Hayé Sarah

TALES FROM A DYSFUNCTIONAL FAMILY

וַתִּשָּׂא רִבְקָה אֶת עֵינֶיהָ וַתֵּרֶא אֶת־יִצְחָק. “And Rebecca lifted her eyes and saw Isaac” (Gen. 24:64).
I wonder what could have happened if Rebecca and Isaac had not liked each other.
The text conveys a sense of inevitableness. Rebecca appears on the scene exactly when Abraham’s servant has finished praying to God for the success of his mission: to find the proper wife for Isaac. And from the very first moment, Rebecca seems to be promised to Isaac. She has all the good qualities: she is gorgeous, attentive, welcoming to guests and strangers. She comes from, let’s say, a well-known family. In order to meet her future husband Rebecca even skips the leave-taking ceremonies that she is supposed to attend. When finally Isaac sees her, and she sees Isaac, Rebecca veils herself in a shrewd seductive move. And two verses later the two are already in the same tent, having (as my American friends say) a lot of fun.
From this story some commentators—Samson Raphael Hirsch, for example—took the opportunity to praise what they call “the Jewish marriage”: the marriage “made in Heaven”. That means: arranged by families, and where the mates’ individual decision plays a very limited role, because love is supposed to come only after the marriage, not before[1]. Rebecca’s family asks for her opinion once things are already settled with Isaac’s family. Nobody even asks Isaac for his opinion. Not surprisingly, he is able to love his wife only “in the tent of his mother Sarah” (Gen. 24:67); only, as Rashi says, when she became like his mother. There are a whole lot of examples of dysfunctional relations in the Book of Genesis.
Given these premises, one cannot but wonder what would have happened if either Rebecca or Isaac had rebelled against their families’ decisions and their love had never bloomed. Given the historical conditions, certainly none of them would have found another nice Jewish boy or girl to marry.
Linda Stern Zisquit, an American poetess who immigrated to Jerusalem in the Nineties, writes:
Had Rebecca not looked up
(…) there would have been no water,
no winding dream,
no tribe or unrelenting
portion of sadness
dispersed on (…) Jerusalem
and I would not have been promised
to gather them home. But Rebecca
saw him, and he loved her[2].
One could say: had Rebecca not lifted her eyes, there would have been no Jewish people at all. But she did, and here we are.
Falling in love, with all the consequences, is something beyond human control. It is like the time of death, or the result of the struggle to establish descendents—all themes our parasha deals with. The servant of Abraham knew it well, when he asked God הַקְרֵה־נָא, “send me a good chance” (Gen 24:12), to surprise us, the readers.
Indeed, the whole concept of Chance, good or bad, is inconceivable for those who believe in Divine Providence. Nehama Leibowitz points out that מִקְרֶה chance, Fate, was the core of Philistines’ religion[3]. The Philistines believed that a person’s destiny was “written in the stars”, that humans were ruled by an impersonal force, Fate, sometimes manipulable through magic, but ultimately indifferent to human will.
This belief goes against the principle of responsibility. “It was Fate”, “I could do nothing” means: “I am not responsible”, “it was not my decision”. Or: “I had to do it”. These are exactly the words we hear from those who remain bound to destructive, dysfunctional relationships, only to please, or to defy, their parents.
Was it just a Philistine thing? The confrontation between beliefs, ours in a personal, caring God and theirs in an impersonal Fate, is not limited just to the time of Israelite struggle with the Philistines. It is a contemporary thing. I am not thinking only of astrology, something I admittedly also indulge in—such a funny parlor-game. I am referring, for example, to the belief in the magical virtues of an impersonal force called the “Free Market” that is supposed to provide social welfare, economic development and even democracy all over the world. And in case the magic doesn’t work, in times like ours, we hear wealthy people saying: “It’s nobody’s fault” “There are no definite personal responsibilities” “It’s the system”. And those who, as a result of this bad conjuncture, are at risk of losing their savings or jobs, can only pray for the appropriate מקְרֶה
This is, let me say, totally un-Jewish. Our tradition commands us not only to look for responsibilities, but also to establish a society where the stranger, the orphan, the widow are not pushed to the margins. True, it also includes unusual stories of dysfunctional families from a long time ago, but it leaves us with the commitment to discover the connections between Ancient Middle Eastern sagas and perennial ethical truths that refer to the whole of humanity.
As each of us has come into the world due to the love of our parents, may we be able to build a society based on din ve-hesed, justice and love.

