I enjoyed a matinee of Ruby Sparks this weekend. The premise is that a brilliant young writer, somewhat less brilliant in his emotional life, writes a character with whom he falls in love. And beyond the bounds of what we accept as real or sane he writes her into existence.
Why is this beyond the bounds? Long ago, people developed foundational stories that were brought together to form what we know as the Bible. These stories essentially wrote God into existence for what would become generation upon generation upon generation. Ironically, within the stories God authors us into existence with words of creation.
Yet even with this history, we find it unbelievable that a young man might write his lover (or anyone) into being.
The movie leaves us with plenty of questions to ask ourselves. For now, I'm at: How is it that we humans are at once so expansive and so small minded? How do we determine which approach is sane (or crazy) in any given circumstance? (Spoiler alert: I'm particularly fond of the French fluency test in the movie.)
ALWAYS A LITTLE SOMETHING EXTRA ... As in a Baker's Dozen, Baker's Dozen Press seeks always to provide a little something extra to our readers. This blog offers essays that expand our body of work. Please add comments here and learn more about us and our publications at www.BakersDozenPress.com.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Saturday, May 12, 2012
My First Prayer
During the synagogue service, after reading to myself the silent Amidah, the central prayer, I take a few moments for personal reflection. Never has this individualized prayer taken the form of words. As comfortable as I usually am in the realm of written and spoken language, the idea of developing my own prayer--whether in my head, on paper or aloud--has made me decidedly uncomfortable. Instead, during that personal prayer time I pull images of people into my thoughts, and this is the closest I come to saying, in my prayer, "She needs help right now," "I hope he'll have strength during this tough week he's facing." When I have contemplated talking to God (as opposed to ritually repeating what others once wrote or said to God), the idea has seemed at once arrogant and naive. This Friday evening, before Shabbat set in, my congregation hosted a prayer writing workshop. Despite, or because of, my hesitation about the topic I felt drawn to attend. Despite, or because of, my struggles with this type of writing I questioned my desire to attend. It took me until the deadline to register.
Writer and teacher Janet Judith Falon gave us examples of prayer writing in various forms: poetry, prose, haiku, acrostic, epistolary. We even glanced at Facebook and Twitter examples.
Most effective, she gave us an exercise to prepare for writing prayers. Janet presented eight questions and asked that each of us draft a private list in response to at least one of them. I chose three:
- What are your dependable joys?
- What would be the chapters in your spiritual autobiography? (This is a cheat category--I simply jotted down "The chapters in Creative License," the book of my collected sermons.)
- What resources do you have to do good in the world?
Here is my first prayer:
As we hiked Hawk Mountain,
Brad and I on one of our small adventures,
Light thrust through the heavy canopy
A dramatic shaft cutting a path
Through the clouds and leaves
To direct a path before us
From the sun yet I am not sure where, but
I knew your presence in that brief moment.
I gasped
With the weight and the light
And the lightness, all at once.
In adventures since, a sliver of
That day, that instant of you,
Continues to rain down light.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Helping Some Children in Grief; Turning Away from Others
After reading with hope Stacey Burling’s excellent Philadelphia Inquirer pieces last month on the resources now available for children coping with grief, the January 5th Inquirer article by Kristin Graham on the Philadelphia School District’s decision to cut its special representative from the payroll challenged my optimism.
In 1973 when I was 11 years old, my teachers were notified before my return to school that my mother had died—and they’d already long known of her illness—yet my science teacher raised his voice in front of the other students, asking why I’d not completed my week’s work. “Because my mother died,” I yelled back, mortified but too angry to stay quiet though I'd never previously been one for outbursts in the classroom (nor for slacking in my work). That was the extent of faculty’s and staff’s interaction with me about my loss. And this was at the private school my parents chose so I’d receive personal attention, given my mother’s terminal illness.
I had tremendous support at home, and I Remember Mommy's Smile, my memoir for children to read with their caregivers—along with the accompanying video guide for adults—models a path while providing a means to dialogue, honesty and hope.
It is through this lens that I consider the dismissal of the special representative as Philadelphia School District struggles with many layoffs in an attempt to grapple with significant budget issues. I appreciate the economic pressures. But in a school district serving many communities where so many suffer losses, removing the one individual who helped them cope seems shortsighted. If the district’s goal remains the education and safety of its children, then should we not help them and their families cope with loss? If not because it's the right thing to do, then at the very least so the children are able to learn and to avoid lashing out in school.
In 1973 when I was 11 years old, my teachers were notified before my return to school that my mother had died—and they’d already long known of her illness—yet my science teacher raised his voice in front of the other students, asking why I’d not completed my week’s work. “Because my mother died,” I yelled back, mortified but too angry to stay quiet though I'd never previously been one for outbursts in the classroom (nor for slacking in my work). That was the extent of faculty’s and staff’s interaction with me about my loss. And this was at the private school my parents chose so I’d receive personal attention, given my mother’s terminal illness.
