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A Lot of Tov! Podcasts to Share

I've gotten so behind on posting each new Tov! podcast here!

So here's a way to find all the ones you haven't heard yet. The most recent one features two college students, Sadie Meltzer and Lela Spira-Savett!

 

A Year of Jewish Ethics #10: Teshuvah

One of the most fundamental Jewish ethical practices is teshuvah. Teshuvah is the word that’s often translated as “repentance” and is too often just associated in people’s minds with the season of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the Yamim Nora’im or Days of Awe. The word teshuvah has a broader meaning of “going back” or maybe “going back over”, and it is in fact a fundamental discipline in Judaism for every time of year. In Rabbi Moses Maimonides’ code of Jewish law, the Mishneh Torah, teshuvah is taught not in the holy day section but in the section on the fundamentals of Torah.

Maimonides defines the paradigm of teshuvah as finding oneself in a situation where one previously acted wrongly or made the wrong choice, and this time doing it differently. Maimonides notes that there are various ways to avoid doing wrong, including just not thinking of it the next time, or not having the power or capacity to do the same wrong this time around. So for Maimonides, the ideal teshuvah is when you come to a situation again, with awareness of exactly what you did wrong and the reality that it was wrong, and with all the same capacities and thoughts that you brought to the earlier time available to you this current time. But this time, out of free will you override any situational or internal factors and take a different action.

Usually we are not in the exact same situation – with the exact same person we mistreated a certain way, in the same locale or setting. Generally teshuvah opportunities are by analogy, when the situation reminds us of something we did before. Teshuvah is a discipline of noticing those parallels, those analogies and resonances, and going back. We’re supposed to go back in memory so we can name the act, the type of situation, the thoughts or motivations behind our choice before that we want to reverse. Then an act of teshuvah is not just a bad act avoided this time, but a change within, overcoming a prior thing or a prior pattern in a way that is more likely to endure.

The figure in the book of Bereshit or Genesis who most exemplifies teshuvah is Yehudah, the fourth of the twelve sons of Yaakov. Yehudah plays a key role in throwing their young brother Yosef into a pit to get him out of their lives, and then making it look to their father as though Yosef had been killed by a beast. Yehudah sees his father himself torn apart in mourning and doesn’t do anything to show the truth, much less own up to the act. Some years later, during the famine, Yehudah and most of his remaining brothers go down to Egypt to buy food. They meet with an official there, who they don’t realize is actually Yosef himself – in any case, the Egyptian sends them off with food but insists on holding captive one brother, Shimon, and says that the brothers cannot come again for food without bringing along their youngest brother Binyamin.

They go home to Yaakov in the land of C’naan, and eventually their purchased food runs out. The only option is to go back to Egypt, and the only way they can do that is with Binyamin. Yaakov initially refuses, reminding his sons of his ongoing grief over Yosef. Standing in this situation once again, seeing his father still inconsolable, Yehudah has a moment of teshuvah. He tells Yaakov that he personally will guarantee Binyamin’s safety, exactly what he did not do when the brothers wanted to harm Yosef. This guarantee is the only thing that convinces Yaakov to let them take Binyamin.

Then in Egypt, when the official offers to release all of the brothers to return home well provisioned if they leave Binyamin behind – Yehudah steps forward and tells this (apparent) Egyptian stranger a version of the story of their family. He mentions his father and his father’s losses and grief; he mentions that there is a brother not with them. It’s not the whole story. But faced with a similar choice as at the pit and after, Yehudah goes back to the moment when Yosef was left behind and the aftermath. He states his refusal to do those things again, to another brother and to his father.

The book of Bereshit (Genesis) is not a manual of ethics; there are plenty of actions by our founding ancestors that look wrong or are wrong, even in the eyes of our tradition. And in fact as we will see, it will take the Exodus story to finish the foundations of Jewish ethics. But if we look at the Torah from the standpoint of ethics, it is the development of Yehudah that is the culmination of the book of Genesis, the defining part of the generation that will complete the book. Yehudah’s change may not meet every criterion of Maimonides for complete teshuvah. But it’s also a reminder of how much we can do by approaching that ideal. Yehudah’s teshuvah is described in the Torah through a series of moments. That’s what teshuvah is, an ongoing spiritual, ethical discipline, and it's one of the gifts of the many final chapters of the book of Bereshit. It is one of the reasons that we, the Jews, are named after Yehudah (Judah) -- the Judah-ites, the Jews, the people who do teshuvah.

