Parashat Noah, Genesis 6:9-11:32

Sponsored by Judy Turner, in loving memory of Kevin Paul Kates - Yahrzeit Cheshvan 3.

We are all guilty of constructing our own edifices.

Thank heaven for elevators! They make life so much easier. After all, you don't have to schlep up ten flights of stairs with your groceries anymore. Actually, there probably wouldn't be buildings with ten flights if there were no elevators. The elevator and the high-rise building developed together. Thanks to elevators, living on the top floor is now so much more desirable than living on the bottom floor. As Eva Gabor sang on Green Acres: "I just adore a penthouse view."

Skyscrapers have been a boon for cities. More people fit in less space; just think of the island of Manhattan, for example. Many of these buildings are also symbols of civic identity and pride. Perhaps that is why there is this never-ending modern quest to see who can construct the tallest structure, buildings and towers that bring in loads of tourist dollars.

Tourists apparently haven't changed over the centuries. Herodotus (5th century BCE) regales us with his description of a tourist attraction in Babylon:

These walls are the city's outer armor; within them there is another encircling wall, nearly as strong as the other, but narrower. In the middle of one division of the city stands the royal palace, surrounded by a high and strong wall; and in the middle of the other is still to this day the sacred enclosure of Zeus Belus, a square of four hundred and forty yards each way, with gates of bronze. In the center of this sacred enclosure a solid tower has been built, two hundred and twenty yards long and broad; a second tower rises from this and from it yet another, until at last there are eight. The way up them mounts spirally outside the height of the towers; about halfway up is a resting place, with seats for repose, where those who ascend sit down and rest. In the last tower there is a great shrine; and in it stands a great and well-covered couch, and a golden table nearby.

Herodotus, History Book 1, section 181, (A.D. Godley, editor, English translation)

It wasn't one of the ancient wonders, but it certainly made quite an impression. Enough of an impression that a description of such a structure, which we now identify as a ziggurat, found its way into the Torah:  Everyone on earth had the same language and the same words. And as they migrated from the east, they came upon a valley in the land of Shinar and settled there. They said to one another, "Come, let us make bricks and burn them hard." — Brick served them as stone, and bitumen served them as mortar. — And they said, "Come, let us build us a city, and a tower with its top in the sky, to make a name for ourselves; else we shall be scattered all over the world." (Genesis 11:1-4)

Herodotus also describes the brick-making, something that is detailed in the Torah as well, which leads modern scholars to view this narrative as somewhat akin to what we would find in a travel column.

The Narrator, clearly writing from the perspective of a foreign observer, displays an accurate and detailed knowledge of Mesopotamian construction techniques. The rarity of stone in the plain of Lower Mesopotamia necessitated the use of molded, sun-dried clay as the common building material, an invention that ushered in the epoch of monumental temple architecture. The discovery of the technique of firing the brick in a kiln enhanced its solidity and durability and made possible the erection of multistoried buildings. The use of bitumen for mortar further added to the strength, cohesion, and impermeability of the brick.

Nahum Sarna, The JPS Torah Commentary: Genesis, p. 82

So bricks, like our modern elevators were an essential component in ancient high-rises. This is all well and good for the archeological tourist, or architectural adventurer, but what of the religious traveler? We'll get there, I promise.

In the meantime, keep thinking of ways we entice tourists to spend some time (and money) in our locales by visiting those tall places with the panoramic views from the observation decks. Those of us who do not suffer from agoraphobia just love to go up these structures and survey the land below.

There is definitely a beauty to it. Back in the summer we touched upon how things are more beautiful from the heights, as when Balaam saw Israel camped below him and was compelled to praise the nation.

We just love the breath-taking view, be it from the top of a mountain or the top of a building. In the case of the latter, we build our own heights.  Taipei 101 is currently the tallest building. (The Burj Dubai the tallest structure; at least this was the case last time I checked.)  We even flock to these sites when they are no longer the tallest: the Empire State Building in New York, the Eiffel Tower in Paris. You can add your favorites to this list.

Religious structures are also built reaching up to the heavens. Think of all the exercise tourists get when climbing to the top of cathedrals, or running up the steps of a Meso-American pyramid.

But back to our Biblical tower, aka the ziggurat: The folks in old Mesopotamia believed that these towers connected heaven and earth. They weren't the only ones. Many cultures believe in an Axis Mundi, the pillar of the world, the point at which heaven meets earth. We also find traces of this in the Torah. Smack in the middle of the Garden of Eden is a famous tree. Additionally, four rivers emanate from the garden, watering the earth. Jacob's ladder connects heaven and earth. Tradition views Jerusalem as being the place where heaven and earth meet.

