The great King Solomon is described in the Tanakh as being the wisest of all men. He composed 3000 proverbs and 1005 songs, solved riddles, and had the knowledge to discourse about trees and beasts, birds, creeping things, and fishes. People from all over the world came to hear his famous words of wisdom, and his sagacity was confirmed through the fairness of the judgments he delivered. Many of us are familiar with the story of the judgment he renders when two women come to him to claim the same baby as their own. Using psychology, Solomon devises a test which reveals the true mother, and in so doing teaches us something about human nature. In a similar vein, the rabbis provide another instance of Solomon's acumen in judgment, using a rather grotesque example to convey an important point about human nature. They tell us that once, a couple gave birth to a two headed son. When, after many years, the father dies, the son with two heads approaches the court to claim a double share of the inheritance. Since the judge does not know how to handle this unprecedented case, it passes to the highest court of the land, the court of Melekh Shlomo, King Solomon.
Solomon asks: "how shall we determine if this is one creature with two heads, or two separate and independent organisms?" To solve the riddle, Shlomo does the same thing he had done in the case of the two women claiming the same baby: he devises a test. Shlomo decrees: let hot water be poured on one of the heads. If the other head cries out, this is one person, entitled to one inheritance. But if the other head does not cry, they are two separate beings, each with his own portion [Tosafot on Men.37a].
Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik cites this Talmudic account in his essay Kol Dodi Dofek. Rabbi Soloveitchik understands this story as being about the Jewish people. In our journeys all over the Diaspora we have sprouted many heads, many languages and cultures and customs and opinions. But as long as one head feels the pain of the other and cries out; as long as there is shared suffering, then we know we are one people. We are one family. "If hot water is poured on the head of a Moroccan Jew," Soloveitchik writes, "the prim and proper Jew in Paris or London must scream. And, by feeling the pain, he is loyal to the nation."[1] If he doesn't scream, then clearly that sense of one organism, one people, has been lost.
The two heads I'd like to reflect on with you for a few minutes this Yom Kippur morning are Israel and the Diaspora. In this, Israel's 60th anniversary year, are we still connected enough to call ourselves one organism? When one hurts, does the other wince? Or are we now effectively two creatures, perhaps sympathetic at times of crisis, but not necessarily more sympathetic than we might be with regard to other peoples in distress around the world (and we all know that there's no shortage of those). Soloveitchik's essay Kol Dodi Dofek takes its title from a pasuk in Shir HaShirim (5:2). The phrase means "Listen, my Beloved is Knocking". But are we Israeli and Diaspora Jews really Dodim, really lovers knocking at each other's door? Or, as the years since Israel's independence go by, are we each carrying on with our own affairs, with only a periodic glance in the direction of the other?
It's not easy to maintain the sense of oneness when the distance is so great, the language barrier often hinders communication, and the issues each community faces are in many ways so different. Linda and I make it our business to go every two years to Israel, both so that I can study at the Hartman Institute and also so that we can together reconnect to the Land and its people. But even on that biannual rhythm, which is a real privilege we know, the country starts to recede a bit in between visits and the differences are magnified during our time away. We can all think of examples of these differences, and there are many. Three specific examples have been on my mind particularly this year.
First, we know that in Israel, nearly everyone serves in the army, so when a soldier is taken captive by the enemy, every family feels it, every family knows that it could just as easily be their son languishing month after month in captivity to Hamas or Hezbollah. Here in Canada, by contrast, even with military affairs much more prominent of late because of the ongoing Afghanistan mission, still only a small minority of the Jewish community even knows a single person who serves in the military. For most of us, the world of Petawawa and Gagetown is very removed from our personal lives. So when we think about the three captive Israeli soldiers, it's not that we can't sympathize with the Shalit, Goldwasser, and Regev families, but can we experience their ongoing captivity in the same way as Israeli families, as they send their own children off to serve? Or is the gap in experience between Israel and the Diaspora just too great for us to truly feel that particular fear, or pain?
In a second example, we know that here in Ontario, our community is exercised by the debate over funding for faith based schools that has become such a key issue in the current election campaign. We ask ourselves, what would it mean to have Jewish schools, and those of other religions, as part of the public sector? How are our interests as a community best served? What are the advantages? What are the pitfalls? Will this be good for our community? Will it be good for the wider society? By contrast, in Israel, all public schools, at least in the Jewish sector, teach Hebrew and Tanakh and Jewish history and Israel as part of the regular curriculum, because it is, after all, a Jewish state. So while Jewish communities in both places both debate over Jewish education, over how best to transmit Jewish culture and Jewish language and Jewish values to the next generation, the debate starts from two completely different places and therefore the issues on the table feel utterly different.
