Parashat Yitro, Exodus 18:1-20:23

This parasha has been generously sponsored by Susan Kitchell, for Shabbat, January 26, 2008 in memory of her beloved mother Dora Kitchell z"l whose Yahrzeit is Tu B'Shvat.

We rarely think of memory as something that carries us into the future.

Like many of you, I have recently been under the weather. Unable to do a good deal of work, or even much reading, I have spent time dozing or "channel surfing." This latter time-wasting activity brought to mind the Bruce Springsteen song 57 Channels (and Nothing On) . Sixteen years after it was written, Springsteen's gripe still holds true, even though it should be updated to 500 channels.

More and more stations seem devoted to rerunning both the hits and misses of the past. There are the usual sitcoms, cop shows, and medical dramas. One channel promises nothing but game shows. (Personally, I'm waiting for the station that will show nothing but old commercials without commercial interruption.) These cable channels market this stuff as though they are fulfilling a deeply felt need, satiating a longing for an idealized past. In marketing nostalgia, they raise the desire to regain something that never truly existed. The programs that delighted me in my youth are corny and dated. The clothes and hairstyles that were so fashionable are comic. This is not what I remember.

Perhaps such nostalgia works better with a different memory trigger. The archetype of such a trigger is provided by Marcel Proust in Remembrance of Things Past, where a taste of a tea-soaked biscuit is the key to his narrator's childhood memory:

And once I had recognized the taste of the crumb of madeleine soaked in her decoction of lime-flowers which my aunt used to give me … the whole of Combray and of its surroundings, taking their proper shapes and growing solid, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea.

(Overture, Swann's Way, Remembrance of Things Past, vol. 1)

In this multi-volume work, Proust's narrator is trying to recapture lost time, to re-experience the past in a qualitative fashion. Proust termed this "involuntary memory." A "voluntary" memory recalls the facts of the past. When an involuntary memory is triggered, sensations are experienced giving texture to the memory.

Anything can be a trigger, and it is frequently unpredictable. Proust's narrator found out that experience waned the second or third time around. Others are more hopeful. I wear my mother's ring because it does indeed manage to conjure up unexpected memories. A friend of mine recently purchased a coat, in part because the texture of the material brought back memories of her grandmother. These items are keys to unlocking a treasure box of emotions and sensations that preserve memory.

Memory is an essential component in Jewish practice. This week, as we stand at the foot of Mount Sinai, we are commanded zachor (remember) Shabbat. In a few months, when we read the book of Deuteronomy, the same Ten Commandments will exhort us to shamor (keep or observe) Shabbat. Tradition tells us that these are two sides of the same coin, as described in the Shabbat song Lecha Dodi: "Keep and remember in one utterance". Rashi maintains that shamor is a commandment to refrain from action, while zachor is the use of action to sanctify the occasion.

Of these two aspects of the Shabbat mitzvah (commandment), shamor, that is "keeping" or "observing" Shabbat, is probably the easier to fulfill. There are lists of actions permitted and prohibited on Shabbat. These "how to" guides for observing Shabbat cover the spectrum from traditionalist to edgy. But what on earth does it mean to remember Shabbat and how do we fulfill this commandment? Is it a matter of putting it in my Blackberry so that I get a reminder on Friday to buy the necessary items, make preparations and clear the calendar for Saturday? Surely Shabbat is important enough that I am as aware of its imminent arrival as I am of its departure!

For some of our ancestors that was not enough. Shammai the Elder would have Shabbat uppermost in his mind every day of the week. That way, when he saw an item of food that would enhance Shabbat, he would set it aside for Shabbat. If later in the week he saw a better item, he would put that aside and eat the first selection (Talmud, Beitsa 16a). More than this, to Shammai Shabbat shaped the week and his purpose for the week. He would fulfill the mitzvah of Shabbat, even when not actually observing Shabbat by actions that showed he "remembered" Shabbat.

Rashbam views remembering differently, pointing out that the word zachor always refers to something in the past. This is how it used in Deuteronomy 9:7 Remember, never forget, how you provoked the Lord your God to anger in the wilderness, and in Deuteronomy 32:7 Remember the days of old,/Consider the years of ages past;/Ask your father, he will inform you,/Your elders, they will tell you.

Reading the different commentaries on the Shabbat commandments, I would describe shamor as representing voluntary memory and zachor as being involuntary memory. Each aspect has a modern problem: Memory isn't what it used to be. We don't need to remember things like we used to on account of the many technological aides we have to help us remember: computers, blackberries, PVRs, and DVDs. These devices have brought us to the point where we are often so busy creating memories that we don't have time to experience the actual events. How many of us witness significant events in the lives of loved ones through the filter of a camera lens or video screen? How can we conjure up the texture of a memory when we are so busy taking pictures of the cookie dipped in tea that we fail to taste the actual cookie?

