Why Is Everyone Obsessed With Israel?

Parashas Shlach, Sefer BaMidbar

What is it about Israel that makes it so desirable? It’s like everyone is obsessed. The entire world can’t stop fighting over this little sliver of land in the Middle East. Americans recently asked how big they thought Israel is weighed in with responses as hefty as Russia, Australia, or at least the size of the United States. Otherwise, what is everyone so up in arms about?

In truth, Israel is 8,000 square miles large. To put that into perspective, the entire country could fit into the state of Florida eight times.  Nobody wants Israel for the size.

Plus, Israel has almost no oil. Not that has been found, anyway. 99% of the tiny country’s own consumption is purchased on the global market. (Unwilling neighbors like Saudi Arabia make that a tad more of a crunch, but that’s a different story.)

Israel is gorgeous, certainly, but not in a flashy, Grand-Canyon-esque sort of way. Let’s put it like this: Israel isn’t New Zealand. No local sheep farmers are protesting the number of high-budget movies shot here annually. It just isn’t like that. Don’t get me wrong! Gorgeous, yes. Flashy ecotourism and blockbusters? No.

What is it about Israel? What is it that we have been praying to return to across the wide, colorful bolt of fabric that has been our exile, tossed and still unrolling over the course of some 2,000 years?

 

Home

It’s easy to list off the reasons – 343 of the 613 mitzvos (commandments) directly involve Eretz Yisrael; everything means more here; this is a land that produces spiritual growth like Iowa produces corn and soybean – but the truth is that the best proof is in the pudding.

How can you describe that feeling at the Kosel (Western Wall) at sunset, as the pigeons and doves swirl in a rosy halo above all the people’s heads, snatches of tunes rising and mingling in the warm evening air as dozens of minyanim (prayer groups) lift their voices in song and praise to welcome Shabbos? Here’s the truth: you can’t. Something happens inside your heart that doesn’t have words. It’s more than a feeling. It’s more than a sense of inspiration. It’s like suddenly realizing that you have come home, but home in a sense truer than any material thing will ever express. You know that something vital in you is expressed here, is gloved here in the perfect setting for living in the fullest sense of the word.

You visit Ma’aras HaMachpelah and the tour guide tells your group that you have fifteen minutes to pray before heading back towards the buses. “By the way,” he mentions casually, “That room to your left is right above where Avraham and Sarah are buried.” Something like a cardiac shock shimmers through your body. These aren’t “your people” in some vague, disembodied sense; these are your mother and your father, the mother and father of all that has ever been meaningful to you. You walk over almost stumbling with emotion, lean your head against the cool, smooth stones, and cry. You aren’t usually a crier, you don’t go in for spirituality, but something speaks here.

“Hello,” you whisper, wet face cupped in the palms of your hands.

You visit the winding cobblestone roads of Tzfat (Safed), take a hike out into the surrounding Galilee, where country green meanders and mixes and merges with the lowing of wandering herds of cows who look so relaxed, where a soft breeze breathes the whispers of trees, where wildflowers seem to spring up underneath your steps, so profusely do they blossom in the spring.

And, wait, another thing – it’s not just beautiful, it’s dotted with strange, light-blue stone huts where the long-since resting bodies of the scholars whose debates make up the Mishna and Talmud are buried. They’re here among the flowers. They’re not just on a page, again disembodied, theoretical, a skinless and scentless scholarly work. They lived and walked among these same green hills. You continue along and come upon one, and then another, modest structures dappled with sunshine through gentle and vibrant foliage.

You hike down into Amuka and enter one of the little stone huts – here lie the remains of Rav Yonasan Ben Uziel, who spent his entire life absorbed so deeply in his Torah study that birds flying directly over his head were burnt. You pick up one of the soft, worn prayer books lining the walls of the small synagogue surrounding his grave. It’s so quiet here.