Is it any wonder that the folks in Babel set out on such an ambitious building project? This was a matter of civic pride: to make a name for ourselves, a unifying structure: else we shall be scattered all over the world. What a wonderful example of human initiative! They built a city and a tower as their crowning glory.

So what's the problem? According to rabbinic tradition, it is not the structure so much as the way in which it was built. The builders had an attitude.

When they would bring up the bricks they would climb from the east, and they would descend from the west. If a man fell down and died they paid no attention. But if a brick fell down they stopped working and wailed saying: "Woe unto us, when will another brick be brought in its place."  

Pirke de-Rabbi Eliezer 24

Tradition tells us that folks were so intent on the building project that they were literally climbing over their injured fellow-workers. Instead of the tower being an overlook from which one could survey the landscape, it became more of a guard tower, separating one person from the other, robbing humanity of empathy.

We build in this way all the time, and the structures need not be vertical. We construct walls and gates to keep others out. Sometimes these structures aren't even physical. We laugh at the stereotypical academic oblivious to all else, dwelling in an "ivory tower." But we are all guilty of constructing our own such edifices, and God help the person who inadvertently places a dirty smudge on our clean ivory tower.

A few years ago I attended an exhibit at a museum of contemporary art where the installation was meant to convey the feeling of what it was like to be on a city street. There were telephone poles and wires, a curb, and "litter" scattered about. It was an antiseptic model of an urban setting. Needless to say, people spent a long time contemplating it. After an enjoyable stay, people exiting the building found an obstacle on the sidewalk in the real world: a homeless individual huddled against the winter cold. Every person that I saw just climbed over this individual without a second thought. The folks who build migdal bavel, the Tower of Babel, weren't the only ones stepping over people. And you don't have to build a very tall tower to hide behind walls from your fellow human beings.

We can understand the desire displayed by the builders of migdal bavel. We are all desperate to find that place where heaven and earth meet. Bava Batra (74a) recounts a tale told by Rabbah the son of Bar Hana. He met a caravan merchant who showed him what could be termed the wonders of the biblical world including Mount Sinai and the place where Korach was swallowed by the earth. But the most fascinating site was the place where heaven and earth meet. Though we are not told where it is, the text describes this as the place where heaven and earth "kiss."

This word guides us to the correct location. This elusive place is not in the heavens. Forget about skyscrapers and towers! Where do heaven and earth kiss? The answer is not "where" but "when." When we turn our gaze towards that individual shivering on the cement sidewalk in the winter cold and recognize the person made in God's image. When we build connecting towers that stand firm, and our language becomes one. That is when we are working with God to bring heaven and earth together. When we successfully complete this construction project On that day God shall be One and God's name shall be One. (Zechariah 14:19)

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Breishit, Genesis 1:1-6:8

Our ancestors knew, as we know, that we can't go back to Eden.

"Go West, young man." That was the cry in nineteenth century America; or at least that's what we're told. This motto, attributed to the newspaper editor Horace Greeley, expresses the freedom and possibilities that existed in the American expansion to the west. As it turns out, this saying may be a paraphrase of what Greeley actually said, although it conveys the meaning of the message. Many of us remember nameless westerns that revolve around the story of a young man heading out into the "wild west" to seek his fortune. The west was where all the good things in life would unfold. It held all of life's potential. It was, if you will, akin to the Garden of Eden.

Except that in the Torah Gan Eden, the Garden of Eden is not in the west but in the east: The Lord God planted a garden in Eden, in the east. (Genesis 2:8) After eating from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, humanity is banished from the garden and sentries are placed east of the garden of Eden … to guard the way to the tree of life. (Genesis 3:24)

We're never told where the parents of humanity finally settled to eke out a living by the sweat of their brow. We do know that Eden becomes even more unreachable in the next generation. Cain, after killing his brother Abel, is sentenced to be a ceaseless wanderer on the earth (Genesis 4:12). While his heart may have pleaded "Go West, young man," Cain is even farther from Eden than his parents. Exiled from ever working the land again because of the blood he spilled on it, banished to be a nomad, he ironically ends up settling in the land of Nod (wandering), east of Eden. (Genesis 4:16) To say that Cain settled there is an understatement: And he then founded a city, and named the city after his son Enoch. (Genesis 4:17)

Much has been written about this little endeavour, founding the first city. It has been taken as a critique of urban life, since Cain the "inventor" of city life, is deemed to be evil. In next week's parashah, the story of the Tower of Babel will further perpetuate this view of urban life. Add to this God’s recurring choice of wanderers and shepherds as biblical leaders, and Cain apparently made a poor career move by going into urban planning.

