Kol ha'Seridim: August 2021

Monday, August 30, 2021

Asmoranomardicadaistinaculdacar and the 42-Letter Name of God

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Artwork: Granite Gargoyle, by Christopher Rush. I would have used the actual artwork from Asmoranomardicadaistinaculdacar, but some would consider it to be non-tzanua. Those who are in the know will understand why I used the art from Granite Gargoyle.

Asmoranomardicadaistinaculdacar and the 42-Letter Name of God

On June 18, 2021, Wizards of the Coast released Modern Horizons 2 as an expansion set for the Magic: the Gathering trading card game. Printed in the set was a card representing the female wizard named Asmoranomardicadaistinaculdacar. On August 28, 2021, content creator Rhystic Studies (PhD) made a video about Magic: the Gathering card names with a focus on Asmoranomardicadaistinaculdacar. As I watched the video, my mind kept coming back to one thing: the 42-letter name of Hashem.

The Rambam (Moreh ha’Nevuchim 1:62) explains what we mean by a 42-letter name:

Now it is known to everyone capable of mental representation that it is in no way possible for 42 letters to form one word; these were certainly several words, the number of the letters of which amounted to 42 … These words that had numerous letters were called a “name” only because of their being indicative of a single concept … and these words were numerous only in order to make the concept in question understood.

The Rambam cites a passage in the Talmud which details the qualifications for being taught this name:

The name having 42 letters is holy and sanctified and is only transmitted to one who is discreet, has reached the middle of his life, is not prone to anger or to drunkenness, does not arouse criticism by his way of life, and speaks agreeably with people. And he who knows it is heedful thereof, and observes it in purity, is beloved on high and popular below. He is feared by the people, his learning is preserved by him, and he inherits the two worlds: this world and the next. (Talmud Bavli: Kiddushin 71a, Pines translation)

The Rambam then goes on to decry the ways in which these Talmudic teachings were misconstrued:

How very remote is the way in which this [Talmudic] statement is usually understood from the [true] intention of the speaker. For most people think that it deals solely with the pronunciation of the letters, and it is not taken into consideration that these letters have a meaning, so that great things may be merited through them and that for this reason there is needed the moral preparation and the forming of many dispositions that were mentioned … When wicked and ignorant people found these texts, they had an ample basis for lying statements in that they would put together any letters they liked and would say: this is a shem (divine name) that has efficacy and power to operate if it is written down or uttered in a particular way. Thereupon these lies invented by the first wicked and ignorant man were written down, and these writings transmitted to decent, weak-minded, and foolish men who lack the scales and means by which they could know the true from the false. These people accordingly made a secret of these writings, and the latter were found in the belongings left behind them, so that they were thought to be true. To sum it up: “a fool believes everything” (Mishlei 14:15).

Watching the video about Asmoranomardicadaistinaculdacar gave me a new insight into this Rambam. As a student of Torah who was “raised” in the rationalist school of thought, I am not prone to belief in the occult. When I read about kabbalistic divine names with magical properties, I am not moved – except to feel sorry for those who have fallen into such views.

And yet, I find myself absolutely enamored with the name Asmoranomardicadaistinaculdacar on purely aural and somatic grounds. By that, I mean that I love hearing it said and the feeling of my mouth saying it. This helped me realize that beneath the magical aura of these so-called divine names is an underlying aesthetic appeal – associated with their appearance, spelling, and pronunciation – which enhances their mystique in an intrinsic way. To my mind, this is another example of how (at least, according to the Rambam) idolatry appeals not only to our minds and imaginations, but to our most basic physicality.

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Friday, August 20, 2021

Ki Teitzei: On the Merit of Giving Bad Explanations of Mitzvos

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Artwork: Professor of Symbology, by Jason Rainville

Ki Teitzei: On the Merit of Giving Bad Explanations of Mitzvos

As a Torah educator, I am a strong proponent of teaching students the taamei ha’mitzvos (reasons for the commandments). This is especially relevant for teenagers and young adults, many of whom were raised without any real awareness that the mitzvos have rational reasons and were commanded for our benefit. Accordingly, it is a pet peeve of mine when I hear someone give a bad explanation for the taam of a mitzvah. Is there ever any justification for bad explanations of mitzvos? Shockingly, according to the Sefer ha’Chinuch, the answer is: yes.