For a completely different type of deep dive on teshuvah, check out Tov! A Podcast About "The Good Place" and Jewish Ideas -- here on the web, or search for Tov! on any podcast app.

I'm a Second Semester Freshman

Okay, it’s second semester of my first year of college in this plan I'm doing, and already I’m a week and a half behind. I will catch up this week and then do the project the way I intended, which is a day at a time.

“This semester”, I am taking first of all Introduction to Psychology with Jerome Kagan. I was trying to take some courses that would meet requirements in majors I was considering, otherwise I might have skipped to some other less intro course. I did know somehow that Professor Kagan was a major scholar, and he was a great teacher for the intro class. I can’t yet find my notes, so I may have to settle for some general memories later on, plus the one paper I do have.

I also remembering shopping a class called Psychobiology, which perhaps today we would call neuroscience. The lecture was about the corpus callosum, and what was learned from people for whom the connection between the two halves of the brain had been compromised. For some reason I decided the hard science of the course would be too demanding for me, maybe too much memorizing things I didn't think I was good at? Or maybe that I would go back and take the class if I chose psychology as a major, but only if that happened. This is the second example of a class I remembering shopping and not taking but where I remember the first lecture vividly. I’d looked at a class called Conceptions of Human Nature first term, and the first lecture talked about Freud and Marx, I remember, as dramatic contrasts in views of the basic premises of what a human is like.

I took a Government course, Political Development of Western Europe, with Professor Peter Hall. This was recommended as both a good background for and a taste of the Social Studies concentration. Professor Hall got great ratings in the student course evaluation guide. I wasn’t going to take the course because of the 300ish pages of weekly reading, but when I mentioned this to my parents my mom said, “Are you afraid of taking a class with a lot of reading?” I said, “No,” and then took the class. Thanks Mom! Also I guess I was considering majoring in Government, and maybe this would also be a way to get a requirement done, though I can't remember how much that was in my calculation.

I don’t think I was considering history as a major too seriously, but I did want to take another Jewish Studies course, and a visiting Israeli professor named Israel Bartal was offering a course on the history of Zionism. I think I knew a lot of the timeline from my Muss program in 11^th grade, and then reading Sachar’s History of Israel and a bunch of other things related to Israeli history in high school, some of them over and over. Obviously this would be a deeper, more critical dive.

I needed a Core course, and something less demanding. I ended up with a Literature and Arts C course, Empire and Art in the Medieval West I think it was called, with Professor Nora Nercessian. My neighbor Terry took it too. I guess I liked that it might touch on religion a bit, maybe, and also that it wouldn’t stray too far from history I knew something about from high school. I was always intrigued in high school by the notion of the Holy Roman Empire, for some reason. Not positive about that or what else I considered there in choosing this course, or which other options I discarded.

The first couple classes in the art class were about how the Germanic rules starting with Charlemagne claimed succession to the Roman imperial crown in some sense. Professor Nercessian reviewed some of the Roman imperial self-representations, in sculpture and a bit in architecture, focusing on Augustus, Trajan, Diocletian, and Constantine. There were nuances revealing their perceptions or backdrops of order vs. chaos in the world, dominance as an emperor, human power verging sometimes into a kind of chosenness by God. Charlemagne and successors would consciously imitate some of this, though they did not have access to the quality of materials or craftsmanship that the Roman and Byzantine emperors had.

A Year of Jewish Ethics #9: If Someone Treats You Badly How Good Do You Have to Remain?

All of us want to hold ourselves to a high standard of integrity and honesty and to go the extra mile for people as much as we can. But what happens when we are stuck dealing with another person who is either straight up unethical toward us, or whose actions are only just technically acceptable, not against a rule or a law but right at the line and not as good as they should be. And no feedback is going to lead to any change.

I’m talking particularly about business relationships, where in addition to being unpleasant it might cost money that a provider with more integrity would not charge. Though you can think about whether what I say applies beyond a financial context.

Whenever possible we should avoid people who are known to do business this way, or to extricate ourselves once it becomes clear that this is the case. But that’s not always possible, either because there is only one person or firm who does what we need, or because the financial or practical costs of cancelling a contract are prohibitive. Left in such a situation, how far is it acceptable to sink from our own standards to set things right for ourselves, so long as we are not ourselves violating a basic ethical norm?