[1] Samson Raphael Hirsch, Commentary on the Torah, tr. by Isaac Levy, Judaica Press, London 1996, vol. I, p. 412.
[2] Linda Stern Zisquit, “Posit”, now included in: Linda Stern Zisquit, Unopened Letters, Sheep Meadow Press, Riverdale (NY), 1996.
[3] Nehama Leibowitz, New Studies in Bereshit (Genesis), tr. by Aryeh Newman, Eliner Library, Jerusalem, (1986), pp. 239-243.

From http://www.lbc.ac.uk/content/view/821/142/

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To bris or not to bris

Believe it or not, before beginning my journey to the Rabbinate, I did not have many contacts with the Anglo Jewry. So, before relocating here, I read something, and I came across a story that I would like to share with you today.
It is the story of Avrumele, born somewhere in Russia more or less one century ago, and immigrated as a child in the East End, where he grew up and became, you guess, tailor. He married Rivka, she too an East Ender of the same generation. Avrumele, now Abraham, was a trade unionist, and he also was very good at boxing. Somebody said he was in Cable Street that famous day of 1936. Avrumele has had his bar mitzwah –just because his parents wanted him to do, and those days teen agers couldn’t even think to say no to their parents.
Avrumele was a communist: an atheist, even if deeply Jewish. He and Rivka eat kosher - simply because the kosher butchery was close to home. They peppered with yddish expressions their spoken English. But, as I have said, Abraham hold the firm belief that God does not exist, that rabbis, priests, and noblemen started this business of God, only to maintain control over the people.
Now, you can easily imagine Abraham’ troubles when he learnt of Rivka’s pregnancy. Oy gevalt.
Please, don’t misunderstand. Of course Avrumele was happy. He was the happiest Jew, the proudest person in the world. And of course all his family was increasingly happy, and this just increased his gladness. But there was, you know, that problem. What is called a lifecycle ritual, the bris.
Bris is a religious ritual. And for a communist, like Avrumele was, religion is opium for the masses. But on the other hand, how to face the whole family, especially on Rivka’s side; they were so religious, somebody even a regular in the minyan of Fieldgate Street.
Avrumele revealed his thoughts to the comrades: and when somebody was saying that God does not exist, he countered that family, well, does exist. And if it is about avoiding unnecessary pain to a child, you can’t inflict pain to the whole family, breaking the tradition. When somebody was pointing out that it would have been a shame to raise a son like a goy gamur, Abraham/Avrumele answered that God is a lie, and religion is but another face of oppression.
Truth is that he did not know what to do, which decision had to be taken by a good father, by a committed communist, by a good Jew. And the more the delivery approached, the more the internal struggle of Avrumele increased. How to educate a son to be a good communist, one of those who should lead the proletariat to victory? Why mark on the flesh the sign of the covenant with a God that does not exist? To bris or not to bris?
The long, painful conversations of Avrumele about God became famous in the East End. They still are, even now, when most of the London Jewish population lives somewhere else. But Avrumele’s concerns are our own too. They go along the history of the Jewish people. We can easily guess that Avraham too, some centuries before Avrumele, faced similar dilemmas, when the events narrated in our parasha took place. The story begins when God reassure Avraham, who is ninety-years old: Anì El Shadai, I am El Shadai, walk in my ways and be blameless (Gen 17:1).
El Shaddai is usually translated as Almighty, but sounds more like: the God that is Sufficient, the God that is enough. There are of course several theological implications – El Shaddai means that there are no other gods; that no other divinity exists; that no other entity in the Universe is self sufficient. Everything that exists is created by the One and Eternal God, the El Shaddai. And there are, of course, existential implications: being God El Shaddai, the One who is enough, the One who maintains the world, Abraham should not fear: he can trust, he can walk in God’s ways. He can trust God’s Covenant.
But to a Hebrew speaker Sha-Dai means also: the One who says (the first letter, Shin, can be read as such): Dai! Stop! Enough of this! This is the prelude to the Covenant with the Jewish people.
There was already a first covenant between God and the whole mankind: it was stipulated after the Flood. God agreed not to destroy anymore the whole of creation, regardless how badly men could behave. But we humans never stop acting badly. Therefore God decided to establish another covenant: shaDai! I have had enough of this humankind. Walk in My ways, Abraham. And comes the embarrassing precept of circumcision, bris, a problem for our Avrumele, of the East End.
Such a barbaric act, such a tribal custom: a commandment that applies only to a tribe clashes clamorously with the universalistic message of freedom and justice that the same God, the same Tradition, the same story, charged us.
An unbelievably large amount of pages have been written on this topic, on this tension between the highest values like human dignity, duty of compassion and the trivial rules that govern the details of Jewish life. We live this tension each time we are addressed about Israel. Are we loyal to the whole humanity? Or are we more loyal to our tribe? And what happen in case of a war between Israel and, let’s say, Europe?
We know, of course, that these are stupid questions. They sound like when a child is asked: who do you love more, Mummy or Daddy? Of course we love them both. Of course we can’t be loyal to our Country if we are not loyal to Judaism, a set of values which includes a particular connection with Israel.
More: the only way we know to be loyal to our Country is through the loyalty to Judaism, which teaches us to respect the laws of the Country but not to make an idol of the ruling class. The only way we know to love humankind is to profess the faith commanded to Abraham long ago: Walk in My ways, toward yom ha-hu, that very day in which idolatry and oppression will disappear from the Earth.
It is a challenge. Abraham fell on his face when he heard El Shaddai commanding him that tribal rite: centuries after, some decades ago, that commandment caused so many troubles to a Jewish soul in the East End. Whose story, anyway, has a happy ending: Avrumele, the resolute communist, the committed atheist, became father of a daughter.
This way an answer was provided to his question: to bris or not to bris. When he received the news of the birth of his daughter, so the story goes, Avrumele was so happy that he immediately called his best friend and said: I have told you, not only God exists, but is a comrade too.