In his introduction, the Sefer ha’Chinuch explains that he wrote his book so that his son and his son’s friends will accustom themselves to thinking about the mitzvos and seeking out their reasons. He then writes at length about how unqualified he is for this task, but why he didn’t let that stop him from writing. Here are some excerpts:

I do not think and proclaim that I will arrive at the ultimate truth. Who am I, “but a worm and not a man” who has not seen the lights of wisdom all the days, to raise my hand about that which exceedingly wise sages have not grasped? … However, I said: If only it would be that my thoughts be preoccupied with [taamei ha’mitzvos] all of the days … Are [the mitzvos] not all refined and pure – “every precious stone is their adornment”? And if there sometimes be sediment in that which is written in their explanation, the food should be separated from it for oil, and [sediment] returned to the house of the owners … And at the beginning of my words, I mention as a merit for me that which my teachers said: "All chatter is bad, [but] Torah chatter is good."

In Parashas Ki Teitzei, there are two instances in which the Sefer ha’Chinuch acknowledges the inadequacy of the taamei ha’mitzvos explanations he has provided. The first is regarding the prohibition “to offer up a harlot’s wage or the exchange-price of a dog on the altar” (Mitzvah #571). After giving a satisfactory taam for the first component of this mitzvah, the Sefer ha’Chinuch tackles the second with decidedly less confidence:

Now, it is known that dogs are arrogant in spirit. Perhaps, as a result of thinking about them and their tough nature, his spirit will grow tough and he will become stiff-necked, too stubborn to regret his sins, as is proper for him. However, my son, if these words [of mine] be childish, may you be aroused by them to acquire the reason of elders.

In other words: if you don’t like my explanation of the taam, may it inspire you to look for a better one. Similarly, after giving a basic taam ha’mitzvah for yibum (levirate marriage, Mitzvah #598), he writes:

Now, although I know that in this mitzvah lies a great principle and a true reason [known] by the mekubalim (i.e. those who have received the esoteric tradition), I will rely on what I wrote at the beginning of my work. There I set forth my justification for the fact that I would not restrain my pen from writing my entire mind on a simple, plain reason for the mitzvos, to stimulate the spirit of the youngsters to ask questions about them of their elders and teachers. Out of the preoccupation with them, perhaps the merit will come about through me to reveal the truth of their purposes, and I will gain merit in my place among them.

What emerges from these three excerpts is an insight about the Sefer ha’Chinuch’s approach. There are two reasons to offer explanations for the taamei ha’mitzvos: (1) to identify the actual reasons for the mitzvos, and (2) to strengthen our attachment to seeking taamei ha’mitzvos. In most cases, the Sefer ha’Chinuch maintains that his taamei ha’mitzvos are the real thing, but in cases where he is uncertain whether he has attained “the ultimate truth” of a mitzvah, he consoles himself by saying, “At least my thoughts and my chatter were preoccupied with mitzvos! Perhaps my inadequate explanations will prompt my students to discover the truth on their own.”

This approach should not be taken as a license to spout off dumb ideas, but for those who have sufficient intellectual humility, perhaps the Sefer ha’Chinuch will provide justification for sharing their half-baked thoughts.

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Thursday, August 19, 2021

When to Dance Between Two Opinions

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Artwork: Static Orb, by Tommy Arnold

When to Dance Between Two Opinions

Earlier this week I referenced a book I’m reading called Already Free: Buddhism Meets Psychotherapy on the Path of Liberation. The author is Bruce Tift, a practicing psychotherapist and Buddhist. In the foreword of the book, the publisher recounts her first meeting with Tift in which she asked him how he reconciles these two disparate and often irreconcilable approaches. He replied: “I alternate between a Buddhist approach and a psychotherapeutic approach without any hope of resolution.” That caught my attention.

The author outlines three possible models of “dialogue” between the two views:

#1: Simplistically, we might assume there is just one truth, and the dialogue is a way to test our theories in order to discover which is true. #2: Or we might assume that most theories are useful approximations of what's true in some ways but that they have their own limitations in other ways; so the point of the dialogue is to come up with a synthesis or integration that combines the best of both. #3: Perhaps an even more interesting use of dialogue is to investigate our experience of standing in the middle, with no fantasy of resolution. What is it like to have no ground to stand on, no theory to identify with? To use theories for practical purposes rather than as positions to take?