To the ancient way of thinking, nothing seemed more natural than to represent a murderer and outlaw as the first builder of cities. The ancients did not think of a city as arising out of the exigencies of barter and trade. The complexity, the turmoil, and the degeneration that marked human life in the larger centers of population were to them proof that the city had sinister origins. Towns and cities were to them abnormal and the product of unnatural circumstances. The fact that nearly every town harbored refugees from justice or vengeance gave color to the belief that the corrupt character of town populations was due to the degenerate character of the founders.

Rabbi Mordechai Kaplan, from an unpublished manuscript as quoted in The Torah: A Modern Commentary, Revised Edition, Rabbi W. Gunther Plaut (ed.) p. 49

Looking at it from a different perspective, however, urban centers may also be safe havens that even come with a hekhsher (kosher seal of approval): Then Moses set aside three cities on the east side of the Jordan to which a manslayer could escape, one who unwittingly slew a fellow man without having been hostile to him in the past; he could flee to one of these cities and live…(Deuteronomy 4:41-2)

Notice that these three cities of refuge are in the east. It seems that in establishing the first urban center, Cain may have set up the first city of refuge. This makes sense. His action in killing his brother was not premeditated murder. Nobody had ever died before; how was he to know that this would be the result of his action? He committed manslaughter, but he also repented, an act so powerful that he received God's protection. Midrash Genesis Rabbah teaches that after all this tragic event Cain met his father Adam who asked him about the punishment he received for his sin:

"I repented and am reconciled," replied he. Thereupon Adam began beating his face, crying, "So great is the power of repentance, and I did not know!"

Midrash Genesis Rabbah 22:13, Soncino translation

In setting up this first city, Cain also unleashed a series of events: His descendants developed music and metallurgy, or to put it more broadly, culture and technology. For Cain, heading east brought a new life, a purposeful life, a life that created relationships instead of destroying them.

What about us? What role does the east play in our lives? East, mizrach, has always held great meaning for Jews. Those of us in the west face east to pray. Many have lovely mizrach plaques in their homes as constant reminder of this direction. East is a spiritual connection for Jews, though not for all of us. While many of us deeply feel Yehuda Ha-Levi's  longing: "My heart is in the east, and I in the uttermost west" more and more of us agree with the often quoted Rudyard Kipling verse: "East is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet."

Both poets were speaking geographically and metaphorically. Let's look at their words in a spiritual context. Today, the west is presented as the height of material success and personal fulfillment. Were we to say, "Go West, young man," we would be encouraging individual striving towards a self-centered goal. But there is more to life, and for that we must turn east, in the same way that our earliest biblical ancestors set off for the east.

They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault.
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt: ...
Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;

Rudyard Kipling, The Ballad of East and West

If only Cain had read through all of Kipling's The Ballad of East and West, bloodshed could have been averted! Still, Cain faced God's judgment seat, admitted his sin, accepted responsibility and repented, and was sent off to the east. There he found spiritual healing, enabling him to enter a relationship with God and with other people, which inevitably led to his personal fulfillment and rehabilitation.

Our ancestors knew, as we know, that we can't go back to Gan Eden. But we can choose the direction of our lives. So which way is it going to be: The lure of the west, the nudge to the east? As we learn in the psalm (113:3): From east to west the name of Adonai is praised.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Shabbat Hol Ha-mo'ed Sukkot, Exodus 33:12 - 34:26

The sukkah itself, while flimsy and open to the elements, is also a source of protection that surpasses physical shelter.

Things ain't what they used to be. Just look at sukkot, the structures, not the holiday. The New York Times reports that these days you can get sukkot made out plastic and PVC pipes, sukkot with canvas walls, and sukkot that look like the Kotel (Western Wall). There is an architect-designed sukkah that is

… an open lattice of leaning wooden members and diaphanous white fabric…The finished frame, while attractive on its own, also seemed evocative of something: a rotated Star of David, maybe, or a Rockettes troupe made of chopsticks. “It looks like it should be able to twist and collapse…like toothpicks in a cup, when they fall down and cross.”

Bless This Hut: The Rise of the Prefab Sukkah , Michael Tortorello,

New York Times, Home and Garden Section, October 2, 2008

You can get a portable pop-up sukkah that can go with you on a plane. You can even purchase a "car sukkah."

