Psalm 27: An Elul Lesson on How Doubt Helps Create Authentic Faith

'Tis the Jewish month of Elul, a time of introspection and preparing for the upcoming Jewish New Year. One of the traditional Jewish practices is the daily recitation of Psalm 27. It is intriguing for me because this is a newer practice in Judaism, one that is first mentioned by 18th century Rabbi Ya'akov Emden in the year 1745. Given the overall structure of the Psalm, I also wonder why this particular psalm is recited in Elul. 

The Psalm starts off with assurance in which the psalmist declares that G-d is his light and salvation and seems to fear no man (Psalm 27:1). He is confident that his enemies will fall (27:2) and that G-d will protect him from calamity (27:5). The psalmist keeps his cool in the face of danger, acting as if nothing can harm him. 

However, that confidence dissipates by Verse 9 when he pleads to G-d that He does not hide His presence from the Psalmist. The psalmist becomes abandoned by his parents (27:10) and he becomes surrounded by enemies (27:11). He is so fearful that he is begging that he is not overtaken by his enemies (27:12). The psalmist contemplates the worst: being crushed. In spite of this adversity, the psalmist sees the goodness of G-d. His faith remains intact, but it is not the same sense of faith as it was at the beginning of the psalm. 

The form of faith presented in Psalm 27 is in contrast to how other religions portray faith as an unquestioning, blind belief in a deity. If faith were meant to be that simplistic, Psalm 27 would be nothing more than an unambiguous, unwavering declaration of G-d's existence, strength, and kindness. If that is what faith is meant to be, why does the psalmist beg that G-d does not hide His presence when dealing with adversity? 

Yet the psalmist expressed doubt through that plea in Psalm 27. In a previous Psalm, there is even a cry in which the psalmist asks why G-d has forsaken him and why G-d remains silent in the psalmist's suffering (Psalm 22:2-3). In Psalm 13:2, the psalmist wonders if G-d will forget him forever. The Psalmist is depressed in Psalms 43 and is grieving while expressing doubt in Psalm 6. The psalmist has emotional ups and downs throughout the Psalms. The wide array of emotions is one of the aspects that makes the Psalms such a poignant and timeless religious text.  

Unblinding, unquestioning faith is not only immature, but it is unsustainable when it collides with reality. It requires hubris to assume you have all the right answers and cognitive dissonance to deny the reality that G-d Himself created. In verse 27:13, the psalmist makes an "if statement" that he does not complete with a corresponding "then statement." This would imply that the confidence in the first stanza (Psalm 22:1-6) and the anxiety of the second stanza (Psalm 22:7-12) resulted in an incomplete expression of faith in the last two verses. 

I think it makes sense given how we are never the same when tragedy strikes in our lives. How we look at the world afterwards changes. Such a shift is part of the process of being human, even for those who are as holy and revered as Mother Theresa. I have gone through this process myself. My Judaism looks different now than it was when I was a young adult as a result: much more doubt than my youthful years. Short of developing a case of amnesia, we do not get a fresh start because we carry those experiences with us, which is why we cannot go back to the more youthful version of faith or confidence we might have had.

As Psalm 27 illustrates, authentic faith does not mean belief without question. There are moments in which faith is wavering, in which we can question G-d's omnipotence, benevolence, or even His very existence. The psalmist does not develop faith by denying reality or wishful thinking. His faith comes through doubt, effort, grappling, and open communication. Psalm 27 ends neither with fear nor complete confidence. As Professor Benjamin Sommer brings up, the Psalm ends with hope, which is a more moderate, even-keel approach in comparison to the psalmist's previous experiences. 

By dealing with the realities of sadness, betrayal, and abandonment, the psalmist learned to live with the tension between a belief in G-d and the reality of an exceptionally imperfect world. One can oscillate between confidence and doubt while remaining faithful. That is called steadfastness. Faith is not about a "grin and bear it" approach in which we do not disparage. It is acceptable and desirable to bring everything to the table to be honest with where one is at. This gives the opportunity for a more authentic and dynamic relation with G-d. It does not come easy and unquestionably. Having faith means making the choice to believe in spite of that emotional baggage, doubt, trauma, apprehension, and injustice in the world. 

And maybe that is why this Psalm daily during the month of Elul became a practice to prepare for the Jewish New Year. Jewish tradition teaches that our lives hang in the balance during the Days of Awe. I do not take it literally, but I do take it seriously. It is a time of year that one worries about their fate and supplication to G-d is a major aspect of these holidays. Both the High Holidays and Psalm 27 encapsulate the hope that we make it. 

At least in this life, none of us make it at the end. Due to our mortality, I believe that we are meant to make the most of what time we do have. When the Psalmist says that we are meant to dwell in the House of the Lord (Beit Hashem) all of his days, we are meant to sanctify our lives in a way where every place can become a Beit Hashem (R. Sampson Raphael Hirsch). By taking that authentic faith and moving forward with action, we can develop a deeper relationship with G-d than blind belief ever could provide.

A Yom Kippur Lesson on the Stoic Dichotomy of Control and How to Take the Reins for the New Year

We are currently in another year of the Jewish High Holiday period, which starts on Rosh Hashanah (Jewish New Year) and ends after Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement). It is within this ten-day period (עשרת ימי תשובה) that Jews traditionally lean into introspection, reconnection, and improving oneself. There are a sheer amount of services and prayers that take place during this holiday period. There is one liturgical poem (פיוט; piyut) that is read both on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur that I want to focus on today: Unetaneh Tokef (ונתנה תקף).

The premise of this liturgical poem is that G-d is Judge and He is judging our actions. He has a Book of Life and a Book of Death. On Rosh Hashanah, it is written in which Book we will be inscribed. On Yom Kippur, the Books are sealed. As we see in the poem, the Books act as a metaphor of who is going to live and going to die in the upcoming year. When I analyzed this piyut nine years ago, the framework presented in Unetaneh Tokef is figurative because, well, this is a poem. As we will see, this poem has great insight, even though there are not literal Books. 

This is a poem that helps us to come to terms with our own mortality. One of the ways it inadvertently does so is by using the dichotomy of control. The dichotomy of control, which is most commonly associated with Stoicism, is the idea some things are in your control and others are not. This is true when you divide a task, goal, event, or occurrence into small enough pieces. The dichotomy of control framework has us categorize things into either being in our control or not. We are then to focus on what is within our control. This concept exists in the well-known Serenity Prayer:

G-d grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. 

This dichotomy plays out in Unetaneh Tokef. The piyut list a series of ways that people die, including by water, by fire, by hunger, by earthquake, and by plague, e.g., COVID-19. It also says that it will be determined who will be at ease and who will suffer, who will become poor and who will become rich, and who will be cast down and who will be raised high. We have no control of whether death comes from us. It is not a matter of if we will die, but how, when, and where. As for becoming poor or rich, that one is trickier. We can have control over our performance at work, but we cannot control whether economic conditions shut down our place of employment or certain other dynamics in the workplace. There are many external events over which we do not have control. After this list of events over which we have little to no control, the poem creates a "but" statement to counter a feeling of fatalism:

ותשובה ותפלה וצדקה מעהירין את רע הגזרה

But repentance, prayer, and charity avert the evil [severity] of the decree. 

While there are a myriad of events and actions outside of our control, Unetaneh Tokef reminds us that there are things we can do to help mitigate the circumstances, whether they are our fault or not. The poem provides us with three solutions. As the Lubavitcher Rebbe aptly illustrates, the English translations do not capture the profundity of what these options actually entail:

• Repentance (תשובה). What is interesting about the Jewish concept of teshuvah is that it has the same root as the verb "to return" (לשוב). Rather than become a new person, one is "returning" to one's original self. In Judaism, that original nature is deemed good. I have theological qualms believing everyone is good deep down. I think being human means that there is potential to be good, but that is not the same as being fundamentally good. Perhaps that is what we are returning to: actualizing our potential to be good in the world. In any case, I still like the concept of teshuvah. Whether it is Greek tragedies, Calvinist predestination, Marxism, Freudian thought, or genetic determinism, there has been many schools of thought that believe that we are puppets of fate. What is great about teshuvah is that with effort, discipline, and will, we have the ability and freedom to change for the better. 
• Prayer (תפלה). There is a separate verb that means "to pray, request, beseech" (לבקש). The word comes from the reflexive verb "to judge oneself" (התפלל). While there is an element of interacting with the Divine, there is a major aspect of self-evaluation and self-judgment. This is not about a process of asking for what we need. This is about developing the self-awareness to become better people. 
• Charity (צדקה). The idea of charity comes from the Latin word caritas, which means "from the heart." The closest Hebrew gets to this idea is the word חסד. In Judaism, the word צדקה comes from the root of צדק: justice. We give not because we feel warm-hearted, but because it is the right thing to do. It reminds us that we have a responsibility to help out other human beings. It also reminds us that nothing ultimately belongs to us. While the concept of צדקה is traditionally about how one gives money, I believe that giving one's time or effort, or even extending a kind word, is also an extension of the concept of צדקה. Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler said that the extent to which we love is the extent to which we give. 