The author eventually settles on the last option, noting the advantages of the resulting mindset:

We develop the capacity not to take refuge in any one position. As a result, we end up in this open middle ground where there's no support for personal identity and no objective confirmation that we're ever doing anything the "right way." Obviously, from an egoic point of view, this can be quite disturbing, especially at first. But the benefit is that we are able to just show up without a preconceived formula about how to live our lives. We begin to experience the reality that every moment is fresh. It's open. We don't know what's going to happen, and we don't know the right way to do this or that.

The most important shiur I gave last year was Of Wolves, Men, and Methodology. The main point of the shiur was to highlight the pitfalls of unwarranted reductionism - the attempt to take a complex phenomenon and to reduce it to an oversimplified thing, believing this to be The Truth.

Even though I gave this shiur and reference it constantly, I didn’t realize until I read Tift’s words that I was still falling prey to a reductionist way of thinking. I now see that I’ve been clinging to approaches #1 and #2 in my conception of what truth-seeking looks like, and that I was blind to #3. It never even occurred to me that there may be merit in “[investigating] our experience of standing in the middle, with no fantasy of resolution.” I had viewed “standing in the middle” as a necessary evil en route to one of two outcomes: either eliminating one view as false or arriving at a synthesis. I didn’t consider the possibility that deliberately not seeking a conclusion, or even an integration, might bring us the closest to truth.

There are certainly times when the desire to hold on to two mutually exclusive views inhibits our truth-seeking. In such situations we must goad ourselves to keep moving forward in our investigation, asking ourselves: “How long will you dance between two opinions?” (I Melachim 18:21). But I am now beginning to realize that there are also times when our need for certainty, identity, and other forms of psychological security push us towards unwarranted reductionism under the guise of intellectual diligence. In those situations, we must resist the impulse for security, allowing ourselves to remain in the space in between, with all the discomfort of doubt and uncertainty. A wise woman said: “Any fool can engage in action, but only the wise man can wait.” Any fool can force a conclusion, but only the wise man can wait.

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Wednesday, August 18, 2021

Halacha as a Playground of Mindfulness

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Halacha as a Playground of Mindfulness

Last week I saw a comic depicting a fishbowl floating in an ocean. The fish in the fishbowl is labeled “religion.” The fish in the water outside the fishbowl is labeled “spirituality.” The implication is that the spirituality fish is looking upon the religion fish with pity, as if to say, “You poor thing. Why do you insist on being confined to this fishbowl when you could be free in the open ocean, like me?”

The comic had been posted in a mindfulness group on Facebook. This is not the first time I’ve encountered an underlying streak of anti-religious sentiment among self-identified practitioners of mindfulness. I don’t blame the creator of the comic, nor do I blame those for whom the comic resonates. As an Orthodox Jew, I would even describe myself as “anti-religious.” (And if that sounds like a paradox, read my article, Is Judaism a Religion?) Still, it irks me when I see legitimate criticisms and complaints about other religions indiscriminately applied to Judaism, and this is a perfect example: the sentiment in this comic is the polar opposite of my own experience as an observant Jew who aspires to live a life of mindfulness.

I agree with the image and captioning of the comic, but I disagree with its implied value judgment. Orthodox Judaism is like a fishbowl in that it imposes restrictions on an otherwise unrestricted life. Those who choose not to observe halacha are like the fish in the ocean in that they aren’t confined. However, being unconfined is not the same as being free, and the boundaries of halacha constitute a path to true human freedom.

This is not a chidush (novel insight). I’ve given shiurim and written articles about my own take on the liberating qualities of halacha. My favorite of these articles is I Hate Sukkah (in a Good Way), in which I draw upon dialogue from My Dinner With Andre and the teachings of Bruce Lee to frame halacha as a system of “skillful frustrations” designed to promote our development as truth-seeking human beings.

