Chosen nation

 That’s what everyone calls us, right? And you would expect it to be front-and-center in the first book of the Torah. But choice — bechira in Hebrew, the plural bechirot being Modern Hebrew for elections — does not come up in Genesis in relation to a people or a land being chosen by God. Instead, it comes up three times in rather bizarre, even macabre contexts.

The sons of God saw that the daughters of humans were beautiful, and they married any of them they chose. Then the Lord said, “My Spirit will not contend with humans forever, for they are mortal; their days will be 120 years.” (Genesis 6:2-3)

Lot looked around and saw that the whole plain of the Jordan toward Zoar was well watered, like the garden of the Lord, like the land of Egypt, as this was before the Lord destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah. So Lot chose for himself the whole plain of the Jordan and set out toward the east.  (Genesis 13:10-11)

The Hittites replied to Abraham, “Sir, listen to us. You are a mighty prince among us. Bury your dead in the choicest of our tombs. None of us will refuse you his tomb for burying your dead. (Genesis 23:5-6)

The first case is somewhat ambiguous, but it seems to describe a common phenomenon of the antediluvian age, when “sons of God” (descended from Seth) marry “daughters of humans” (descended from Cain). One prominent example of this is Noah marrying Naama (at least according to R. Abba b. Kahana in the Midrash, Gen. Rabba 23:3), and his sons may have followed suit, meaning we are all born from sons of Seth and daughters of Cain. Of course, for everyone else on the planet, this choice didn’t work out as well.

The last case is quite positive: Abraham insists on purchasing this plot for the full price, and it is in many ways the first permanent connection between the people and the land of Israel–even before the bearer of that name is born.

The middle case, from our Torah portion, is an unmitigated disaster. The Torah isn’t much for spoiler alerts, apparently, because we know before Lot calls the local moving company (nothing more Israeli) what will happen to Sodom. In fact, years before the weather forecast for the Jordan Valley is “Sulphurous,” Lot and his fellow Sodomites are captured in war, and their king flees. Abraham has to save him, but Lot doesn’t think twice about his choice. Then, a decade later, amid the fire and brimstone raining from the sky, Lot has to be physically pulled away from his house, where he was presumably sitting at a table, wearing a bowler hat, sipping tea and declaring: “This is fine!”

This triumvirate of choice parallels a statement by Rabbi Johanan in the Talmud (BT Sota 47a): “There are three kinds of favor: the favor of a locality in the estimation of its inhabitants, the favor of a woman in the estimation of her husband, and the favor of an article in the estimation of its purchaser.”

Some say that the reason for this favor (hein) is basely cynical: no one wants to admit a mistake in whom or what they choose. I disagree: on the contrary, this hein is created by the positive declaration one makes every day to say: Yes, this is the one I chose, and I actively choose her/him/them/it again today.

But sometimes we err in our choices. We have to admit that we were wrong, perhaps because we didn’t have all the information, or because our chosen one has changed, or because we have. Regardless, we must not wait until the floodwaters or flames reach our homes to make a new choice. To choose life, to choose love, to choose a form of compassion and of justice that does not end at our front gate. Otherwise, we will have no one but ourselves to blame for our Lot in life.

Stop trying to kill my mother

Was that headline too aggressive for you? Trust me, I’m beyond caring.

It took Israel five months to hit 1,000 fatalities. Then five weeks to hit 2,000. Five days later, we’re already at 2,200 — and now we’re opening for business again?!

Ah, but the positive test rate went down, and the new case numbers went down. Really, over Shabbat, when most activity, medical or otherwise, comes to a standstill? What a shock! But yeah, that’s what this month-long lockdown was supposed to achieve. Awesome, we’re no longer at 120 percent of our hospital capacity for coronavirus patients, we’re just at 90%. See you at the victory parade!

I feel so alone, as if I’m one of the few adults left in this country — not by age, but by temperament. And we are so staggeringly outnumbered. We have vast communities of toddlers, who are not going to follow the rules, no matter what. Threaten, cajole — it makes no difference. All you can do is try to minimize the damage. Then you have grade-schoolers, who definitely learned the rules at some point, but just don’t follow them most of the time, because they’re lazy or petulant or preoccupied. Their masks are below their noses, on their chins, on their elbows, or maybe they just left them at home because they’re only going to the store for a couple of things. And then we have teenagers, who know the rules and will quote them to you chapter and verse — but utterly lack common sense. They’re the ones already planning their parties, because the government had decided 10 randos in an enclosed space is now safe.

Masks help, but most people don’t wear them properly. Social distancing helps, but most people don’t observe that. Being outdoors helps, but once you put up the sun cover, the plastic sheeting, the partition walls — are you even outside anymore? All three reduce the risk, but they do not eliminate it.