Shabbat Lech Lecha 5769
Synagogue Ne'eve Shalom, Hull.

silenzi cattolici

Le virtù dei figli di una Chiesa silente

Dopo il 16 ottobre 1943., quando giunse la notizia di ciò che era accaduto nel Ghetto di Roma, anche gli ebrei di Urbino che fino ad allora avevano goduto di una relativa tranquillità, dovettero nascondersi. Alessandrina Coen, con la figlia Ada e il suo bimbo, e la cugina Clara, trovarono rifugio nel convento delle suore di Santa Caterina, nel centro della città. Il Vescovo aveva “aperto i conventi”; non fu chiesto loro di battezzarsi, come accadde altrove. Furono semplicemente accolti. Quando il confessore si recava in convento, la prima ad avvicinarsi alla grata era Ada: riceveva dal sacerdote le notizie dei fratelli alla macchia in Toscana e del marito lontano.
Dopo pochi mesi, il Vescovo stesso comunicò alle suore che la situazione si stava facendo troppo pericolosa; un presidio nazista si era stabilito nelle vicinanze ed era il caso di trovare per gli ospiti una diversa soluzione.
Le suore invece spostarono i loro giacigli dalle celle all’atrio del convento così, se i nazisti avessero cercato di entrare, avrebbero violato la clausura.
La Madre Superiora rispose al Vescovo: “Se si deve morire, moriremo insieme”.
Mia nonna non lo dimenticò mai e tutta la vita rimase legata alle “sorelle”, nel reciproco rispetto della diversa fede.
Spesso la Chiesa ha attribuito “colpe” ai suoi singoli figli (“Deploriamo profondamente gli errori e le colpe di questi figli e figlie della Chiesa”, documento Noi ricordiamo: una riflessione sulla Shoah, L'Osservatore Romano, Città del Vaticano, 16-17 marzo 1998) pretendendo l’integrità del proprio magistero.
Ma è accaduto il contrario: “virtù” dei figli e delle figlie di una Chiesa silente. Non risulta che Pio XII abbia mai detto “Se si deve morire, moriremo insieme”.