I had tremendous support at home, and I Remember Mommy's Smile, my memoir for children to read with their caregivers—along with the accompanying video guide for adults—models a path while providing a means to dialogue, honesty and hope.
It is through this lens that I consider the dismissal of the special representative as Philadelphia School District struggles with many layoffs in an attempt to grapple with significant budget issues. I appreciate the economic pressures. But in a school district serving many communities where so many suffer losses, removing the one individual who helped them cope seems shortsighted. If the district’s goal remains the education and safety of its children, then should we not help them and their families cope with loss? If not because it's the right thing to do, then at the very least so the children are able to learn and to avoid lashing out in school.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Time
But earlier this month, I ran about four miles miles in 45 minutes, on a country road in the north hills of Wisconsin. It was an opportunity to spend time with colleagues and enjoy clear, brisk air and extraordinary autumn colors.
I was quickly back to my 20-minute run. Now I know: it's not about what I can do, but about time and circumstance. On a typical day, twenty minutes is all I'm giving up to running.
I thrive on schedules and like them full. Holding to them matters to me. My day goes by more quickly, I feel more accomplished, and I know what to expect. With a clear view of my agenda and the strategic goals underlying it, I also adjust more nimbly to changes and interruptions.
But a changing perception of time has crept into my experience.
When my father died on August 20, time changed.
First, there was that day, a Saturday. Before the call I'd bought groceries and had my nails done, which took about two hours combined and felt like two hours--the passage of time was identifiable and quantifiable. After the call, moments both merged and stood still; time collapsed and expanded. All at once. It seemed then chaotic and confusing and yet in crystalline relief, and it's how I recall it now. However illogical this sounds, it holds logic for that day.
That time had changed first entered my consciousness that evening, when I reentered the room in which I'd received the call hours before. I saw my shoes on the floor, my full glass of iced tea on the table, my book open on the sofa, border markers of the Dina who had been there earlier and been lifted out of the scene into another time. After. At first I could not fathom how those items had arrived where they lay. Before seemed too distant for its artifacts to persist.
Sunday and Monday filled with activity, but not on any schedule I had devised. That existed somewhere, in Before, but it no longer mattered in After. Funeral arrangements, people arrangements, family, rabbi, funeral director, medical examiner, phone calls, phone calls, meetings, phone calls. And the funeral. The family ushered into a room where we see my father's body, and suddenly I shift from constant movement to a halt. A breathtaking halt. Until we are in the sanctuary, and the pace accelerates, people come, they greet us, the service proceeds, we speak with love of my father, we move on to the cemetery, we're ushered home, people arrive, so many who loved my father. And so many who love me make sure I have what I need. It's all decided what the pace will be, that's clear to me, I just wasn't consulted and have no inside knowledge. So I follow, adjust, feel thankful that others know and I don't have to.
And from there, a week of a nothing-that-is-not-nothing punctuated by evening visits from those mourning my father and comforting us. Nothing but home. And yet time did not seem to slow. Reflection takes time. Mourning takes time. They may not be on the calendar or fit a schedule, but they occupy time, and the time given over to them possesses its own texture, density and color, as though physical. Mourning and reflection do not simply take time, they give it also, provide a gift of knowing time in a new way. Painful yet sweet.
And Now I live in Before and After. Appointments, full schedules, productivity. Reflection, appreciation, sadness. Speeding up and slowing down, sometimes it seems in the same moment. Slow not equaling drawn out. I don't know for how long this will last. I expect that Now will become more and more like Before, but it's not on a time line. And I can work with that, just as sometimes I can slow down, look at the scenery, and run twice as far.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Remembrances of Dad: Bernard Wolfman, July 8, 1924 to August 20, 2011
Remarks at Dad's Funeral, August 22, 2011
When I google the term “Bernard Wolfman,” it’s not until I get past the 40th page of results that many of them no longer refer to my father.
Thirty-some years ago, when I was in high school, I sat in on one of my father’s classes. I took a seat in the back row of the lecture hall. The students around me glanced over several times until one asked, “Who are you?” The reply “Professor Wolfman’s daughter” was greeted with momentary silence and then the question, “He has a daughter?”
Indeed, many knew my father for the breadth and force of his intellect and influence as a legal scholar. But he did have a daughter. And four sons, ten grandchildren, a sister, niece, nephews, parents… and the privilege and joy of having been married to two women whom he deeply loved. For all of these people, and the further extended family and his dear friends, his intellect made him all the more interesting and exciting to be around, but it did not define him. It is my father’s love, warmth and generosity for which we have always appreciated him and will remember him.
I should add that we’re not likely to forget his stubbornness either. Then again, most of us share that trait so we’ll have constant reminders.
Even Dad’s stubbornness was in the service of his love for us. Shortly after we moved to Cambridge, the window air conditioner in my bedroom broke and he arranged for a technician to come to the house to repair it. While he was at work I hosted the service call. I don’t recall the specifics, but the technician in some way cheated us. My father was furious, not at me but at the technician for seizing on the opportunity to take advantage of my youthful naiveté and gullibility. The combination of his protective, paternal instinct, and his stubborn inability to let anything go, ended with me – scared witless – speaking in small claims court after he had thoroughly prepped and rehearsed me.