But while I have written articles on the relationship between halacha and freedom, I haven’t addressed the relationship between halacha and mindfulness – specifically, the type of mindfulness valued by those who agree with the comic. Chapter 14 of Greg McKeown’s book, Essentialism: the Disciplined Pursuit of Less, is entitled: “Limit: the freedom of setting boundaries.” The author illustrates this counter-intuitive point with an anecdote:

This truth is demonstrated by the story of a school located next to a busy road. At first the children played only on a small swath of the playground, close to the building where the grownups could keep their eyes on them. But then someone constructed a fence around the playground. Now the children were able to play anywhere and everywhere on the playground. Their freedom, in effect, more than doubled.

Similarly, when we don’t set clear boundaries in our lives we can end up imprisoned by the limits others have set for us. When we have clear boundaries, on the other hand, we are free to select from the whole area – or the whole range of options – that we have deliberately chosen to explore.

Halacha transforms every aspect of life into an anchor for mindfulness. Our “fishbowls,” the boundaries created by our halachic obligations and restrictions, serve as our prompts. By surrounding ourselves with these manifold mindfulness prompts, we enjoy countless opportunities for awakening. And since all the mitzvos have reasons – to develop our intellects, our character traits, or to promote justice in society – these prompts not only pull us out of the trance of mindlessness, but they also develop us in specific ways. In other words, not only do they facilitate “awakening from,” but also “awakening to.” Halacha guides us towards mindfulness in everything we do.

For these reasons and more, I believe that the fish inside the bowl enjoys more freedom than the fish in the ocean.

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Tuesday, August 17, 2021

The Insidious Nature of Metaphysical and Epistemological Premises

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Artwork: Mana Tithe, by Robbie Trevino

The Insidious Nature of Metaphysical and Epistemological Premises

I recently started reading a book called Already Free: Buddhism Meets Psychotherapy on the Path of Liberation. The author is Bruce Tift, who has worked as a psychotherapist and has lived as a practicing Buddhist for over 40 years. The back cover of the book reads: “Buddhism and Western psychotherapy seek to provide freedom from suffering, yet each offers a completely different approach for reaching this goal. How can we know which one will help us the most?”

I’ve been interested in psychology for a long time but have only recently begun to explore meditation, mindfulness, and the other Eastern practices that have been recognized as beneficial by Western psychotherapists. My intellectual disposition makes me wary when it comes to investigating other religions, but that’s what makes Buddhism and Taoism so frustrating for a “Westerner” such as myself: it’s hard to tell which elements are “religious” and which are simply chochmah (wisdom). That’s why this book intrigued me: I hoped that the author would help me to clarify the distinction.

I’m only two chapters in, but towards the beginning of the book the author addresses my concern:

It’s said that the Buddha was asked about what happens when we die, whether other beings exist in other realms, and questions about the nature of reality. The Buddha responded: “If a man has been shot with an arrow and the doctor is called, does that doctor ask him who shot the arrow, what his motives were, what he was wearing, and so on? No. The doctor’s job is to remove the arrow and help the patient heal. My teachings are about the relief from unnecessary suffering. I teach about liberation, not about the nature of reality.”

This is a seductive anecdote. It promises practical results without theoretics. But is it really that simple? Are there not metaphysical and epistemological premises embedded within the anecdote itself? This anecdote presupposes that “liberation” has nothing to do with “the nature of reality.” It presupposes that neither the art of the doctor nor the art of the teacher need be concerned with anything but the experience of suffering. It presupposes that one can distinguish between “necessary” and “unnecessary” suffering without knowledge of reality. All of these presuppositions are made with subtlety.

This serves as a reminder about the insidious nature of metaphysical and epistemological premises. It is far too easy to pledge allegiance to such premises without even realizing it. This reminder is especially important for people such as me, who regularly read and learn non-Torah sources, both in order to better understand and practice Judaism, and in order to gain insight into the chochmah outside of Torah.

There are those who say that the risk is not worth the reward. They argue that it would be far safer to close ourselves off from all non-Torah sources of wisdom, for fear of “contamination.” This was the position of Rav S.R. Hirsch, as expressed in Letter #18 of the Nineteen Letters. He lambasted the Rambam for being influenced by foreign ideas, and advocated for a model of “developing Judaism from within” – an approach he ascribes to the Ramban, to R’ Yehuda ha’Levi, and to himself.