Through the actions of self-reflection, changing our behavior, and doing acts of kindness, Unetaneh Tokef teaches us that we turn abstract values into the fulfillment of what Jewish values are supposed to exemplify. By becoming better people through our thoughts, speech, and action, we can bring about a year of sweetness, joy, and abundance. 

The Jewish Prayer Modeh Ani Is Much More Than Saying Thanks

How we wake up in the morning can set the tone for the rest of the day. Research shows that morning routines can increase productivity, lower stress, improve confidence, and boost energy levels. Judaism gives us a ritual that helps us as we awaken from our slumber. Upon waking up, Jewish tradition teaches us to utter the following words:

מודה אני לפנוך מלך חי וקים שהחזרת בי נשמתי בחמלה. רבה אמונתך

I give thanks before You, living and eternal king, for You have mercifully restored my soul within me. Your faithfulness is great. 

Part of what I like about this prayer is its simplicity. The blessing has twelve words and yet it has so much wisdom packed into it. The most common interpretation given for this blessing is that it is about starting your day off by expressing gratitude. I do not disagree with this interpretation. I wrote about Modeh Ani and the importance of being grateful about a decade ago. One of the Hebrew words for "Jew" (יהודי) comes from the same verb as "to thank" (להודות). Jewish tradition teaches that a Jew is to say 100 blessings a day (Talmud, Menachot 43b). When I look at the Modeh Ani blessing, I see more significance in the text than simply another opportunity to say "Thank You." Here are some insights that I was able to come up with:

1. Life is more than just the self. One takeaway from this blessing is the syntax. The verb comes before the subject. While this syntax occurs in biblical Hebrew, I think saying מודה אני instead of אני מודה teaches us a lesson. While there are merits to self-care, the word order reminds us that there is something bigger than us. We need to focus on the loftier aspects of life before we focus on ourselves. 
2. Confronting one's mortality. This point surrounding one's mortality becomes more salient when we look at what we are thankful for when reciting Modeh Ani. The blessing thanks us for having another day on this planet. Marcus Aurelius said in his text Meditations (2:11) that "you could leave life right now. Let that determine what you say, do, and think." Even if one is young and healthy, waking up to live another day is not a given. This is where the practice of memento mori comes in. Modeh Ani both reminds us that we have a limited time on Earth while emphasizing we should be thankful for the time that we have. 
3. Awareness. The phrase מודה אני does not only mean "I give thanks." The word מודה can also mean "to acknowledge' or "to rise to the understanding of." We do not only give thanks by saying this prayer. We also rise to the understanding of why we give thanks, and by extension, life's purpose. Awareness is key to life. It would explain why one of the morning blessings in Judaism is to ask G-d for discernment (אשר נתן לשכוי בינה להבחין בין יום יבין לילה).  
4. Sense of renewal. Each day is a new day of life. Yes, there are things we wake up with that were there yesterday: imperfections, emotional baggage, and problems. Modeh Ani reminds us that we have the opportunity to tackle those problems, to do better, to make this day unique and ours, and to figure out where we are going in life. 
5. Our past does not define our future. Our brains are wired in a way that alert us to danger and the malaise in life, which comes from our hardwired negativity bias. We can use Modeh Ani to transcend the negativity bias and begin our day in a more positive mindset. Our thoughts have a major influence on how we perceive and live life. We are not tied to natural impulse to look at things negatively. Research shows that gratitude can increase happiness, decrease depression, and improve sleep quality. Per the previous point, that also means we are not tied to our past because the past definitionally is not the present. If times are bad, we can remind ourselves that they can be better. If times are good, we can remind ourselves to appreciate the good while we have it or we can find ways to make it even better. In any case, the status quo is not an inevitability. 
6. Finding ritual that speaks to us. This is a tangential point, but one that I want to make. This does not have to do with the words of the prayer, but when the prayer was created. While it takes some inspiration from the Talmud and Tanach (Hebrew Bible), the prayer Modeh Ani itself was first used much later at the end of the 16th century C.E. I would have thought that the Modeh Ani prayer dated back to biblical or talmudic times, but it is not. It is relatively new within Jewish history. It is both interesting and comforting to find rituals that were created in more modern times that still fit within the mold of Jewish tradition. It also makes me think of our own capacity to create rituals that are both meaningful to modern times and our experiences while still being characteristically Jewish.
7. A call for being more compassionate. In the blessing, we state that G-d returns our soul to us "with mercy" (בחמלה). Assuming we take the the theology in this prayer literally, G-d does not give us another day based on our merits, but rather His mercy. I can quibble about whether "why bad things happen to good people" or "why do good people have to die." But let's take it literally for a moment because Judaism teaches us an important lesson: that we are created in His Image. This form of imitatio Dei, known as בצלם אלקים, means that we aspire to take on G-d's virtues. If G-d gives us another day because His compassion, we too should find ways to be more compassionate in life. 
8. Being trustworthy. When we end the blessing with רבה אמונתך ("your faithfulness is great"), we are establishing a sense of trust in G-d. This ending implies that one is to entrust G-d to return the soul the following morning. Since we are to imitate G-d, it means that we should find ways to be more trustworthy in our interpersonal relations. 
9. Trusting ourselves. If G-d is Sovereign of the universe and G-d can trust us, that should mean that we should be able to trust ourselves. He gave us the ability to live life to the fullest, to succeed, and the tools to handle adversity. Speaking of adversity....
10. Gratitude is not solely for the good times. The phrase רבה אמונתך comes from Lamentations 3:23. The Book of Lamentations has much calamity, including raping, pillaging, and murder. In this text, it seems as if G-d has abandoned the Jewish people. But the end of the Book of Lamentations remind us that even the bad times do not last forever. It does not mean that we ignore or neglect the calamity or problems in our lives. Modeh Ani teaches that instead of dwelling or wallowing, we are meant to use gratitude, awareness, compassion, and steadfastness to get through the bad times, as well as enhance the good times with these virtues. 

Why Add an Extra Candle on the Menorah for Each Night of Chanukah?

Chanukah, which is the Jewish festival of lights, represents both a military victory of religiously conservative Maccabees over the Hellenic assimilationists and the fact that the oil for the menorah in the Temple lasted eight days when it should have only lasted one. To commemorate, Jews are commanded to light the menorah. On the first night of Chanukah, only one candle plus the helper candle (שמש) are lit. The second night, two candles plus the helper candle. This progression leads to the eighth night, during which we light all the candles on the menorah. Why do we add a light each night? Why not simply light all the candles all nights, or just one night for that matter? To answer these questions, I first wanted to see what Jewish texts had to say. The Talmud (Shabbat 21b) provides a couple of answers:

1. There is a practical reason for this practice: it is a way to keep track and indicate what night of Chanukah it is. 
2. As Rabbi Hillel brings up, one elevates to a higher level when it comes to religious matters and sanctity. 

While I appreciate those answers and find validity in those answers, I came up with some answers of my own. One idea, which I realized a decade ago, is that the process of lighting the candles over Chanukah is gradual. If the menorah is to be symbolic of our spirituality and the light we bring to the world, it does not happen overnight. Spiritual growth, much like anything else worthwhile, is a process. It is not instantaneous like fast food or the Internet. We have to work on bringing that light to the world gradually. 

This segued into my second thought, which is why we do this gradually. As mentioned in the last paragraph, spiritual growth is a process. It takes years to reach a certain level to develop such traits as equanimity, patience, and humility. They are not handed down, they do not happen at the click of a button, and for many people, they do not come naturally. 