This is how exactly how I see the situation of Yaakov Avinu and his father-in-law Lavan, in Genesis chapter 30 in Parashat Vayetze. Lavan has taken advantage of Yaakov’s labor for nearly two decades, changing the terms of his service and giving Yaakov the most unfavorable interpretation of their agreements. Yaakov finally tells Lavan he wishes to leave and they negotiate an exit fee to be paid to Yaakov. Instead of asking for a certain number of sheep and goats, Yaakov proposes to tend part of Lavan’s flock for one last period of time, and then collect the speckled and spotted animals among that part as his final payment.

Lavan agrees to the terms as spelled out. Then, Yaakov sets up a breeding system that dramatically increases the number of speckled and spotted animals within his assigned flock, far beyond the expected yield. When Lavan’s sons become aware of what has happened, they see it is as stealing on the part of Yaakov, and communicate that to their father.

What Yaakov has done here is to make a specific agreement and then get the most out of it. Presumably Yaakov knew that he would be able to leave with a bigger payment than Lavan thought he would owe, but it’s all within the letter of the agreement.

Did Yaakov owe Lavan the kind of extra, ahead-of-time transparency that Lavan had never given him? Lavan had not always lived by the letter of his own statements; was it okay for Yaakov to make the most of his own, as long as he himself has not lied?

In this kind of circumstance, where Yaakov has been defrauded over many years, I see the Torah indicating that it is permissible for him to try to make his situation better so long as he does not engage in actual dishonesty. He has after all an obligation to his family and himself, and is not required to leave without the means to set up away from Lavan in some kind of security. And at the same time, it’s important for Yaakov to understand that he is stooping. Not stooping all the way to Lavan’s level, but in that direction. There is a spiritual cost to making that choice in the moment, and a risk for the future of getting used to it -- a risk to himself and to people he may affect. Much of Jewish ethics is a virtue ethics, where our ability to act well has to be built and then replenished continually by repeated actions. When we do something we know is just all right but not honorable, we set up an obstacle for ourselves. Yaakov already has too much experience in his prior life being comfortable with deceit, and indeed some of his own children will learn badly from his example.

I have not quoted much from the Talmudic commentaries on Yaakov and Lavan, or other sources that ask the same question outside that context. But at least on this story from the Torah, there is a sense in the tradition from some interpreters that someone in Yaakov’s situation has a defense for stooping the way he did -- but one ought to still recognize that it is stooping, and take more steps than Yaakov did to prevent yourself from making such stooping into a habit, much less something you are proud of.

Wrapping Up My First Semester

I am probably already getting a late start on my second semester of college review, so here I am bundling all my leftover notes about first term.

I haven't mentioned my Hebrew literature class with Professor Safran. I don't know that I have notes. We read mostly Agnon stories, and talked a lot about his interesting religious concerns and in general his mode of creating characters that were "projections of his own inner life", or I suppose of the dilemmas of modern Jewish intellectuals. Alas, almost everyone else in the course could speak Hebrew; I could understand but hardly say a word at the time. 

I haven't said much about Expos (Expository Writing). I am sure my notebook is somewhere, but all I have found so far are a couple of stories and my final paper. I was delighted to see some great phrases here and there in my stories. As a fiction writer, I was heavy on interiority, not so much on plot, a bit on relationships. At least twice there was a character named Sam or Sammy who was not the narrator, obviously a stand-in for me (middle name Samuel), or a kind of idealized version of me or who I wished people saw me as!

My final paper on Malamud was pretty good! I remember how hard it was to really come up with a thesis that was interesting and actually borne out by my examples. I wrote about main characters who were somewhat conventional but also dreamers inside themselves, who were then challenged by unconventional characters who disrupted their equilibrium or their projects in profound ways. It's interesting to see what I was thinking about "conventional" Jews the year before I became more observant myself. It was a nicely written paper, tight and crisp and confidence.

My final psych paper was a stretch, an attempt to crystallize a cognitive+social psychology perspective on moral development. I am sure we were encouraged to stretch. I didn't find the analysis terribly resonant today, it was rooted again in the limits of my own experience, though I stumbled toward a couple of things. One was a good attempt to clarify what it would mean to synthesize a cognitive and a social perspective on development. The other was a nice typology that sort of anticipated the David Riesman types I'd read about a few years later. I liked that whoever graded the paper -- not sure if it was Scott the TA or Professor Demick -- really went over the language. This one was more unruly than the Expos paper.