I hear where this approach is coming from. My response, in a nutshell, is: that ship has sailed. The belief that we can learn “pure Torah” by hermetically sealing ourselves off from foreign influences is a pipe dream. This may have been possible at various points in our history, but not today. The Ramban, who villainized Aristotle, was influenced by his ideas, as is evident from his commentary. Rav Hirsch thought and wrote like a German. The best hope we have is to “accept the truth from whoever says it” (Rambam, Intro to Perek Chelek) while striving to be aware of and to question our premises on a continual basis.

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Monday, August 16, 2021

Tallis as a Vehicle of Gratitude and a Reminder of Death

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Caption: body of former Israeli army's chief rabbi, Avihai Ronsky, on April 1, 2018.

Tallis as a Vehicle of Gratitude and a Reminder of Death

I had just finished my pre-shacharis meditation. I said the birkas ha’mitzvah on my tallis, which I wrapped around my head, shoulders, and upper body, as I do every morning. While still enwrapped, I was suddenly filled with a rush of gratitude. I felt grateful to Hashem for commanding us in mitzvos like tzitzis as tools of zechirah (remembering) to save us from the perpetual threat of shichechah (forgetting). In contrast to non-Jews, who are left to their own devices and practice – like the meditation I had just done – we Jews are obligated in a regimen designed to foster awakening, mindfulness, and true human development.

Upon experiencing these feelings, I decided I’d try a new experiment: every day, right after saying the berachah and wrapping myself in my tallis, I would take a Sacred Pause to reflect on my gratitude to Hashem for all mitzvos. I then laughed at the unoriginality of what I had just proposed upon realizing that this is exactly why Ezra and his Beis Din instituted a birkas ha’mitzvah in the first place! My “experiment” was nothing more than an intentional following through with what halacha had already prescribed.

I shared these thoughts with my chavrusa, noting that tallis is the perfect vehicle for this reflection because tzitzis were designed to remind us of all mitzvos. My chavrusa added: “Not only that, but your tallis is like a hug!” That comment, strange as it may sound to some, inspired me to add an element to my experiment.

In Radical Compassion, Tara Brach shares a “hugging meditation” developed by Thich Nhat Hanh. The two partners begin by embracing each other fully and mindfully. While in the embrace, they take three deep breaths together. During the first breath they each reflect: "I am going to die." During the second: "You are going to die." And during the third: "And we have just these precious moments together."

I decided that while I was wrapped in my tallis, reflecting on my gratitude to Hashem for mitzvos, I would take three deep breaths. During the first I would reflect: “I, who have been granted this life of mitzvos, am going to die.” During the second: “You, all the other people in my life, are going to die.” And during the third: “And we have just these precious moments together to live this life enriched by mitzvos.”

I then realized that the tallis, itself, is a reminder of mortality, on account of the minhag to bury Jewish males in their tallis. Although there is a machlokess whether this tallis should or should not have tzitzis (see Shulchan Aruch Yoreh Deah 351:2), this has no bearing on the memento mori association to the tallis itself. Additionally, there are Gemaras which explicitly relate the mitzvah of tzitzis to the awareness that we will one day be niftar (i.e. dead and rendered exempt from mitzvos), such as Berachos 18a:

R’ Chiyya and R’ Yonasan were walking in a cemetery and the techeiles of R’ Yonasan’s [tzitzis] was cast to the ground [and dragging across the graves]. R’ Chiyya said: Lift it, so [the dead] will not say, “Tomorrow they will come to us, and now they are insulting us?”

This is the current incarnation of my tallis experiment. My hope is that this practice will enhance my overall gratitude to Hashem for the life of mitzvos He has given me, and that this appreciation will set the tone for my davening and for how I experience the rest of my day. After doing this every morning for a whole week (and counting), I can say that if the only moment of kavanah I manage to have in my entire shacharis is this three-breath pause for gratitude and reflection on the preciousness of this one life of mitzvos I have been given, then the experiment was well worth it.

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Friday, August 13, 2021

Shoftim: The Parameters of Idolatrous Cultural Appropriation

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Shoftim: The Parameters of Idolatrous Cultural Appropriation

It is prohibited to plant a tree anywhere in the courtyard area on the Temple Mount: “You shall not plant an asheirah of any tree beside the altar of Hashem, your God, which you shall make for yourself” (Devarim 16:21). The Rambam (Sefer ha’Mitzvos: Lo Taaseh #13) explains the reason for this prohibition:

We are prohibited from planting trees in the Mikdash (Temple) or near the altar for decoration or beauty, even if our intention in this is for the service of Hashem, since the idolaters also honored their idolatry by planting beautiful trees which are pleasing to behold in their houses of worship.