Finally, after another year of turmoil on the Israeli political scene, I've been thinking about the perennial issue of dissent from Israeli policies. In Israel, such dissent is par for the course. Prime Minister Olmert's popularity is in the single digits, and with a thriving free press, and an independent judiciary, a feisty parliament and a robust civil society, as well as independent commissions like Winograd (which appears set to severely criticize the government for its conduct of last summer's Lebanon War), put it all together and you find that in Israel, dissent from the government is the name of the game. In fact, whether you're on the right or the left, it's hard to find anyone with much good to say about the government and its policies. When we in the Diaspora dissent from Israeli policies, however, other issues are raised. For us here to say the exact same things as a columnist in Haaretz has a very different impact, raises questions of what our role is exactly vis a vis Israel, where our loyalties lie, how our comments will be used by those who are enemies of Israel, how our comments affect our relationship with other groups here in North America, what is the price of honesty, what is the price of dishonesty, what is our business and what isn't our business, and how we can best help the other "head" as it faces its unique problems and challenges. So while the policies themselves of course have much more impact there than here, the issue of dissent is much more laden, much more fraught, here than there.
These are but three examples of what divides us. You can probably think of more ways in which our reality here and the reality of our cousins in Israel diverge. Yet, despite all these differences, Rabbi Soloveitchik challenges us to think of ourselves still as one organism, and I think it worthwhile for us to take up his challenge, to try and bridge the divide, to feel each other's pains, and rejoice in each other's triumphs, to share a common inheritance -- rather than go for two.
Perhaps with lots of channels of communication open, and lots of good will and effort, we in the Diaspora can come to appreciate the impact of the army experience on Israeli families. Perhaps, given how many young people both here and there are alienated by their Jewish studies, there is more to learn from each other with regard to the aims and methods of Jewish education than we might initially assume. Perhaps we can learn from each other how to express our opinions about Israeli policy, positive or negative, in a way that doesn't diminish our love for Israel or our commitment to Zionism.
To the extent that we can do these things, then to that extent we will have proven that we are still one organism, one people. To the extent that our two communities can't achieve a sense of oneness, then we will have divided into two, our already small people will have been reduced and weakened even further, and important opportunities to learn from and strengthen each other will have been lost.
How do we bridge the divide? How do we knock on each other's door? Well, visits certainly help, and this 60th anniversary year would be a wonderful time to take a trip. I recently read that 74% of American Jews have never visited Israel, and although I don't have parallel stats for Canada, I don't imagine they're wildly different. That's a shame, and there are many opportunities to go. The shul hopes to send a mission in February; flyers are available on the table as you go out. There are also lots of other trips out there throughout the year, both long and short term, some educational in focus, some social action, some nature oriented, some more political, some more historical - all worthwhile. It's really far, and (unless you're in the right age bracket for Birthright) it's really expensive. But for those who can stretch and make it happen, you won't be sorry.
Studying Hebrew is another hard but wonderful way of feeling that connection to Israel. What a dream it would be if Hebrew once again assumed its historic role as the lingua franca of the Jewish world, rather than English! It's not easy to learn as an adult, for all kinds of reasons which I don't have to enumerate, and that's why strong Hebrew language instruction for kids is so critically important. But it's not impossible for adults too to pick up a working knowledge of our ancient tongue, with a lot of hard work and effort to be sure. The rewards of Hebrew literacy are considerable, from a greater comfort level in shul, to an ability to access our ancient texts directly. But among the most important of these rewards is the ability to participate in the revival of our ancient tongue as a living daily language on your next trip to Israel, and thus to understand its culture and people all the more deeply.
Following Israeli news closely is another important way for us to keep up the connection. Of course, items about Israel can be found in our local press on almost a daily basis. But whether by subscribing to an Israeli periodical, or reading Israel based websites (many of which are available in English translation), you can be exposed to a wide array of features and opinions about Israel, that go way beyond what you might see in our local Canadian press. Reading Israeli literature, seeing Israeli films (like the ones we're showing at the shul this year as part of our Adult Education series in honour of the 60th) - these are yet more ways to gain a perspective on the other "head" with which we are united by history and fate. Your politics don't matter in this regard; you can find material from Israel to confirm or challenge any political opinion you might have. Any of it will give you yet one more slice of Israeli life, one more perspective that you wouldn't otherwise have had.