Ester Moscati - Dal Bollettino della Comunità Ebraica di Milano - Ottobre 2008

Teshuvah - our Jewish journey

There is a tale, a legend, that it is present in every culture. It is the story of the journey of a hero who is looking for a treasure. There are many versions of this story, but the topic is basically the same. The hero is a common, ordinary man, or woman, who receives a call. He sees a burning bush or hears a voice saying: lekh, lekha, you go!
In his travels the hero meets friends, overcomes obstacles, survives to battles. And the journey ends on the threshold of an unknown world, a mysterious cave, a Promised Land. The hero goes over the threshold, thanks to his ability or fortune, and enters into the new Land, in which a treasure is waiting. But in this land, which has gorgeous landscapes as well as regions of perennial darkness, there are new rules, friends and enemies are confused. The hero reaches the goal -or makes the conquests- the treasure, and then begins on the way back, to the ordinary, common world. And just before returning to family, on the threshold, the hero usually has a moment to rethink: Why did he have to get out of the New World in which he is beginning to learn the rules? Why such a trivial return to everyday life? But something pushes him permanently out: the purpose of the trip was the search for the treasure that, once discovered and conquered, must be shared with humanity.
We find this theme in medieval ballads, in Indian legends, also in several texts from our tradition: it is the history of the journey undertaken by each of us, to discover who we are, and the deepest meaning of our life. Yom Kippur is part of such a journey that we make together with other Jews, the other Jewish Communities, or Congregations. It is the day when the world takes a step back to help us focus on our journey that is Jewish, personal and collective at the same time.
The journey begins, even for us, with a call. Be it the E-mail with the schedule of the functions, the telephone calls from friends or relatives who asks us: so, this year, where are we going for Yom Kippur? Or the shofar on Rosh ha Shana, whose piercing sound reminds us of our common ancestor Abraham, and his calling: lekh lekha, go to yourself.
There is then the solemn evening of the Kol Nidreh, during which we stand facing a celestial court; we take an oath to say only the truth, nothing but the truth. We are confronted with ourselves, without the fear of others’ judgement. We are asked not to pay attention to the needs of the daily life: drink, eat... The world, for this day, is silent.
Awakening in the morning without newspapers and without coffee, for me it is very hard. It is the time when the daily requirements are felt. And then we join the people of Israel, our fellow Jews, our companions in this private and collective journey.
We gather per fare Kippur, to make Yom Kippur. Whoever asks us: where do you go? We answer: to pray. But the Jewish prayer is a curious issue. Prayer in Hebrew is tefillah. It is a reflective form of the verb lehitpallel, to judge, so prayer means also to judge ourselves.
Avraham Heschel explains that prayer is meaningful only if it is subversive, if it is the bulding of an interior Temple, with moments of devotion, times of meditation, in the place of the Pyramids and monuments built by the slaves.
We found a strange treasure, at Sinai, just as we left the Kingdom of the Pyramids and the condition of slavery. There our ancestors learned that God has no forms, neither physical aspect. God has never been seen, so we cannot create images of God. However, we can feel the presence of God in our life, which pushes us forward, towards the world.
Our God is the God of life: any image of God is fixed, is dead. Our God is before us and asks us to follow in His ways. On Yom Kippur as well repentance, teshuvah, forgiveness, are not controlled, or even ordered. God indicates and shows us through example, His particular relation with each of us. God first forgives each of us and invites us to follow the spiritual path of the noble soul, away from meanness and selfishness, a path guided by the Golden Rule: You shall love your neighbor as yourself, i.e. You shall love your neighbor because your neighbor is like you.
Truthfully, this golden rule, that the neighbor is like us, is not such a great discovery. It is already part of our lives, but it happens that we usually misuse it. It becomes a tool for us to win.