The Rambam (Moreh ha’Nevuchim 3:32) infamously held that korbanos (sacrifices) are a concession to human nature. Hashem would have “preferred” that Judaism have no korbanos whatsoever. The problem is that korbanos were the universal form of worship among idolaters at the time the Torah was given.

Therefore, His wisdom and plan – as is displayed throughout the entirety of creation – did not require the discontinuation, abandonment, and abolition of all these forms of service, because this would have been contrary to the nature of man, who clings to what he is accustomed … It is for this reason that Hashem allowed these kinds of service to continue. He transferred to His service that which had formerly served as a worship of created beings, and of things imaginary and unreal, and commanded us to serve Him in this same manner.

On the surface, the Rambam’s explanation of the prohibition to plant trees on the Temple Mount is undermined by his theory of korbanos. How can the Rambam say that we are prohibited from planting trees in the Temple courtyard because this was a custom of the idolaters, and at the same time, maintain that the entire sacrificial service is modeled after idolatrous modes of worship? Does the Torah endorse or oppose cultural appropriation of idolatrous practices? On what basis does the Torah draw this line?

I believe the answer is that only Hashem knows how to draw that line. Only the Creator of man can determine which forms of idolatrous cultural appropriation are so dangerous that they will lead people down the path of destruction and which forms are either worth the risk or are better than the alternatives.

The Rambam begins Hilchos Avodah Zarah with an account of how idolatry started:

In the days of Enosh, the people made a tremendous error, and the counsel of the wise men of the generation became foolish, and Enosh himself was among those who erred. This was their mistake: they said, “Since God created these planets and these galaxies to control the universe and placed them on high and gave them honor, and they are the servants who minister before Him, it is befitting to praise them and to glorify them and to give them honor. And this is the will of God, blessed is He – to exalt and to honor the ones whom He exalts and honors, just as it is the king’s desire to honor his ministers and those who stand before him, and this honors the king.” Once this notion arose in their hearts, they began to build temples for the planets, and to offer sacrifices to them, and to praise them and to glorify them with words, and to bow down to them, in order to satisfy the will of the Creator, according to their evil minds.

The concept proposed by Enosh and his generation was not irrational. It is true that showing honor to a king’s ministers is a way of showing honor to the king. Rather, their mistake was their arrogant assumption that they could ascertain how best to worship Hashem using their own minds. They couldn’t foresee the disastrous consequences of the practice they introduced. Planting a tree to beautify the Mikdash might seem like a good idea, but our minds are too limited to make that determination. Only Hashem knows which forms of worship are beneficial and detrimental to man, and we must defer to His judgment.

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Thursday, August 12, 2021

On Being Present in Tefilah

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Artwork: Counterspell, by Olena Richards

On Being Present in Tefilah

Let go of what has passed.

Let go of what may come.
Let go of what is happening now.
Don’t try to figure anything out.
Don’t try to make anything happen.
Relax, right now, and rest.

The early Sages would pause for a full hour before davening in order to have proper kavanah in tefilah (Mishnah Berachos 5:1). The Rambam (ad loc.) explains that they would pause “so that their [inner] conversation and thoughts would cease.” In other words, they did not use this hour to fill their minds with specific ideas in preparation for tefilah, but to empty their minds, in order that they may be refilled through their engagement in tefilah.

Earlier this year I conducted a radical tefilah experiment in which I sat with my eyes closed doing absolutely nothing for a full hour right before davening. I did this for three consecutive days. The results were remarkable. For the first half hour or so, my mind was a loud and chaotic traffic jam. Thoughts and feelings were honking their horns and yelling for attention. My inner productivity taskmaster strained against its seat belt, refusing to be still and wait. My inner skeptic berated me for wasting time. But eventually, these inner voices quieted down, and my mind settled into tranquility. And when I davened, I had better kavanah than ever before. Why? Because all the thoughts that would have distracted me during davening were allowed free reign to do and say whatever they wanted before davening!