I haven't conveyed yet just how excited I was to study psychology for the first time. I always had wanted to, to explore more about why people do and say and relate the way they do. The course did not disappoint, and I just ate it up all the time. Professor Demick, as I think I've commented, was a terrific lecturer, engaging and completely information-packed. Even though it was specifically Intro to Development, it was such a great general intro to the field that my next course, Intro to Psych, seemed a lot like I was reviewing.

When the school year ended, our family picked me up and we went out to Rockport for some days before going home. I bought two books from Justice that had been excerpted in the sourcebook -- Walzer's Spheres of Justice and Nozick's Anarchy, State, and Utopia. In my memory I read them both cover to cover while in Rockport; perhaps I only started there but I did absolutely read each one. I was determined to have a more solid, less debater/argumentative hold on both liberalism and conservatism, to take the critiques super seriously. Though Walzer is and was more fun to read, Nozick had his entertaining parts, and I slogged through the parts that had more symbols in them. 

I guess I'll leave it there, and start to catch up on second semester!

A Message for the Start of Chanukkah 5785 (2024)

This is the note I sent our synagogue community today, before the first candle of Chanukkah. Chag Urim Sameach!

Dear Friends:

Tonight begins Chanukkah, the festival of light and miracles and hope.

This year Chanukkah comes at a time of ongoing war in Israel, and at the end of a difficult year for Jews everywhere. Hostages are still captive in Gaza for 446 days. In America we are in an uncertain period of anticipation, between elections and inaugurations. Each of us has what is going on in our own lives. And to boot, Chanukkah is beginning at the end of Christmas Day.

So what can we make this year of our festival of light, miracles, and hope?

Chanukkah is easily the simplest of our holy days, and at the same time rewards a deeper dive. What could be simpler than one light sparking another, one light joining next to another, light that refuses to run out or to succumb to darkness? So simple -- yet so hopeful, even miraculous.

Dig a little deeper, and there is more. In the earliest telling of the Chanukkah story, in the book of First Maccabees, the rededication of the altar in Jerusalem took place on the exact anniversary of its defilement by the emperor Antiochus. The legend of the miracle of eight days of oil required someone to have enough hope to squirrel away a cruse of pure olive oil to begin with, to hide it close enough to be discovered yet out of sight of the oppressor. To me, hope is the capacity to know that something better is real as long as it ought to be, even when today it isn’t real and even when you don’t know when it might be.

And the whole story of Chanukkah is set in an era that is the first precursor of our own. The Hellenistic world revolutionized by Alexander the Great, by Greek-inspired culture and philosophy. Judaism was transformed in the centuries before and after the revolt of the Maccabees at time, even during the revolt itself. Judaism was translated into Greek language and in conversation with Greek philosophy; forced to grapple with questions of power, both ethical and strategic. Jews in Judea and Egypt and throughout the Middle East were often adapting and sometimes fighting to make our place as a unique nation in a world defined by a dominant empire and its culture.

Sometime during Chanukkah, give yourself the gift of a deeper dive, into the nature of hope and into the world of the Chanukkah story that is so relevant for us.

It is still a miracle to live as Jews in our age. To live in an era of freedom and strength like Jews have never known before. Which Jews have helped build in America and still do, for ourselves and everyone, and which Jews have created and still create in the Land of Israel.

It is still a miracle to be able to create and reenergize a modern Jewish culture and a modern Torah, to bring our rich legacy to bear on the most contemporary challenges from war and peace to majorities and minorities.

It is still a miracle that there are small cruses of oil everywhere. Sources of light and energy, hidden away to be rediscovered when we need them. Reserves of friendship and community, of wisdom and resilience.

Chanukkah is for the times when we wonder if there will be enough of these to last even through today. It is a reminder for each of us to be that cruse of oil for someone else close to you or simply in our community, when they are going through a tough time. Each of us is here to light the next candle -- to help one person not have to shine alone, to help a few people with commitment become a group or a movement.

This year Chanukkah begins as Christmas Day ends, and then the two seasons run alongside each other. That’s part of the origin story of Chanukkah too. It’s no accident that on the Jewish calendar the festival begins on the 25th of the month of Kislev, or that Christmas is the 25th, both originally in dialgoue with an existing holy day. Since the very first Chanukkah in 164 B.C.E., Chanukkah has been a time to reflect on our relationship to the larger world we’re in. For the members of our community who have both celebrations in your lives -- thank you for being part of Beth Abraham, and thank you for bringing something of Judaism to the people you’re connected to who might be less familiar with us.

