Rabbi Edward Elkin, Yom Kippur 5763 September 16, 2002

Teaching God a Lesson

I'm sure lots of you have had the experience that I've had so many times of telling people which synagogue you're affiliated with, and getting a quizzical look about the name. What kind of name is that anyway? What does it mean? How did you pronounce it again? Shouldn't any self-respecting synagogue name begin with Beth?!

I enjoy telling people about the unusual name our shul bears, and what little I know about the small Ukrainian town after which we're named. I found out a bit about Narayev soon after my arrival in Toronto by typing in the word Narayev into Google and seeing what came up. Much to my delight, someone had actually posted information about Narayev in English on the Web, including information about its Jewish community. He is a Ukrainian fellow named Roman Zakharii, currently studying in Oslo, and he has done a great deal of research about Narayev and the neighboring town of Berezhany. Among the facts noted about Narayev on the website was the meaning of the name in Ukrainian. "Na" means "the way to" and "Ray" means "Paradise". Narayev -- the way to Paradise. I decided to send Mr. Zakharii an email to see what else I could find out, and I want to share with you just a little bit of what he wrote back (I preserve his original, somewhat less than grammatical English, so that you get a flavor for his original expression):

Dear Rabbi Elkin, I was glad to receive your letter. I could never think even that there are Narayever congregations synagogues in Toronto. It is incredible how small is this world since Narayiv had only over 1,000 Jews in 1900 and gave birth to so many congregations in America. At the break of the century, immigration from Galicia, especially from Berezhany district which includes Narayiv was one of the highest in Austrian empire. Galicia was one of the poorest areas in the empire and Berezhany district was one of the most agricultural ones with virtually no industry, except few brickworks in Berezhany. And little changed until today·

Tragic fortunes. In 1939, with Soviet occupation of Galicia, wagons were packed with people to deport to Siberia·first of all Catholics. Those remaining yet in 1941 Narayiv Jews were exterminated by Nazis, partly shot in Berezhany area, partly deported to Belzec death camp·

So Narayiv Jewry and Poles stopped to exist in Narayiv with the war."

Narayiv Jewry stopped to exist in Narayiv with the war. Their friends and brothers and sisters and cousins who had gotten out and had come to Toronto and founded this synagogue, left behind a community that would be doomed. And although to my knowledge there aren't any remaining descendants of people from the town of Narayev still in the congregation, I feel a sense of connection to that town through being a part of this synagogue. It's why I wanted the map of Narayev up in the foyer. We are their heirs, which gives us a special responsibility as a community to preserve what they couldn't preserve, to transmit their heritage to those who come after us. We may not know very much about the town after which our shul is named, but by preserving the name, and linking it with a living, vibrant, dynamic community, we are doing honour to the memory of our founders - those who did make their way out of Europe and come to Toronto, and as well, we are doing honor to those who never made it out - the last Jews of Narayev.

The shul we are custodians of today is in many ways very different from what the founders had in mind when they established this congregation in 1914. Our prayerbook and our holidays may be the same, but our egalitarianism has irrevocably changed us into something our Narayever forebears might be very surprised to see. I'd like to speak this morning about egalitarianism, but I'd like to use that term in a very different way than we are generally accustomed to. Egalitarianism is usually understood around these parts with reference to the ritual roles of men and women; this morning I'd like to think about that term as it pertains to the relationship between ourselves and God, a concept which is perhaps even more radical than the first. I hope to show that this idea has deep Jewish roots, and that by thinking in these terms we are not undermining the chain of tradition we have inherited from our Narayever and other forebears, we are rather doing them honour and credit.

I'd like to share with you this morning two texts which really challenged me during my time at the Hartman Institute in Yerushalayim this summer. I think that both of these are extraordinarily powerful Yom Kippur texts since each in its own way tests some of our assumptions about God, and Her relationship to humanity. And Yom Kippur as I see it is a day for testing assumptions - about ourselves, about our relationships with people and the world around us, about God. On this day, nothing has to be the way we've always assumed it had to be. We can be different, and maybe even - if we're to believe the voice of these rabbinic texts - God can be different too.