My father was an extremely difficult person for whom to select gifts, a trait he generously handed down to the other men in our family. So I’d put great energy into coming up with ideas, sometimes even holding brainstorming sessions with my co-workers. For one major birthday Brad and I gave him a trip to adult space camp, as he always was enamored with space exploration. True to form, he rose to captain of his team in the simulated space flight, and he loved the experience save for the terrible food (space camp seems to serve the adult groups exactly what they supply to the child campers) and the ruination of his team’s excellent record with his crash landing at the end. On another occasion, we gave him a very fine, vintage bottle of red wine. He liked it as he would any bottle of red, never realizing it was anything different, but at least the sommelier standing by during the celebration feast was mightily impressed.
Despite these attempts to somewhat lavishly overcome the difficulty of finding the right gift for my father, it was the simple letter that I sent him to mark Father’s Day 1999 that was most effective. My father was not raised in an era that promoted the emotional side of men. However, Dad managed to defy that. My letter thanked him for being so emotionally available to me because – especially during my mother’s illness and in the four years between her death and Dad’s marriage to Toni – that made all the difference in my life. I recall one night while my mother was hospitalized; I came down from my room, unable to sleep and feeling terribly sad. He took me into his lap, as he sat in a chair in the family room of our house in Elkins Park, and not only held me while I cried but cried with me. In response to my Father’s Day letter, he drafted to me a heartfelt note in return, one I have kept. I believe that it was for him the best gift I ever gave. My father didn’t need great things from us, just love.
Marrying Toni was a one of my father’s choices that made a tremendous difference for me. Toni, I want you to know how much I appreciate what you have brought into my life as a friend and as a mentor. You have been far more than the term step-mother can encompass, and your love for Dad has extended to love for and generosity to the rest of us, which we deeply feel and appreciate.
It is hardly surprising that Dad would have loved someone so giving. He generously gave of his deep well of affection, never short on hugs and kisses. He held my hand when we’d take walks together no matter how old we got (except during my adolescence, when I found this mortifying). I learned from Dad not only love for family, but also for friends. He offered unbounded loyalty and connection to lifelong friends whose meaning in his life he would readily articulate.
My father loved his family, loved his friends and loved the law. He also loved baseball – though here he showed less loyalty as he rather capriciously switched allegiance from the Phillies to the Red Sox, after moving to Cambridge, much to the dismay of his children. He was really looking forward to a Phillies / Red Sox World Series this year. And he loved natural beauty, taking us for bike rides and picnics on the Schuylkill River in Philly, later for walks in the extraordinary arboretum of Mt. Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, and on outings to garden centers and nurseries. Technology fascinated him and he became a computer user before I did, explaining to me DOS with complete awe and remarkable competency. He did this because he believed we should not simply do, we should understand. To this end, my first driving lesson consisted not of driving but of learning how and why, behind the scenes of the automatic gears, they were shifting on my behalf.
Dad also had an extraordinary appreciation for and knowledge of language. He was facile at foreign language, something I failed to inherit, but it was his interest in the English language over which we often bonded. When I was in high school, after he’d acquired an edition of the OED that required a magnifying glass to read, he and I would pore over it together looking up words, and then the words from which they derived, and on and on. Whenever I’ve been unsure of a grammatical choice, and could not arrive at a clear decision through my reference sources, I’d simply call my father. He’d respond immediately and always accurately. Then I’d receive a series of follow-up calls or emails with further explanation as he thought more about reasons for and nuances to the usage he’d recommended.
I will miss Dad’s calls and emails, his knowledge, his appreciation of nature, his joy for language, his enthusiasm for baseball (albeit for the wrong team), and even his stubbornness. I will miss his love.
When I google the term “Bernard Wolfman,” it’s not until I get past the 40th page of results that many of them no longer refer to my father.
Thirty-some years ago, when I was in high school, I sat in on one of my father’s classes. I took a seat in the back row of the lecture hall. The students around me glanced over several times until one asked, “Who are you?” The reply “Professor Wolfman’s daughter” was greeted with momentary silence and then the question, “He has a daughter?”
Indeed, many knew my father for the breadth and force of his intellect and influence as a legal scholar. But he did have a daughter. And four sons, ten grandchildren, a sister, niece, nephews, parents… and the privilege and joy of having been married to two women whom he deeply loved. For all of these people, and the further extended family and his dear friends, his intellect made him all the more interesting and exciting to be around, but it did not define him. It is my father’s love, warmth and generosity for which we have always appreciated him and will remember him.
I should add that we’re not likely to forget his stubbornness either. Then again, most of us share that trait so we’ll have constant reminders.
Even Dad’s stubbornness was in the service of his love for us. Shortly after we moved to Cambridge, the window air conditioner in my bedroom broke and he arranged for a technician to come to the house to repair it. While he was at work I hosted the service call. I don’t recall the specifics, but the technician in some way cheated us. My father was furious, not at me but at the technician for seizing on the opportunity to take advantage of my youthful naiveté and gullibility. The combination of his protective, paternal instinct, and his stubborn inability to let anything go, ended with me – scared witless – speaking in small claims court after he had thoroughly prepped and rehearsed me.