This year we light our candles knowing that there are still hostages hidden in the dark tunnels under the Gaza Strip. Israeli, Jewish, American, and from other nations. May the merit of our deeds during Chanukkah hasten their freedom and restore them to light, to their lives, and to their loved ones. We pray that the night skies of the Holy Land be lit only by candles, and no longer with rockets.

The word Chanukkah means dedication. Each night as we light our candles, let us rededicate ourselves -- to someone, to some worthy action we can take individually or through our gifts of tzedakah. May all the lights in our windows and from our souls join together and radiate, showing and reflecting the light of the Divine One throughout the world.

Chag Urim Sameach – A Joyous Festival of Lights,
Rabbi Jon
Dear Friends:

Tonight begins Chanukkah, the festival of light and miracles and hope.

This year Chanukkah comes at a time of ongoing war in Israel, and at the end of a difficult year for Jews everywhere. Hostages are still captive in Gaza for 446 days. In America we are in an uncertain period of anticipation, between elections and inaugurations. Each of us has what is going on in our own lives. And to boot, Chanukkah is beginning at the end of Christmas Day.

So what can we make this year of our festival of light, miracles, and hope?

Chanukkah is easily the simplest of our holy days, and at the same time rewards a deeper dive. What could be simpler than one light sparking another, one light joining next to another, light that refuses to run out or to succumb to darkness? So simple -- yet so hopeful, even miraculous.

Dig a little deeper, and there is more. In the earliest telling of the Chanukkah story, in the book of First Maccabees, the rededication of the altar in Jerusalem took place on the exact anniversary of its defilement by the emperor Antiochus. The legend of the miracle of eight days of oil required someone to have enough hope to squirrel away a cruse of pure olive oil to begin with, to hide it close enough to be discovered yet out of sight of the oppressor. To me, hope is the capacity to know that something better is real as long as it ought to be, even when today it isn’t real and even when you don’t know when it might be.

And the whole story of Chanukkah is set in an era that is the first precursor of our own. The Hellenistic world revolutionized by Alexander the Great, by Greek-inspired culture and philosophy. Judaism was transformed in the centuries before and after the revolt of the Maccabees at time, even during the revolt itself. Judaism was translated into Greek language and in conversation with Greek philosophy; forced to grapple with questions of power, both ethical and strategic. Jews in Judea and Egypt and throughout the Middle East were often adapting and sometimes fighting to make our place as a unique nation in a world defined by a dominant empire and its culture.

Sometime during Chanukkah, give yourself the gift of a deeper dive, into the nature of hope and into the world of the Chanukkah story that is so relevant for us.

It is still a miracle to live as Jews in our age. To live in an era of freedom and strength like Jews have never known before. Which Jews have helped build in America and still do, for ourselves and everyone, and which Jews have created and still create in the Land of Israel.

It is still a miracle to be able to create and reenergize a modern Jewish culture and a modern Torah, to bring our rich legacy to bear on the most contemporary challenges from war and peace to majorities and minorities.

It is still a miracle that there are small cruses of oil everywhere. Sources of light and energy, hidden away to be rediscovered when we need them. Reserves of friendship and community, of wisdom and resilience.

Chanukkah is for the times when we wonder if there will be enough of these to last even through today. It is a reminder for each of us to be that cruse of oil for someone else close to you or simply in our community, when they are going through a tough time. Each of us is here to light the next candle -- to help one person not have to shine alone, to help a few people with commitment become a group or a movement.

This year Chanukkah begins as Christmas Day ends, and then the two seasons run alongside each other. That’s part of the origin story of Chanukkah too. It’s no accident that on the Jewish calendar the festival begins on the 25th of the month of Kislev, or that Christmas is the 25th, both originally in dialgoue with an existing holy day. Since the very first Chanukkah in 164 B.C.E., Chanukkah has been a time to reflect on our relationship to the larger world we’re in. For the members of our community who have both celebrations in your lives -- thank you for being part of Beth Abraham, and thank you for bringing something of Judaism to the people you’re connected to who might be less familiar with us.

This year we light our candles knowing that there are still hostages hidden in the dark tunnels under the Gaza Strip. Israeli, Jewish, American, and from other nations. May the merit of our deeds during Chanukkah hasten their freedom and restore them to light, to their lives, and to their loved ones. We pray that the night skies of the Holy Land be lit only by candles, and no longer with rockets.