The first text is taken from a Midrash called Lamentations Rabbah, and it's about the matriarch Rachel. What does Rachel have to do with Lamentations? Let's listen to the midrash and find out.

Rachel says, "Ribono shel Olam, Sovereign of the Universe, you know that your servant Yaakov loved me exceedingly and toiled for my father on my behalf for seven years. When those seven years were completed and the time arrived for my marriage with my husband, my father planned to substitute another for me to wed my husband. It was very hard for me, because the plot was known to me and I disclosed it to Yaakov. I gave him a sign whereby he could distinguish between me and my sister, so that my father should not be able to make the substitution.

"After that I relented, suppressed my desire, and had pity on my sister that she shouldn't be exposed to shame. In the evening they substituted my sister for me with my husband, and I delivered over to my sister all the signs which I had arranged with my husband so that he should think that she was Rachel. More than that, I went beneath the bed upon which he lay with my sister, and when he spoke to her she remained silent and I made all the replies in order that he shouldn't recognize my sister's voice.

"I did her a kindness, was not jealous of her, and did not expose her to shame.

"And if I, a creature of flesh and blood, formed of dust and ashes, was not envious of my rival, and did not expose her to shame and contempt, why should You, a King who lives eternally and are merciful, be jealous of idolatry in which there is no reality, and exile my children, and let them be slain by the sword, and let their enemies have do with them as they wish!"

At that moment, the midrash tells us, nitgalgelu rahamav shel haKBH, the mercy of the Holy One was stirred and He said, for your sake Rachel I will restore Israel to their place" (Eichah Rabbah 24).

This midrash is extraordinary in many ways. The image it portrays of Rachel at the time when she was supposed to be marrying Yaakov is very surprising to readers of Genesis. We imagine her to have been duped by her father as much as Yaakov, but in this version Rachel got wind of the plot and had it within her power to foil it by means of the signs which she and Yaakov had worked out. Instead, her desire to not expose her sister to shame overcomes her own desire to have Yaakov to herself. She not only gives her sister the signs, she even hides under their bed and answers for Leah when Yaakov speaks to her, so he won't catch on.

We could have a fascinating discussion on this midrash concerning the way in which it reflects on the rabbis' view of proper female conduct. This is an aspect that I know our own Devorah Schoenfeld has studied and taught us about. But what most fascinates me about this passage this Yom Kippur is not Rachel's selflessness per se, but rather the way in which she feels free to teach God a lesson. God was full of righteous indignation against the people. After everything God had done for them, they had betrayed the covenant by chasing after idols. Their punishment was surely, in God's eyes, richly deserved. And yet here was Rachel teaching God a lesson about forgiveness, and forebearance, and compassion. If I could overcome my jealousy of my sister, Rachel tells God, so as to minimize her shame and her suffering, then surely You can overcome your jealousy of idols - which after all aren't even real. And at that moment, having heard Rachel, God's mercy was stirred and God resolved that the people would return from exile.

God learned from Rachel. Isn't there something wrong with this picture? We all know, don't we, that God is God - perfect, unchanging, eternal, omnipotent, ominiscient, omnipresent. All the omnis -- you name it! God shouldn't change His mind. God the Supreme Intellect shouldn't be learning lessons and morals from mere flesh and blood!

Confused? Now listen to the second text, from the talmudic tractate Bava Metzia (86a). Seems there was a dispute taking place in heaven concerning the diagnosis of leprosy. One stage of the disease is a bright spot on the skin; another stage is a white hair. Everyone agreed that if the bright spot preceded the white hair, the person is declared clean. The dispute arose regarding the situation when the progression of the disease wasn't clear. HaKadosh Baruch Hu said that in this case, the person is ruled Clean. But the Heavenly Academy (metivta de-rakia) said that in this case he is tame, unclean. So who will be the decisor in a case of dispute between God and the rabbis? Well, the Gemara tells us, it was decided that Rabbah bar Nahmani would be the posek since he was considered a maven on the laws of leprosy. There was only one problem: This mahloket was taking place in heaven, but Rabbah bar Nahmani was still alive! So the angel of death was dispatched to bring Rabbah bar Nahmani up to the Heavenly Academy to help resolve this mahloket with God.

