Blog Posts

life is good

1/9/2012

Out of approximately 1.1 million Jews who were imprisoned in Auschwitz, there are only two who were known to have been born there. One of them was Angela Polgar.

When Polgar’s expectant mother Vera arrived in Auschwitz in May of 1944 along with nearly half of Hungary’s Jewish population, the death camp was operating at peak efficiency, liquidating more than 132,000 inmates per month. The chances of anybody surviving Auschwitz were already not much more than one in ten, but for a pregnant woman they were far slimmer, which is why it was standard practice for Jewish inmate doctors to perform clandestine abortions as a life-saving measure for the mothers, who were otherwise almost certain to be cremated along with their newborn babies.

After one doctor offered Vera an abortion, her mother came to her in a dream, telling her: “Veruska, you are eight months pregnant, and you don’t do this because the fetus is already alive and ready to leave. Believe in God and He will be with you. Maybe a miracle will happen, but don’t do it!” The next day, Vera refused the doctor’s offer, and barely a month later – against all odds – her daughter Angela was not only born, but managed to survive; hidden until the camp’s liberation by Soviet troops the following month.

This week’s Torah reading introduces us to another child whose birth and survival seem to defy all odds. Like Angela Polgar thousands of years later, Moshe, the future savior of the Jews, is born in a brutal labor camp, facing near-certain death at the hands of his oppressors, and like Angela, he too manages to survive by hiding. And although Egyptian genocide was directed exclusively against the males, like the Nazi’s, they too pursued a carefully orchestrated plan designed to rob their victims of all hope, ultimately compelling the men of that generation to divorce their wives en masse rather than condemn their unborn children to near-certain death.

But just as Vera Polgar was visited by her mother in a dream, our oral tradition teaches us that Moshe’s father Amram – the leader of that generation – was also visited by a family member bearing a strikingly similar message: “His daughter [Miriam] said to him: Father, your decree is harsher than Pharaoh’s. Pharaoh’s decree was only against the males, but yours is against both the males and the females… [As a result of Miriam’s rebuke] they all remarried their wives.” (Talmud tractate Sota: 14a)

Both Angela Polgar and Moshe were born as a result of an act of faith that defied reason and logic. It made no sense to bring children into a world where the only choices were death or a short life of pointless suffering and despair. But in both cases that’s exactly what their parents did, because when all is said and done, the value of even a single moment of life is beyond our ability to measure or comprehend. The inherent goodness of life has always been a basic axiom of Jewish belief, and is arguably one of the most important concepts we’ve bequeathed to the world. It factors heavily into our approach to major life issues, such as abortion and euthanasia. It should also influence the way we live our daily lives.

King David exhorts us to “Serve God with joy.” (Psalms 100:2) because joy is the emotion that we naturally feel when we see life for what it really is, without distortion. If we could see things as they truly are, we would realize that the mere fact that we woke up this morning is tantamount to winning the lottery. The winner of the ten million dollar jackpot doesn’t notice when he breaks a few dishes. Similarly, people who get a new lease on life aren’t bothered by things that used to be a big deal to them because they’re way too happy to be alive to even notice them.

This doesn’t mean that life is always going to feel good. There is no known antidote to our penchant for feeling down at times, nor should we ever judge or deny our feelings when we do. But in order for us to live productive and happy lives, we must maintain a healthy sense of perspective regarding our emotions. Positive thoughts and feelings, such as hopefulness, enthusiasm, compassion, a sense of humor and lightheartedness are all reliable indicators that we are heading in the right direction because life is inherently good. Negativity in any of its forms, on the other hand, is a pretty sure sign that we’re not.

Pain and suffering are a real part of life, and should never be minimized. That’s precisely why we must nurture our underlying faith in life’s essential goodness. This belief cannot come from our intellect alone, since we can just as easily rationalize that life is bitter and unfair. Rather, we must realize the simple truth that already lies within us – that no matter how difficult life can be, it’s worth it. Recognition of this simple truth brought redemption to Angela Polgar, Moshe and ultimately, the entire Jewish people. It can no doubt do the same for us as well.

Mark

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shop till you drop

12/12/2011

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Daily door-buster deals … friends and family discounts … free shipping if you spend over $150! For an estimated 6% of Americans with compulsive buying tendencies, this is a tough time of the year.