This leads to my third thought, and explains why we do not light all the candles all nights. If we push ourselves at full throttle and beyond our means, we will burn the candle at both ends (pun intended). If we push ourselves beyond our maximum capacity, we will become disengaged from spiritual pursuits, if not downright antipathetic and angry towards the whole idea. It is why we have to live our spiritual lives gradually. It is not an excuse to make mistakes or to slack off, but rather an acknowledgement of our limitations and make sure we maximize our potential.

My final thought is that much like with all things, they have a limit. Even when shining at our brightest, there is only so much that we can shine. This is not to self-deprecate or put ourselves down, but to remind us that we are human and that we can only go so far. The ideals that exist in Judaism de facto ask us to be like G-d, except that is impossible. Only G-d, a being of transcendent Infinite Oneness, can be perfect. This is the paradox of these ideals, and one we hold in constant tension: we do our best to be as close to living these ideals as humanly possible, yet we know deep down that they are not obtainable. As Pirke Avot says, "you are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to desist from it." Yes, our imperfections exist as human beings, but we continue to work on ourselves and become better human beings through the process. 

I think it's important to ask what all of this means for us. Practically speaking, life does not happen in a gradual progression. Life throws us curve balls, things we were not expecting, things that set us back. The road to success is a messy and imperfect one, especially since we are beings with limitations. Instead of viewing the idea of spiritual growth literally as gradual progression, perhaps the menorah is teaching us that we should always be aiming upwards and that we shouldn't lose sight of that on our bad days. Our goal is to grow spiritually. We have to do it at our own pace without burning ourselves out, but as long as we work on growing and we make progress, I think G-d is happy that we are doing the best with what He gave us. 

Parsha Vayera: Abraham's Argument About Sodom and Building a Relationship with G-d

Sometimes it seems difficult to have a relationship with G-d. One reason has to do with the very nature of G-d. After all, G-d is Infinite, Transcendent Oneness. In that respect, G-d is completely other. At least from a Jewish standpoint, mysticism is an attempt to bridge that gap and understand that which is incomprehensible. Fortunately, we don't have to go towards something as esoteric or abstract as mysticism. We can simply take a look at this week's Torah portion. In this week's Torah portion, we see an exchange between Abraham and G-d about the fate of Sodom (Genesis 18:17-33). This is the famous scene where G-d announces that He is going to destroy Sodom and Gomarrah. Abraham pleads with G-d to save the cities for the sake of the righteous. Abraham is able to successfully bargain with G-d and asks that G-d save the cities provided there are ten righteous men. G-d agrees, but as the story goes, the cities are ultimately destroyed since there are not even ten righteous men.

What I find interesting about this passage it that provides some guidance for how to have a relationship with G-d. Since G-d is this powerful, all-knowing being, He is clearly higher in the hierarchy. In that respect, G-d sets the tone for how to have a relationship with Him. G-d allows for us to have a relationship with Him, and we see that from this passage. How so? For one, G-d wonders if He should hide the announcement of destroying Sodom from Abraham (Genesis 18:17). G-d is not asking for Abraham's input or assumes that it would influence divine judgement. Nevertheless, G-d expresses concern about Abraham's opinion and whether He should let Abraham know. This concern implies that Abraham's potential reaction could have longer-term implications for their relationship.

The second point is that G-d "goes down to Sodom" (Genesis 18:20) before formally rendering a verdict. Rashi teaches that G-d did not literally ascend because G-d is not only omnipresent, but He is all-knowing. Rather, it is to teach us that a judge must not give a verdict in a court case without examining the evidence. If Abraham is expected to behave justly and righteously, Abraham needs to see that behavior exhibited by G-d. It is at this point in the story that G-d is setting the tone for a more profound relationship between Him and Abraham. Once we see G-d opening the door, we see Abraham walk through and give us a few pointers on how to interact with G-d:

1. Abraham was "but dust and ashes" (Genesis 18:27). Humility is a recurring theme throughout the Hebrew Scriptures (Tanach), and this verse illustrates Abraham's humility. The prophet Micah (6:8) teaches us what G-d requires from us, and it's not sacrifices. G-d teaches that we should act justly, love mercy, and finally, walk humbly with G-d. We see Abraham walk humbly with G-d when he refers to himself as "dust and ashes." 
2. Abraham remained standing before G-d (Genesis 18:22). How could Abraham be humble and remain standing before G-d?  In a religion such as Islam, practitioners are prostrated before G-d to act humbly. Not so in Judaism. R. Simcha Bunim of Peshischa, an 18th-century Hasidic rabbi, attempts to resolve the paradox. He taught that we should carry two notes in our pockets. The first should be the aforementioned verse from Genesis 18:27: "I am but dust and ashes." The second should say "For my sake was the universe created" (Mishnah Sanhedrin 4:5). Remember, Moses was "very humble," but his humility did not stop him from leading the Jewish people. It was a necessary component. It reminds us that humility is not about being weak or meek, but rather about having a balanced and accurate understanding of the self. It is with that humility that Abraham remains standing before G-d. 
3. G-d wants us to argue and be engaged (Genesis 18:23-32). The fact that Abraham has this argument with G-d says a lot. One is that Abraham should be engaged with the process. The fact that Abraham was able to negotiate with G-d, and get the number of required righteous people down from 50 to 10 says a lot about the process. It is not as if Abraham was going to let the people of Sodom and Gomorrah completely off the hook. He stopped at ten, which shows how we have give and take in any relationship, including that with G-d. 
4. Our definition of justice goes beyond what happens in the home (Genesis 18:24). The passage asks if there are 50 righteous in "the midst of the city" (בתוך העיר). This phrase teaches us that righteousness is not about what we do privately, but how we treat others publicly. Furthermore, righteousness is still a standard to abide by, regardless of the environment (Artscroll). 
5. We are to intercede for others, regardless of their shortcomings (Genesis 18:23-24). How those of Sodom behaved was the antithesis of Abraham. Sodom sinned because they were prideful and did not care for the poor or needy (Ezekiel 16:48-49). Abraham was the opposite of Sodom. Nevertheless, he negotiated with G-d on their behalf. This shows the vigor and tenacity that we should argue with G-d (R. Avigdor Miller).

In a sense, our relationship with G-d is to be one of balance. We take into account the idea of justice, as well as love, thereby creating mercy. We are to balance our inferiority to G-d while acknowledging that we are still created in His Image. We are to argue with G-d, but there is still a point that even after the arguing and negotiating, that one eventually accepts. If this exchange is to remind us of anything, it is that building a relationship with G-d is complicated. We might not completely accept or agree with what is to happen or does happen, but it does not mean we cannot develop a meaningful relationship with G-d. It just means it's not as straightforward as some would like to think.  

Yom Yerushalayim at 50: The Religious and Political Meaning of Jerusalem

About fifty years ago on the Jewish calendar, the state of Israel experienced an amazing event, one that can arguably be described as a miracle. Once the state of Israel was created in 1948, relations were not particularly normalized. There was, and still is, tension between Israel and its Arab neighbors. In 1967, the state of Israel was entangled in what is known either as the Six-Day War or the 1967 Arab-Israeli War. It was the third day of this war that the Israeli army annexed eastern Jerusalem from its former illegal Jordanian occupation. As a result of creating a unified Jerusalem, a new holiday was created: Yom Yerushalayim (יום ירושללים), also known as Jerusalem Day. The Israeli army annexed other land in the Six Day War, so what makes Jerusalem so special?

Politically speaking, the city of Jerusalem remains contentious. There are some religiously liberal Jews, who are usually politically liberal as well, who feel uncomfortable with a Yom Yerushalayim because of the ongoing political conflict surrounding the city. There are also non-Jews who feel uncomfortable about it, as well. In the 1947 United Nations Partition Plan (Resolution 181) felt uncomfortable enough where they created Jerusalem as a separate international regime that is really not under Israeli or Arab rule. That changed when the Jordanian army illegally occupied it, but that's another story. It's so contentious that Israel is the one country that does not have a U.S. embassy located in its capital. While the Israeli government traded land for peace with the Egyptians by giving them back Mount Sinai, there was some land the Israeli government continues to legally hold. Why Israel keeps the Golan Heights is obvious: from a military strategist standpoint, it helps Israel better protect its northern border. Jerusalem provides no geopolitical or economic advantage. Quite the contrary. Given the political headache it causes, it probably would be easier for the Israeli government to give up a unified Jerusalem (although let's be honest, that wouldn't make Palestine formally recognize Israel, let alone allow for peace in the Middle East). The city of Jerusalem is worth the headache because of its non-geopolitical significance. From a historical perspective, it symbolizes a significant step in Jewish statehood and a step towards political independence for the Jewish state. That argument has its limitations since the Jewish state was already created back in 1948. Even so, the historical significance also has limitations without understanding the religious significance of Jerusalem for the Jewish people.

