HA’AZINU
A D’VAR TORAH: BY RABBI CORINNE COPNICK
In the brilliantly evocative Song of Moses that appears as Ha’azinu at the end of the book of Deuteronomy, Moses assures the Israelites that all of Creation is indeed God’s work. The language and imagery is passionate: It was I, God says, “Ani, Ani,” that did all this. In Hebrew, the language is even more gripping, and when God finally says, “I, Anochi,” you know God means business. It’s a word that it used in the Bible, but not in rabbinic times, and it refers only to God.
In this unforgettable passage, we are assured of all the good things that will happen if we follow the moral path divinely outlined for us: feasting on the yield of the earth, honey from the crag, oil from the flinty rock, curd of kine and milk of flocks, the best of lambs, rams, and she-goats, the very finest of wheat, and foaming wine from grapes. This was fantastic fortune in an agricultural society. But then we are warned about the catastrophic things that could happen if we do NOT cleave to God’s moral path: consuming fire and misfortune, wasting famine, ravaging plague, deadly pestilence, fanged beasts, and so on. God will reduce us to naught. The whole catalogue is terrifying.
In a world that has been so recently beset by disasters both natural and man-wrought, these biblical consequences seem dangerously close to us: economic woes, earthquakes, famine, disease, fire, oil spills, floods, tsunamis, nuclear contamination, revolution, chemical attacks on one’s own people. But there are also courageous volunteers who risk their own lives in small boats to save others they don’t even know.
The Song of Moses is undoubtedly a passage about the distinction between good and evil, and the consequential choices our free will allows us to make. This passage clearly presents good and evil as both coming from the hand of God in response to moral or evil behavior. It is certainly something to consider during the week of Selichot, as we deeply reflect in preparation for Rosh Hashanah, the New Year to come in only a few days, when traditionally we recite the “Una Tana Tokef” prayer, often to soul-stirring music. Life or death. Choose.
If we are basically good people, we reflect, if we try to follow a good life, then why, as has been repeated so many times, do bad things happen to good people? As we read scary news headlines and listen to and watch horrendous media reports, it’s something we can’t help thinking about. If God is good, as the Jewish tradition teaches, if the created world is good, as the Bible tells us, then why is there evil?
That is why I was so interested to read a lengthy interpretation by the noted scholar, Jon D. Levinson, called “Creation and the Persistence of Evil,” but very disturbed by its pessimistic tone.[1] Why does evil persist? His article has a somewhat gnostic feel to it, suggesting that evil is a separate, adversarial force.
Even though God promised Noah never to flood the world again, that promise is not so easy to maintain; it requires God’s vigilance. “The world is not inherently safe,” Levinson asserts; “it is inherently unsafe…. Creation endures because God has pledged in an eternal covenant that it shall endure, and because he has also in an eternal covenant, compelled the obeisance of adversarial forces. If either covenant comes undone, creation disappears.”
I wept when I read Jon Levinson’s views because at a time when an evil force like ISiS, with its many variant names, is infecting the world with a fanatic ideology, or when neo-Nazi ideology is re-infecting the globe, it is indeed possible to conceive of the world breaking down to the extent that chaos results, that we, we may return figuratively to the tohu va bohu, the void.
My own view, however, remains more optimistic. As moral human beings, as Jews continually renewing the Covenant, I do believe with all my heart that – together – we can dismember the mythical Leviathan representing the forces of evil, and that we can bring the beneficent side of God that represents love and compassion firmly back into our world.
Last week’s parasha emphasized choosing life. In this week’s portion, the choices are set clearly before us. As God’s partners in creation, we have the gift of free will. We have been taught to remember that, with Divine help, we survived Pharaoh, and we will survive, as best we can, whatever comes our way. This Rosh Hashana, 5778, it’s up to us to transcend the headlines; we must continue to choose life, and all that it requires from us to maintain a world that is inherently safe because we work hard to make it so. And because we have faith that it can be good.
[1] Levinson, J.D. Creation and the Persistence of Evil: the Jewish Drama of Divine Omnipotence (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1994), pp. xxxiv + 182.
By Rabbi Corinne Copnick
Can you keep a found object? “Finders keepers, losers weepers,” right? Not according to the Talmud. It all depends on the degree of hope involved. That’s why a small section of the Talmud called Bava Metzia deals with the maintenance or loss of hope when inanimate things, like the loss of property, are concerned. The Talmud teaches that someone who finds a lost object can keep it only when the owner has given up all hope of recovery, when the owner has abandoned hope and made it ownerless. This is called ye’ush shelo medat.[1]
Then the Talmud raises another question: In what circumstances and at what point, does one abandon hope? At what point does one despair of retrieving lost property? And a further question is raised: Can one abandon hope without knowing it? Or can the finder act as if this has occurred and thus treat the object as ownerless?