The whole culture conspires against us in the holiday season,” says April Lane Benson, a Manhattan psychologist who has treated compulsive shoppers for 15 years. Besides tempting sales, pressure to top last year’s gifts and the urge to shop for oneself, she says, “the holidays bring up a lot of unfulfilled longing for some people—and that’s one reason why they shop, as a salve for disappointment.” (Excerpted from: Shop ‘Till You Drop: How to Treat Compulsive Spending – Wall Street Journal, Dec 6 2011)

Most people will admit that an unhealthy relationship with the “things” in our lives can be costly and damaging, but that doesn’t necessarily mean we’re able to identify when we’ve crossed the line. So when does harmless holiday shopping become full-on retail therapy, and how can we avoid it?

In last week’s Torah reading, as Jacob reunites for the first time in twenty years with his brother Eisav, we get a helpful definition by way of a distinction that may at first seem hard to understand. Jacob, who originally fled from Eisav’s murderous wrath after stealing his blessings, now wants to appease him with gifts, and the plan appears to work. Eisav seems to be genuinely moved, refusing the offering with the words: “I have plenty. My brother, let what you have remain yours.” (Genesis 33:9) Jacob nevertheless presses him to take the gift, saying: “Please accept my gift which was brought to you, inasmuch as God has been gracious to me and inasmuch as I have everything.” (Genesis 33:11)

The pre-eminent Torah commentator Rashi seizes on this slight difference in language with the following comment: “[Jacob says:]’I have everything:’ All of my needs, but Eisav speaks in a language of arrogance, I have much much more than I need.” We can understand how Rashi’s reading would indicate arrogance. Eisav seems to be bragging that he’s filthy rich while Jacob simply claims that he has what he needs. But Eisav’s words could also be understood as an expression of extreme gratitude for the abundance that he has. Why does Rashi interpret Eisav’s words negatively and more importantly, what is he trying to teach us?

There’s actually a big difference between thinking I have a lot, and knowing that I have everything I need. Even when I conclude that I have more than I require, I have nevertheless entered into the realm of evaluating what I have, and that is a tricky business. Need isn’t easy to determine. I many feel like I have more than enough today, but tomorrow I can just as easily conclude that I have way too little. The problem is that I don’t really have a baseline from which to evaluate the issue, which means no matter how hard I try, there’s no way for me to know for certain when enough is really enough.

The lack of a clear definition makes it easy for me to fall into the trap of thinking that I can’t be happy unless I have ______, and by the way, ______ doesn’t necessarily mean money or things. It can be talent, intelligence, luck or anything else I deem necessary for my well-being. You fill in the blank. In the end, the result is the same: Acquisition becomes my focus and my sense of happiness becomes hostage to outcomes that are usually beyond my control. I can easily become obsessed with how to get what I want, and may even rationalize compromising my standards and principles in order to do so. But what’s saddest of all is that even if I succeed, the pleasure that I experience is fleeting at best. The happiness that I seek is not to be found in things; and so I move on in search of bigger and better stuff. In the end, my life is all about me and what I possess. This is the arrogance that Rashi alludes to.

The only way to avoid the trap of evaluating what I have is to take the question off the table all together. The realization that I have already been blessed with everything I need engenders not only feelings of gratitude and humility, but a sense of responsibility to fully utilize what I have been given. As a result, my main question in life immediately shifts from “what do I need in the future?” to “How am I using what I have now?” And since this latter issue is entirely in my control, I am filled with a sense of empowerment, rather than frustration. I have moved from being a victim of circumstance to being a pro-active player in my life, perfectly positioned to experience the real and lasting pleasure that comes as a result of true achievement.

I realize that it may not be easy for some of us to accept that we already have everything that we need, especially when we live in a world that constantly tells us that we must have more. Not everyone buys into the notion of a world that is run by a creator who provides for all of our requirements. Nevertheless, I would argue even from a purely pragmatic view that it never pays to get into the game of evaluating what you have because regardless of your conclusion, your cards have already been dealt, so you might as well focus on how to make the most of them. This doesn’t mean you should never want more. It just means that you should never fall into the trap of believing that more will make you happy, because there’s no bigger mistake than spending your life trying to fill a hole that can never be filled.