Jerusalem has been considered the eternal capital of the Jewish people for nearly 3,000 years. The significance of the city of Jerusalem goes back to the Bible when it is first mentioned in the Book of Joshua (Joshua 12:10). The city Jerusalem is mentioned well over 100 times in the Hebrew Bible, and when you count references to the city of Salem (שלם) or implied references, that turns into nearly 700 references to Jerusalem. Since the biblical days, Jerusalem has been attacked, captured, besieged, and destroyed on more than one occasion. The Jewish people lost sovereignty over the city when the Romans captured it in 70 C.E. Jews have lived in the city since then, but Jerusalem has had multiple sovereign rulers over it up until 1967.

Even during the years in which the Jewish people were in exile, the Jewish people never forgot about Jerusalem. In Psalms (137:5), King David says that "if I forget you, Jerusalem, may my right hand forget its skill." The vigor of the Jewish people has been and continues to be symbolized by how much we remember and yearn for Jerusalem.

It can also be a vision for the future. While the etymology of the word Jerusalem is debated, the Talmud says that the word Jerusalem can be divided into two parts: ירא (from the infinitive "to see") and שלם (peace, completeness). Jerusalem is about a vision of peace and represents how we approach a more perfected world.  This insight can help explain why we still pray for Jerusalem, even though there is a unified Jerusalem under Israeli sovereignty. The reason why a prayer for Jerusalem is still included in our daily liturgy, as well as why we should celebrate Yom Yerushalayim (and arguably recite Hallel), is because we have not received that level of perfection or peace. On the one hand, Yom Yerushalayim represents what we have accomplished. On the other hand, there is still work to be done, and until that work is done, we pray for Jerusalem. Why? Because Jerusalem is not just a city. It is an idea. We keep up the vigor and the hope that one day, the world as a whole can reach spiritual perfection and peace.

Why Jews Are Supposed to Say 100 Blessings a Day

From when a Jew wakes up to when a Jew goes to sleep, blessings play a pivotal role in daily, traditional Jewish life. They play such a pivotal role that Jews are supposed to say 100 blessings a day. But why one hundred? Before answering this question, a brief synopsis on the Jewish concept of blessings:

The Jewish word for "blessing," ברכה, comes from the same root as the word "wellspring" (בריכה). The imagery of the wellspring shows how bountiful and renewing a blessing can be, and how it brings additional good to the world. The word ברכה also has the same root as the Hebrew word "knee" (ברך). The knee imagery shows that we metaphorically bend down to give recognition and show appreciation for G-d's kindness. Combined together, a blessing is the Jewish way we thank G-d for all that He provides. With that out of the way, why 100 blessings? Why not 5, 20, or 250? What is special about the number "100?"

1. In Deuteronomy 10:12, Moses tells the Jewish people, "What (מה) does G-d ask of you?" In the Talmud (Menachot 43b), R. Meir tells us to read the word "what"  (מה) as "one hundred" (מאה), i.e., the verse reads "100 [blessings] G-d requires of you." This is to instruct us in the mandatory 100 blessings a day in order to help us cleave to, love, and fear G-d (Orach Chaim 46:3).
2. Midrash Rabbah (Leviticus 18:17) said that in the time of King David, there was a plague that was killing 100 people a day. King David's anecdote? 100 blessings a day. Afterwards, the plague stopped. 
3. In the Book of Exodus (38:27), there are 100 sockets used in the Tabernacle, which correspond to the 100 blessings (Ba'al HaTurim). Functionally speaking, sockets hold other objects in place, whether we are talking about eye sockets, tooth sockets, or light bulb sockets. We can take this metaphor that blessings, much like the sockets on the Tabernacle, hold our relationship with G-d in place. 
4. In his commentary Reishit Chochma, sixteenth-century Sephardic rabbi Eliyahu de Vidas used the Zohar to use gematria (Jewish numerology) on the word צדיק (righteous person). He took the letter ק, which has the value of 100 in gematria, from the word צדיק, and opined that part of being a righteous person is saying a hundred blessings a day. 

What is interesting is that there is a debate of whether the practice of saying 100 blessings a day is an obligation or a practice of the particularly pious. What I find even more interesting is the wisdom behind saying blessings and being grateful, which you don't have to be Orthodox, or even Jewish for that matter, to appreciate. Psychologists have found the social, psychological, and health benefits of giving thanks. Those working with positive psychology and cognitive-based therapy came to the same conclusion that the rabbinic sages came to centuries ago: we should count our blessings. Whether or not counting 100 blessings is mandatory is secondary to the fact that reciting 100 blessings is desirable, not only for our wellbeing, but for our relationship with G-d. By being mindful and creative enough to come up with 100 blessings a day, we realize just how much good we have in our lives, and for that, we thank G-d for each and every blessing.

Post-Shavuot Thoughts on Revelation & What Happened at Mount Sinai

Passover is one of the most well-known of Jewish holidays. However, the Exodus story doesn't end there. The Jewish people cross the Red Sea and then seven weeks later, the Jewish people received the Torah. This receiving of the Torah is what the Jewish holiday of Shavuot commemorates. However, is it really that simple? Did G-d literally hand the Jewish people the text? An even better question: what exactly is revelation, and how does it play into this series of questions? What I am going to delve into here momentarily is a stream of consciousness. It is not meant to be taken as a dissertation or a final say of how I view revelation because that can always change over the years. It is a sign that even after all these years of thinking about these questions, there is still an evolutionary process in how I perceive certain vital religious concepts, and how I am still grappling with certain aspects of Judaism. With that said, let's begin:

Revelation is key to discuss because without it, Judaism is reduced to a peoplehood and culture. Revelation is the way that G-d communicates to us, the way we can understand what He expects from us. The catch about "what happened at Mount Sinai" is trickier because the Jewish concept of G-d is that G-d is transcendent, incorporeal, omnipresent, Infinite Oneness. G-d neither exists in time nor space. As Maimonides (Rambam) explains in the Guide for the Perplexed, particularly in the last chapter of the second part, anything attributed to G-d, whether it be speech, action, or thought, is metaphorical. This would mean that G-d literally did not give us the Torah. What actually happened that day is by far more complex.

Another issue is with being able to objectively verify the receiving of Torah at Mount Sinai. We cannot use the Torah by itself to verify the occurrence of revelation because otherwise, it would a self-affirming, circular argument. At the same time, we can still make a more minimalist claim. Historically speaking, something did happen in the desert that forever shaped the consciousness of the Jewish people. It was the time when a covenant was established. It was when the Jewish people formed its sense of purpose on earth. That much can be said about the historicity of the revelatory experience at Mount Sinai.

To bring it back to the nature of G-d, we run into another issue with verification. We cannot use empiricism to prove G-d because G-d transcends time and space, thereby transcending empiricism. What happened at Mount Sinai is thusly indescribable, and that doesn't consider that this event took place centuries ago and is majorly complex. I do find the story more credible since Judaism is the only religion to claim national revelation, as opposed to all the other religions out there who base their credibility on individual revelation. I also can state with confidence that G-d exists because it is the most logical explanation for how the universe came into being.

Because we are dealing with matters of religion, we cannot and do not verify religious claims the same way we verify scientific claims. This is where matters of belief, faith, and religion are formed differently than that of scientific inquiry, at least in part because I am dealing with Transcendent Oneness, and I have to have the humility to utter the words "I don't know." Even if I don't know for certain, I still inquire, study, and delve deep into Torah. Why? Because questions about why we exist, sense of purpose, what constitutes happiness, and how to conduct ourselves on this planet are too important to capriciously pass up.