And even further, can ye’ush be retroactive? What? In other words, even if we were unaware of the loss of property at the time it happened– if we had known facts that were revealed only later – could it be treated as if we would have given up hope at the time the property was lost. Finally, after much discussion, the rabbis of old decided that retroactive ye’ush did not exist! Of course, it wouldn’t be the Talmud if everyone agreed!
Let me share with you a true story, about something that happened to me, personal property that was lost. Like some rabbinic aggadot (non-halakhic narratives) that may go back two millennia, my story below, makes its point in a rambling, round-about, humorous way. You won’t know where the story is going until it gets there!
***
It was Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. After I finished stuffing a turkey for a holiday celebration and, with a sigh of satisfaction, had put it in the oven for about twenty minutes per pound at 400 degrees Farenheit, and with a nicely folded foil tent over it, I began to tidy up the kitchen. That was when I noticed that my beautiful, emerald-cut diamond was missing from the ring that had marked my engagement, a ring, that, together with my matching wedding band, I never, ever took off. I had been wearing it for many years. The engagement ring was still on my finger all right, but there was a big, gaping hole in the center, where four prongs had formerly held the lovely gem.
My diamond was lost! No, I did not enter into a state of ye’ush (resigned loss of hope), not at the beginning. I still hoped; no way would I abandon hope. I searched all over the kitchen, in every nook and cranny of the floor, the counters, for my diamond. Not too easy to find a clear diamond on a white tile floor or white counters (white, European kitchens were in vogue then), but … no diamond! I searched and washed all the dishes in the sink. Nothing had been put in the dishwasher yet, so maybe … no, no diamond. “Oh no,” I cried. “The turkey!”
Releasing a keening sound of something that was not yet resignation, that still had a note of hope in it, I removed the turkey from the oven, and, bit by bit, removed what would have been a delicious stuffing from the turkey, examined it with a magnifying glass, kneaded each morsel carefully between my fingers. No diamond was to be found. Next, as I peered into the now empty cavity of that turkey and poked and prodded its insides (fortunately it had been deceased for some time), the sinews glistened back at me as if they were laughing. After all, the turkey had been cooking in a pre-heated oven for twenty minutes. It dripped a little here and there.
It was at this point that I began to cry. I entered a state of resignation, a state of ye’ush, but I did have the presence of mind to report the loss to the insurance company. “My diamond is gone,” I sobbed. At least some of the economic value, if not the sentimental value, was recoverable. And it did not take too much effort to report an insured loss. Now, if I had known at the time the loss occurred that the diamond could not be found, that the loss was irrevocable despite all my effort, would I have entered a state of retroactive ye’ush immediately – that is ye’ush without knowing it, ye’ush shelo medat? It would have saved me a lot of searching time!
However, my story is not finished. When I finally served the turkey to my guests at a beautifully laid table that night, there it was, my diamond, floating in the gravy, as several of my guests pointed to it with astonishment. Thank goodness nobody had swallowed it! And yes, the diamond was undamaged. Diamonds, as you probably know, can survive high heat.
Yes, I had abandoned hope prematurely when I called the insurance company! Can we ever know, I reflect now, the precise time at which hope should be abandoned? Is there a time when we should give up hope and say, “Move on now! Collect the insurance money! Forget the sentimental value! Replace the diamond!”
But that is not the end of the story. Some years later, my diamond ring, this same diamond ring was stolen. A thief, a ganaf, broke into my house by stealth and stole all my jewelry, including this ring. And, oy vay, this time I no longer had jewelry insurance. It was too expensive! Since I was living in a large, metropolitan center where one diamond is like another diamond, I realized that I probably would not recover it. Even before the police advised me that it was unlikely I would recover the ring, that the thief would have fenced it or shipped it to another country before I had even discovered the loss. There were no identifying marks because the ring was not engraved with an inscription or initials, and, in any case, the thief would likely have taken the diamond out of the ring for resale. So this time, my ye’ush was not in vain. I had to abandon hope for real.
But since, as the police said, it was already too late to retrieve my loss before I even discovered it was missing, was this not also ye’ush shelo medat—ye’ush without knowing it? In other words, if I had known, would I have given up hope of recovering it from the moment it was stolen, even before I actually knew it was stolen?