So next time you find yourself yearning for retail fix, try asking yourself this: How many things are there in this world that I don’t already have, that I can honestly say I can’t live without? My guess is you’ll come up with a very short list.

All the best,

Mark

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jerusalem cowboy

10/12/2011

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If you wander the streets of Jerusalem’s Jewish Quarter long enough, there’s a good chance you’ll stumble upon a sight that may at first seem out of place. Don’t let appearances fool you. The pistol toting cowboy in the Stetson is as much a part of that neighborhood as the Jerusalem stone that lines its narrow alleyways.

If you know Natie Charles even casually, you’ll know what to expect next: A trademark smile that can light up the darkest day, a warm pat on the back, and “how you doing buddy!” that will leave you certain you’re the most special person in the universe. When you see him, there’s a good chance that this 89 year old man with the energy of a 20 year old will be on his way to the Beit Midrash (House of Torah Study). Once again, don’t let appearances fool you. This cowboy’s career as a Jewish scholar may be the latest chapter of his life, but make no mistake: This ain’t his first rodeo.

Natie Charles has led about as interesting and colorful a life as anyone can wish for, which is what makes his recently published memoir, “Charles, Prince of Tales” such an easy read, filled with entertaining stories about guns, airplanes, knife throwing, crop dusting, juvenile pranks, brushes with the mafia; even a hilarious anecdote involving a cow and an open convertible. But behind the action-packed exploits of this hard-working, successful entrepreneur is the touching story of a simple Jew, who although religiously unaffiliated, never loses sight of his roots, until a near fatal head-on collision prompts him to leave it all behind for a new life in the Promised Land.

To me, the story of Natie Charles goes way beyond simple entertainment. It’s personal. In fact, there’s even a chapter about me and my family in his book. I met Natie and his late wife Irma when I moved to Israel to study in Yeshivat Aish HaTorah in 1983, and it didn’t take long for me to become a full-fledged member of their household. I still lived in the dorm like everyone else, but the House of Charles, as it was fondly known, became my home away from home. It was more than just a place where I could hang out, schmooze and eat a home-cooked meal. It was a place where I could feel accepted, loved and special. It was also a place where I would learn first-hand what it means to build a Jewish home.

The sages in Pirkei Avot state: “Let your house be open wide, and treat the poor as members of your household.” (Avot- 1:5) The House of Charles was certainly open wide. By the time I arrived on the scene, it was already filled with an assortment of American, Canadian and British students who had recently relocated to Israel. But what was far more impressive was how we all literally became members of their household. This was no small feat, especially when it came to me, because I was somewhat shy and tended to feel like I was imposing. But in the House of Charles, I didn’t just feel at home; I felt downright entitled – and I have no doubt this was true for all of us.

Natie and Irma’s selfless vision of us as family was so deep and congruent that it literally forged us into one. In fact to this very day, almost 30 years later, when I see one of my former “brothers or sisters,” I still feel that connection. I am in awe of their remarkable ability to create that bond. My wife and I have hosted countless numbers of guests over the past 20 years, but we’ve never produced that sense of belonging and camaraderie. In fact, I’ve never experienced anything like it anywhere else, which is why I can’t teach the Mishna in Pirkei Avot without telling people about the House of Charles.

As I sit in my Sukkah this year, I know I’m going to be thinking about Natie and Irma and the home that they built, because to me, their home exemplifies what Sukkot is all about. Sukkot teaches us that the true power of the Jewish home is not its material wealth or even the shelter that it bestows. Rather, it is to be found in the love, warmth and acceptance that it can provide to those who are in need of it. Sukkot teaches us that our home and our possessions can make a tremendous impact on the world when used in the service of something higher than our own personal needs. In fact, it teaches that our home can and should be a place where God’s presence can be tangibly felt. This is why my favorite chapter in Natie’s book is the one about me and my family. Not because I finally got my five minutes of fame, but because I genuinely believe that in spite of all of the adventures they lived through over all those years, the house that they built in Jerusalem truly was the greatest chapter in their lives.

Wishing you a joyous holiday!