Memory used to be a lot better, not just when we were personally younger, but back in history. In the days before recording devices, various techniques were used to aid memory. The Talmud suggests five items to help strengthen memory: "Wheaten bread and much more so wheat itself, eating a roasted egg without salt, frequent consumption of olive oil, frequent indulgence in wine and spices, and the drinking of water that has remained from kneading. Others say: Dipping one's finger in salt and eating is also included." (Talmud, Horayot 13b) Rhymes were used in ancient times, as were mnemonic devices (a number of which can be found in the Talmud). "Memory theater" was a visualization technique dating back to classical times that was used to memorize vast amounts of material:

The material to be memorised was supposed to be conceived of as a familiar location. This could take the form of all or part of a building: an arch, a corner, an entrance hall, and so on.
… the process of memorising would involve the memoriser in a mental walk through the building. The route should be one which was logical and habitual, so that it might be easily and naturally recalled. The theatre was now ready to be filled with the material to be memorised. This material took the form of mental images representing the different elements to be recalled.
…strong images were the best, so reasons should be found to make the data stand out.

James Burke, The Day the Universe Changed

These are the types of techniques that helped me get through high school chemistry and have helped countless others on tests and exams. Memory aids to recall "just the facts, ma'am," useful in remembering the details of shamor, observing Shabbat. But memory is a funny thing, especially when you get past the facts. Maurice Chevalier and Hermione Gingold reminiscing about their youthful romance thought they "remembered it well" in the Lerner and Loewe musical Gigi. Instead, the factual details of their memories were flawed, but the emotional essence, the zachor, remained. Such memory is not a photograph of what has occurred; it is a painting done in each individual's artistic style.

Does this mean that a lousy memory makes it more difficult for us to fulfill the commandment of remembering Shabbat? A friend once told me that when he in university, he "remembered" Shabbat. That is to say, he observed it but not fully in the way he would have liked. He looked forward to the time when it would be possible to observe Shabbat as he remembered it, surrounded by family and observing the customs particular to his family. He was finally able to do this once he had a family of his own. Zachor, "remembering" Shabbat, goes a step beyond Rashbam's concept of remembering the past. It even goes beyond the textured memory brought about by the play of light on a mother's ring or the particular softness of bubbie's (grandma's) coat, which link the past to the present. In my friend's Shabbat, zachor was the link between past and future.

We rarely think of memory as something that carries us into the future. How can it, when we, who remember, are living in the present? Yet, each time we "make shabbes," we are clearing a path towards that future memory.

Shabbat encompasses and encapsulates all who observe it: those in the past, the present, and the future. My friend may long for a childhood experience of Shabbat, I may long for a particular Shabbat memory, and you may too. We know full well we cannot recreate it. But we can take elements of those memories, treasure them, and incorporate them into the Shabbatot (Sabbaths) we share with our loved ones, hoping these elements will be meaningful for them, so that it in time these customs will trigger their own memories of Shabbat. We are creating future memories and future observances.

Resh Lakish taught that on Shabbat we each receive an extra soul (Talmud, Beitsa 16a). I like to think of that as a composite of all the souls that have had a part in sharing, shaping and elevating my celebration of Shabbat, without whom I could not fulfill the commandment zachor, remembering Shabbat. No doubt my Shabbat observance is totally different from that of my ancestors, even of that of my grandparents and parents, but elements of what they did is found in what I do. It is the legacy they bestowed on me, as I hope to bestow it on my children and grandchildren. They have helped me understand that "one who celebrates Shabbat will be given an inheritance beyond limitation." (Talmud, Shabbat 118a) May the investment we make in shamor, observing Shabbat, lead to a rich legacy of zachor, remembering Shabbat, for those who follow us.

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Ki Tavo, Deuteronomy 26:1-29:8

On behalf of Jack and Sam Markle...in memory of their parents Bessie Slywowicz and Sam Markle.

This week we are given an additional memory, that of the eternal outsider.

In the Lerner and Loewe musical My Fair Lady, Eliza Doolittle complains to the man wooing her: "Words! Words! Words! I'm so sick of words! I get words all day through…" She dares her suitor to put his words into action as is indicated by the title of this song: Show Me. While Eliza's focus is romance, her challenge of transforming words into action is at the heart of a familiar phrase found in this week's parashah.

Three little words in Deuteronomy 26:5 contain within them the catalyst for transforming words into action: arami oved avi, a seemingly simple phrase that is among the more ambiguous ones in the Torah. (This verse has been analyzed in detail in an earlier parashat hashavua.) Translations include "my father was a wandering Aramean.," "my father was a fugitive Aramean," "an Aramean caused my father to be lost," and "an Aramean tried to destroy my father."