The word Chanukkah means dedication. Each night as we light our candles, let us rededicate ourselves -- to someone, to some worthy action we can take individually or through our gifts of tzedakah. May all the lights in our windows and from our souls join together and radiate, showing and reflecting the light of the Divine One throughout the world.

Chag Urim Sameach – A Joyous Festival of Lights,
Rabbi Jon

A Year of Jewish Ethics #6: Ownership

In chapter 23 of Bereshit Sarah dies and in order to bury her, Avraham makes his first purchase of land. Burial is such an important mitzvah, and it’s important that a mitzvah becomes the context for the first purchase recorded in the Torah. What does this teach us about a Jewish ethic of ownership?

Avraham wants to buy from the Hittites M’arat Hamachpelah, the cave of Machpelah. Their leader, Ephron, wants to gift it to him, or perhaps only to give him the use of it. But Avraham wants to own it. So they go back and forth about whether it’s a gift or a purchase, until they agree on a price and make the deal.

Many people are critical of Avraham’s focus on this business at a time of mourning. But I think it’s worth considering nonetheless what the story teaches us about the ethical significance of ownership.

In modern America, we say “A man’s home is his castle.” Think about what this conveys about our culture. Ownership in the dominant American view is bound up primarily with individuality and individual control. That’s the typical starting point – owning creates an absolute individual right, and to deviate from that requires a special justification.

For Avraham, the starting point is different. Avraham has been a wanderer, and while he owns herds and has been very prosperous and never in need, only very late in life does he turns to consider ownership of land for the first time.

For Avraham ownership of the cave is grounded first and foremost in a purpose. There is an immediate purpose, which is a mitzvah he needs to do. He needs the cave to bury Sarah. Avraham also intends for this place to endure beyond his own life, as a physical symbol of his family legacy, which is the story of a covenant that is young at the moment but will unfold over generations. God has promised a mission for his descendants that will take place in this land, and Avraham wants to leave his descendants something connected to that which is theirs undisputedly.

Avraham’s purposes for owning the cave define what he can and can’t do there. He can’t use it to build a separate settlement for himself apart from the Hittites, or a fortification.

Second, for Avraham owning the cave is about defining a relationship between him and the people around him. Avraham has been a transient in this city of Chevron, coming and going, and the Hittites and he don’t necessarily know each other that well. So this acquisition is a jump-start toward an enduring relationship. At its best, doing business with someone is the easiest way to begin to develop trust. In the context of a very specific acquisition transaction, it’s easy to define what honesty and integrity are. If done well, exchanging ownership is an easy win, a deposit on a positive relationship. It’s a moment of equality, and then the boundaries around what’s mine and yours give us a way over time to respect each other’s individuality. Definition helps us see each other as who we are, to relate to each other specifically.

So in this story, ownership serves purpose and relationship. Within those come individuality and the prerogatives of ownership.

This is the ideal. Obviously owning is often not done well. Soon in the Torah Yaakov will purchase Esav’s birthright, but he will do it by taking advantage of someone who is weary and hungry. Modern examples of this are everywhere, including in the contemporary city of Chevron in Eretz Yisrael, and these realities lead some to a critique of ownership all together.

Which is why it’s important to define a Jewish ethic of ownership. Ownership is everywhere in our daily life and our social structure. It pervades our consciousness and our metaphors and our language. To push against the modern language of ownership we need an alternative. In the Torah, that alternative begins with Avraham and the Hittites, and the ownership of M’arat Hamachpelah.

A Year of Jewish Ethics #5: The Binding of Yitzchak

 

It’s impossible to talk about Jewish ethics and the book of Bereshit without addressing the story of the binding of Isaac, Akedat Yitzchak or simply the Akedah (found in Genesis 22:1-19). Avraham hears a call from the Divine to take his son to the top of a mountain and offer him as an offering. Avraham packs them up early in the morning and they travel for two days, and on the third day proceeds almost in slow motion toward this terrible act. Ultimately a messenger from the Divine speaks to Avraham and stops him.

There are so many ways to interpret the message of this story, but for Jewish ethics I want to follow a tradition in the midrash where God never wants Avraham to make this sacrifice, and Avraham knows this even though he is not sure how exactly it will play out.