Going on visits, studying Hebrew, following the news from Israel itself - all these are ways to help us hear the voice of our beloved knocking, ways for us to bridge the chasm of experience between our North American reality and the Israeli reality. But it will remain a challenge for us. Modern technology in some ways should make it easier than ever to transcend the geographic separation, but of course there are ways in which the more we know, the more different and alienated we feel, because it becomes apparent that the two "heads" have had very different experiences. And of course it's up to the Israeli side to do their part as well to bridge the divide. The relationship is not just one way. I'm not speaking about that aspect as much today because it's not under our control, but the days of shlilat hagolah, of negating the Diaspora, clearly are over. The Diaspora will carry on. With a few noble exceptions, most Diaspora Jews are simply not going to make aliyah, and so the relationship can't be based on that expectation. Still, we have much to learn from one another about how to live an active and engaged Jewish life in the 21st century, and we each bring different strengths to the conversation. Let's get the two heads talking.
Note that I haven't been talking about money. In many ways, fundraising has historically defined the relationship between Israel and the Diaspora, and of course we should still give to those causes in Israel we care deeply about, including some of the Israeli causes which we are raising money for together as a community this year in the Kol Nidre appeal you heard about last night. But in a generation when the combined Diaspora Jewish donations to Israel amount to less than 1% of Israel's annual state budget, money can't define the relationship anymore. If that leaves us with a vacuum, let's fill it with things that are deeper than money. Let's tell each other our stories. Let's us tell Israelis about what it's like to live as a minority in a wonderful country like Canada that accepts us and fosters the freedom to create and develop different, innovative forms of Judaism, like traditional-egalitarianism, which will take Judaism down roads it has never traveled before. Let's tell them about the challenge of intermarriage, both the assimilatory threat that it poses to our Diaspora Jewish future, and the creative ways some families have found to live with it while still holding on to their Jewish identity. Let's tell them about the strength of our voluntary Jewish associations and organizations and synagogues like this one, not supported by any government but rather by the determination of its members to sustain it by giving of their time and financial resources.
And let's listen to their stories as well, stories about how it feels to order Chinese takeout in the language spoken by Moses, and about how it feels to be a part of the majority in your society, needing to take account of the rights and sensitivities of a non-Jewish minority, or about how it feels to stand in the spot where David fought Goliath, or where Elijah contested with the prophets of Baal, and knowing that spot is yours. Let's listen to their fears about terrorism, and Iranian missiles, and let's listen to their dreams for a more peaceful future. And let's listen to them talk about the temptation many feel to leave all the tzoris behind and search out possibly greener pastures in Toronto, or Sydney, or Los Angeles, and how they weigh that decision in the context of their love for and commitment to Israel. Let's listen to these stories and more from our Israeli cousins, and try to learn from them, and about them.
It's so easy to stereotype the other. The late Yehuda Amihai wrote a bitter poem on this very subject called Tayarim "Tourists": Bikurei Avelim hem orkhim etzlenu , he wrote. "Visits of condolence is all we get from them. They squat at Yad Vashem. They put on grave faces at the Kotel. And they laugh behind heavy curtains in their hotels. They have their pictures taken together with our famous dead at Rachel's Tomb and Herzl's tomb and on the top of Ammunition Hill. They weep over our sweet boys and lust over our tough girls...Once I sat by the steps by a gate at David's Tower, I placed my two heavy baskets at my side. A group of tourists was standing around their guide and I became their target marker. 'You see that man with the baskets? Just right of his head there's an arch from the Roman period. Just right of his head.' Aval hu zaz, hu zaz! 'But he's moving, he's moving!' I said to myself: redemption will come only if their guide tells them, 'You see that arch from the Roman period? It's not important: but next to it, left and down a bit, there sits a man who's bought fruit and vegetables for his family.'"
This poem makes clear that the conversation between Israeli and Diaspora Jews won't be easy. Even if we make visits, even if we learn some Hebrew and subscribe to Israeli periodicals. The attitude we have toward each other, both the admiration and the resentments, all that's part of the story too, and if Yom Kippur is to teach us anything it should teach us honesty. Even at a price, honesty.