I look at Torah as a divine and authoritative text. It is an eternal text because it has the capacity to speak both to the Israelites who received the text at the onset, and has the uncanny ability to speak to us today. To paraphrase Sir Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, "prayer might be how we talk to G-d, but Torah is how He talks to us." Given the nuance and complexities within the text, I find the Torah to reveal a lot about what it means to be a Jew. It is not as methodical as scientific inquiry, but studying Torah, at least for me, has been such an experiential affirmation of G-d's existence. When I read Torah for the first time and each time I study Torah, I feel as if G-d is revealing something to me. Jewish tradition helps shape and form what exactly the text says, but there is always that moment when the world teaches us something to change our view of Torah. Perhaps that is why we read the Torah in an annual, cyclical fashion: because each time we read it, it reveals something new about our relation with G-d and the world. It is also no accident that when we recite a blessing over the Torah, the blessing is in the present tense of "Blessed is G-d who gives us Torah (נותן התורה)," instead of in the past tense of "who gave us Torah (נתן התורה)."

I know that Shavuot commemorates revelation at Mount Sinai. I don't diminish that moment because it was so defining for the Jewish people. Conversely, it wasn't the last time G-d revealed to us. He reveals to us through His Torah, His mitzvahs, His creations, and all the wonders of the world. Revelation is not a one-time event, but rather a process that Jews have undergone through centuries. In summation, what happened at Mount Sinai was the springboard from which the Jewish people have developed their relation to G-d and to the world, and that initial moment of revelation has shaped Judaism into the meaningful religion that it is today.

Avinu Malkeinu: Balancing G-d's Love and Justice on Rosh Hashanah

As we approach Rosh Hashanah, I think of the awe-inspiring liturgy that we read and sing on the yom tov. My favorite liturgical piece in all of Judaism, which so happens to be read on Rosh Hashanah, is called Avinu Malkeinu (אבינו מלכנו; Our Father). Avinu Malkeinu consists of a long list of supplications that range from good health to prosperity in the upcoming year. At the end of this liturgical piece, we read the following verse, one that has been sung by many Jewish artists:

אבינו מלכנו חננו ועננו, כי אין בנו מעשים.  עשה עמנו צדקה וחסד והושיענו.  

Our Father, our King, be gracious to us and answer, though we have no worthy deeds. Act with us in charity and loving-kindness and save us.

Rabbi Akiva used the Avinu Malkeinu prayer to successfully end a drought (Talmud, Ta'anit 25b), so what is it about this particular verse that is so alluring? In this concise passage do we see a complicated relationship with G-d. On the one hand, we ask G-d to act with charity and loving-kindness, which denotes the love of G-d. Much like a parent (אבינו), G-d shows His children unconditional love. On the other hand, we come before G-d, our King (מלכנו), saying we have no worthy deeds, thereby showing our awe for G-d's transcendent Oneness. Seriously, who are we to plea with G-d? We see this balance in G-d's treatment of humans in general. If G-d had created a world of strict justice, none of us would be here. If G-d created a world with strict love, our ethics, morals, and behavior would mean nothing because G-d would reward all behavior equally, which would be unfair. How does G-d strike a balance? With mercy. Throughout the High Holy Day liturgy, we see this motif surface, and it's evident here.

How do we see this balance struck? We recognize that we have no worthy deeds (כי אין בנו מעשים). No matter how many mitzvahs and good deeds we perform, they will never be enough in comparison to what we could have done. On the other hand, we as mere mortals ask G-d to treat us kindly and recognize our human nature as a mitigating factor, another theme throughout the High Holy liturgy.

Whether we view G-d as an overbearing parent or a more distant one, we want a relationship with G-d similar to one in which we can please our parents. We all stand in rawness of our frailty, mortality, and human limitations while asking ourselves how we can do better for the upcoming year. In essence, Avinu Malkeinu is the way that we connect with transcendent Oneness on an even higher level than normal and remind Him of His mercy on one of the most holy days of the Jewish calendar.

Being Able to Thank G-d for Our Struggles (And Not for The Reasons You Think)

It is not uncommon for Jews to view prayer as a way to communicate with G-d. To quote R. Jonathan Sacks from the Koren Siddur (p. xxxii), "In prayer, we speak to G-d. Through Torah G-d speaks to us. Praying, we speak. Studying, we listen." While I agree with the importance of verbalizing one's prayers, my apprehensions go beyond "If G-d is omnipresent and omniscient, doesn't it defeat the purpose of prayer?" While that question is important, there is the issue of G-d's Infinite Oneness. Since G-d is infinite, by definition, G-d is not finite. That might seem like a tautology, but it's worth uttering. Why? There is necessarily a gap between the infinite (i.e., G-d) and the finite (e.g., humans) because G-d exists neither in time nor space. That is what infinity, i.e. G-d, conceptually is. This means that the conversation actually turns into a monologue. Fortunately, this does not have to change the Jewish definition of prayer. When we talk about "prayer" in English, we are unsurprisingly taking it from the Christian definition. The word "prayer" actually comes from the Latin word precare (to beg). It would explain why Christians, and Catholics in particular, get on their knees to pray. In Judaism, it's different because we stand before G-d when we pray. The Hebrew word that is commonly mistranslated as "prayer" is תפלה. The word תפלה comes from the Hebrew reflexive verb התפלל, which means "to judge oneself." Using etymology, Jewish prayer is a moment of self-evaluation, self-reflection, and a medium to assess our relationship with G-d, what it means, and how we can improve upon that rapport.

It was during such a davening session that I had one of these epiphany-like moments. When one wakes up in the morning, there are a series of blessings that are recited. There are three that are in dispute between the Conservative and Orthodox movements. Although I'm not going to get into all three, one of them has to do with thanking G-d for one's Jewishness. Orthodox practice is to recite the blessing [in the negative] of "not making me a Gentile" (שלו עשני גוי), whereas the Conservative movement prefers the blessing of "making me a Jew" (שעשני ישראל). I don't want to get into the debate of which is "more halachic" or "are there other ways of reforming the blessing without 'destroying the halacha'" because it detracts from the insight I was able to glean from the modification in the blessing.

Before continuing with the insight, however, I do want to say that I prefer the more positive affirmation because I prefer emphasizing who I am versus who I am not. I find that affirming who I am without demeaning others in the process is preferable to essentially saying "Thank G-d I'm not one of them." [Side note: Given the historical context of relations between Jews and non-Jews when these blessings were created nearly two millennia ago (e.g., Jews were surrounded by pagans; the Jews were exiled by non-Jews in 70 C.E., which is an event that shaped Judaism as we know it today), it made more sense to frame the blessing as such. However, given that relations with non-Jews are better, it seems more sensical to opt for the blessing in the positive.]

What did I find about שעשני ישראל to be so intriguing? Although the word "Jew" being used in this blessing is Israel (ישראל), the word ישראל literally means "[he who] struggles with G-d." When I thought of being part of the people Israel in that way, I translated the meaning of the blessing in my mind to conceptualize it as "Thank you G-d who made me to be someone who struggles with G-d." Why in the world would I be thankful for struggle? Isn't struggle supposed to be difficult and arduous? Yes, which is why I found this realization to be so fascinating.

In Christianity, a Christian finds solace in accepting Jesus as their savior. In Buddhism, one strives to reach nirvana by detaching oneself from the suffering of worldly attachments. In Judaism, G-d has given us the opportunity to not only find spirituality in the everyday and the mundane, but to do so while struggling. While תפלה certainly has its emotive qualities, it's about processing what we know about what is going on in the world and how Judaism perceives G-d.

I don't subscribe to גם זו לטובה ("this too is for the best") or that G-d is testing me with life's challenges (Infinite G-d, remember?). I do, however, take life's challenges as an opportunity to learn and better myself. Although it is difficult, I am doing my utmost to take a negative and gain whatever positive lessons I can. I know there is a lot of evil in the world that is difficult to explain, but it is better than a world without pain or suffering. This might seem counterintuitive, but hear me out.

Imagine a world without pain or suffering. It sounds idyllic, but it would get boring really quickly. I think of struggles as a necessary evil because it helps give our lives meaning, as well as gives us a reason to connect to others because if we had all of our physical or spiritual needs provided for, why do we need others in our lives? Struggle is a great developer of character, and I find that I am a lot stronger and wiser as a result of what I have had to endure in life. In all honesty, which feels more meaningful: gaining something because you worked through it or because it was handed to you? As a result, I have also realized that life is not about ephemeral enjoyment of the physical, but also has a deeper spiritual understanding that comes with having an element of struggle in our lives.