For example, to accuse other people of the same failures we feel in ourselves. We are all aware of the unpleasant or even internal evil parts. We would like it to get rid of them. And the more they disgust us, the more we want to throw them away. This way reality assumes the character of that which we deplore, and this increases our bitterness and misbehavior. What we do not accept in ourselves becomes something unbearable in others. It is like the tax evader, who steals from the public, the one who asks for punishment harsher for the thieves, or the one who takes the law into his own hands. And he calls it justice.
These psychological mechanisms are well known. Our ancestors on Yom Kippur practiced the rite of the scapegoat: to load our own failures on something other and send it away, out in the desert. These are the dark lessons that we learn in our collective journey: the regions of perennial darkness, in which we feel lost, and even the distinction between right and wrong blurs. We are like the prince in the Midrash: he left the family home, because of anger, or boredom. Along the way he encounters friends that ask him to return, but he says he has not the power, he is too weak. And his father, the King, sends to him and says: at least, come part of the way back. Begin to make the journey, I will do the rest, I will you meet halfway. Return to me and I will return to you.
Rabbi Kook explains that teshuvah is not a regression. It is a return. When a society is devastated by idolatry, when the structure of power is generally reputed holy, to return to the Golden Rule, that you shall love your neighbor because he is, like you, created in the image of God, is truly a revolutionary commandment, says Rabbi Kook.
This is the inspiration of Sinai, this spiritual treasure of the Jewish people, that we Jews have the task to share with humanity: to overcome dark impulses, idolatrous and oppressive, that are part of each human group, of every human being, of each of us. The Golden Rule pushes us to discover, the treasure our ancestors uncovered centuries ago in their journey. Their journey was the prototype of the journey that we make together each year on Yom Kippur.
I want to share with you one journey, the journey of Elazar ben Durdaya, a man who liked prostitutes. This story is told in Babylonian Talmud, in Avodah Zarah. Elazar one day heard talk about a beautiful courtesan who was, let’s say, not only beautiful, but also very skilled. He collected information about her price, picked up the sum and went on his journey to find the professional.
The Talmud says that Elazar ben Durdaya crossed the proverbial seven seas, the mountains and rivers. At the end of the meeting the prostitutes said to him, You will be remembered only for this trip. You will never be admitted to the olam habaa, the world to come. And Elazar became aware of having committed a serious aveirah, having reduced a person to a thing. He also realized that that money could be spent for more worthy purposes. A different trip could have had a more worthy purpose. Elazar ben Durdaya, desperate and afflicted, sat to the ground. The Talmud says that the mountains were moved for him, and he asked them to pray for him, but the mountains answered: we cannot pray for you, we are praying to stay firm. Elazar then turned to heavens, and asks them to pray for him. But the heavens answered that they have much to do, they must pray so the planets can continue in their orderly courses and the universe remain more or less stable. And then, the Talmud reports, that Elazar ben Durdaya understood his forgiveness, his teshuvah, depended only on him. At this point Elazar ben Durdaya wept and his soul ascended to heaven. He was received by a divine voice saying: In the olam habaa there is place for Rabbi Elazar ben Durdaya
The Talmud comments that there are those who take their all lifetime to enter olam habaa, and there are those, like Elazar ben Durdaya, who earn the olam habaa in a single hour. The name of the person who does teshuva is not only recalled, but also honored with the title of Rabbi, Maestro, because he who does teshuvah is as a pathfinder, a great traveller who has much to teach.
Humanity, we know, has an extraordinary capacity for renewal and rebirth. Each of us has an opportunity to remind ourselves of darkhei Shalom, the roads of peace, that we travelled from Sinai up until today.
It is said: an aveirah is a transgression of one commandment, but cannot cancel out the Torah, which remains the light. May our teshuva, our journey forward, be illuminated by the light of Torah.