Who is the father? Is it Abraham, who sojourned in Egypt for a while? Is it Jacob, who went down to Egypt with his family, seventy people in all? And who is the Aramean? No Aramean pursued Abraham; Laban pursued Jacob, and he was the son of Bethuel the Aramean.

This trio of words, which forms a central part of the Haggadah, has been challenging us throughout history. In the actual Torah portion, they are part of a ritual formula recited by the ancient Israelite farmer when bringing the offering of first fruits to the sanctuary:

When you enter the land that Adonai your God is giving you as a heritage, and you possess it and settle in it, you shall take some of every first fruit of the soil, which you harvest from the land that Adonai your God is giving you, put it in a basket and go to the place where Adonai your God will choose to establish His name. You shall go to the priest in charge at that time and say to him, "I acknowledge this day before Adonai your God that I have entered the land that Adonai swore to our fathers to assign us."

The priest shall take the basket from your hand and set it down in front of the altar of Adonai your God.

You shall then recite as follows before Adonai your God: "My father was a fugitive Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried to Adonai, the God of our fathers, and Adonai heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. Adonai freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and portents. He brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Wherefore I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, O Lord, have given me."

You shall leave it before Adonai your God and bow low before Adonai your God. And you shall enjoy, together with the Levite and the stranger in your midst, all the bounty that Adonai your God has bestowed upon you and your household. (Deut. 26:1-11)

Last week I referred to (1) the importance of historic memory in Judaism and (2) how history is seen as a record of the encounter between God and the Jewish people. The words spoken by the farmer when bringing the first fruit are crucial to this collective memory:

"Here, thanks­giving is to be rooted in the past, with its glories and its difficulties: The facts of near destruction in ages gone by (or in recent memory as the case may be) were set down, as necessary recollections for an Israelite’s thanksgiving. Whether the danger to survival came to an Abraham or to a Jacob, whether the ancestor was threatened or merely lost (physically? spiritually?) is less impor­tant than that the past needed to be seen as impinging on the present, and that God's beneficent guidance needed to be rehearsed from generation to generation. The very opaqueness of the language may in fact have prevented the obligation from being identified with the remote past only, and instead served to render it of continuing significance." (Rabbi W. Gunther Plaut, ed., The Torah: A Modern Commentary)

However one translates these three words, the message is clear: This formula recounts the essential action that God plays in history. But there is more to it as well. Arami oved avi is not a history lesson. It is essentially a prayer.

In Worship and Ethics, Rabbi Max Kadushin describes two different types of prayer. First, there is "phenomenal" prayer, wherein the blessing relates directly to the experience. This would be saying ha-motzi before eating a slice of bread. Then there is the "meditative" prayer, which builds on the basic experience. The example Kadushin uses is the birkat ha-mazon, the grace after meals, which offers thanks for food and then builds on that by thanking God for the land, for Torah, for God's role in history and concludes with a prayer for Jerusalem. Kadushin sees this as: "An actual concrete example of God's love, a phenomenal experience, here initiates the chain of religious experiences." Similarly, arami oved avi is more than collective memory; it is also a "meditative" prayer on the nature of God's role in history and our relationship with God.

There is one more crucial element in this formula and in prayer in general. Kadushin notes that in prayer we not only gain an awareness of ourselves "as an object of God's love, but an awareness of the self that includes society."

The formula arami oved avi impresses on the individual that he is the eternal stranger, that she is the symbolic other. In this regard arami oved avi builds on the message in last week's portion that taught us zachor - remember what Amalek did to you. Last week the lesson dealt with collective memory that is essential to our survival. This week we are given an additional memory, that of the eternal outsider. This memory is meant to raise within us an awareness outside ourselves, embracing and protecting those in society who our modern "Arameans," or who are vulnerable to attacks by modern-day "Amalek."

Memory, prayer, and action are threads within the formula first recited by our ancestors. Voicing these words today, we too experience the transformative potential of words. Perhaps this is best expressed by the writer Ingrid Bengis "For me, words are a form of action, capable of influencing change."

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Ki Tetze, Deuteronomy 21:10-25:19

This week’s parasha is in memory of Jane Potts, mother of Adrienne Rosen, Myra White and grandmother of Alana and Sally Rosenwhite.

Remembering Amalek has provided a model of for Jewish survival stretching back to the Bible, reaching out to recent history.