 

Not Just Physical, Not Just Spiritual

Jerusalem, the heart of the country, is a hot thicket, a flame, a burning bush. How aren’t we all consumed? The buses have exploded, the fear has risen thick and potent in our throats, the walls have all come tumbling down, but my neighbor took a bullet to the arm in a nearby gas station a few years ago when some lunatic from nearby Ramallah decided to show up with a gun and try to take out a few Jews. My neighbor stopped the terrorist. That’s Jerusalem. It’s not just heroism, it’s peace. Who wants to die of old age when you could die of real living? My neighbor grieves his lost arm but is a happy man.

That’s Israel. Israel is where our dreams lay buried like jewels beneath the rocky soil. Why?

Because G-d said so. Because the very first communication to the very first Jew took place when the Almighty commanded Avraham to “Go [for your benefit], from your land, from your relatives and from your father's house to the land that I will show you. And I will make of you a great nation; I will bless you, and make your name great, and you shall be a blessing.” (Beraishis-Genesis 12:1-2)

Because when G-d wrote  the Torah, His very first move in the very first verse was to declare His proprietary rights as Creator and Owner of the universe just so that, as Rashi explains, “If the nations of the world should say to Israel, ‘You are robbers, because you have seized the lands of the seven nations [of Canaan], Israel should say to them: ‘The whole world belongs to God. He created it and He gave it to whomever He deigned to give it.’” (Rashi, ibid 1:1)

Because the Talmud in Baba Basra (158b) says that the air of Israel makes you wise. Because the Talmud in Kesuvos (111a) says that anyone who walks four amos (short arm-lengths) in Israel is promised to become a member of the World to Come. Because a few blocks away from where my husband goes to kollel (rabbinical college) every day are buried several members of the Sanhedrin – Judaism here is real, not theoretical. We aren’t an idea. We aren’t even a religion in the normative sense of the word. We’re something not just physical, not just spiritual, but alive.

Israel is like our clothing, skin, the place we can be most us, “a kingdom of priests and a holy nation”. And, without even realizing what they are hungering for, the whole world wish they could taste that.

Gratitude to Asim Bharwani for use of his great Kosel shot. Nice one, Asim.

What Is Prophecy?

Parashas B'Ha'aloscha, Chumash BaMidbar

 

Prophecy conjures up images of a bent old man with wild white hair flying at all angles, ranting and raving over predictions of doom and gloom. Citizens walk by little moved by the spectacle. But that’s not prophecy. That’s Central Park.

Telling the future was actually a relatively minor side-effect of prophecy. Far from being a social misfit, the prophet was the picture of physical and psychological health. A state of simcha was a pre-requisite for receiving prophecy. Simcha is usually translated as happiness, but what simcha really means is a state of profound, meaningful connectedness to oneself and to G-d, resulting in a very awake, joyful personality.

Prophets were those who had so much refined their own patterns of thought, speech, and behavior that a deeper attunement to reality was almost inevitable. Prophecy took place when an awareness of the presence of God filled them so entirely that knowledge of the future would be left imprinted upon their consciousness like the wet sand left after a wave recedes back into the ocean. That clarity, spiritual and practical, about what must be done to best serve God in the moment and in the future, was what we call prophecy today.

Prophecy also wasn’t a rare phenomenon. During the times of Shmuel (Samuel) texts describe that two hundred prophets covered every hill. “Many prophets stood for Israel, numerous as the number of people who left Egypt. Except only the prophecy needed for generations was written down, and what was not needed for generations was not written.” (Talmud Megilla 14a)

The Rambam (Maimonides) explained that, “Just as in wisdom there are some wise men greater than their peers, so in prophecy are there prophets greater than other prophets.” (Hilchos Yesodei HaTorah 4:2) What made some instances of prophecy greater than others?

Our sages describe the different qualities of prophecy obtained by various prophets as window glass. What makes good window glass? The fact that it looks like it’s not there. A clear pane of window glass displays nothing but the vision to be seen through it. Clear prophecy displayed nothing of the personality of the prophet, but only the Presence that filled him.