Think about what you've just heard. The picture that's being painted is of a halakhic dispute between God and a bunch of rabbis sitting up in heaven. As if God is just "one of the boys" and not the original lawgiver Himself! As if a particular rabbinic authority could be considered more knowledgeable about an area of halakha than God! Surely the rabbis who authored this passage were just having some fun, right? They couldn't have been serious. Or were they? In either case, the audacity of the image is simply breathtaking.

First we've got Rachel teaching God about compassion, then we've got Rabbah bar Nahmani teaching God about the intricacies of a particular point of halakha. What could be going on here? What do the rabbis gain from presenting us with the image of God as our Pupil? What do they hope to teach us?

This is a particularly discordant image on Yom Kippur. On Yom Kippur isn't God the stern, all-powerful Judge, deciding who shall live and who shall die in the coming year? Isn't God the King, whose sovereignty over our lives we re-affirm each year at this time? And aren't we reminded of our own smallness at this time of year, our own vulnerability, our own fragility? Humility would seem to be the proper Yom Kippur stance ki ain banu ma'asim, yet these two texts smack far more of hubris. Can Avinu Malkenu also learn from us, His children and His subjects?

We as a Narayever community have for more than 20 years defined ourselves as "egalitarian." That term has been applied until now to the relationship between men and women. But the texts we're looking at seem to point us in the direction of a more egalitarian relationship between humanity and God. One where we're not simply the passive recipients of wisdom, but rather one in which we have something to offer in the relationship as well. Something like the evolution of a parent-child relationship, in which at first all wisdom and experience and knowledge flows only one way, but then there are these moments when the child has wisdom to impart to his or her parents, and the relationship is changed. It has become deeper, more mutual, more egalitarian.

Some would recoil at such a reconfiguring of the Brit. This view is that what we need in the modern era is a strong re-affirmation of our utter faith and trust in God, and our obedience to God -- negating our own experiences and opinions as hopelessly subjective and limited. Many voices within the orthodox world take this tack, and in a fastchanging world in which it seems that everything has become relativized, we can see how this approach might have great appeal. Our job in this covenant model becomes simply to submit - like Avraham at the Akedah -- to the will of our Creator. And despite the power of the two talmudic stories I've shared with you, there's no denying that there are certainly many others from the biblical and rabbinic traditions which reflect this other point of view - that submission is the only way.

But these two stories are there, and others like them, and that's what intrigues me. This egalitarian impulse finding expression from within the rabbinic tradition itself, alongside more theologically orthodox texts.

Is the egalitarian impulse within the tradition purely a matter of interest to scholars and rabbis, or does it have practical consequences in the real world? I believe the latter, and I'd like to share with you three different ways that the implications of this trend within Jewish tradition can have an impact on the way we live our lives.

First, if God can learn from us -- all the more so should we be prepared to learn from anyone. While this egalitarian image enhances our stature as a covenantal partner with God, it also models for us a life of humility where we don't allow humanly constructed hierarchies to get in the way of our own learning and development. Everyone has something to teach us, if we but open our minds and hearts to them. Our children, our students, our subordinates at work, people of other religions and ethnicities, our own Torah tradition - all these have wisdom to teach. And if God can overcome the rigidities of hierarchy and learn from us, then surely we should be able to learn from others as well. Those who demonstrated so violently at Concordia last week provide an extreme counter-example in this regard; they refused to allow another point of view even to be heard. But in less extreme form, many of us have a tendency to only want to hear from certain kinds of people, assuming that others have nothing to teach us. If God can overcome that tendency, so can we.