In summation, religiosity and spirituality don't have to translate into complacency, passivity, or blind acceptance to G-d. It means that we keep the metaphorical conversation going with G-d. It means we continue to ask the big questions and go about our religious practice while grappling with the pains, travails, and difficulties that life has to throw at us. It paradoxically means that we live a much more meaningful life, and for that, I am thankful.

Parsha Bechukotai: Is Reward and Punishment Really That Simple?

Divine retribution. It's one of those theological tenets that is typical amongst many world religions, including Judaism. The idea of divine reward and punishment was widely accepted enough where it became one of Maimonides' Thirteen Principles [of Judaism]. It is a concept that also happens to begin this week's Torah portion:

אמ בחקתי, תלכו. ואת מצותי תשמרו, ועשיתם אתם...ואם לא תשמעו לי, ולא תעשו את כל המצות האלה....

If you walk in My statutes and keep my commandments and do them.....but if you do not hearken unto Me and will not to all these commandments.... (Leviticus 26:3, 14)

Much of Leviticus 26 details what happens if you obey or disobey G-d's commandments (also known as תוכחה). If you behave properly, G-d will provide such rewards as rain for your crops (Leviticus 26:4). However, if you mess up, it means that many curses will befall you, including terror and disease (Leviticus 26:16), dried-up land (Leviticus 26:20), and being smote (Leviticus 26:17). If we take the פשת (pshat; literal/plain meaning) the way we would have to interpret the passage is that our behavior has a direct causal effect on what happens to you (Rashi's commentary on Leviticus 26:3). "Do a mitzvah and you will be rewarded. Perform a transgression and G-d will give you your comeuppance." Too bad it doesn't fall that neatly into place, and here is where I take issue with a simplistic reading on the passage.

First, what is implicit in the passage is an all-or-nothing mentality. What happens when you make a mistake? It's human to err, so is G-d taunting us with an impossible task? Whatever happened to all the elements of forgiveness that exist within Judaism? Second, all of these rewards and punishments take place in the physical world, in the present world (העולם הזה). Since there is no explicit mentioning of an afterlife in the Torah [or the Tanach], does this mean that G-d is delivering all of His divine retribution in the here and now? It would explain why the concept of an afterlife in Jewish eschatology is post-Biblical in nature. Third, I believe in a G-d that is flawless. If He were going to deliver divine retribution, I would expect the correlation between performing mitzvahs and receiving reward to be unambiguous (i.e., R-squared value is equal to 1). There are evil individuals who enjoy material wealth and there are plenty of good individuals out there who suffer, which makes theodicy a legitimate concern here. In a cold, dark, cruel world that has plenty of injustice, how can we even begin to accept a literal or simplistic reading of this passage? Is there something else we can glean from this before becoming dismissive? 

Nachmanides points out that G-d is not addressing individuals, but rather a community, which is why it's interesting to interpret it through a public policy lens. What happens when a community or a society enacts a top-notch policy? The populace and its quality of life are better off. When a detrimental policy becomes a part of society, the effects are adverse, and the community suffers as a result. It sounds alluring, but this is not a political treatise; it's a theological text, and we should interpret the verse within that context. Conversely, it's also possible to say that the results of society's actions can still be extrapolated from the text. Regardless, I don't find it to be the most compelling of interpretations.

R. Ibn ben Ezra has a different take on the matter, which is that because we are physical beings, we don't have an understanding of the spiritual world. G-d is essentially putting the punishment in terms that we can understand. Personally, I think G-d could have done a better job at conveying a sense of the spiritual world in the Torah instead of sidestepping it. While I think ben Ezra's interpretation has some truth in it, I think it's better to modify the interpretation in classifying the passage as a form of hyperbole to make a point. But this begs the question of what good would hyperbole do?

I believe that this hyperbolic passage is to get us to conduct some contemplative reflection on two levels. First is that our actions have repercussions. What we do as human beings is significant. One person can make a difference, and we shouldn't forget that society is still made up of individuals. The ideas that humans can come up with can create or destroy societies. Our words can uplift or knock down others. Our actions affect others, and can do good or harm. We should take the time to do some spiritual bookkeeping and work on improving ourselves.

The second goes back to that tease of "if we can't act perfectly, why bother" that I mentioned earlier. Much like with singing Dayenu during Passover, we're not meant to blindly accept what's put in front of us. It's meant to be a springboard for conversation. Maybe we're supposed to realize that we are only human and that tying our material circumstances to how we perform in life is tenuous. Perhaps we take a cue from Rambam (Hilchot Teshuva 9) and realize that true reward and punishment is not in terms of material possessions and wealth, but in something more transcendent, whether that is enjoying life's experiences [with others] or fostering a sense of spirituality in life. By realizing that "money doesn't buy us happiness," we can find a meaningful, more spiritually enriching life. 

Should Creationism Be Taught In Schools? What About Intelligent Design?

Back on Tuesday, Bill Nye the Science Guy duked it out with creationist Ken Ham over the debate of "Evolution vs. Creationism." I provided the footage of the debate down below.

Since my academic background is primarily in public policy, I'm going to stay away from the scientific jargon as much as possible. What I would like to do is discern the issue from a public policy standpoint and determine whether theories such as creationism and Intelligent Design (ID) should be taught in schools.

Before answering the question, I should first specify the sort of schooling towards which this questioning is targeted. This is not geared towards homeschooling because in spite of accreditation requirements, parents who homeschool their children have more latitude in what they teach their children (As a side note, I am interested by the fact that even with the disproportionate amount of home-schooled children being Evangelical Christians, there is a growth of secular, home-schooled children). Similar arguments can be made for private schools, and to a lesser extent, charter schools. This primarily leaves us with the question of whether these theories should be taught in public schools.

This leads us to the next question of "what is scientific theory?" When used in the world of natural sciences, the word "theory" does not mean "a set of ideas that are presented to explain something, but may or may not be true." When we say "scientific theory," we mean to say "a well-substantiated explanation of natural phenomenon that can be confirmed through observation and experimentation via the scientific method." I remember when I was in college, I took a course of the physics of light, and there was a lot of debate as to whether light was a wave, particle, or a combination of both. Even with the debate, there were still a set of high standards that was applied to the scientific inquiry.

Now that we have a better grasp of "scientific theory," let's move over to the differences between Creationism and Intelligent Design. Just for the record, these are not synonyms. According to Webster's dictionary, Creationism is "the belief that G-d created all things out of nothing as described in the Bible, and therefore the theory of evolution is incorrect." Creationism is a sectarian ideology based on biblical literalism, a literalism that I find to be irksome. Creationism is not taught with secular intent. Creationism should be left for Sunday schools, not for public schools. Doing otherwise would be a violation of the First Amendment.

Intelligent design, on the other hand, simply states that an intelligent, powerful being created the universe in a directed process. Note that the theory of intelligent design does not postulate who the designer is. It could be G-d, الله, or one of the deities from polytheistic religions. Heck, it can even be the Flying Spaghetti Monster, and it would still be a form of intelligent design! The notion that the universe was created by design, rather than random mutations, is not an argument that inherently religious in nature. What's more is that there actually is a cogent case to be made for "design in nature," whether it comes in the form of the fine-tuned universe argument, cosmological argument, or the specified complexity argument. To secularly argue that there is intelligent design has a lot more validity than arguing that the world was literally created in six days and that the world is literally about six millennia old.

Before I go into the policy analysis, just a few words on how I personally feel on the matter. Unlike most of America, I do not find a dichotomy between science and religion. Science explains the "how," and religion explains the "why." Let's say that natural selection and random mutations are undeniably the mode through which we came into being, which based on discerning what I can from the scientific evidence, it's the most probable scientific explanation. I don't care because it does not violate my understanding of Torah in the slightest, and it does not shake my belief in monotheism because evolutionary theory and Judaism are not mutually exclusive. There's no contradiction in me being a theistic evolutionist.

In an ideal education system, I would like for school to be an institution in which students can openly discuss and debate varying points of view in a respectful, civil manner. This is why I am certainly not going to advocate for removing evolution from the classroom, but I'm also not going to say that evolutionary theory is as "open and shut" as one would like to think because it's not. With regards to this particular topic, the debate is framed in terms of "science versus religion," which is problematic. Creationists like to view their opponents as g-dless, condescending heathens, and evolutionists like to view their opponents as Bible-thumping troglodytes. Until people frame the debate in terms of "Was nature created by design or randomly," we're going to be stuck in this uncouth stalemate that perpetuates the idea that there is nothing in between atheistic evolutionist and creationist that would actually create a spectrum of viewpoints on the issue.