My father was an extremely difficult person for whom to select gifts, a trait he generously handed down to the other men in our family. So I’d put great energy into coming up with ideas, sometimes even holding brainstorming sessions with my co-workers. For one major birthday Brad and I gave him a trip to adult space camp, as he always was enamored with space exploration. True to form, he rose to captain of his team in the simulated space flight, and he loved the experience save for the terrible food (space camp seems to serve the adult groups exactly what they supply to the child campers) and the ruination of his team’s excellent record with his crash landing at the end. On another occasion, we gave him a very fine, vintage bottle of red wine. He liked it as he would any bottle of red, never realizing it was anything different, but at least the sommelier standing by during the celebration feast was mightily impressed.
Despite these attempts to somewhat lavishly overcome the difficulty of finding the right gift for my father, it was the simple letter that I sent him to mark Father’s Day 1999 that was most effective. My father was not raised in an era that promoted the emotional side of men. However, Dad managed to defy that. My letter thanked him for being so emotionally available to me because – especially during my mother’s illness and in the four years between her death and Dad’s marriage to Toni – that made all the difference in my life. I recall one night while my mother was hospitalized; I came down from my room, unable to sleep and feeling terribly sad. He took me into his lap, as he sat in a chair in the family room of our house in Elkins Park, and not only held me while I cried but cried with me. In response to my Father’s Day letter, he drafted to me a heartfelt note in return, one I have kept. I believe that it was for him the best gift I ever gave. My father didn’t need great things from us, just love.
Marrying Toni was a one of my father’s choices that made a tremendous difference for me. Toni, I want you to know how much I appreciate what you have brought into my life as a friend and as a mentor. You have been far more than the term step-mother can encompass, and your love for Dad has extended to love for and generosity to the rest of us, which we deeply feel and appreciate.
It is hardly surprising that Dad would have loved someone so giving. He generously gave of his deep well of affection, never short on hugs and kisses. He held my hand when we’d take walks together no matter how old we got (except during my adolescence, when I found this mortifying). I learned from Dad not only love for family, but also for friends. He offered unbounded loyalty and connection to lifelong friends whose meaning in his life he would readily articulate.
My father loved his family, loved his friends and loved the law. He also loved baseball – though here he showed less loyalty as he rather capriciously switched allegiance from the Phillies to the Red Sox, after moving to Cambridge, much to the dismay of his children. He was really looking forward to a Phillies / Red Sox World Series this year. And he loved natural beauty, taking us for bike rides and picnics on the Schuylkill River in Philly, later for walks in the extraordinary arboretum of Mt. Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, and on outings to garden centers and nurseries. Technology fascinated him and he became a computer user before I did, explaining to me DOS with complete awe and remarkable competency. He did this because he believed we should not simply do, we should understand. To this end, my first driving lesson consisted not of driving but of learning how and why, behind the scenes of the automatic gears, they were shifting on my behalf.
Dad also had an extraordinary appreciation for and knowledge of language. He was facile at foreign language, something I failed to inherit, but it was his interest in the English language over which we often bonded. When I was in high school, after he’d acquired an edition of the OED that required a magnifying glass to read, he and I would pore over it together looking up words, and then the words from which they derived, and on and on. Whenever I’ve been unsure of a grammatical choice, and could not arrive at a clear decision through my reference sources, I’d simply call my father. He’d respond immediately and always accurately. Then I’d receive a series of follow-up calls or emails with further explanation as he thought more about reasons for and nuances to the usage he’d recommended.
I will miss Dad’s calls and emails, his knowledge, his appreciation of nature, his joy for language, his enthusiasm for baseball (albeit for the wrong team), and even his stubbornness. I will miss his love.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Memory, Empowerment and Pictures
This afternoon I enjoyed the privilege of reading my book, I Remember Mommy's Smile, to the 7- to 12-year-old children participating in bereavement camp at Chandler Hall in Newtown, PA. Each child had lost a parent--unusually, in this group all were fathers. My book presents my memoirs, in my child's voice, of my mother's illness and death when I was ages 9 to 11.
I had barely begun when one child asked whether I still miss my mother. Yes, I said, I miss her all the time even though I live a happy life. And I told them how fortunate I am, though it has been so many years, that I still have her memory. I assured them that they will never forget their fathers. At that point, one boy (who otherwise rolled himself around in his blanket but peaked out at the end of every page to see the picture) said that today is the anniversary of his father's death. Others followed by calling out the dates of their dads' deaths. It was a simple, brief and moving moment of memorial.
Each child responded to different portions, based on his or her experience. Mostly, I saw this in their eyes or body language. But when I read about learning that my mother had cancer, one boy whispered "My father had cancer," and when I recalled the funeral a little girl teared up.
