the line was a line that we ourselves
projected.
This year as summer turns to fall, I am looking forward with
great joy to Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, to the challah baking
and apple cakes, the new dresses for our daughters and the
reflection and soul searching that mark the start of the new
year. The holidays have always been a spiritually uplifting
time of renewal, but this year I wonder what will happen beyond
the shofar blasts. What will I do about the other holidays,
beginning with Sukkot? Thus far, Sukkot has continued to be
one of the holidays I looked at from the outside and thought,
maybe next year. I couldn't figure out how to explain to my
boss why I was taking off, again. I haven't been able to explain
that to myself. Because I don't feel I have a personal history
of meaning, I approach Sukkot as a child, excited about experiencing
it for the first time, eager to learn.
Perhaps Sukkot is the first test of how seriously we take
all of our promises to lead a fuller and more meaningful life.
Sukkot brings us back down to earth. It teaches that we must
appreciate the holiness in the very fundamental acts of daily
life, to remember the agricultural roots of our society, and
to pray for rain, good crops, and the basic needs that our
bodies require to stay alive. We focus on what is really important
in a home: shelter, food, welcoming guests and feeling a connection
to G-d. Having experienced the spiritual awakening of Rosh
Hashana and Yom Kippur, our material needs can be met simply.
Sukkot helps us recognize that all we really need is a shelter
and the joy of knowing we have succeeded in doing Teshuva,
that we have purged ourselves of our sins and resolved to
try harder this year to live a good and meaningful life.
To help guide me through this challenge, I think of the beautiful
prayer we say during the High Holy Days: "Like Clay in the
Hands of the Potter." The image it evokes is of G-d shaping
and creating us. As one who works with pottery myself, this
poem evokes a deeper meaning. A potter does not completely
impose the form on the pot. Creating with clay is a process
that, at its best and most meaningful, incorporates an understanding
of the limitations of the natural material -- the clay in
a sense has a life of its own. Respecting it, and approaching
it with technical skill and aesthetic sense, allows one to
actually create pots and to express something about one's
self and one's essence. It is dynamic and interactive, not
"top down." "Like Clay in the Hands of the Potter" represents
the dynamic, interactive relationship between G-d and the
individual. It reinforces, for me, the feeling of individuality
and uniqueness. The prayer also reminds us that we are created
b'tselem Elokim, in the image of G-d, and are always responding
to our Maker because of our essence.
Fundamentally, Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur are about this
sacred dialogue between us, as creations, and our Creator.
Once these holidays are over, however, the relationship does
not end and does not stay static. We have an opportunity each
day to strengthen it. Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur are about
the heights of spirituality in our relationship with G-d.
Sukkot is about bringing spirituality into our daily lives,
in the way we eat, sleep and provide for our needs. Sukkot
is about the form the clay takes because of what it is on
the inside and about the form our lives take because of what
is on our inside, of the uniqueness of who we are as individuals
and what we bring to our lives every day. It is something
we all share, regardless of where we are on the religious
spectrum.
I do not know where I will go as I travel this spiritual journey,
whether or when I will ever feel that I have arrived. But,
I look forward to future years when I can remember back to
how I first learned to observe Sukkot and to a future in which,
each year, I experience learning and growth.
Robin Kline is a graduate of the Beginners Service of
the Hebrew Institute of Riverdale, in Riverdale, NY, where
she lives with her husband and two daughters. Robin is the
Administrative Director of the Center for Complementary and
Integrative Medicine. |
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