Congregation Shir Hadash, Florence, Yom Kippur 5769

Teshuvah - il nostro viaggio ebraico

C’è una storia, una leggenda, che è presente in tutte le culture. Racconta il viaggio di un eroe alla ricerca di un tesoro. Ve ne sono molte versioni, ma il tema è fondamentalmente lo stesso. L’eroe è un personaggio comune, ordinario, che riceve una chiamata. Vede un roveto ardente, sente una voce che gli dice: lekh, lekha, vai, mettiti in viaggio. Lungo il viaggio l’eroe incontra amici, supera ostacoli, sopravvive a battaglie. E il viaggio termina sulla soglia di un mondo sconosciuto, di una caverna misteriosa, di una terra promessa. L’eroe supera la soglia grazie alla sua abilità, o alla sua fortuna, ed entra in questa terra nuova, in cui lo attende un tesoro.
Ma in questa terra, che ha paesaggi di lussureggiante bellezza e regioni di tenebra perenne, vigono nuove regole, amici e nemici si confondono. L’eroe raggiunge -o conquista- il tesoro e poi inizia il viaggio di ritorno, verso il mondo ordinario, comune. E prima di rientrare alla realtà familiare, sulla soglia, l’eroe ha di solito un momento di ripensamento: perché abbandonare quel nuovo mondo di cui sta iniziando a conoscere le regole, perché tornare alla triviale quotidianità? Ma qualcosa lo spinge definitivamente fuori: lo scopo del viaggio era la ricerca del tesoro che, una volta scoperto e conquistato, deve essere condiviso con l’umanità intera.
Troviamo questo tema in ballate medioevali, in leggende indiane, anche in diversi testi della nostra tradizione. É la storia del viaggio intrapreso da ognuno di noi, per scoprire chi siamo, e che significato ha la nostra vita.
Kippur è parte di questo viaggio che compiamo insieme agli altri ebrei, alle altre comunità -o congregazioni- ebraiche nel mondo. È il giorno in cui il mondo fa un passo indietro per permetterci di concentrarci sul nostro viaggio ebraico, personale e collettivo al tempo stesso.
Il viaggio inizia, anche per noi, con una chiamata; la mail con gli orari delle funzioni. Le telefonate di amici o parenti che ci chiedono: allora quest’anno dove andiamo per Kippur? O lo shofar a Rosh ha Shana, il cui suono rauco ci ricorda il nostro comune antenato Abramo, e la sua chiamata: lekh lekha, vai a te stesso. C’è poi la solenne sera di Kippur, il Kol Nidré, in cui siamo di fronte a una corte celeste; prestiamo giuramento di dire solo la verità, nient’altro che la verità.
Ci confrontiamo con noi stessi, senza la paura del giudizio altrui. Ci viene chiesto di non prestare attenzione agli istinti quotidiani: bere, mangiare ... Il mondo per questo giorno, tace.
Il risveglio al mattino, vi dirò, senza giornali e senza caffé, per me è particolarmente duro. È il momento in cui le esigenze quotidiane si fanno sentire.
E poi ci uniamo al popolo di Israele, agli altri ebrei, nostri compagni in questo viaggio collettivo ed individuale. Ci riuniamo per fare Kippur. A chi ci chiede: ma cosa vai a fare? Rispondiamo: A pregare. Ma la preghiera ebraica è una faccenda curiosa. Preghiera in ebraico si dice tefillah - che è una forma del verbo riflessivo lehitpallel, giudicare. Pregare significa anche giudicare sé stessi.
Avraham Heschel spiega che la tefillah ha significato solo se è sovversiva, se è la costruzione di un tempio interiore, con momenti di devozione, tempi di meditazione, al posto delle piramidi e dei monumenti edificati da schiavi.
È davvero uno strano tesoro, questo nostro che abbiamo trovato al Sinai, in uscita dal regno delle piramidi e dalla condizione di schiavitù, durante quel viaggio compiuto secoli fa dai nostri antenati. Dio, ci è stato detto, non ha forma, né aspetto. Non è stato mai visto, quindi noi non possiamo crearne immagini. Possiamo però sentire la presenza di Dio nella nostra vita, che ci spinge avanti, verso il mondo.
Il nostro Dio è il Dio della vita: ciò che viene raffigurato, è fermo, è morto. Il nostro Dio sta davanti a noi e ci chiede di seguirne le vie. Ce lo chiede anche a Kippur: il pentimento, la teshuvah, il perdono, non sono comandati, o nemmeno ordinati. Dio ce li indica e mostra con il Suo esempio, nella Sua relazione con ciascuno di noi. Dio per primo perdona ciascuno di noi. E ci invita a seguire la via della nobiltà d’animo, lontana da meschinità ed egoismi e guidata dalla “regola aurea”: amerai il prossimo tuo come té stesso, vale a dire amerai il prossimo tuo perché è come te.