So the ethical principle is that God never wants us to set aside our responsibilities for human life, ever, even when how to live up to that is complicated. No one’s death is good for a cause, no matter how good the cause. No one’s death and no group’s death can be the purpose of a cause, obviously, and just being willing to kill can never be the way you ask someone to show how devoted they are to a good cause. If you think that God’s will or some cause is so high that it overrides the value of a human life without a thought, you are always wrong.

So why doesn’t Avraham just say to God right off – “Good test – I get it, this is a command I should not obey even from you”?

I follow a way of seeing this story taught by a Chasidic rebbe known as the Izhbitzer. He sees the Akedah as a question Avraham asks himself after he has achieved some serenity and prosperity in his life. The Izhbitzer imagines Avraham saying to himself: How do I know what my own motivations are? How do I am not serving God only because things are easy?

So I imagine Avraham saying to himself: I say I have learned the principle of Tzelem Elohim, of the image of God manifest in every person. But am I really committed to it? Do I always stand up for it?

What if the only way to protect someone I care about puts someone else at risk? What if now that I am old, the only way to protect our legacy is for my child to fight for it, to risk his life for my ideals, to kill those who threaten it or threaten us if he has no other choice? What if he doesn’t know yet how to weep at the loss of life that might come from his justifiable acts, the way I hope I do? What if my pursuit of justice has blinded me to someone else’s life?

In this line of thinking, the Akedah isn’t something that happened, a demand from God, but an exploration within Avraham’s own soul. He makes himself live with the hardest dilemmas that test his commitment to Tzelem Elohim and human life. Because he does not delude himself that these dilemmas are easy.

So we have to commit and recommit to the absolute value of human life. Sometimes how to do that is clear. Sometimes it’s not, and in those cases, such as a just war fought justly, we still have to recognize that the deaths are not for God, or for the cause, and make sure at the very least that we don’t turn away.

The big idea is that God despises human sacrifice. We think we know this, and we have to continue to ask what it really means.

College: Piaget

Yes, I literally just wrote about the prior notes and theory minutes ago!

I've always loved Piaget, even after all the critiques of the narrowness of his focus and of his research base. I rely on him all the time. Looking at the notes, I see immediately two things. One that I forgot, which is that part of what motivated Piaget was a desire to put epistemology on a scientific basis. He thought that exploring how we develop thinking would help clarify what thought actually is. The other thing I love is just how much careful observation there is. Even the sensory-motor stage, which seems like completely pre-cognitive, has so much going on and wiring up, so many building blocks being put actively into place by a baby. I loved reading the specifics of the phases within the phase. This is the first theory I learned that had really a disciplined cluster of observations at its center. I remember going for Thanksgiving break that year to visit Uncle Morris' and Aunt Bert's family and seeing a baby after learning this, and all of a sudden I could see not just a randomly moving blob but all of these specific things! Piaget considered them to be active efforts, not just predetermined maturations, even though we almost all do them.

Certainly it's been helpful to my own epistemology to be able to see the difference between concrete and abstract thinking in teens and preteens (and adults, truthfully), and not to confuse them just because it's all communicated eventually in words. I guess it's also distressing and hard for me that not everyone gets to that "formal operations" stage, which even Piaget values as the desired "good" end point.

I thought it was interesting that Piaget thought that despite the child-driven-ness of how development works, society's intentions or teaching make only a marginal impact on individuals' pace of development. At most opportunities for disequilibrium can be provided and if the child is capable of responding or needs to, they will. This showed up later as an issue in my senior thesis, about the role of teaching in child-centered educational theories.

 

College: Organismic-Developmental Theory

I guess I'll say it was inevitable I'd fall behind but I am determined to catch up well before the "semester" ends. Fortunately, when I was in college reading period was after winter break...

Heinz Werner's organismic-developmental theory seems like something I used to understand and now can't quite piece together. I'm pretty sure it was the school of thought in which Professor Demick was situated, and I seem to remember it holding together in a certain way that I've lost but made a lot of sense at the time.

Two things that interested me in the notes -- First, the idea that we experience reality in three ways. We have an experience of ourselves, an experience of the environment, and an experience of self-within-environment. That's interested as a description of awareness, if that's what they actually meant. I don't remember how that plays out. It's different from saying that a person can be understood from the outside in three ways. The second thing I was struck by was the idea of development as always starting with something new that is diffuse and disorganized, which seems in some sense to be "regression" but is actually the stage anything goes through as it comes into being and then adapts. I think the notes say we are constantly going through this with regard to new things all the time, but overall for most people there is a trend toward organization. This is parr of what's meant by an organismic theory -- people are organisms, and we encounter new things outside and also our capacities pop into play at different stages, and there is a process of accommodating and adapting and then functioning. Those weren't the terms in these notes.

Why I say I used to get it more -- I think what I'm seeing in my notes is a bunch of parts. The idea of the human as an organism -- a whole, whose levels and parts are distinct but all relevant to who the person is; as a part of an environment, and not an isolated entity -- that I got at the time and still get. How this translates into understanding psychological phenomena in a distinct way, either I don't see it or it's obvious and everywhere. The latter might have been the point. You can't just pick one thing about human development and call that the main thing, or even understand the one thing on its own, whether that's social development or cognitive development. Okay, maybe I do still get it?

A Year of Jewish Ethics #4: Are You Responsible for Your Group?

What responsibility does an individual have for the faults of a whole group? In the first part of Bereshit, the book of Genesis, there are at least two stories that touch on this question directly. One is the story of the Flood, the Mabul in Hebrew, and the other is the situation in Sodom and Gomorrah, S’dom v’Amora. Both of these stories are about a places with a pervasive culture of evil.

The Torah describes and portrays S’dom and Amora in a few places as beautiful, ungenerous, and violent. And also spiritually corrupt, which I take to mean that somehow their ideas and practices justify those other evils and perpetuate them. God presents Avraham with the idea that places like this have no hope and should be destroyed. (I will add here that theologically I don’t believe that this is actually how God operates – I treat this as a metaphor or a thought experiment.)

Avraham argues with God that there might be a group of people within the cities who are tzaddikim, which either means they are innocent of the corruption of their place, or that they are actually people of integrity.

Eventually Avraham and God seem to agree on two possibilities. If there are ten people who are tzaddikim, the cities should not be destroyed at all, and if there are fewer, the cities are doomed but those individuals should be able to leave or extricated.

It turns out that is not a group of ten tzaddikim. There is one family who seem to stand relatively apart, the household of Avraham’s nephew Lot, and maybe it’s only Lot himself. They aren’t admirable, particularly, but they are not the worst of the worst, not what we think of when we think of the pervasive evils of S’dom. They are rescued when the cities are destroyed.

Let me suggest a couple possible lessons from the story of S’dom and Amora, knowing that in later teachings in this series I will have other things to add from the Torah and the Talmudic tradition about this question of individual responsibility within a group guilty of terrible things.

One lesson is that an individual is obligated to leave a group that cannot be swayed away from its vileness, if it’s just one or two against everyone. If you stay past a certain point, then you are responsible even if you’re not one of the ringleaders or you don’t agree. Your presence starts to contribute in all kinds of ways anyway – each time you are silent it strengthens the others, for instance.

It's hard to leave -- Lot and his family hesitate, even when the divine messengers who want to pull them out explain that staying means they will not survive the coming fire and brimstone. But that’s the only way they have a chance to remain innocent and not complicit.

Another lesson comes from the counterfactual that Avraham and God articulate, the idea of ten tzaddikim. Jewish tradition links this with the minyan, a quorum of ten adults for communal prayer. Here in the Torah, it’s a group of ten who stand for the idea of a moral community, not just some individuals who are morally courageous.

Such a group creates an enclave where alternative ideas can be shared openly and fleshed out and lived on a small scale, which can show itself as an alternative to the culture of the larger group. Even a minority can stand up together and try to lead the majority in teshuvah, in reflection and a way back, as long as the small group shares a life together and strengthens each other. A single person or family like Noach or Lot can’t do this, nor can just a few people, and they can’t be expected to take responsibility for that.

Even though there was no such small group in S’dom and Amora, the tradition sees Avraham teaching that there could be and if there are ten people then if they don’t leave, they ought to be a deliberate counterculture. It is at least the first half of the Margaret Mead idea: Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world.

Changing the world, in the context of something as extreme as S’dom, does not mean changing things completely. But when you are part of such a minyan, you now have the possibility of staying productively, and working on one important thing where the larger group has veered off.

S'dom and Amora, and the Flood, represent the extreme versions of a thought experiment about an evil society and the role of one tzaddik. I’ll come back in other installments with more specifics from the Talmud, about for instance how long a group like this ought to keep at it when the possibilities are better than they were for Lot and for Noach.