How do I forgive?

 I’m really not in a forgiving mood.

Less than 24 hours from Yom Kippur, I’m supposed to be. We stand before God and ask Him to pardon our trespasses on the Day of Atonement, so we need to forgive others. The Sages even say that God Himself is powerless to absolve interpersonal sins until the offender mollifies the victim.

But instead I’m asking: How do I forgive? That’s because this Yom Kippur, I won’t be in synagogue. I won’t be leading prayers, reading the Torah or giving a sermon there. I will be homebound, in our second (or is it fifth?) lockdown, like millions of Jews — especially in the two countries who have more Jews than any others: the US (where I grew up) and Israel (where I live). They say that Yom Kippurim is a day like (ke-) Purim, and that’s grimly true this year, as we seem to be in just as dire a situation, if not worse, seven months after that holiday and our first lockdown.

And while COVID-19 comes from nature, the reason I can’t leave my home is manmade. And I don’t know how I forgive those men. (Or women. But mostly men.)

How do I forgive the world leaders whose main goal amid the coronavirus pandemic seems to be declaring victory rather than achieving victory?

How do I forgive those who eagerly spread misinformation about coronavirus, mocking and undermining public health officials, doctors and scientists who have dedicated their lives to fighting diseases like this one?

How do I forgive the politicians who let the public health system deteriorate to such a point that a bad flu season would topple it, not to mention a once-in-a-century pandemic?

How do I forgive the protesters who think that their political agenda is so righteous that they are immune — so why not have a maskless Rosh Hashana feast on the street, or take signs and slogans to the beach to frolic in the surf?

How do I forgive the prayer-goers who think that their religious agenda is so righteous that they are immune — ignoring or at best paying lip-service to Health Ministry guidelines?

How do I forgive the rabbis on our public payroll, at the neighborhood, municipal and national level, who have provided zero leadership amidst this crisis?

How do I forgive the politicians who treat public health as a bargaining chip–maybe we’ll listen to the experts and shut down X, if you meet demand Y!

How do I forgive the education officials who decided that schools had to open up, because those halls need to be filled with as many kids as possible on as many days as possible?

How do I forgive my fellow citizens who think a distance of two centimeters is as good as two meters, or think they breathe with their chin or without their nostrils? Including law enforcement officers who are giving out tickets for those very violations?

Perhaps by Yom Kippur 5782, I will be in a more forgiving mood.

To intermit the plague

 Israel’s new coronavirus czar, Prof. Ronni Gamzu, has a name with Talmudic significance. The Babylonian Talmud (Ta’anit 21a) tells us of a sage named Nahum of Gamzu, who would say about every event in his life “This too is for the best (gam zu le-tova)”– despite the fact that he was a blind quadriplegic leper, “the legs of whose bed had to be placed in bowls of water to prevent the ants from climbing on him.” His students were alarmed by his condition.

Thereupon his disciples said to him: Master, since you are wholly righteous, why has all this befallen you?

He replied: I have brought it all upon myself. Once I was journeying on the road and was making for the house of my father-in-law and I had with me three donkeys, one laden with food, one with drink and one with all kinds of delicacies, when a poor man met me and stopped me on the road and said to me, Master, give me something to eat. I replied to him, Wait until I have unloaded something from the donkey; I had hardly managed to unload something from the donkey when the man died [from hunger]. I then went and laid myself on him and exclaimed, May my eyes which had no pity upon your eyes become blind, may my hands which had no pity upon your hands be cut off, may my legs which had no pity upon your legs be amputated, and my mind was not at rest until I added, may my whole body be leprous.

Thereupon his pupils exclaimed: Woe to us that we see you like this!

To this he replied: Woe to me did you not see me like this.

Nahum’s condition does not prevent him from teaching many disciples, including Rabbi Akiva, whom he trains for 22 years (BT Hagiga 12a). It does, however, keep him from touching a scroll or entering the study hall. The same passage calls Nahum a miracle-worker, but he does not rely on miracles where health is concerned. He isolates himself at home for decades, and yet his Torah touches everyone. The deep concern for one’s fellow human being is certainly echoed in Rabbi Akiva’s dictum: “‘Love your fellow as yourself’ (Leviticus 19:18) –this is the great principle of the Torah (Sifra ad loc.).”