But that is not the end of the story. After I set this seemingly cyclical tale of loss and recovery and loss down on paper, I had a sudden urge to put “recovery” – hope — back into the picture when a recurring advertisement in a very reputable magazine caught my attention. National Geographic, no less, in which a company reachable on the Internet was advertising gem-quality diamonds that looked very much like the one I had lost and found and lost again. Only these diamonds were not extracted from deep in the ground through the grime and sweat of miners working in unspeakably treacherous conditions that have been the subject matter of recent movies. These advertised diamonds were cooked in a scientific lab, and, yes, they had all the properties of natural diamonds found in the ground – but with one very important difference: They were flawless, a quality almost impossible for natural diamonds to attain. And, yes, these synthetic diamonds had another favorable attribute: The price was miniscule in comparison to what a “real” diamond would cost.
The temptation was too great to resist. I selected my ring (platinum-fused silver), with the large emerald-cut center stone surrounded by smaller baguettes on the side, just like the ones my long lost ring (solid platinum) had possessed. Again, there was a difference. This time the emerald-cut stone I chose was not a diamond; it was a synthetic emerald, proudly reflecting four karats of polished green, chemical properties in the sunlight.
It is very beautiful ring but somewhat ostentatious, so I haven’t worn it yet. Maybe I never will. If I should, however, it is unlikely that anyone would realize that this artful replacement for my lost jewel is synthetic. But if an unknowing thief should attempt to steal it from my jewelry box at any time in the future, that ganaf will have gained only an object of no significant value, not compared to the multiple lives that have been lost in mines over the centuries trying to recover that sparkling “real thing” – like the one I formerly owned — from the ground.
©️Corinne Copnick, Los Angeles, 2015, 2017. All rights reserved.
A D’var Torah by Rabbi Corinne Copnick
“Choose life,” the Torah tells us in Nitsavim, “if you and your offspring would live – by loving the Lord your God, heeding His commands, and holding fast to him For thereby you shall have life and shall long endure upon the soil that the Lord swore to your ancestors, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, to give to them (Deut.30:19–20).” These verses are with me always, and they have been more deeply implanted in my heart and soul each time I visited Israel.
It was July, 1989, before the first intifada had begun. I was walking through the Shiloah underground water tunnel at the City of David, Jerusalem (constructed by King Hezekiah to link the Gihon Spring with the pool of Siloan, 700 BCE). The tunnel was still open then, before it became too dangerous for Israeli authorities to allow tourists to venture through this narrow, historic passage. Our guided group walked in darkness over slippery stones in almost knee deep water to get to the other side. Only a single candle, protected by my hand so that it wouldn’t blow out, lit my way. And then, midway, the passage widened to reveal the meeting place where an inscription in rock was once inscribed in the ceiling. Even though the ancient rock is now in a museum, my skin tingled then with the appreciation of what was once there, and with the knowledge that, as Jews, we must never forsake the Covenant, nor to strive for peace.
Soon after we reached the other side, I was inspired by this exhilarating experience to write the following poem. Today, as Selichot approaches, I choose life in anticipation of the peace and joy that might be – one day — on both sides of the tunnel. Choose life.
DESTINATION
A slim, green candle,
purchased from a village waif,
held low against the draught,
lit my way through
this winding, cool, wetted
chasm where once,
deep beneath the ancient stones,
inscribed in rock, a
joyful, dripping message
recorded the meeting of
men, toiling to touch,
centuries past. Clear spring
waters flowed as they fused.
I niched my candle
in the rock; its light
still grows and burns
inside me, always.
You have shown me
your wineglass,
blessed city that wishes
the world what it might be.
O Jerusalem, for me
you plant new vineyards
in the cloudless sky.
Although what I have been describing here happened long ago, and I am in my eighties now, I am heartened – and excited – by the statement in Va’yalech – it’s a comvined portion this week — that Moses was a still a vigorous 120 years old — “with eyes undimmed and with vigor unabated” (Deut. 34:7) before he passed on the leadership to Joshua. It was time for a new generation in the land. And for that new generation, in turn, to explain the Covenant to their children. “Take to heart all the words with which I have warned you this day. Enjoin them upon your children, that they may observe faithfully all the terms of this teaching. For this is not a trifling thing for you; it is your very life: through it you shall long endure on the land you are to possess upon crossing the Jordan” (Deut. 32:46-47.)
As for me, I am tickled pink by the fact that God also chose to create a beautiful poem at this time of entering the Land, and that Moses wrote it down. Today we call it “The Song of Moses,” which appears in the next Torah portion, “Ha’azinu..”
©️Corinne Copnick, Los Angeles, 2015. All rights reserved.