All cultures have ways of symbolizing evil. It could be a particular figure such as a caped villain tying the damsel in distress to the railroad track. It might be a particular color, a sound, or an ominous grouping of musical notes. For Jews, evil is traditionally epitomized by the deeds of Amalek, described at the very end of Ki Tetze:

Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt — how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear. Therefore, when the Lord your God grants you safety from all your enemies around you, in the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget! (Deut 25:17-19)

These words refer to an event mentioned In Exodus 17:8-13, but the details of Amalek's actions are left for this week's portion. The worst part of this encounter being the attack on the weakest in the group, those who are strategically placed at the rear so they may be protected.

While seemingly out of place with the rest of Ki Tetze, these last few verses dealing with Amalek tie in thematically with it and the many issues of social welfare raised in the Torah portion where the concern is for the weak, the stragglers, captives (especially women), slaves, the poor, and even animals.

Over the course of time, Amalek became synonymous with whatever individual or group posed a threat to Jewish survival. Through these encounters over the millennia, the commandment zachor became imbued with a transcendent vigilance.

Remembering in the Torah most often deals with the relationship between God and Israel. We are to remember all that God has done for us, taking us out of Egypt, ensuring our survival in the wilderness, leading us to the Promised Land. Remembering (zachor) is also a crucial aspect of the commandment dealing with Shabbat. God too remembers. God takes note (pakad) of Sarah, ensuring the continuity of the Covenant. God remembers (zachar) the covenant with our ancestors, takes notice of us and begins the chain of events that will free us from slavery (Ex. 2:24-5).

What are we to remember and how are we to remember? Our relationship to our past has been a crucial element in Judaism which strives to imbue history with transcendent meaning. God's purpose and will unfold through history and this is what we record in our holy works.

This approach to the past is analyzed in Yosef Hayyim Yerushalmi's masterpiece Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory where he describes the Jewish approach to history as "Divine challenge & human response." In the ancient world deities were experienced through nature; Jews encounter the Divine in time and history. We see that in our festivals which commemorate critical interactions with God rather see that in reenacting a primeval myth. It is also evident in the way God's self-description as the God of our ancestors, rather than as a god of creation.

According to Yerushalmi, we keep history alive through memory. As in all cases of remembering, it is a selective memory and we choose to remember God's intervention on our behalf. So the formative event in Judaism, the Exodus from Egypt, omits human heroes as our memory takes shape. Moses appears in the Torah but disappears in the Haggadah. There is only one hero, God.

History disappears with the Talmudic rabbis. They play with time and with characters. Thus the pastoral Isaac studies in a heavenly yeshiva, Moses visits a yeshiva in rabbinic times. They teach us that ein mukdam u-me'uchar ba'torah – there is no "before" or "after" in the Torah. As Yerushalmi points out, the rabbinic sages did not write the history of their own time; their objective was not to record event, but to explore their purpose and meaning.

In Rabbinic interpretation, history has a divine purpose; crucial to that pattern is the commandment to remember Amalek.

Naivete and amnesia always favor the aggressors, the Amalekites in particular. The Amalekites wanted to wipe out an entire people, memory and all; amnesia completes that undone job. Ingenuousness leads to lowering the guard, which encourages attempts at repetition. One of the classic evasions undergirding naivete is the claim that Amalek is long since gone. Only "primitive" people are so cruel, only madmen or people controlled by a Svengali/Hitler type would do such terrible things. The mitzvah of Zachor is a stern reminder that Amalek lives and must be fought. (Rabbi Irving Greenberg The Jewish Way p. 244)

Remembering Amalek has provided a model of for Jewish survival stretching back to the Bible, reaching out to recent history. But today, many in the Jewish community are questioning whether old models will carry us into the future. Just a month ago, a Jewish think tank put together by the Bronfman family met in Utah to ponder the question "Why be Jewish."

The ensuing discussions were wide ranging and often very personal, dealing with topics such as belief in redemption, the disintegration of communal responsibility, the appeal of ecstatic prayer and the deficiencies of existing communal structures.
Absent from the conversations were anti-Semitism, Israel and the Holocaust, the holy trinity of American Jewish identity for the past 60 years. …
"The big question this generation is asking is, 'Why should I be Jewish? How does Judaism influence my life?' The old 'peoplehood' argument doesn't resonate with them." (Sue Fishkoff, JTA Reporter's Notebook, August 3, 2007)

This according to conference organizer, Rabbi Eliyahu Stern.

Are we at a point where our tried-and-true model for Jewish survival has stopped working? Peoplehood is interwoven with historical memory; the latter cannot exist on an individual level. There is nothing wrong with personalizing the issue and attaining deep personal satisfaction from Judaism. But ultimately, Judaism is a communal covenant. Even the instructions in Ki Tetze, though they focus on individuals within a society, are meant to guarantee the stability of the entire community. Our challenge is to integrate the personal and communal, strengthening personal commitment while ensuring communal endurance. Zachor is not only what we remember but how we remember.

Shabbat shalom,
MS