Nonetheless, you can still find sukkot constructed the old fashioned way, from wooden boards. Back in the good old days, sukkot, were assembled from particular types of trees: " …bring leafy branches of olive trees, pine trees, myrtle, palms and [other] leafy trees to make booths as it is written." (Nehemiah 8:15)

So here we are, in the midst of Sukkot, on Shabbat Hol Ha-mo'ed (The Shabbat of the Intermediate Days) when there is a special Torah reading and not once do we find the word Sukkot mentioned in this portion. The connection with the holiday is established through one short phrase regarding the Feast of Ingathering at the turn of the year. (Exodus 34:22) The name by which we know this holiday is found in Leviticus 23:34, read on the first two days of Sukkot, and Deuteronomy 16:13, read on Shemini Atzeret. In the book of Exodus, Sukkot is mentioned twice, but not by this name. In both instances it is called chag ha-asif, the Feast of Ingathering. The word sukkot does appear in the book of Exodus where it is related to the Exodus from Egypt: The Israelites journeyed from Raamses to Succoth, about six hundred thousand men on foot, aside from children. (Exodus 12:37) The first stop our ancestors make after they leave Egypt is at a place that shares it name with the booths in which we dwell at this time of the year.

The name in this week's portion, chag ha-asif, the Feast of Ingathering, is related to the root asaf meaning "to collect" or "gather." Rashi draws on the root and gives it a deeper meaning. He relates asaf to the way it is used in Deuteronomy 22:2, which describes what one must do with a lost animal: … you shall bring it home (va-asafto). In other words you must shelter and protect it.

This gives the verb asaf a particular nuance that goes beyond the act of gathering. There is a heightened awareness, a protective watchfulness involved in the gathering.

Ironically, the sukkah itself, while flimsy and open to the elements, is also a source of protection that surpasses physical shelter. In escaping from Raamses to Succoth, our ancestors transitioned from Pharaoh's oppression to God's sheltering presence.

In the portion we read on the first two days of Sukkot we are instructed that You shall live in booths seven days; all citizens in Israel shall live in booths, in order that future generations may know that I made the Israelite people live in booths when I brought them out of the land of Egypt, I the Lord your God. (Leviticus 23:42-3) The Talmud (Tractate Sukkah 11b) gives two interpretations on what the sukkah represents. According to Rabbi Akiva, it is the shelter that we build for physical protection. Rabbi Eliezer, focusing on the phrase I made the Israelite people live in booths when I brought them out of the land of Egypt, views the sukkah as the "clouds of glory" that accompanied the newly freed people. From this perspective the sukkah represents God's protective presence.

What then is the meaning of chag ha'asif, the Feast of Ingathering? It is a reflection of life. As Kohelet taught: A season is set for everything, a time for every experience under heaven. (Ecclesiastes 3:1) This is the time to gather the bounty in our lives, appreciate it, treasure it, and thank the Source of this harvest. Yet, when we feel that the seemingly secure walls that shelter our lives are being battered by unexpected winds and unforeseen storms, we are reminded that we are still encompassed by God's sheltering embrace. Sometimes, we sense that Divine protection while gazing at the heavens through the branches that cover the sukkah. At other times, we find it gazing at us through the eyes of those who have gathered with us.

I have observed the business that God gave man to be concerned with: He brings everything to pass precisely at its time; He also puts eternity in their mind, but without man ever guessing, from first to last, all the things that God brings to pass. Thus I realized that the only worthwhile thing there is for them is to enjoy themselves and do what is good in their lifetime…
Whatever is in your power to do, do with all your might.

Ecclesiastes 3:10-12, 9:10

Moadim le-simcha and Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Ha'azinu, Deuteronomy 32:1 - 32:52

The month of Tishrei is a journey beginning with forgiveness, proceeding towards reconciliation, and leading towards reunification as the season draws to a close.

Poetry: you either love it or hate it. Most people prefer their poetry in combination with music. This is a trait shared by people with disparate tastes, for example, lovers of opera, fans of musical theater, and rap aficionados. Words and music are equally important.

A smaller group enjoys the words of poetry that evoke a spiritual musicality in and of themselves. "If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry." So wrote Emily Dickinson to her mentor Thomas Wentworth Higginson.

How does one explain poetry? English speakers often think of rhyme and meter (which, if you think about it, works very well in defining song lyrics as well). According to Robert Frost, "Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words." In a more recent yet equally poetic explanation we learn that:

One of the most definable characteristics of the poetic form is economy of language. Poets are miserly and unrelentingly critical in the way they dole out words to a page. Carefully selecting words for conciseness and clarity is standard, even for writers of prose, but poets go well beyond this, considering a word's emotive qualities, its musical value, its spacing, and yes, even its spatial relationship to the page. The poet, through innovation in both word choice and form, seemingly rends significance from thin air.