A Contemporary Narrative
by Rabbi Corinne Copnick
There is a Hebrew name for the abandonment of hope. It is called ye’ush. Various fascinating perspectives – psychological, theological, ethical, and legal – can all be applied to ye’ush. It also has a related concept, ye’ush shelo medat (abandoning hope without knowing it – in other words, unconsciously giving up hope). Both concepts appear in a very small tractate of the Talmud called Bava Metzia. One may also read the passage as consciously acting on the assumption of eventual ye’ush.
What do these ideas really mean? Can one ever abandon hope? If so, under what circumstances? How does one turn the coin of despair over to the other side and become hopeful once again? The story of Mrs. Mandelbaum, who refused to give up hope, offers some clues.
When I was a young woman in Montreal, Canada, our family used the dressmaking services of Mrs. Mandelbaum, a middle-aged Holocaust survivor. We would go to her immaculate apartment, where her newly bought furniture was protected with plastic covers, and where she lived with her husband and son. There our dressmaker spent a great deal of time on her knees on the hardwood floor, as she pinned up the hemlines of her affluent clients.
When her only son reached Bar Mitzvah age, Mrs. Mandelbaum invited all her customers and also sent out invitations to fellow survivors of the horrific concentration camp experience they had somehow managed to live through to liberation. She also invited some survivors she had encountered in the Displaced Persons camp after World War II. That was where she met her husband and conceived her son. From the D.P. camp, the Mandelbaums managed to get sponsorship to Canada, where we, the Bar Mitzvah invitees, were now their only “family.” And everyone who was invited came.
The American-born guests/customers were amazed at the lavishness of the Bar Mitzvah. How could a woman of such limited means, someone they saw mainly down on her knees, afford such an elaborate celebration? Mrs. Mandelbaum knew how. She had saved every cent of her dressmaking money for more than five years in order to host this occasion.
But her fellow survivors, the ones who flew in from the U.S., from South America, from Australia, from Israel – from wherever they had found refuge after the war – were not surprised. They understood that it was the hope that one day she would have a son who would provide continuity to the Jewish people through his Bar Mitzvah commitment that kept her alive in the concentration camp. The survivor-guests had promised one another that, if they made it thr
ough the war, they would be the witnesses to the celebration. No matter where life took them, they would serve as one another’s family. They had shared a common flame of hope, and now it had come to fruition.
It was a wonderful celebration. And after the Bar Mitzvah, Mrs. Mandelbaum got up from her knees. She did not have to pin up other people’s dresses any more.
* * * *
©️Corinne Copnick, Los Angeles, 2015, 2017. All rights reserved.
Interpreting Talmudic Concepts with my Own Stories
by Rabbi Corinne Copnick
In Eastern Canada, where I was born and lived most of my life, November is a bleak month. After the brief autumn blaze of color, the trees have lost all their leaves, the skies are grey after the morning darkness, and snow has not yet come to whiten the landscape. People in Canada tend to get somewhat depressed in November. I used to alleviate these feelings by creating a beautiful image for myself: The trees were simply waiting, their bare branches upraised, to receive the snow that would fall in December. “Everything is waiting for to be hallowed by man,” Simon Noveck explains, capturing the essence of Martin Buber’s philosophy. This is how Buber felt about the relationship between God, man, and nature. And, in the final analysis, that is what hope is all about, having faith in this relationship.
Long before the technology of the internet helped anyone with a computer, tablet, or smart phone to understand what it means to be “connected,” the Jewish tradition understood that interaction. It understood that everything in creation, every action, is inter-related, and that in the spring, new shoots would come. The bare branches would have leaves again.
Faith is the flame that keeps hope alive. The Jewish religion is the story of that faith, that hope. Talmudic stories can reinforce these beliefs. The ancient rabbis understood that the ability to maintain hope in the direst of circumstances helped the Jewish people to survive. They realized that, without maintaining hope, the Jewish people would not have survived as Am Yisrael, the Jewish people. Against the background of the destruction of the temple, the death of large numbers of Jews through catastrophic revolt, and the loss of many others to exile, the rabbis tried to pinpoint the specific point at which one abandons or does not abandon hope. With its usual precision, the Talmud tries to answer that question. The rabbis even considered whether one could abandon hope retroactively. It is also possible to consider the abandonment of hope proleptic (something held in the imagination, not in reality) rather than retroactive, at least at the time one assumes the eventual loss of hope in the future.
Rabbinic narratives stimulate thinking. Their innate creativity tends to beget new creativity: learning derived from them may be applied in original ways. It is with this thought in mind that I offer several of my own stories, inspired by Talmudic concepts, in a series of future posts. These stories appeared originally in my Master’s thesis about finding hope in the aggadic narratives of the Talmud.
© Corinne Copnick, Los Angeles, 2015. All rights reserved.