Second, the model of humanity's enhanced stature in the covenant gives us, I believe, grounds for making changes in traditional beliefs and practices according to our own insights. This is clearly one of the more radical implications of this approach, but I believe that it is ultimately the grounds upon which the decisions made in this shul regarding women's participation in the service were taken. The notion that we can teach the tradition our contemporary insight about women's equality, and make changes in the way things have been done for centuries based on this insight - this is one of the more profound implications of this more egalitarian way of looking at the relationship between God and Am Yisrael. Of course many of our orthodox brethren would find that conclusion unacceptable; in that view, we in our generation don't have the stature or authority to teach God or the tradition anything. But in this model, which emanates from rabbinic texts as I've shown, the human partner in the covenant has insights that God just doesn't have, and some of those insights may impact on practices that have been with us for a long long time. Just how far we want to take this egalitarianism is of course the matter of a great deal of controversy. I for one tend to want to tread cautiously in this area. I am all too aware that not all of our human insights are correct, even if they're believed by lots of people. Nevertheless, the more egalitarian approach to the covenant gives us some room for our own insights on traditional beliefs and practices. There is a place for those insights - in the system.

Third and finally, I think this model of the brit between God and humanity has significant implications for the process of teshuvah which reaches its climax today, on Yom Kippur. On the one hand, one might think that this theology completely undermines the system of repentance and atonement which we have inherited, and which seems to depend so thoroughly on God as the King who determines who shall live and who shall die based on their deeds. How can this be squared with a more egalitarian approach to the God-human relationship? Doesn't the whole system depend on God's awe-inspiring power over our lives and God's authority to judge us? And yet I believe that the teshuvah system is utterly bound up with a sense of human adequacy and dignity and stature. Only a God who respected and admired our ability to change would give us a system which acknowledged that change is always possible. Only a God who felt we could handle it would give us a conscience. The Nobel Prize winning Polish poet Wislawa Symborska wrote a poem called "In Praise of Feeling Bad About Yourself." It reads:

The buzzard never says it is to blame.
The panther wouldn't know what scuples mean.
When the piranha strikes, it feels no shame.
If snakes had hands, they'd claim their hands were clean.
A jackal doesn't understand remorse.
Lions and lice don't waver in their course.
Why should they, when they know they're right?
Though hearts of killer whales may weigh a ton,
In every other way they're light.
On this third planet of the sun
Among signs of bestiality
A clear conscience is Number One.

Being human means we never have a clear conscience. That's what Yom Kippur is for. But our awareness of what we've done, and the potential we have for change, is what elevates us above the other creatures, both in the Symborska poem and in Jewish tradition. It's what brings us closer in nature to God, it's ultimately what makes our relationship with God more -- egalitarian.

I'd like to close with a tale of Levi Yitzhak of Berditchev. Berditchev, like Narayev, is in the Ukraine. On one Yom Kippur eve, Levi Yitzhak asked an illiterate tailor, "Since you couldn't read the prayers today, what did you say to God?" "I said to God," replied the tailor, "Dear God, you want me to repent of my sins, but my sins have been so small! I confess - there have been times when I have failed to return to the customers the pieces of leftover cloth. When I couldn't help it, I even ate non-kosher food. But really, is that so terrible? Now take yourself, God! Just examine your own sins: You have robbed mothers of their babes and have left helpless babes orphans. So you see that your sins are much more serious than mine. I'll tell you what, God. Let's make a deal! You forgive me, and I'll forgive You."

"Ah you foolish man," cried Levi Yitzhak. "You let God off too easily! Just think! You were in an excellent position to make God redeem the whole Jewish people!"

Talk about an egalitarian relationship between man and God! This spunky tale, emanating from the same part of the world as our Narayev forebears, might make them a tad more comfortable with the egalitarian impulse which characterizes our shul today. Our striving to transcend some of the hierarchies which have marked human relationships for so long, may lead us down some interesting paths in our relationship with God as well. I have confidence that, radical as they seem, these ideas are authentically Jewish and will serve to strengthen our connection with our tradition and with God. In this way, we will continue to be a credit to those who came before us.