What is Poetry? Grasping at the Indefinable, Mark Flanagan, About.com

The elements of this definition work well with the poetry we find in the Torah. Of particular interest is Flanagan's comment about the "special relationship to the page." When one unfurls a Torah scroll, two poems are immediately recognizable on account of their layout: Shirat Hayam, the Song at the Sea found in Exodus, and Moses' poem in parashat Ha'azinu, Deuteronomy 32, which we read this Shabbat. The former is written in three narrow columns whose significance have been the subject of numerous midrashim; the latter appears in two narrow columns in the Torah scroll.

Beyond the beauty of the layout, there are additional features that make biblical poems powerful. This poetry does not fall into our popularly held belief that poems should rhyme. Rather, their organizing principle is what is called "poetic parallelism," in which the first and second half of the verse convey similar ideas but in different words:
May my discourse come down as the rain,
My speech distill as the dew,
Like showers on young growth,
Like droplets on the grass. (Deuteronomy 32:2)

There are a variety of elements that contribute to the power of biblical poetry:

In this small body of literature are preserved the oldest expressions of Israel’s faith. It reveals a conception of God at once intuitive and concrete, born of vividly direct experience and participation in his mighty acts, a conception devoid of the sophistication and formalism which result from centuries of theological speculation. The language of the poems is rich and exuberant, the imagery is picturesque, the figures of speech extravagant. The compositions are marked by a strong rhythm, with a regular musical beat, frequently organized into strophes of considerable complexity. Altogether, they are the product of the most dynamic and creative era of Israel’s literary enterprise.

Studies in Ancient Yahwistic Poetry,

Frank Moore Cross, Jr. and David Noel Freedman, p. 1

All these elements are found in Ha'azinu. Particularly striking are descriptions used to convey an understanding of God’s relationship with Israel:
He found him in a desert region,
In an empty howling waste.
He engirded him, watched over him,
Guarded him as the pupil of His eye.
Like an eagle who rouses his nestlings,
Gliding down to his young,
So did He spread His wings and take him,
Bear him along on His pinions…
He set him atop the highlands,
To feast on the yield of the earth;
He fed him honey from the crag,
And oil from the flinty rock… (Deuteronomy 32:10-11, 13)

Certainly the description of God found at the beginning of the poem is one that resonates with us both for its strength and familiarity: The Rock! — His deeds are perfect,/Yea, all His ways are just… (Deuteronomy 32:4). The symbol of God as a rock, with all the power and stability that it denotes, is found numerous times in Ha'azinu. (This was the subject of last year's study on the parashah.)

This image works well most of the time, such as during the High Holy Days that have just ended; but now, as we approach Sukkot, another image comes to our awareness, that of the pliable sukkah that denotes God's protective covering spread over us. Sukkot is the holiday of redemption and when that time arrives, God's sukkah of peace will encompass all humanity. Why is this time always at a future date? What's preventing it from happening now?

Answer: Rocks. We'll get to that in a moment.

One of the beauties of poetry is how it can make you see things in a new light. Such is the case with the image of the rock as presented by the Israeli poet Dahlia Ravikovitch:

Even rocks crack, I'm telling you,
and not on account of age.
For years they lie on their backs
in the heat and the cold,
so many years,
it almost creates the illusion of calm.
They don't move, so the cracks stay hidden.
A kind of pride…

Pride, Dahlia Ravikovitch, translated by Chana and Ariel Bloch

The God described so vividly in Ha'azinu is a strong, steadfastness, and protective partner. This is the God we face on the High Holy Days. The God we encounter on Sukkot still bears these traits but exposes the gentle suppleness seen in both the sukkah and the lulav. It is a flexibility encouraging us to take a step, make a move, to bend.

We are the ones exhibiting the rock-like stubbornness so eloquently described by Ravikovitch. Yom Kippur may be over but the opportunity to make changes in our relationships still exists. The month of Tishrei is a journey beginning with forgiveness, proceeding towards reconciliation, and leading towards reunification as the season draws to a close.

…Years pass over them as they wait.
Whoever is going to shatter them
hasn't come yet.
And so the moss flourishes, the seaweed
whips around,
the sea bursts forth and rolls back --
and still they seem motionless.
Till a little seal comes to rub up against the rocks,
comes and goes.
And suddenly the rock has an open wound.
I told you, when rocks crack, it comes as a surprise.
All the more so, people.

Pride, Dahlia Ravikovitch , translated by Chana and Ariel Bloch

No need to crack, just bend. We have until Simchat Torah.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel