Parashat Ki Tavo

Is God a Crazed Soccer Mom?

Years ago, I read an article in one of those on-flight magazines about a town in Virginia, a “Soccer Town,” where the local culture was one in which youth soccer was taken very, very seriously. Of course, there were many benefits to this, including the teaching of important values of teamwork, cooperation, camaraderie, and humility.

At the same time, things were blown out of proportion.  Parents and children traveled two hours each day to games, competitiveness was on overdrive, there were numerous divisions and rankings, and each team (of grade schoolers!) had professional coaches.  It became a culture symbolized in part by the proverbial soccer mom, but crazed exponentially.

While I find it hard to believe that I would fall victim to this level of loss of perspective, I understand it.  Losing perspective is something we, as people, can do.  Sometimes, we blow things out of proportion.

What is strange about Parashat Ki Tavo is that it seems to present God as losing it, blowing things out of proportion—not unlike the stereotypical crazed Virginia soccer mom.

We read this week about the ceremony of the first fruits, the Bikkurim:  How a farmer takes the first fruit of the season—even a single fig-- up to Jerusalem, recites a concise but moving text placing himself in the context of Jewish history and destiny and the Jewish people’s relationship to God, and rejoices before God in Jerusalem.  

Considering this ceremony is all about one piece of fruit, it seems out of proportion.  To get a sense of how much so, contrast it with tithing, Ma’aser, when we give ten percent of our crops to the Levites or to the poor. We give 10% of everything, but there’s no ceremony at all.

With a mitzvah demanding a whole to-do in Jerusalem over one fig, our Parasha seems to present God as taking everything out of proportion here, as having developed an obsession over a piece of fruit not unlike that which possessed that frenzied Virginia town.

Here’s an alternative suggestion to explain the big deal about one little first fruit in contrast to the lack of a big deal over tithing:  Ma’aser, tithing, is about the past.  We give our 10%, but we already have all of our crops for the year.  We know we still have the other 90%, and we know how much that is.

By contrast, when we bring that first fruit to Jerusalem, we don’t know how many more fruits are coming in the rest of the season.  Maybe it will be a small crop, or a bad crop.  We’re celebrating, we’re giving from the first of what we have before we have anything else, before we know how much we’re going to ultimately get.

We give thanks and we rejoice regardless of what we will have.

Perhaps there is some attitudinal guidance here, as we approach Rosh Hashanah and peer into the impenetrable obscurity of the upcoming year:  The future is uncertain.  It might not be what we want or hope to get from it. It might even, God forbid, bring tragedy and loss. But that cannot deter us from a certain type of faith that enables us to rejoice before God.  Bringing the Bikkurim is designed not to give us faith that the future will be bright—it very well might not be—but to cultivate the type of faith by which we see the holiness and the joy in what we do have, whatever that might be.

Parashat Va'etchanan

This post is at least 8 days late, but since it deals with the Shema which we say every day, I thought it relevant still.

Parashat Va'etchanan has in it the first paragraph of the Shema, which has a very clear structure:  The movement from inner to outer.

How does this work?  Look at the progression:
1. It starts with the principle of God's absolute unity, as well as the fact of our relationship with God:   Shema Yisrael Hashem Elokeinu, Hashem Echad.  God is our God.  God is one.

2. This reality (or internalization of it) leads to internal love of God:  v'ahavta . . .al levavecha.  (you shall love God. . . place these words on your heart.)

3. Love expands from the heart into how we speak-- "v'shinantam levanecha v'dibarta bam. . ."  (you shall teach them diligently to your children and speak of them)-- love of God manifests itself in holy words, in words of Torah.

4. It moves from speech outward, to action, represented by the mitzvah of tefillin: ukshartam l'ot al yadecha. . . and you shall tie them as a sign upon your hand. . . 

5. Action expands even further to change our environment, as represented by the mezuzah:  u'chtavtam al mezuzot beitecha. . . and you shall write them on the doorposts of your house. . .

I will leave as an open question whether this progression from inner to outer is descriptive or prescriptive.  That is, does it describe what happens, that belief in God's unity will lead to love of God, which will lead to holy speech, etc. ,   or does it prescribe for us what we should do-- we should make sure to focus on God's unity to develop love, and push that love outward from speech, to action, to affect the world around us?

Devarim/Tisha B'Av

1. Tisha B’Av has a Partner!

Tisha B’Av has a partner holiday.

....Pesach.

Chazal teach us that whatever day of the week the first day of Pesach falls on, that is the day that Tisha B’Av will fall on in the same year.  They are linked by the calendar.

And they are linked by theme as well.  Pesach is redemption, Tisha B’Av is exile. 

Yet on Pesach, under all the joy, there is an undercurrent of mourning—the egg, the missing korban Pesach, the absence of which hangs like a cloud.  Pesach Seder in the Galut is like celebrating the birthday party of a dear loved one—who is not with us.

And yet, too, on Tisha B’Av, buried deep within its sadness, is the reason for the holiday: כל המתאבל על ירושלים רואה וזוכה בבנינה.  There is a tradition that Mashiach will be born on Tisha B'Av.  One who mourns for Jerusalem merits to see it rebuilt.  We mourn in order to sharpen our sense of loss, and loss is born of caring, which bears the seeds of hope.   Our very mourning is girded with hope. 

2. Polite hints and verbal cues?

We’ve all been in situations where we are too polite to directly tell someone that they are intruding on our personal space, or on our time, so we try all sorts of gentle verbal hints and body-language cues, but usually-- these subtle hints do not work.

It is surprising, therefore, to see how in Parashat Devarim, which we read the week before Tisha B’Av, our Rabbis explain Moshe’s description of the travels of the Jewish people as a type of subtle hint of rebuke.  Look, for example, at how Rashi explains that each of the places Moshe mentions is a hint to a sin that the Jewish people committed in the desert, and therefore a chastisement.

In light of how ineffective subtle hints are, it is surprising that Moshe chastises the people so indirectly, through hints and innuendo.   It is so ineffective!  Why would he do such a thing?

3. The Parallel in the Partners

Maybe another similarity to Pesach reveals that Moshe was not dropping hints at all, but painting his telling with layers of meaning in order to make the experience real for the new generation about to enter Israel. 

On Pesach, we have an obligation to see ourselves as if we personally left Egypt.  חייב אדם לראות את עצמו כאילו הוא יצא ממצרים.  When we go beyond intellectual understanding and bring ourselves to re-experience redemption, then when we say thank you, we really mean it.  We feel happy naturally.

Perhaps on Tisha B’Av, we also have an obligation, parallel to Pesach, to see ourselves as if we personally were present at the Churban Beit Hamikdash and the litany of tragedies that followed.

When we go beyond intellectual understanding and bring ourselves to re-experience calamity, we bring ourselves from outward mourning to a sense of loss, and from a sense of loss to caring for our people and for others.  Caring is the exact opposite of שנאת חינם; it fosters unity, and bears the seeds of redemption.  כל המתאבל על ירושלים רואה וזוכה בבנינה