One of the simpler solutions, which evidently has a libertarian twist, is to get the government less and less involved in the education sector. A competitive market in education might not have answered the question of "Was nature created by design or randomly," but it would have mitigated the political tension by now. At the very least, we can think about policies (e.g., tax credits, school vouchers) that could allow for lower-income families to have better access to the education marketplace. Although there is some potential for allowing additional privatization of education, it would be relatively more prudent to figure out what to do with the public school's current K-12 curriculum.

Even if I am a proponent for more privatized education, we should still aim for a higher standard of intellectual discourse in our public schools as long as the public school system still exists. What could be done is seeking out some schools willing to pilot a science curriculum that can teach biology, as well as present cases both for evolutionary theory and intelligent design in a relatively fair, unbiased manner with supporting evidence for each side. If it's a success, then other public schools should take a cue from its success and implement it themselves. With that, we can theoretically preserve the First Amendment without having to quash intellectual debate (more on that below). It would be great to see ID taught in a secular fashion, as well as a reasonably objective one. However, I think this would be asking for too much with a country that is so divided on the issue. Not only that, an issue I find with the theory of intelligent design is that it does not meet the standard of falsifiability, which could arguably put ID out of the realm of the scientific method because even if there were unquestionably a designer, who is the designer responsible for the universe's creation? The interplay between evolution and how it relates to religious beliefs can be debated in a social studies or politics classroom. This alternative would allow for the discussion to be had, but to "leave science in the  science classroom," which would a compromise from my view, but something tells me this would not be an acceptable policy alternative for creationists.

I am thinking that in an American context, tweaking the curriculum without altering it greatly would work best because my main concern is that ID would be used as a gateway to advance the agenda of creationism (see Epperson v. Arkansas). With that in mind, if only evolutionary theory is to be taught in the science classroom, it should at least be taught with a presentation of its strengths and weaknesses, as opposed to being unquestionable dogma, so that students can understand evolutionary theory from all angles and allow for enough intellectual wiggle room in the event that evolutionary theory is incorrect. Although part of an education is teaching facts, the other part of an education is to enable students to think analytically and be able to problem-solve, which this latter policy alternative would permit. This curriculum stipulation would allow for students to think openly and critically while not having religion shoved down their throats or freedom of inquiry stifled. Given the political climate, this would be the best policy alternative to the status quo.

Pirkei Avot 2:4: Submission?! Is That Even a Jewish Value?

The word Islam (اسلام) comes from the same root as the Arabic verb "to submit" (يسلَم). In Christianity, one of the tenets is to submit oneself to Jesus. Based on a passage of Pirke Avot I just studied with my dear friend and chevruta, Judaism claims to have something similar in way of submission. Here's an English translation of Pirke Avot 2:4:

He [Rabban Gamliel] said, "Treat His will as if it were your own will, so that He will treat your will as if it were His will. Nullify your will in the face of His will so that He will nullify the will of others in the face of your will."

I do not have a part with the first problem of this statement. Much like one would not scrimp on a huge investment such as a house, one does not settle for less on one's own spiritual life (Ruach Chaim). One is to treat their relationship with G-d that is as intimate as the ideal marriage. It's like any covenantal relationship: a marriage is about harmony in the home (שלום בבית) and understanding the other partner to the point where one compromises where needed. Like any other relationship, it is a two-way street.

Once I came across the second portion that talked about nullifying one's will, that is when I found it to be very problematic. The verb בטל is used in the passage as "to nullify," in the sense of "to cease" or "to abolish." According to the Kozhnitzer Rebbe, there are times that we should pray to G-d to take away our free will. Unfortunately, there are many Orthodox Jews that feel this level of unquestioning obeisance.

I know it's easier to succumb to groupthink or conform to an establishment than it is to have an authentically independent mind, but how can a Jew think that submission is a Jewish value? The name of the Jewish people is ישראל (Israel), which literally means "[He who] struggle[s] with G-d." Asking a Jew to nullify the very thing that provides the namesake of what it means to be Jewish is asinine. Essentially, if you're not struggling with or questioning your Judaism, you're not doing it right. This is especially true when we consider that the last time G-d explicitly said anything in prophecy was well over a millennium ago. Even with that in mind, all of this assumes that the tradition has been transmitted absolutely perfectly, the rabbis have correctly understood G-d's will 100% throughout history, and also assumes that the halachic system doesn't have any glitches. I cannot make any of these assumptions without having some reservations, hesitations, or doubts on my end. As a result of the skepticism and struggling with G-d, Judaism becomes a modus operandi that allows me to ask the bigger questions of life and analyze my beliefs and practices on a regular basis and on a more profound level.

If G-d wanted to make us as angels, trust me, He could have and He would have. But G-d endowed us with free will. He endowed us with the ability to question. Think about the Passover seder: the child who cannot even ask a question is lower on the totem pole than the evil child (*gasp*). Abraham questioned G-d before He destroyed Sodom and Gommorah. Moses questioned G-d by reminding G-d about His promise to the Jewish people (Exodus 32), after which G-d subsequently "changed his mind." These are but some of the examples in which Judaism illustrates its famous reputation for permitting one to ask a good question and not live in spiritual passivity and complacency.

Pirke Avot is a text of ethical ideals, but the problem with setting such high standards is that being human means making mistakes and being unmistakably imperfect. As laudable as it might seem to eliminate all our flaws to the point of nullification, it is just not possible. It is a verse such as this one that engenders the all-or-nothing mentality that permeates throughout much of Orthodox Judaism. I am all for Jews studying Torah and performing mitzvahs as much as humanly possible, but let's do so with an appreciation and understanding of the human condition.

Parsha Bereshit: The Joys of Dealing with Temptation

The creation of the universe, potent trees that give knowledge and life, a talking snake, and having a fourth of the world's population wiped out with a single murder. Yes, it is that time of year where we recommence the Torah cycle and start off with the Torah portion of Bereshit. One of the less commonly analyzed sections of Bereshit is the end of the Torah portion, where G-d is so disappointed with humanity that He intended to wipe out nearly all of mankind. A couple verses beforehand (Genesis 6:5), G-d saw just how low mankind had fallen. It was so bad that any thought that man had produced [in his heart] was non-stop, pure evil (וכל יצר מחשבת לבו רק רע כל היום). What are we supposed to take from this verse? Is is saying that man is really that immoral and irredeemable?

Viewing it from a Christian paradigm, the answer is an unequivocal "yes." In Christian theology, man is really that irredeemable. Unsurprisingly, I disagree with such an interpretation. First of all, G-d is delivering a judgment of mankind within a specific temporal context. This verse was not meant to be an eternal condemnation of mankind, but rather illustrating that free will's double-edged nature can either result in good or evil (and in this case, humanity opted for evil). Second, G-d doesn't judge for future sins; He only judges us for the culmination of past events and how that has made us who we are (JPS commentary on Genesis 6:5). Third, these individuals made a decision to choose evil. Even if there is a powerful inclination to commit evil, one of the joys of being human is we are beings created in His image, which means that we have the potential to choose good. As G-d states earlier in this week's Torah portion, "Sin crouches at the door, but you can overcome it (Genesis 4:7)."

One of the many things I appreciate about Judaism is its ability to adapt to reality. As my previous comments imply, Judaism does not have a rosy picture of human nature. As Genesis 6:5 points out, mankind has the potential to be horrid. Picking up a history book or newspaper and reading it confirms that reality. Even so, man's proclivity towards doing bad, or what Judaism calls the יצר הרע (the evil inclination; yetzer hara), is only part of the equation. As can also be observed, man can choose to be good by committing good deeds.