And yet, Rabbi Akiva himself fails to transmit this to his own students.

It was said that Rabbi Akiva had twelve thousand pairs of disciples, from Gabbat to Antipatris, and all of them died at the same time because they did not exhibit proper regard for each other… Rav Hama bar Abba or, it might be said, Rav Hiya bar Avin said: All of them died a cruel death. What was it? Rav Nahman explained: Diphtheria.

It’s not clear what the lack of proper regard consists of. Do they fail to follow Nahum of Gamzu’s teaching about feeling the distress of others, or do they fail to follow Nahum’s example of isolating so as not to spread disease? Are these even two different things?

I could not help but think of that as I heard of the pressure being put upon our Professor Gamzu to allow a lessening of restrictions on assembling in synagogues for Tisha be-Av, which begins tonight. Apparently, when everyone is sitting on the floor, amid extreme heat, while fasting, that’s the time to pack the shuls.

Now, the Mishna, Gemara, even Shulhan Arukh, note that the month of Av as a whole is not a time to tempt fate. A Jew with a court date in the month should do everything to push it off, Halakha states (OH 551:1). But at the height of this period of misfortune and mourning, amidst a second pandemic wave threatening to overwhelm our hospitals and healthcare workers, it is more important to read the Book of Lamentations with as many people as possible present? Ronni Gamzu would tell you that is sanctimonious malpractice. And Nahum of Gamzu would agree.

The burning Talmud

 The burning of the Talmud is a powerful image. Next week, as many Jews fast on Tisha be-Av, we will read a dirge composed to commemorate the destruction of as many as ten thousand Talmudic manuscripts in Paris in 1242.

But yesterday I was hoping that a certain volume of Talmud would burst into flame. It was in a Jerusalem courtroom, on the table of the defense counsel for Malka Leifer, captured by my friend Ittay Flescher for Plus61J Media, which covers the Jewish world for an Australian audience. Leifer is facing 74 counts of child abuse from her time as an ultra-Orthodox girls’ school principal in Melbourne, and this was her 69th hearing since three sisters came forward a decade ago to tell their harrowing story of victimization at her hands.

So whose Talmud was it? Her longtime lawyer Yehuda Fried brought the gigantic ArtScroll edition (Pesachim, Volume I, it appears) to peruse while her new counsel Nick Kaufman (famous for fighting extradition for Serbian genocidists and Muammar Gaddafi’s kids) used the opportunity to blame the victims. Yes, they were minors, but they almost weren’t. Who’s to say these 16- and 17-year-old students weren’t really the ones at fault? To extradite Leifer for a trial that will determine her guilt or innocence, the Israeli courts must first find her guilty! And she’s such a pious woman, how could she maintain her religious standards in an Australian prison?

These arguments are patently ludicrous, and hopefully Judge Chana Miriam Lomp will reject them. But they do so sound awful… Talmudic. The Talmud is often criticized for sophistry, for picayune dissection of impossible abstractions. However, some of the wildest theoretical discussions in the Talmud have turned out to be essential over the millennia. A flying tower crossing over a graveyard, a flying camel ferrying witnesses from one far-flung location to another, a cow giving birth to a donkey, a woman getting pregnant from a bath – these all seemed ridiculous until we developed analogous technology.

But that is the difference between a beit midrash and a beit mishpat, a study hall and the halls of justice. In a courtroom, we are dealing with real people, not teasing out theoreticals.

Am I arguing that Malka Leifer does not deserve a fair trial with a vigorous defense? Not at all; that is what awaits her in Australia. In Israel, it has all been about fraud and denying justice by delaying justice. This 69th hearing was the first extradition hearing, as the previous 68 were about feigning various forms of illness, mental and otherwise, aided and abetted by too many in the ultra-Orthodox community, up to and including our (recently former) Minister of Health Yaakov Litzman, whom the police have recommended indicting for his part in the affair. This case has tarnished the image of Torah and the image of Israel in the world. A hillul ha-Shem, desecration of God’s name, in every sense of the term.

And let’s not forget what the Talmud symbolizes for Orthodox Jewish women, which include not only the accused and the victims, but the presiding judge as well. Until recently, the Talmud was a symbol of patriarchy, a part of Jewish tradition controlling nearly every aspect of the lives of Jewish women but which they were forbidden to open. Only in the mid-20th century did this begin to change, and in many parts of the Orthodox community, especially the ultra-Orthodox sects, it hasn’t really changed at all. So when Fried peruses his Gemara while Kaufman proffers klutz kashyas that even Hillel the Great wouldn’t have entertained, this sends a message of intimidation, telling women that they will never be equal. Or even heard.

As our Sages might have said: Better that the words of Talmud be burnt than that they be used to oppress and to victimize.

Bubby has left us

 Last month. Barely six weeks ago. It doesn’t seem possible, but that’s when my oldest son got up at his Purim bar mitzva celebration to give his speech.

Thank you to everyone for coming to celebrate my becoming a bar mitzva. I want to wish Happy Birthday to Bubby (whose name is Esther!), who will be turning 98 next week, bli ayin hara, and is with Aunt Norma in New York tonight…

Shortly after, the world ended, and when it will restart is anyone’s guess. But it will be without our Bubby, my mother’s mother, who left us just before Shabbat started.

Me, Bubby and the bar mitzva boy, exactly thirteen years ago

I was Bubby’s oldest grandchild, and she was my last connection to the Greatest Generation, a generation which lived through the Depression, World War II and the Holocaust to see the founding of the State of Israel and the rebirth of Judaism.

I will never forget the food, the love, the fierce devotion to her family, to her faith, to the Jewish people and the Jewish State. My love for books and language started with her day job at Shulsinger Press. I remember being wowed by her Hebrew typewriter.

But the phrase I think I will never forget is “Bubby, sit down!” Because whenever you went to her home, on Haven Avenue or Overlook Terrace in Washington Heights, she was constantly on her feet. What could she get you? What did you need? Were you done with that; good, she’ll go get the next course. Because with Bubby, it was never about herself, it was about her family, her loved ones, her community.

Bubby deserves a funeral with ten thousand attendees, but of course there will be barely ten. Amid a global lockdown, most of her family and friends will not be able to pay her this final honor. They will not be able to receive the dozens, the hundreds, who would normally come to their homes for shiva. Kaddish will be said for her in bizarre, outdoor ad hoc prayer services.

And this would not bother Bubby in the slightest. Perhaps her neshama, her soul, decided to slip away and return to its Maker precisely at a time when we would be preoccupied with a global crisis. But we who remember her will never forget that she deserved so much more.

Jewish Countess

 Today is Day 32, which is four weeks and four days, of our lockdown/ quarantine/ isolation, since Israel’s schools shut down; but we are also on Day 4 of a new calculus, that of the seven weeks from Pesach to Shavuot, counting the Omer. Unfortunately, unlike the ban on weddings and haircuts (mourning the students of Rabbi Akiva who died en masse during this season) which ends with Day 33 of the Omer, our contemporary restrictions seem to be getting more stringent.

Now, there are some good things about this stay-at-home era. For Orthodox Jews, prayer is not usually a family affair; but when the synagogues are closed, you get a chance for a service that is truly egalitarian. The experience can be sincerely uplifting, assuming your younger children can stop fighting for 10 minutes. Or maybe even if they cannot.

Still, in our home, we started counting the Omer together long before we had heard of the coronavirus. Appending this biblically-rooted mitzva to the evening service and effectively excluding women from it seemed disingenuous to me. After all, Rav Yosef Karo in the Code of Jewish Law (OH 493:4) mentions only one custom which applies throughout this period:

The women are accustomed not to perform any labor between Pesach and Shavuot, from sunset onward.

He gives no explanation for why women specifically should refrain from working in the Omer eventide, but he gets this idea from the Tur, who cites a general custom to refrain from labor at this hour because that is when the students of Rabbi Akiva were buried; but then the Tur specifically mentions the custom for women to take it easy, comparing this to the counting of the years by the court for the jubilee cycle, both referred to in the Torah as “seven sabbaths.” Just as in the sabbatical year, (agricultural) labor is forbidden, so too during the time to count the omer, labor is forbidden. But what does that have to do with women in particular?

It is notable that while Maimonides explicitly limits the obligation to count the Omer to men, Rav Yosef Karo does not. Some commentators argue that while women should be technically exempt, as they generally are from time-bound positive commandments, “nevertheless, they have accepted it upon themselves as an obligation” (MA 489:1).

Others go further, such as Nahmanides, who argues that counting the omer is not a time-bound mitzva, comparing it to other commandments such as the firstfruits. Yes, they may come at a specific season, but that is not a reflection of some arbitrary clock or calendar, but rather the natural course of the year. Passover is the first day of spring, and when it ends, we begin counting seven weeks until Shavuot, until “the day of the firstfruits,” until we receive the Torah. Indeed, it is the women who are addressed first at Sinai, according to the Mekhilta: “‘So shall you say to the house of Jacob’ (Exod. 19:3) — these are the women; ‘and speak to the sons of Israel’ — these are the men.”

The notion that women cannot be trusted to keep the Omer count seems ludicrous when we consider that the first mitzva of counting seven is the exclusive domain of women–the counting of seven clean days to maintain family purity: “And she shall count for herself seven days, and then she shall be purified” (Lev. 15:28).

The sabbatical year count, carried out by the Jewish court, is indeed a masculine affair (because of Adam’s curse to work the ground?). It is formal and officious, though the sabbatical year is binding for everyone. In parallel, we may see the feminine side of the Omer count towards Shavuot, which is carried out in the home, by the family, while the women of the house refrain from labor.

This year, at least, we should be able to appreciate the unique power of women to bring us to Sinai.

Staying home with God

 It is hard to describe how furious I was to read about the refusal of many Haredi (ultra-Orthodox) leaders to close down their educational institutions as part of the new coronavirus guidelines issued by Prime Minister Netanyahu on Saturday night. Apparently, there is ZERO upside to having a Haredi health minister (unless, of course, you’re a pedophile from his community).

Then the news broke of a compromise, the Deal of the Century, no doubt: famously overcrowded Haredi schools and yeshivot would promise not to have more than 10 people in any classroom. Well, I’m sure that commitment will be honored.

But I soon realized that, while it may be convenient for me, as part of the national religious/ Modern Orthodox camp, to criticize Haredim, my hometown synagogue is no better. Here’s the official notification from that august institution, via WhatsApp:

2:27 PM: We need volunteers to arrange minyanim at different times. We can hold two minyanim in parallel, using the hall downstairs.

2:36 PM: At this point, we won’t split up the minyanim. If there are too many men, we will split into smaller minyanim, using the hall downstairs.

Minyan, or quorum, is a group of 10 men. Ten, as you might have heard, is now the limit of any public gathering in Israel. If nine men (and I do mean “men”) show up, it’s not considered public prayer. If 11 show up, they are violating the Health Ministry rules. And if there’s a revolving door for multiple minyanim, that would seem to pose the greatest public health threat of all.

The worst part of it, obviously, is the danger to the health of the public, especially the elderly and immunosuppressed. That’s not some modernishe Western value, Heaven forfend — that is a Torah value. A binding command, in fact. Public prayer is nice, so is public Torah study, but the inherent mitzvot may be accomplished very well in the privacy of one’s home!

Don’t take my word for it. Here’s the Mishna, from Avot (Ethics of the Fathers) 3:6:

Rabbi Halafta ben Dosa of Kefar Hanania said: When 10 sit together and occupy themselves with Torah, the Divine Presence abides among them, as it is said: “God stands in the congregation of God” (Psalm 82:1).

How do we know that even five? As it is said: “This band of His He has established on earth” (Amos 9:6).

How do we know that even three? As it is said: “In the midst of the judges He judges” (Psalm 82:1).

How do we know that even two? As it is said: “Then they that fear the Lord spoke one with another, and the Lord hearkened, and heard” (Malachi 3:16).

How do we know that even one? As it is said: “In every place where I cause my name to be mentioned I will come unto you and bless you” (Exodus 20:20).

Or go back even further, to Hillel the Elder (Tosefta, Sukka 4:3):

Wherever my heart lies, there my feet take me. [Thus God says:] If you come to My house, I will come to yours; if you do not come to My house, I will not come to yours, as it is said: “In every place where I cause my name to be mentioned I will come unto you and bless you.

This is a Divine promise: if we go to the study hall and synagogue when we can, God will come to us when we are at home. That is where I will be, with my family and with my God. So, sanctimonious rabbis of today, tell me this: Do you think you are smarter than Hillel?

Joseph the Survivor

 I have always had an affinity for my namesake, the biblical Yoseif/ Joseph. But it’s hard to know what to make of this character, since we rarely know what he’s thinking. An exception is his response to the birth of his sons (Genesis 41:50-52):

Joseph had two sons before the famine years came, borne to him by Asenath, daughter of Poti Phera, priest of On. Joseph named the first-born Manasseh (Me-nasheh) – ‘because God has made me forget (nasheh) all my travail and all of my father’s house.’ He named his second son Ephraim – ‘Because God has made me fruitful (p’ri) in the land of my suffering.’

At first glance, Joseph’s declarations seem contradictory. If Manasseh’s name indicates how relieved he is to forget his past, that would seem to indicate that Joseph views Egypt as his home. But in the next line, we hear that Joseph, even as he rules over the land of the pharaohs, sees it as hostile territory.

So let’s take a second look, particularly at Manasseh. Using the term “nasheh” to denote forgetting is profoundly bizarre, as the usual term is “shakhach.” Indeed, Joseph himself uses this term just a few verses earlier (v. 30), “All the satiety in Egypt will be forgotten (nishkach).” It’s also the final word of the previous chapter, in which the cup-bearer “forgets” Joseph after he gets out of prison, and so Joseph languishes in the dungeon for two more years.

Where does the term nasheh come from then? It only appears one other time in Genesis, 32:32:

The Israelites therefore do not eat the gid ha-nasheh on the hip joint to this very day. This is because [the stranger] touched Jacob’s thigh on the gid ha-nasheh.

This verse is the first time the term “Israelite” is used, and it describes the first dietary law: not to eat the sciatic nerve (gid) of an animal, where Jacob was injured when he wrestled a mysterious assailant. Thus, Joseph gives his firstborn a name which recalls the first rule of keeping kosher.

What about Ephraim? That name recalls the earliest mitzva in the Torah, “Be fruitful (p’ru) and multiply” (Genesis 1:28), which the School of Shammai interprets as having two boys (Mishna, Yevamot 6:6).

Thus, Joseph picks names which remind him of the commandments given to his forebears. Even in exile, in the land of his suffering, these are the “road signs” (as in Jeremiah 31:21, see Sifrei Ekev 43) which connect him to the land he identifies with, to the culture he claims, to the territory he will return to, even if only in death. This is the same Joseph who declares to the cup-bearer in jail (Genesis 40:15): “For I have surely been stolen from the land of the Hebrews.”

If we think about it, there is no contradiction between the naming of Manasseh and the naming of Ephraim. After the severe trauma Joseph undergoes at the hands of his brothers, he indeed wants to put the experience of his father’s house behind him. At the same time, Egypt remains not his home, but the land of his suffering. Joseph identifies as an Israelite, but not a son of Jacob. He keeps the traditions of his faith, but he cannot forgive his family.

We know that Joseph’s story has a happy ending, but we must not elide the decades of suffering which he undergoes. As a survivor of abuse, he has to forge a new identity. Eventually, this allows him to reconcile with his brothers and with his father. But the trauma never goes away. It is Manasseh and Ephraim who become tribes alongside their uncles, but Joseph himself never returns to the status of his youth, as another son of Jacob.