This is Israel's 60th year. As usual, there are life and death decisions before it. What to do about the Palestinians. What to do about Iran. How to deter Hezbollah. How to prevent war with the Syrians. How to do right by Israel's own Arab minority, while maintaining the country's character as a Jewish state. How to preserve Israel's fragile environment. What to do about the settlements, and the security barrier. How to save the educational system. How to stem the brain drain. How to safeguard Israel's democracy. How best to lift up the underclass. How to teach Judaism to the secular majority. What to expect from the ultra-Orthodox. How to define the role of religion in public life. All these and more are on Israel's plate in this its 60th year.
We in the Diaspora can't solve those problems for Israel, just as they can't solve our identity and assimilation and literacy issues here. But we can knock on each other's door, and when we hear our beloved's knock we can let them in, and listen to their unique stories, and share our thoughts, and maybe even learn from them something that we can apply in our very different lives here. That's my prayer on this Sabbath of Sabbaths, this Day of Atonement, or Day of At-One-Ment. As we pour out our souls in repentance this Yom Kippur, praying for God's forgiveness, let's give thanks that we live in an era when Jews are once again back in their ancestral land, and let's resolve in the year ahead to find ways to make our connection with that land and its people even closer -- so that if the time of testing does come, we will remember that while we may have two heads, we are still one.
I'd like to close with a story about a woman who came to Rabbi Israel, the maggid of Koznitz, and told him with many tears, that she had been married a dozen years and still had not borne a child. "What are you willing to do about it?" the rabbi asked her. The woman did not know what to say, and fell silent.
So the rabbi told her, "Once my mother was aging, and still had no child. Then she heard that the holy Baal Shem was stopping over in her town in the course of a journey. She hurried to his inn and begged him to pray that she might bear a son. "What are you willing to do about it?" the Baal Shem asked. "My husband is a poor book-binder, she answered, "but I do have one fine thing that I shall give to the rabbi." She went home as fast as she could and fetched her good cape, her 'katinka", which was carefully stowed away in a chest. But by the time she had returned to the inn with it, she heard that the Baal Shem had already left for Mezbizh. She immediately set out after him, and since she had no money to ride, she walked from town to town with her 'katinka' until she came to Mezbizh. The Baal Shem took the cape and hung it on the wall. 'It is well,' he said, and my mother walked all the way back, from town to town, until she came home. A year later, I was born."
"I, too," the woman burst out crying, "I too will bring you a good cape of mine so that I may get a son."
"That won't work," said the rabbi. "You heard the story. My mother had no story to go by."
I see this poignant and bittersweet story as a perfect one for Yom Kippur. It is a tale which suggests that each human being must somehow create out of the substance of her life her own story, one which is personalized and unique, one that cannot be appropriated from any other human being. This is a story about becoming...ourselves[2]. Tempted as we might be at moments of confusion or insecurity or despair to look to others for answers, or to look for models of action in an often confusing world, ultimately, says the Maggid, the answer has to come from within, for the story that will redeem us has to be true to ourselves, not someone else.
We Jews in the Diaspora and in Israel have different stories, that cannot be denied. Our history is different, our challenges are different, our strengths and weaknesses are different, our languages and cultures are different. We've each got to tell our own story, honestly, first to ourselves, then to God, but then, to the other, to our Beloved.
Whom do we think of as our Beloved? For some of us, there might be such an individual in our lives, and that is a true blessing. But we are also part of a people, and Rav Soloveitchik is challenging us here in the Diaspora to think of Israel as our Beloved as well, with all the blessing and responsibility and work that such an intimate relationship entails.
Call it teshuvah, repentance. Call it heshbon hanefesh, taking an account of the soul. Call it histapchut hanefesh, the pouring out of the soul. Whatever we call it, it's our agenda here on this most austere of Jewish days. A day when we deny our own bodies in order to better focus on our souls, and honestly tell ourselves the true stories about what we have done to others, and what others and fate have done to us. Whether it's our Beloved sitting next to us, or our Beloved State of Israel, or our Beloved Ribono Shel Olam, there have been times that they've knocked, and we just haven't answered. There have also been times that we've gone knocking, but on the wrong doors.
It's the dawn of a new year. The doors are open. Let's walk through, together.
Gmar Hatimah Tovah.