But wait....how is any of this ideal? Weren't we supposed to enjoy the idyllic peace in the Garden of Eden? In my humble opinion, no. If we had everything handed to us, life would be boring and numb. Additionally, although there was a disobedience element to Adam and Eve's eviction out of the Garden of Eden, it was ultimately their inability to take personal responsibility and perform acts of teshuvah. We weren't created to be angels. Not to be tautological, but we were created as humans. Being created in His image means we have a divine spark, and that a part of us is divine, which is great. Nevertheless, we still have that animalistic part of our selves. There is a famous parable in which the yetzer hara is captured for a few days. What the rabbis noticed is that no one built a home, engaged in business, or got married. There wasn't even a single laid-egg because even the animals lost their drive! The moral of the story here (Talmud, Yoma 69b) is that if we eliminiated this "evil inclination," all of human and animal life would cease to exist. Our yetzer hara literally is a necessary evil, and as R. Joseph Telushkin points out (A Code of Jewish Ethics, Vol. 1, p. 36), we are here to channel our "evil" inclination for the betterment of ourselves, mankind, and to serve G-d.

Additionally, the Talmud (Kedushin 30b) takes a look at Genesis 6:5. In Rashi's commentary on Kedushin 30b, he points out that כל היום that the evil inclination is constantly making its move in terms of tempting us to do wrong. Both the evil inclination and the good inclination are in play, which means if the spiritual bar is set so high where we ask ourselves "What would G-d do," then we're bound to screw up because not to be tautological, we're only human. We will err. We are here to do our best. That is why G-d had such foresight that He created teshuvah before He created the universe (Talumd, Pesachim 54a).

So how do we deal with the yetzer hara? There has been much ink spilled to answer this question, but I will nevertheless provide a brief answer. In hopes of not sounding too cliché, we deal with it one day at a time. Throughout our entire lives, we will have situations that test us. Sometimes, the choice will be easy to make, and other times, doing the right thing will border on being unbearably difficult. There are people who think that sounds painful. Being responsible and having to make decisions is not easy. It is simpler to have someone make decisions for you. But that is not what being free is about. Our ability to choose between right and wrong is the very thing that makes us human. Rather than shy away from it, we should take the gift that Adam and Eve gave us and live our lives to the fullest, which is the way G-d intended.

Unetaneh Tokef: Coming to Terms with Reality on Rosh Hashanah

Rosh Hashanah (רוש השנה), also known as the Jewish New Year, commemorates the creation of the universe. Although Rosh Hashanah is a time of great celebration, it is also a time of unease because Rosh Hashanah begins the Ten Days of Repentance (עשרת ימי תשובה). During Rosh Hashanah services, the liturgy is based on the motifs of G-d's sovereignty and judgement. One of the most controversial and powerful liturgical pieces during Rosh Hashanah is a poem (פיוט) known as Unetaneh Tokef (ונתנה תוקף).

The structure of the piece goes as follows: The heavenly court is assembled and G-d sits at the head of the court as the Judge. What is G-d judging? He is judging our actions. In front of Him sit the Book of Life [and the Book of Death]. On Rosh Hashanah, it is written, and on Yom Kippur, the Book of Life is sealed, which determines who lives and who dies. We are then reminded that no fate is set in stone, which is why Unetaneh Tokef states that tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah can avert the severity of the decree (Midrash Genesis Rabbah 44:12). G-d wants us to repent and return to His ways, hence why He gives us second chance. Finally, the poem calls attention to the fact that our origin is dust and our end is dust, and that G-d's existence is eternal.

After reading this piece, I can see why many Jews, myself included, have a problem with reading this piece. At first glance, Unetaneh Tokef illustrates a Deuteronomic view of G-d gathering the names of everyone, figuring out who has been naughty and who has been nice, and adjudicating a simplistic version of punishment and reward that makes me wonder about the role of free will in Jewish thought, especially since the poem states that G-d determines "who will enjoy tranquility and who will suffer," "who will be impoverished and who will be rich," and "who will be degraded and who will be exalted."

A literal reading of the poem forces me to question some things in the poem. G-d is infinite and incorporeal, so at the very least, G-d is literally not writing in a book. Additionally, if we are to read the poem literally, does this mean that G-d actually predetermines who lives and who dies within a given year? I cannot imagine G-d would grant us the gift of free will, the very thing that makes us human, only to take it away. I also find it troublesome that tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah during these ten days would merit another year of life, although the Talmudic precept (Rosh Hashanah 16a) applies year-round. How is that tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah can prevent earthquakes, cancer, or airplane accidents? But let's say that performing tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah can actually avert the decree [of evil]. What about good people who do these three actions and die? Did people who died in the Holocaust, in a hurricane, or in a car accident "get what they deserved?"  And what about evil people who completely ignore all of this: is it G-d's way of saying that evil people deserve another year of life?

How can one accept the poem literally? Poems aren't meant to be taken literally. That is why they are poems. Poetic license undoubtedly means usage of figurative language. Furthermore, given G-d's infinite nature, I feel compelled to read Unetaneh Tokef figuratively, much like I would with any other prayer. On some level, we have to read Unetaneh Tokef as if it were literal. However, we ultimately have to realize that Unetaneh Tokef has to be understood figuratively. So what is Unetaneh Tokef trying to convey here?  

When the poem says G-d determines "who lives and who dies," this is not literal. G-d is omniscient. G-d's omniscience is not the same thing as saying that He is micro-managing, e.g., G-d is not literally determining judgment on Rosh Hashanah. What G-d is writing in the Book of Life [or Death] are not His rulings. Especially considering the line of "who [will die] in his due time and who before" (מי בקצו ומי לא בקוצו), G-d is metaphorically exerting His omniscience and merely describing what will happen in the upcoming year.

The imagery of the Books of Life and Death, as well as Unetaneh Tokef as a whole, are to convey a sobering message: "We are not in control of everything. Life is ephemeral. You do not have forever. Repair that which is broken in your life and return to a sense of wholeness." Unetaneh Tokef reminds us that there are certain things that are within our control and certain things outside our control. We cannot change when or how we will die. We read this poem realizing our own mortality and how frail life can be. The strong language and literary devices that Unetaneh Tokef utilizes make us cognizant of this message.

Even with this frightening imagery of G-d determining who will live and die, the poem proceeds on an upside, mainly that our fate is not determined. We can do something to counter whatever wrong we have committed. Unetaneh Tokef shows us three paths for spiritual transformation: tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah. Tefilah, commonly translated as "prayer," is our attempt to communicate with G-d. Since G-d is omnsicient, and G-d is not a vending machine, our role in prayer is that we are vessels for blessing. When we realize G-d's existence and the blessings He bestows upon us, prayer has the powerful effect of changing that which is around us because prayer changes us. Tzedakah, which is mistranslated as "charity," is an externality involving material wealth and shows how we relate towards others through humility and generosity. Teshuvah, which comes from the Hebrew verb "to return" (לשוב), is much more of a repentant process than saying "I'm sorry." It is a process of truly changing oneself for the better and returning to our true essence.  

Performing the actions of tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah do not literally change whether we live or die in the upcoming year. G-d is constantly judging us (Talmud, Rosh Hashanah 16a). What changes is the effect of one's current spiritual condition. There is a personal transformation within us by performing these deeds: the blessing we receive, the forgiveness, the drive to become better human beings. The free will that we exert is a response within the confines of the events that are outside of one's control. G-d is a loving G-d, which is why shortly after the line about "tefilah, tzedakah, and teshuvah averting the decree", the poet reminds us that G-d does not desire death, but rather that one comes back to His ways and lives a full life.

The poem then continues on a more lowly note. "He [Man] is like a broken shard, like grass dried up, like a faded flower..."G-d exists and He is eternal. In comparison to G-d, we are "like whirling dust." Compared to G-d's existence, human existence is but a blip on the radar. Even in spite of human transience, the poem ends on a positive note: "[But] You are King, the Living and Everlasting." G-d makes it possible to connect with Him. G-d wants us to connect with Him, which is why He gives us the opportunity to do so.

This poem is not meant to cheat death or try to beg G-d for another year of life. Given the somber time of the year, it is also not meant to make us feel as if everything were hunky-dory and that the world is made of sunshine and rainbows. Unetaneh Tokef  is supposed to scare us and make us think in a profound manner. The poet wants us to recognize our humanity, as well as our vulnerabilities and frailties, at that given moment. Upon grappling, dealing with, and accepting our mortality, we are reminded that living a spiritual life means positively interacting with ourselves, with G-d, and with other human beings. Ultimately, the message behind Unetaneh Tokef is to come to terms with what it means to be human and to have that realization awaken our souls.