I don’t have time to sit for a full hour before davening every day. Instead, I’ve been experimenting with a scaled down version: doing a guided meditation for 15-25 minutes before shacharis every morning and striving to continue that presence into tefilah. This week I’ve chosen Tara Brach’s Letting Go and Letting Be. It begins by focusing on the breath, continues with a body scan, and culminates in a reflection on the six-line teaching cited at the beginning of this article.

I was recently asked by a fellow Jewish educator: “Mindfulness practices are about being present. How does that jive with a religion that teaches: ‘Who is wise? One who sees the future?' (Tamid 32a).” I answered that worrying, stressing out, and having anxiety about the future is not the same thing as seeing the future. Obsessing over the “virtual reality” in my head isn’t the same thing as living in reality. By focusing on the present, these mindfulness practices uncloud my mind of the thoughts and feelings which warp and obscure my ability to see the future clearly.

Tefilah requires the same clarity and presence. The types of thoughts and feelings which interfere with my kavanah – planning, rehearsing, fretting, fearing, doubting – all stem from my egoic preoccupation with the future. When my head is stuck in the future, I can’t be present enough to engage in mindful shevach (praise), bakashah (request), and hodaah (thanks) in the present. Chazal teach that ego and God cannot dwell together in the same world (Sotah 5a). As long as my ego continually asserts itself in its efforts to control its future, then I am incapable of standing before Hashem in tefilah. By pausing and letting go before tefilah, I can be present in tefilah. I can say “hineini” (here I am).

Let go of what has passed.

Let go of what may come.

Let go of what is happening now.

Don’t try to figure anything out.

Don’t try to make anything happen.

Relax, right now, and rest.

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Wednesday, August 11, 2021

Rambam: On Awakening (The Question)

This week's Torah content has been sponsored by Joey and Estee Lichter in honor of the marriage of Isaac and Aviva. And special thanks to Alex K. for notifying me of a MAJOR omission in the original version of this article, which prompted me to rewrite it!

Click here for a printer-friendly version of this article, and click here for an audio version.

Artwork: Brainstorm, by Justin and Alexis Hernandez

Rambam: On Awakening (The Question)

The Rambam spells out the “message” of shofar in Hilchos Teshuvah 3:4:

Even though the sounding of the shofar on Rosh ha'Shanah is a Scriptural decree, it contains a remez (allusion): it is as if it is saying, "Wake up, wake up you sleepers from your sleep, and you slumberers from your deep slumber! Analyze your actions, return in teshuvah, and remember your Creator" – these are the people who forget reality, due to the vain temporal pursuits, and whose entire year is steeped in vain temporality and emptiness which neither benefits nor saves – "Look into your souls and improve your ways and your deeds. Each and every one of you: abandon your evil way and your scheming that is not good!"

A second instance of “waking up” can be found in Hilchos Tefilin, u’Mezuzah, v’Sefer Torah 6:13:

Every person is obligated to be careful with mezuzah, for it is a continual obligation for everyone. Every time a person enters and exits, he will encounter the idea of the Oneness of Ha’Kadosh Baruch Hu’s Name, and he will remember the love of Him and he will wake up from his slumber and his immersion in vain temporal pursuits and he will know that nothing lasts forever and ever except for the knowledge of the Eternal Rock; immediately, he will return to his mind and walk in the ways of uprightness. The Sages say: Anyone who has tefilin on his head and arm, tzitzis on his garment, and a mezuzah on his door – it is presumed that he will not sin, for he has many reminders, and these reminders are the “angels” that save him from sinning, as it is stated: “The angel of Hashem encamps around His reverent ones and releases them” (Tehilim 34:8).

A third reference to the metaphor of waking up can be found in Hilchos Avel 13:12:

Any person who does not mourn as the Sages commanded is achzari (lit. "cruel" or "indifferent"). Rather, he should be fearful and worried and should examine his deeds and return in teshuvah. If a member of one's social group dies, the entire social group should worry.

For the first three days, one should see himself as though a sword is resting on his shoulder. From three days until seven days, [he should envision the sword] waiting in the corner. From then and on, [he should envision the sword] passing before him in the marketplace. All of this is so that a person should prepare himself to return [in teshuvah] and awaken from his slumber, for it is written: "You have stricken them, but they have not trembled" (Yirmiyahu 5:3). The implication is that one should awaken and tremble.

Since these are the only three references to the metaphor of “waking up” in the Mishneh Torah, it is reasonable to assume that they are related and shed light on each other. The question is: How?

Shofar and death as wake-up calls are easier to understand than mezuzah. Shofar makes a loud noise, and loud noises wake up those who are asleep. Death as a wake-up call also makes sense when framed as an act of Divine “striking.” Mezuzah as a wake-up call is far less intuitive. What is the idea of a sign on a doorpost serving as a wake-up call? Additionally, shofar and death are characterized as wake-up calls to teshuvah, whereas mezuzah is described as a wake-up to the realization that nothing lasts forever except for knowledge of Hashem, which prompts a return to one’s mind and walking in the ways of uprightness.

I don’t have an explanation at the present time, but I wanted to state the question. I have a feeling that my personal focus on mindfulness, awareness, and “waking up” during these past few months may yield insight. For now, I will content myself in following my rebbi’s advice to simply “appreciate the question.”

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Tuesday, August 10, 2021

How to Choose What to Learn Before You Die

This week's Torah content has been sponsored by Joey and Estee Lichter in honor of the marriage of Isaac and Aviva.

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Disclaimer: this article is not intended for those who are in the “training” stages of their learning (e.g. students who are still in high school, yeshiva, or seminary and are still acquiring their skills and knowledge base); rather, it is for those who have already developed a relationship with learning, but find themselves in the trenches of adulthood and are struggling with their life/learning balance, or are having difficulty choosing what to learn in their limited time.

How to Choose What to Learn Before You Die

I’d like to recap a conversation my chavrusa and I had this past Sunday about learning. He knew I had recently read Greg McKeown’s Essentialism: the Disciplined Pursuit of Less and was curious about how I intend to apply Essentialist principles to my learning. He expressed his own frustration with having so many things he wanted to learn but not enough time in the week to learn it all.

I suggested the following thought experiment: “Imagine that this will be the last week of your life. You have Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, and you will die at the end of Shabbos. What are you going to learn, with whom are you going to learn it, and how are you going to learn it?” My chavrusa was intrigued by the question and started answering. When he gave me specific answers (“I want to continue learning Mishlei with my sister”) I affirmed them, but when he gave vague answers (“I want to learn areas in Tanach that have an impact on my life”) I demanded specificity (“Tell me specifically which topic or text you are going to take up, and on which days this week, and with which chavrusa?”).

I recommend that you, my dear reader, give this a try. The goal of this exercise is not to extrapolate a personal curriculum directly from the answers given. There are many more factors to be taken into account. The goal is three-fold: (1) to differentiate between learning you love and learning you don’t, (2) to identify the reasons (or non-reasons) why you are currently learning what you are currently learning, and (3) to understand why you aren’t learning what you actually want to be learning, so that you can figure out what definite steps you need to take in order to start.

An example of (1) and (2) emerged when I examined my own schedule. Thank God, I am currently learning almost everything I want to learn as part of my weekly teaching schedule in yeshiva. I was pleased to discover that if any given week were my very last, I would keep my schedule exactly as it is … except for my Wednesday night Chumash Methodology shiur. I realized that although I was excited about this shiur at the beginning of the year, my excitement faded as the year went on. Habit and momentum were the only reason I kept it going. This realization solidified my decision to jettison the shiur and replace it with something I am passionate about for this coming year.

An example of (3) emerged when my chavrusa said that he really wanted to be in a regular Gemara iyun shiur that he prepared for with a chavrusa. When I asked him, “What is preventing you from doing that right now?” he gave me a clear answer and was able to identify the steps that were necessary to make that happen. But if he hadn’t been able to do that, then this exercise would have prompted him to do so.

The Rambam writes: “Until when is a person obligated to learn Torah? Until the day of his death” (Hilchos Talmud Toah 1:11). He doesn’t raise this question for other mitzvos. Unlike krias shema, tefillin, mezuzah, and the other mitzvos which are observed for the duration of one’s life, learning Torah is a lifelong project. The question of what to learn during our remaining days should be periodically asked and answered with this perspective in mind. However, since we don’t know when we’re going to die, and since it’s so easy to fall into learning habits and routines for months or even years without realizing it, a simple reminder of our own mortality might be enough to snap us out of the trance and reconnect us with our love of learning.

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