Ma questa regola aurea, che il prossimo è come noi, non è poi una grande scoperta a Kippur. Fa già parte delle nostre vite, ma capita che ne facciamo, per dire, un impiego errato. Diventa uno strumento per affermarci. Per esempio, per accusare gli altri di difetti che sentiamo nostri. Noi tutti siamo consapevoli delle parti sgradevoli o persino malvage interne a noi. Vorremmo sbarazzarcene: e più ci disgustano, più vorremmo cacciarle al di fuori di noi. E così la realtà attorno a noi assume i caratteri di quel che detestiamo, e questo spettacolo accresce la nostra amareza e ci incattivisce vieppiù. Ciò che non accettiamo dentro di noi diventa qualcosa di insopportabile negli altri. E’ l’evasore fiscale, che ruba alla collettività, quello che chiede pene più dure per i ladri, quando non passa a punirli direttamente. E lo chiama fare giustizia.
Sono meccanismi psicologici ben noti. A Kippur i nostri antenati praticavano il rito del capro espiatorio: caricare delle proprie mancanze qualcosa di esterno e spedirlo lontano, cacciarlo nel deserto. Sono le parti oscure che incontriamo in questo viaggio collettivo: le regioni dalla tenebra perenne, in cui ci sentiamo persi, tanto appare confusa la distinzione tra giustizia e torto.
Siamo come il princìpe di cui parla il Midrash, che si è allontanato furente -o annoiato- dalla casa di suo padre; incontra degli amici che gli chiedono di tornare, ma lui dice di non avere forza, di essere troppo debole. E suo padre, il re, gli manda a dire: fai almeno una parte della strada di ritorno, inizia a compiere il percorso. Io farò il resto, ti verrò incontro e ci incontereremo a metà strada. Torna verso di me e io tornerò verso di te.
Rabbi Kook spiega che la teshuvah non è una regressione. È un ritorno. Quando una società è percorsa dall’idolatria, dalla sacralizzazione dei rapporti di potere, tornare alla regola aurea dell’uomo creato ad immagine di Dio e dell’ama il tuo prossimo perché è come te, attuare teshuvah, dice rabbi Kook, ha un carattere rivoluzionario. Questa è l’ispirazione del Sinai, questo il tesoro spirituale del popolo ebraico, che noi ebrei abbiamo il compito di condividere con l’umanità intera: il superamento delle tendenze oscure, idolatriche e oppressive che fanno parte di ogni gruppo umano, di ogni essere umano, di ciascuno di noi. A questo ci spinge la regola aurea, il tesoro scoperto dai nostri antenati secoli orsono in quel viaggio che il prototipo del viaggio che compiamo insieme ogni anno a Kippur e dei molti altri viaggi di cui parlano i testi della nostra tradizione.
Ve ne racconterò uno, quello di Elazar ben Durdaya, che amava frequentare prostitute. È una storia che si trova nel Talmud, nel trattato Avodah Zarah. Un giorno Elazar sentì parlare di una cortigiana bellissima e a quanto pare bravissima, si informò sul prezzo, raccolse la somma e si mise in viaggio per trovare la professionista. Il Talmud dice che Elazar ben Durdaya attraversò i proverbiali sette mari, monti e fiumi. Al termine dell’incontro la prosituta gli disse: “Verrà ricordato (da Dio) solo questo tuo viaggio e non sarai mai ammesso nell’olam habaa, nel mondo futuro”.
E Elazar si rese conto di aver commesso una grave aveirah, aver ridotto una persona a merce. E un’altra aveirah, ché quel denaro poteva essere speso per scopi più degni. E un’altra ancora, perché quel viaggio poteva avere uno scopo più degno. E così via.
Così Elazar ben Darduya, disperato e afflitto, sedette al suolo. Il Talmud dice che le montagne si impietosirono per lui, e lui chiese a loro di pregare in suo favore, ma le montagne gli risposero: Non possiamo pregare per te, stiamo pregando per rimanere salde. Eliezer si rivolse allora ai cieli, e chiede a loro di pregare per lui. Ma i cieli gli risposero: Abbiamo molto da fare, dobbiamo pregare perché i pianeti possano continuare il loro modo ordinato e l’universo mantenersi più o meno stabile. Ed è allora, dice il Talmud, che Elazar ben Durdaya comprende che il suo perdono, la sua teshuvah, dipendeva solo da lui stesso. A questo punto Elazar ben Darduya pianse e si disperò fino a ché la sua anima salì verso i cieli e venne accolto da una voce divina che diceva: Nell’olam habaa vi è posto per Rabbi Elazar ben Darduya.
Commenta il Talmud che vi sono quelli che entrano nello olam habaa dopo una vita intera, e vi sono coloro, come Rabbi Elazar ben Darduya, che guadagnano lo olam habaa in una sola ora. Il nome di chi compie teshuvah non solo viene ricordato, ma anche onorato con il titolo di Rabbi, maestro, perché chi compie teshuvah è come un esploratore, un grande viaggiatore che ha molto da insegnare.
L’umanità, sappiamo, ha una straordinaria capacità di rinnovamento e di continua rinascita. Ciascuno di noi ha la possibilità di ricordare il tracciato delle darkhei shalom, le strade di pace, il viaggio che dal Sinai ci ha portato qui con un prezioso tesoro.
Si dice: Una aveirah va contro un comandamento, ma non può cancellare la Torah, di cui rimane la luce. Che la nostra teshuvah, il nostro viaggio, sia illuminato da questa luce.

Congregazione Shir Hadash, Firenze, Kippur 5769

Kol Nidreh 5769

Israel, where I spent the last year, is a strange Country. Hotels welcome you at the entrance, at the kabbalah, the reception. That is also the name of Jewish mystical tradition, and then you can find Kabbalah written also to designate shelves in libraries or bookstores.
Kvutzat Yavne was the group of Rabbis who dealt with occupying and ensured the continuity of our spiritual tradition. But in Israel Kvutzat Yavne is also a brand of olive oil.
Parashat hashavua is the portion of Bible, which is read in the synagogue on Shabbat but lately it designate also the news - there is something every week - about the involvement of the Prime Minister in some illegal affair and the subsequent process. That’s a strange thing: Prime Minister may be prosecuted.
Hesbon bevakashà means: the bill, please! That’s what you say before getting up and leaving the café or the restaurant. But hesbon hanefesh, balance of the soul, is also the name of the process which our tradition invites us to undertake in the days preceding Yom Kippur. We are invited to examine ourselves in depth, to wade through our relationship with God. Some masters suggest we imagine God as a kind of bank director, who in this period is checking the transactions in our account. The entries, our mitzwot – the expenses, our transgressions. And we are the customers who have asked for the balance.
Others prefer to imagine God as a judge or a Police Commissioner, who is currently thinking about us. Think about our minor criminals, consider our testimonies, asks us what we have to declare. Until Yom Kippur we have time to speak, to declare our regret, to try to rewrite ourselves, not transgressing anymore.
The Italian word for sin translates the Hebrew aveirah, that properly means transgression, going beyond the border between right and wrong. This is a breach of the Torah.
An aveirah – let’s say a sin- that our tradition regards as a serious one is leshon haraa, an expression that translated literally means evil speech and (I have said that Hebrew is a strange language) it means both slander and gossip. Our Tradition takes leshon haraa very seriously.
This is explained by the story of a certain woman, who spent much time and energy in leshon haraa. A year, before Yom Kippur she decided to make teshuvah, to repent of her averot. She went to the Rabbi of the village and said: Rabbi, I have made my hesbon hanefesh and I realised that I have really engaged too much in the leshon haraa, I thought it was insignificant chatter, but I realized I have slandered. What can I do to remedy it? The Rabbi said: Go to the market, in the main square, and bring a pillow. She arrived in the market, in the main square. The Rabbi said: I recommend that you cut the pillow in the middle and let out all the feathers. Shake it well, until all the feathers will leave. The woman did as the Rabbi advised, and then she returned to ask him: Rav, I have brought the pillow to the marketplace, I have cut it and I have let all the feathers out. Now what? The Rabbi sighed and said: now go and collect all the feathers.
Every time we commit an aveirah, a transgression, it seems light as a feather, but we never know the consequences, we do not know where the wind has blown them to undo our transgression, may be a difficult matter. The feathers escaped our control, but they still have something to do with us, and perhaps our actions can become examples for someone else to learn from.
Torah says about Yom Kippur: You’ll be pure in front of the Eternal One (Lev 16.30). Yom Kippur purifies only aveirot against God: those that, for the priests were ritual obligations, obligations of purity during worship: the ceremonial duties, the prayer, the reverence to the name of God. But the averot committed against other human beings are not remedied. We must first ask forgiveness from women and men we wronged. For this reason in our tradition the days leading up to Yom Kippur are an appropriate time, to listen on those who have offended us, to be open to forgive, to mending, to starting again. And this applies to all of us.
But Yom Kippur also concerned with the sins, the faults, the imperfections, the opportunities lost towards God. We cannot ask to have the effects of our sins erased, and of course we cannot even ask to be punished. We cannot gather the feathers scattered from the market square. Even if we gathered them all, those feathers would be too dirty, contaminated, that nobody would use them for a pillow. No one would sleep on such a pillow.
Meir of Ger, a Chassidic teacher, explains one of the risks of hesbon hanefesh. It is possible we vile end up trapped in our thoughts, considering aspects of our own personality, enumerating the aveirot in an endless process – for we know that every avheirah comes from another one, just like every mitzwah brings another mitzwah as its reward. Meir of Ger says that to remedy the yezter haraa, the impulse to evil, we have the yetzer tov, the impulse to build, to move toward the good. Torah says: סור מרע ועשה-טוב, Go away completely from the yetzer haraa (Ps 34: 15), do not wallow in the evil, balance your raa with your tov, this year.
Yom Kippur is an opportunity for growth, from which we can come out strengthened. We ask God’s help, so that our noblest intentions may be stronger than our baser ones, the ones that lead us to the aveirot. Our good actions bring us closer and raise us up, and may they be stronger than those that lead us astray and make us weaker. Yom Kippur begins this evening. It depends on each of us to make it noble, and ennoble our soul.
There is a beautiful midrash describing all the people of Israel, all of us, who in the coming hours will be engaged in this process of hesbon hanefesh, observing deeply what we have done wrong in the past and questioning the possible consequences, attempting to trace the feathers we dispersed, our aveirot, our transgressions. We spend this day in fear and trembling, anticipating the judgment by the High Court, an Angel there whispers: Do not worry, the judge is your parent.
Let's try in the coming hours to meet our parent and to listen to what God has to tell us.

Congregation Shir Hadash, Florence, Kol Nidreh 5769