Upon inviting questions at the end, I learned that the children were particularly fascinated by the funeral vignette, in which I kicked away the funeral home employee who tried to lead me out when I began crying during the sevice. The question, "Why did he want you to leave?" led to a discussion of well-meaning adults who may not understand what we need. But mostly, the children were fascinated by my defiance and had a spirited conversation about what they would have done if kicking had not been enough. I gathered that the empowerment of fighting for my place at my mother's funeral held great appeal to all the children. If they came away believing in their right and ability to claim some strength in their situation, then I feel good about the reading.
When there were no more questions, and I got up to leave, two of the girls came up to me with their picture albums, so I could see the photos of their fathers that they cherish as I do the one I mention in the book of my mother at my dance recital. I'd donated one of my books to the Chandler Hall library, and one of these girls had already decided to take it home this evening.
I am 40 or so years older than these children, but we share a bond: a deep understanding of how valuable memory can be after loss. And I hope that, through my book, they found the assurance of empowerment and even normalcy in their future--without ever forgetting.
I had barely begun when one child asked whether I still miss my mother. Yes, I said, I miss her all the time even though I live a happy life. And I told them how fortunate I am, though it has been so many years, that I still have her memory. I assured them that they will never forget their fathers. At that point, one boy (who otherwise rolled himself around in his blanket but peaked out at the end of every page to see the picture) said that today is the anniversary of his father's death. Others followed by calling out the dates of their dads' deaths. It was a simple, brief and moving moment of memorial.
Each child responded to different portions, based on his or her experience. Mostly, I saw this in their eyes or body language. But when I read about learning that my mother had cancer, one boy whispered "My father had cancer," and when I recalled the funeral a little girl teared up.
Upon inviting questions at the end, I learned that the children were particularly fascinated by the funeral vignette, in which I kicked away the funeral home employee who tried to lead me out when I began crying during the sevice. The question, "Why did he want you to leave?" led to a discussion of well-meaning adults who may not understand what we need. But mostly, the children were fascinated by my defiance and had a spirited conversation about what they would have done if kicking had not been enough. I gathered that the empowerment of fighting for my place at my mother's funeral held great appeal to all the children. If they came away believing in their right and ability to claim some strength in their situation, then I feel good about the reading.
When there were no more questions, and I got up to leave, two of the girls came up to me with their picture albums, so I could see the photos of their fathers that they cherish as I do the one I mention in the book of my mother at my dance recital. I'd donated one of my books to the Chandler Hall library, and one of these girls had already decided to take it home this evening.
I am 40 or so years older than these children, but we share a bond: a deep understanding of how valuable memory can be after loss. And I hope that, through my book, they found the assurance of empowerment and even normalcy in their future--without ever forgetting.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Church-and-State and the Politics of Leadership
Note: I delivered this as a d'var Torah (sermon, or literally "word of Torah") at Beth Sholom Congregation in Elkins Park, PA, on July 23, 2011. To learn more about my sermons, click here.
Let’s talk about Thomas Jefferson. I’m thinking about a particular doctrine attributed to Jefferson that has relevance to a religious setting. What might that be?
*****
Yes, the separation of church and state. The “church and state” phrase comes from Jefferson’s letter to the Danbury Baptists, who had complained that in Connecticut religious liberties were seen as “favors granted” rather than as rights. Without commenting on the role of state government in his reply, regarding the federal government Jefferson wrote:
“Believing with you that religion is a matter which lies solely between Man & his God, that he owes account to none other for his faith or his worship, that the legitimate powers of government reach actions only, & not opinions, I contemplate with sovereign reverence that act of the whole American people which declared that their legislature should ‘make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof,’ thus building a wall of separation between Church & State.”
In his draft version he included a statement that further defined this separation as “Congress [being] thus inhibited from acts respecting religion, and the Executive authorized only to execute their acts.” His marginal note indicates that this portion was to be removed so as not to offend members of his party in the eastern states. What interests me about this private version of the letter is that the language “acts respecting religion" seems to take the implementation of separation beyond the concept of establishment.
Let me tell you why I have Jefferson on my mind. As I read Mattot in preparation for this morning, I was looking for an angle different from those I explored when I spoke about the parashah in 2007 and in 2008. Perhaps because of Rabbi Glanzberg-Krainin’s terrific d’var on leadership two weeks ago at Beth Sholom Congregation, I found myself drawn to the issues of leadership in Mattot and the sticky relationship that emerges with the interplay of politics and spirituality.
That led me to the haftarah that we read today because, despite it being one of the three prophetic readings of admonition preceding Tish-ah b’Av rather than thematically connected to the Torah portion, I find some alignment between them where leadership is concerned. Finally, as I contemplated these issues, I thought of a piece about the separation of church and state that my brother, Jonathan Wolfman, recently published on his blog (click here to go to the posting).
According to Jon,
“The reason Jefferson wrote with such terrific thought and passion on state and church separation is that he knew both secular civil society and religious institutions are safer from each others’ often over-arching power when basic law keeps them apart. Jefferson also knew that people are often weak and often afraid, and when they are they’re pleased to give over to their religious leaders and the religious institutions of their parents and ancestors what may for the moment appear to be the knottiest, most resistant social, economic and legal concerns. Jefferson understood that this was a devil’s bargain.”
I have great respect for my brother’s intellect and know that he has read far more broadly and deeply than I on such matters. Nonetheless, I thought I’d do a quick review for myself of Jefferson’s writings on the subject rather than take his word for it. For the most part, Jefferson stuck to the protection of religion from government, and not the other way around. But he did express strong skepticism about the impact of religious authority on civil liberties, believing, as he wrote in 1800, that “by getting themselves established by law and ingrafted into the machine of government, [the clergy] have been a very formidable engine against the civil and religious rights of man.” In 1813 and 1814 respectively, he wrote: “History, I believe, furnishes no example of a priest-ridden people maintaining a free civil government,” and “In every country and in every age, the priest has been hostile to liberty.”
So with this as the philosophical legacy of the 3rd US president and principle author of the Declaration of Independence, as Americans and as Jews how do we reconcile a Jewish literary tradition that inextricably links politics with religion, where the laws governing society are handed down by God and prophetic writings delve into the reigns of kings?
I find that in Mattot, and in the words of Jeremiah that constitute today’s haftarah, the literature grapples with the mix of spiritual and political leadership.
Let’s look at the last portion of Numbers 31, beginning with verse 48. We read of the sacrifice that the commanders make on behalf of their troops, giving far more than required from their booty as an offering to God, so those in the ranks can keep all theirs for themselves. It would seem they make the political decision to reinterpret the commandment around supporting the Levites and the Tabernacle in a manner that would yield the required financial result while helping to bolster the fortunes of their charges and thus their allegiance, not to God but to the officers. Moshe and Eleazar accept this independent political decision without comment, and the text fully attributes the gift to God as being “in behalf of the Israelites.”
Going back to the opening lines of Mattot, Moshe imparts God’s words about the obligatory nature of a vow. Unlike the more typical scene, in which God speaks through Moshe to the Israelite people as a whole, this time the narrative confines the audience to “the heads of the Israelite tribes.” Though all of us bear the responsibility of vows, Moshe tells only the leadership about this obligation. Might we assume, then, that the leaders bear responsibility for informing their people, giving them an opportunity to exercise authority and thus a political voice somewhat separated from the voice of religious authority?
Perhaps part of their role is setting an example; the Israelites are not simply to hear the laws of vows, but to witness their leaders adhering to them. Or, as leaders, do they have the power to make vows on behalf of those under them, so they must be all the more cognizant of their implications?
We see this last paradigm play out in Numbers 32 verses 20 to 24. The leaders of the Gadites and Reubenites have requested to settle west of the Jordan, rather than with the others on the east. Moshe strikes a bargain, exacting from them vows, as leaders, that their tribes will serve as the shock-troops in conquering the land to the east. Moshe declares, “But if you do not do so, you will have sinned against the Lord; and know that your sin will overtake you. Build towns for your children and sheepfolds for your flocks, but do as you have promised.” The leader’s vow is binding, for himself and for all his people.
How fascinating that this deal-making allows what seems to be an adjustment of God’s intended outcome, negotiated entirely as a political—and in this case socio-economic—matter among the leadership. As with the disposition of the spoils of war, a secular approach to governing seems to emerge in parallel to the religious, though Moshe certainly fills both political and spiritual roles.
In the haftarah, Jeremiah takes a Moshe-like stance, insisting that he is not equal to the role of prophet and acquiescing only when God insists. His objection is that “I don’t know how to speak, for I am still a boy,” in response to which God “put out His hand and touched my mouth, and Adonai said to me: Herewith I put My words into your mouth.” Returning to my argument earlier, that leaders have a special responsibility regarding the spoken word because of their positions of power, it makes great sense to choose as prophets those who express modesty with regard to the use of language. This implies a leadership of humility and selflessness, which we can see as a valuable asset for the community particularly when political power is at play.
And certainly this is about politics. God appoints Jeremiah “over nations and kingdoms” with the authority “to uproot and to pull down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant.” Jeremiah is to pit himself against a leadership of arrogance and self-interest in which “they shall come, and shall each set up a throne” in opposition both to the “towns of Judah” and to God. And the humble Jeremiah is to prevail.
In both the Torah and the haftarah readings, we find that religious and political leadership intertwine, and in each case God’s intention for the people faces opposition from those who want political or socio-economic status. For Jeremiah, there is no negotiation independent of God’s word, but for Moshe and Eleazar it appears that they do have and exercise this authority.
Of course, that’s a far cry from Jefferson’s stance that religious leaders represent a danger to civil liberties and that government imperils religious freedom. But do we see here an early acknowledgement of how difficult it is to mesh political and religious institutions? And if so, is that the lens through which we, as contemporary American Jews, can begin to reconcile our dual traditions as represented by Torah and by the writings of Jefferson?