The Torah testifies that “Never again has there arisen in Israel a prophet like Moshe (Moses), whom Hashem had known face to face…” (Devarim-Deuteronomy 34:10) The sages added, “All the prophets saw with aspaclaria that did not illuminate, Moshe Rabeinu saw with illuminated aspaclaria.” (Talmud Yevamos 49b). What this means is that Moshe had a clarity of perspective that did not exist in anyone before or after him for all time. While for all other prophets the clarity of the window glass was marred by the assertion of their own personalities, Moshe’s vision was like a window pane so clear that you could not tell at all that it was there.  How did he obtain this clarity?

Humility Unplugged

Parashas Beha’aloscha explains, “Now the man Moshe was exceedingly humble, more than any person on the face of the earth!” (Bamidbar-Numbers 12:3) Humility in Jewish consciousness, anava, is not thinking poorly of oneself. To the contrary, anava is the bone-deep knowledge that all your strength, beauty, and worth comes from Above. It is the visceral knowledge that you are great because God made you great. Moshe  knew with greater clarity than anyone else in history that God alone was the source of all things, including him. There was nothing to defend, nothing to prove. There was zero sense of conflict between him and his own Source.

What would change in our lives if we lived with anava? If we cleaned away our biases and tried to take in what other people had to say as though through clear glass window panes, we wouldn’t judge as quickly, we wouldn’t take things as personally, and we might actually hear what they are really telling us. Our relationships would grow deeper and more fulfilling. Instead of looking out for me-me-me, the confidence of true anava would free us to take care of others, to connect with them, and to experience the joy of loving relationships.

Imagine that attitude applied to connecting with God through the Torah. If we were truly open to what He has to say, what would we hear? It’s tantalizing.

Prophecy was that kind of connectedness multiplied a thousand-fold. Torah promises that reclaiming such clarity of being is our ultimate spiritual trajectory as the Jewish People: “And it will happen after this, that I will pour out My spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and daughters will prophesy, your elders will dream [prophetic] dreams, and your young men will see visions…” (Yoel-Joel 3:1) Want to be a prophet? Start training now.

Thanks to Camdiluv for the beautiful image.

What Is Kabbala?

BaMidbar, BaMidbar

Based on Parasha U’Pishra by Rabbi Moshe Grylak

Blond, blue-eyed, and all of six years old, Davy ran into the kitchen breathless and flushed. “Mommy, mommy! You won’t believe what Rachel just brought home from school! Come quickly!”
 

Davy’s mother dried her hands on a dish towel and followed her youngest son out into the living room. Rachel sat on the couch cradling something carefully between her two hands. Davy and their mother peered over Rachel’s shoulder to see a small egg.

“Mom, can we keep it? I want the baby bird to hatch and then we can set it free,” said Rachel.

“Sure,” replied their mother. Davy was thrilled.

From that day on, Davy’s favorite activity was checking on the egg to see whether it had hatched. “Give it time,” his mother warned.

But one day Davy felt like he just couldn’t wait. Rushing to Rachel’s room where the egg lay nestled in a softly lined shoe-box, Davy gently poked a small hole in the delicate shell. Seeing that nothing had happened, Davy poked another hole, and another. When Davy finally caught sight of his beloved baby bird, he realized that something had gone terribly wrong.

“Mommy, mommy! Something’s wrong with the birdy! It came out of its egg but it isn’t moving!”

Davy’s mother walked into Rachel’s room to find the tiny baby bird lying still. It was dead. How could she explain to Davy that his eagerness had killed the very thing he had been yearning for?

Those Who Know Don’t Tell and Those Who Tell Don’t Know

Yearning is a double-edged sword. It is the irreplaceable gasoline fueling us to pursue our dreams and aspirations. It can also push us too far, too fast, into situations where the very thing we yearned for is spoiled by our prematurity.

A common example of this today is the popularity of so-called kabala. Some spell it qabbala, some call it Jewish mysticism, but no matter what they call it they are all missing the point. Because those who know don’t say and those who say don’t know.

Real kabbala is the deepest inner secrets of the Torah. Just as you can rip away dry wall to see the plumbing and electrical wiring running a home, so too this part of Torah reveals the mechanisms and structures that makeup the bone marrow of all of creation.

Longing to come close to G-d can translate as a longing to know His secrets. Kabala is certainly His secrets, but if you don’t know  the secret code you will not understand it. Just as word pain in English means “uncomfortable sensation” and in French means “bread”, so too the very words will mean something entirely different in your language. Worse still, the concepts being conveyed will have no meaning to you at all. It will be like someone trying to describe the color blue to a blind person.

Until we have studied and integrated the entire Torah, we remain blind. We simply do not have the sensitivities and perceptual abilities to “see” what kabala describes.

But the problem with trying grab a hold of something beyond our grasp in every sense of the word is that we delude ourselves. We read words on a page and think we understand what they are talking about. We listen to a lecture or meditate on the Tetragrammaton and think we have gained a new way of being. A few days later we go home and lose our temper at our kids. Again.

We are like David’s little bird, stillborn. Where there was an opening, a place where truth may have lodged deep in our hearts, there is now a cancerous lie. We have filled the opening, the yearning place where we longed to drink of cool, true waters, with misconceptions that lead us to painful consequences. That dog won’t hunt. Lies and misconceptions serve us poorly.

Don’t answer a question unless the question is real and the answer is real, warns the Torah. Like the metaphor of David’s mother, Torah cautions us that everything must come in the right time.

Sacred and Dangerous

Parashas BaMidbar depicts this vividly. Although the Jewish people traveled through the desert in a formation that provided every tribe with their own space and status, everything centered around the tribe of Levi, bearers and guardians of the Mishkan (tabernacle) :

“The Children of Israel shall encamp, every man at his camp and every man at his banner, according to their legions. The Levites shall encamp around the Mishkan…” (BaMidbar-Numbers 1:52-53)

As for the Levites themselves, the honor of their position was great, but so was the danger. Their mission placed them closer to the holy vessels of the Mishkan than anyone else. When the Jewish nation was stationary, the Levites’ job was to assemble the parts of the Mishkan together for use. When the Jews traveled, their job was to carry them.

They were privileged to carry even the very aron itself, the ark of the covenant. The aron, unspeakably beautiful, bore the original tablets of the Torah and others of the most sacred, powerful objects in the universe. It was the meeting point between heaven and earth, the physical location where Moshe (Moses) and Aharon (Aaron) heard that voice of the Almighty speak.

Carved golden angels spread their wings on the top of the aron, coming close or distancing from each other to divinely indicate the temperature of the relationship between the Jewish People and their Creator on a moment-to-moment basis.

What would you have given to see such an object? But no one could gaze at the aron and live unless very specifically appointed to the task. The Levites were warned:

“Thus shall you do for them so that they shall live and not die when they approach the kodesh hakodashim (holy of holies)… They shall not come and look as the holy is inserted, lest they die.” (ibid 4:19-20)

Rashi explains that this verse commanded the vessels of the Mishkan to be wrapped in cloth before and during travel lest the Levites take a fatal peek.

Laws of Spiritual Nature

Just as there are physical laws of nature, so there are spiritual laws of nature. Gravity is neither vengeful nor forgiving. It is what it is.

Looking at the aron caused death. Period. Attempting to study kabala out of the context of a genuinely ripened Torah personality causes spiritual stillbirth. It isn’t personal, it’s just a fact. A reaction as simple as the exposure of a fetus to air before it has grown lungs.

Besides, Torah is rich and satisfying every step of the way. We don’t need to warp ourselves with the heroine of false spirituality when a lasting, genuine high is so accessible. We can ride our yearning like a stallion, making sure that it takes us where we really want to go.

 

Thanks to photographer Seba Chuffer for the beautiful image.