That’s why my immunosuppressed mother is not going to be venturing outside — except when she has to, for doctor’s appointments, which pose their own risk. Will that cab she hails have a plastic partition between her and the driver? Will the bus she boards become too crowded? There is no way of knowing.

This pandemic started, quite literally, the day of my son’s bar mitzvah celebration. His school insisted on starting this year with everyone coming, every day, but sticking half the kids in another classroom to do worksheets while the other half gets a live teacher. Within a week, three of six grades were in quarantine. Within two weeks, the whole country was in lockdown, so they switched to Zoom. Then my kid’s teacher decided he was going to meet the kids in small groups near their homes. My son’s group was scheduled for tomorrow, but that’s not happening… because the teacher is now in quarantine.

That is the Israeli mindset. Rosh ba-kir. So you tell me how we’re supposed to get out of this mess. I’m listening.

7 Sukkot

 Sukkot is a Hebrew word meaning ‘how many holidays can Jews fit into one month?’ The answer, of course, is ‘I can’t be in tomorrow. It’s a Jewish holiday.’ — The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, Oct. 15 2008

Jon has a point. Other holidays have their character and themes, but what is Sukkot about? Despite its many colorful practices, it’s hard to pin down what Sukkot is about. And I think that’s the point. Sukkot is many, many things in the calendar — just as it is in Scripture. That’s reflected by the seven very different personages we invite each day to our sukka.

Sukkot has its origins in Babylonian paganism (II Kings 17:30, Amos 5:26-27), and so does Abraham, the first guest. Abraham smashes his father’s idols, according to the Midrash (Genesis Rabbah 38:13), but he fashions a new faith that repurposes many practices of the pre-monotheistic world. So it makes sense that Zechariah (Ch. 14) foresees a future time when all nations will come to Jerusalem to observe Sukkot–not Passover or Rosh Hashana, but Sukkot–expressing their recognition of One God rather than their conversion to Judaism.

Sukkot also appear in a farming context in the Bible, in Isaiah’s opening vision (1:8): “And the daughter of Zion is left as a booth (sukka) in a vineyard.” The grape harvest marks the end of the summer, with celebrations at its start and end, 15 Av and 10 Yom Kippur (Mishna, Taanit 4:8). Five days later, we build a sukka not in the vineyard, but in our backyard. And we invite the second guest, Isaac, who spends his life working the land. The drinking party (mishteh) is a recurring feature of his biography, culminating in the occasion (Genesis 27:25) when he blesses all his progeny, a decidedly different result than the other drinking daddies who precede him in the Torah, Noah and Lot.

Sukkot also appears in a ranching context, as Jacob, after his final confrontation with his twin brother, “travelled to Sukkot, and built himself a house; and for his livestock he made stalls, so he named the place Sukkot” (ibid. 33:17). These sukkot represent the tranquility of pastoral life, but there is a danger of becoming too passive. Jacob is malingering on the eastern side of the Jordan, focusing on the animals in their stalls rather than the people in his own house. This ultimately leads to a number of tragedies, the most consequential being the sale of Joseph into Egyptian slavery by his brothers.

Joseph’s Sukkot is a totally different one. We don’t arrive at it until over a century after his death.

 Moses took the bones of Joseph with him because Joseph had made the Israelites swear an oath. He had said, ‘God will surely come to your aid, and then you must carry my bones up with you from this place.’ So they travelled from Sukkot… (Exodus 13:19-20)

This Sukkot is the first station of Israel in the desert, a nation of free men and women. These are flimsy structures, but they are the first homes to be truly theirs.

Moses goes on to lead Israel to Sinai, where he ascends, entering the fog and cloud surrounding God. “And he made darkness pavilions (sukkot) round about him, gathering of waters, thick clouds of the skies” (II Samuel 22:10-12). Entering these sukkot is an experience of transcendence and revelation.

Aaron, on the other hand, manages the opposite: instead of going back up in the Cloud, he brings Clouds of Glory down to protect Israel as they move through the desert. “The Cloud was by the merit of Aaron,” the Talmud tells us (R. Yosei be-R. Yehuda, Taanit 9a), and it is these clouds which we are supposed to be reminded of when we sit in our sukkot. (R. Eliezer, Sukka 11b). These are sukkot of shelter, protection and peace.

The last guest is King David, of whom Amos says (9:11): “In that day will I raise up the tabernacle of (sukkat) David that is fallen, and close up the breaches thereof; and I will raise up his ruins, and I will build it as in the days of old.” Is this the palace? Is this the temple? Is it both? The symbolism is so evocative that we include the phrase in our Grace After Meals throughout the week of Sukkot. It is striking that a sukka, a seasonal structure, is given the royal treatment; but that’s because in relation to God, the most lasting human achievement is temporary. Still, we should take pride in our glorious past and future, as Sukkot comes to a close for another year.

May your sukka be a place of faith and feast, tranquility and transformation, prophecy and protection and prestige. Chag same’ach!