Torah does not separate church and state, but certainly it recognizes the difficulty of merging these two sources of power and shows an early example of negotiating purely political solutions. And it acknowledges that power in the hands of humans can be destructive unless tempered with humility and an overriding drive to serve. It took some time, but the evolution to Jefferson’s legal construct of a wall separating church and state seems logical: both his worry that, given the opportunity to amass power by dictating religion, political leaders would crush citizens’ freedom to worship as they choose, and his concern that religious leaders, given the opportunity to broaden their reach, might lack the requisite selflessness to preserve civil liberties.
Yet the separation of church and state still suffers ongoing assault and this affects us as Jews. In my brother’s essay, he invokes Jefferson in the context of decrying Texas Governor Rick Perry’s plans for a state-sponsored, evangelical Day of Prayer on August 6, using—in Jon’s words—“tax monies collected from Christians, Jews, Muslims and adherents to every other religion represented in Texas, along with money from agnostics and atheists, in part to rent Reliant Stadium in Houston.”
And here we are nearly 50 years after the school prayer decision in Abington Township School District v. Schempp, a case my father helped to initiate as an attorney volunteering with the Philadelphia ACLU. He learned in the process that his own, Jewish first-grader could recite the Lord’s Prayer by heart as a result of his public school education in Cheltenham, PA. Yet school prayer remains an issue still under debate and in the court system.
As we see in Mattot and in the haftarah, the politics and power of the church-state relationship aren’t easy. But we do need to tease them out and, I believe, more definitively apart than we have yet achieved.
Let’s talk about Thomas Jefferson. I’m thinking about a particular doctrine attributed to Jefferson that has relevance to a religious setting. What might that be?
*****
Yes, the separation of church and state. The “church and state” phrase comes from Jefferson’s letter to the Danbury Baptists, who had complained that in Connecticut religious liberties were seen as “favors granted” rather than as rights. Without commenting on the role of state government in his reply, regarding the federal government Jefferson wrote:
“Believing with you that religion is a matter which lies solely between Man & his God, that he owes account to none other for his faith or his worship, that the legitimate powers of government reach actions only, & not opinions, I contemplate with sovereign reverence that act of the whole American people which declared that their legislature should ‘make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof,’ thus building a wall of separation between Church & State.”
In his draft version he included a statement that further defined this separation as “Congress [being] thus inhibited from acts respecting religion, and the Executive authorized only to execute their acts.” His marginal note indicates that this portion was to be removed so as not to offend members of his party in the eastern states. What interests me about this private version of the letter is that the language “acts respecting religion" seems to take the implementation of separation beyond the concept of establishment.
Let me tell you why I have Jefferson on my mind. As I read Mattot in preparation for this morning, I was looking for an angle different from those I explored when I spoke about the parashah in 2007 and in 2008. Perhaps because of Rabbi Glanzberg-Krainin’s terrific d’var on leadership two weeks ago at Beth Sholom Congregation, I found myself drawn to the issues of leadership in Mattot and the sticky relationship that emerges with the interplay of politics and spirituality.
That led me to the haftarah that we read today because, despite it being one of the three prophetic readings of admonition preceding Tish-ah b’Av rather than thematically connected to the Torah portion, I find some alignment between them where leadership is concerned. Finally, as I contemplated these issues, I thought of a piece about the separation of church and state that my brother, Jonathan Wolfman, recently published on his blog (click here to go to the posting).
According to Jon,
“The reason Jefferson wrote with such terrific thought and passion on state and church separation is that he knew both secular civil society and religious institutions are safer from each others’ often over-arching power when basic law keeps them apart. Jefferson also knew that people are often weak and often afraid, and when they are they’re pleased to give over to their religious leaders and the religious institutions of their parents and ancestors what may for the moment appear to be the knottiest, most resistant social, economic and legal concerns. Jefferson understood that this was a devil’s bargain.”
I have great respect for my brother’s intellect and know that he has read far more broadly and deeply than I on such matters. Nonetheless, I thought I’d do a quick review for myself of Jefferson’s writings on the subject rather than take his word for it. For the most part, Jefferson stuck to the protection of religion from government, and not the other way around. But he did express strong skepticism about the impact of religious authority on civil liberties, believing, as he wrote in 1800, that “by getting themselves established by law and ingrafted into the machine of government, [the clergy] have been a very formidable engine against the civil and religious rights of man.” In 1813 and 1814 respectively, he wrote: “History, I believe, furnishes no example of a priest-ridden people maintaining a free civil government,” and “In every country and in every age, the priest has been hostile to liberty.”
So with this as the philosophical legacy of the 3rd US president and principle author of the Declaration of Independence, as Americans and as Jews how do we reconcile a Jewish literary tradition that inextricably links politics with religion, where the laws governing society are handed down by God and prophetic writings delve into the reigns of kings?
I find that in Mattot, and in the words of Jeremiah that constitute today’s haftarah, the literature grapples with the mix of spiritual and political leadership.
Let’s look at the last portion of Numbers 31, beginning with verse 48. We read of the sacrifice that the commanders make on behalf of their troops, giving far more than required from their booty as an offering to God, so those in the ranks can keep all theirs for themselves. It would seem they make the political decision to reinterpret the commandment around supporting the Levites and the Tabernacle in a manner that would yield the required financial result while helping to bolster the fortunes of their charges and thus their allegiance, not to God but to the officers. Moshe and Eleazar accept this independent political decision without comment, and the text fully attributes the gift to God as being “in behalf of the Israelites.”
Going back to the opening lines of Mattot, Moshe imparts God’s words about the obligatory nature of a vow. Unlike the more typical scene, in which God speaks through Moshe to the Israelite people as a whole, this time the narrative confines the audience to “the heads of the Israelite tribes.” Though all of us bear the responsibility of vows, Moshe tells only the leadership about this obligation. Might we assume, then, that the leaders bear responsibility for informing their people, giving them an opportunity to exercise authority and thus a political voice somewhat separated from the voice of religious authority?
Perhaps part of their role is setting an example; the Israelites are not simply to hear the laws of vows, but to witness their leaders adhering to them. Or, as leaders, do they have the power to make vows on behalf of those under them, so they must be all the more cognizant of their implications?
We see this last paradigm play out in Numbers 32 verses 20 to 24. The leaders of the Gadites and Reubenites have requested to settle west of the Jordan, rather than with the others on the east. Moshe strikes a bargain, exacting from them vows, as leaders, that their tribes will serve as the shock-troops in conquering the land to the east. Moshe declares, “But if you do not do so, you will have sinned against the Lord; and know that your sin will overtake you. Build towns for your children and sheepfolds for your flocks, but do as you have promised.” The leader’s vow is binding, for himself and for all his people.
How fascinating that this deal-making allows what seems to be an adjustment of God’s intended outcome, negotiated entirely as a political—and in this case socio-economic—matter among the leadership. As with the disposition of the spoils of war, a secular approach to governing seems to emerge in parallel to the religious, though Moshe certainly fills both political and spiritual roles.
In the haftarah, Jeremiah takes a Moshe-like stance, insisting that he is not equal to the role of prophet and acquiescing only when God insists. His objection is that “I don’t know how to speak, for I am still a boy,” in response to which God “put out His hand and touched my mouth, and Adonai said to me: Herewith I put My words into your mouth.” Returning to my argument earlier, that leaders have a special responsibility regarding the spoken word because of their positions of power, it makes great sense to choose as prophets those who express modesty with regard to the use of language. This implies a leadership of humility and selflessness, which we can see as a valuable asset for the community particularly when political power is at play.
And certainly this is about politics. God appoints Jeremiah “over nations and kingdoms” with the authority “to uproot and to pull down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant.” Jeremiah is to pit himself against a leadership of arrogance and self-interest in which “they shall come, and shall each set up a throne” in opposition both to the “towns of Judah” and to God. And the humble Jeremiah is to prevail.
In both the Torah and the haftarah readings, we find that religious and political leadership intertwine, and in each case God’s intention for the people faces opposition from those who want political or socio-economic status. For Jeremiah, there is no negotiation independent of God’s word, but for Moshe and Eleazar it appears that they do have and exercise this authority.
Of course, that’s a far cry from Jefferson’s stance that religious leaders represent a danger to civil liberties and that government imperils religious freedom. But do we see here an early acknowledgement of how difficult it is to mesh political and religious institutions? And if so, is that the lens through which we, as contemporary American Jews, can begin to reconcile our dual traditions as represented by Torah and by the writings of Jefferson?
Torah does not separate church and state, but certainly it recognizes the difficulty of merging these two sources of power and shows an early example of negotiating purely political solutions. And it acknowledges that power in the hands of humans can be destructive unless tempered with humility and an overriding drive to serve. It took some time, but the evolution to Jefferson’s legal construct of a wall separating church and state seems logical: both his worry that, given the opportunity to amass power by dictating religion, political leaders would crush citizens’ freedom to worship as they choose, and his concern that religious leaders, given the opportunity to broaden their reach, might lack the requisite selflessness to preserve civil liberties.
Yet the separation of church and state still suffers ongoing assault and this affects us as Jews. In my brother’s essay, he invokes Jefferson in the context of decrying Texas Governor Rick Perry’s plans for a state-sponsored, evangelical Day of Prayer on August 6, using—in Jon’s words—“tax monies collected from Christians, Jews, Muslims and adherents to every other religion represented in Texas, along with money from agnostics and atheists, in part to rent Reliant Stadium in Houston.”
And here we are nearly 50 years after the school prayer decision in Abington Township School District v. Schempp, a case my father helped to initiate as an attorney volunteering with the Philadelphia ACLU. He learned in the process that his own, Jewish first-grader could recite the Lord’s Prayer by heart as a result of his public school education in Cheltenham, PA. Yet school prayer remains an issue still under debate and in the court system.
As we see in Mattot and in the haftarah, the politics and power of the church-state relationship aren’t easy. But we do need to tease them out and, I believe, more definitively apart than we have yet achieved.
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