Mark

Charles Prince of Tales can be purchased here

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the miracle called me

9/21/2011

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“In a building a mile up the hill from the Entertainment Technology Center, HERB sits motionless, lost in thought. Short for Home Exploring Robotic Butler, HERB is being developed by Carnegie Mellon in collaboration with Intel Labs Pittsburgh as a prototype service bot that might care for the elderly and disabled in the not too distant future… A student taps a button, issuing a command to pick up a juice box sitting on a nearby table. HERB’s laser spins, creating a 3-D grid mapping the location of nearby people and objects, and the camera locks on a likely candidate for the target juice box. The robot slowly reaches over and takes hold of the box.” (Excerpted from Us. And them: National Geographic – August 2011*)

Up to this point, I found the story of HERB and his robotic friends to be interesting enough, but what I read next really grabbed my attention:

“Picking up a drink is dead simple for people, whose brains have evolved over millions of years to coordinate exactly such tasks. It’s also a snap for an industrial robot programmed for that specific action. The difference between a social robot like HERB and a conventional factory bot is that he knows that the object is a juice box and not a teacup or a glass of milk.”

Wait a minute! I’m the first to admit that advanced robotic engineering is miles above my pay grade. In fact, I’m in awe of what these engineers are able to create. But one thing even I know is that robots can’t “know” anything. No doubt, with more advanced hardware, sophisticated programming and faster processers, they can and will get “smarter.” But no matter how sophisticated they get, robots are still machines. When all is said and done, they gather, process, and respond to information. Like their less glamorous ancestor the computer, they consist of nothing more than hardware, software, wires and electricity. Which is why I’m willing to state, without a shadow of a doubt, that no matter how long we try, we will never be able to build a robot that knows anything. Computers may run on DOS, but they will never have DAAS (Hebrew for knowledge)

In order to actually know something, we must possess a quality that we refer to as consciousness. As a human being, I too am a sophisticated machine. In fact, I am made up of more than a billion highly sophisticated machines called cells that somehow combine to produce the organs and tissues of my body. Like HERB, these organs enable me to sense, process and respond to the material and information that fills my world. But how do a mass of cells combine to produce a collective sense of consciousness? Where does my awareness of myself and my world – that part of me that I experience as “me” – come from? One thing’s for sure: This mystical entity is neither produced by nor subject to the deterministic rules of cause and effect that govern my physical self. It is something entirely different and separate from my body. In fact, I would argue that it is nothing short of a miracle, and therefore way beyond anything that we can ever understand, much less reproduce.

Rosh Hashanah, the awesome Day of Judgment, emphasizes the fact that I am part of an essentially deterministic universe governed by natural laws of cause and effect. In this sense, its message is simple: What I choose today will inevitably impact how I think, feel and behave tomorrow. This is why the Rabbis state: When a person commits a transgression and then repeats it, it becomes to him something which is permissible. (Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Sota: 22a) My choices aren’t recorded on a scoreboard in heaven for some future accounting. They create concrete realities that impact me here and now, and ultimately determine the course of my life.

But there’s another aspect of Rosh Hashanah that is personified by the blast of the shofar. The shofar blast is meant to wake me up to the fact that there is a part of me that is of an entirely different order; one that remains unaffected by the choices that I make. This deeper, truer “me” is the seat of my consciousness; the part of me that experiences my life, drives the choices that I make, and yet is somehow separate from them. Because this part is essentially free, it never loses sight of who I am and what I’m capable of, and ceaselessly yearns for me to be the very best that I can be, regardless of what I have done in my past.

These two aspects of Rosh Hashanah may seem to conflict, but they are really meant to convey one overall message: As a human being, I am inherently meaningful and significant because my choices are not only impactful, but they are mine – precisely because I am free to make them. If I understand this correctly, I will realize that The Day of Judgment is far more than a reminder that I must pay for my choices. Rather, it’s a reminder that no matter what I choose and where I end up as a result of those choices, they can never truly define who I am at my core. I will always remain free to change the course of my life at any time, as long as I heed the call of the shofar, and never lose sight of the greatest miracle of all – the miracle called me.

Wishing you the very best for a sweet new year!

Mark

* http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2011/08/robots/carroll-text

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dangerous assumptions

8/2/2011

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“Benjamin Scheibehenne from the University of Basel and his colleagues, Jutta Mata from Stanford University & Peter Todd from Indiana University, suggest that even though people will claim to be pretty good at predicting the likes and dislikes of others we are often anything but good. Surprisingly, they present evidence showing that the longer we know someone, far from our predictions getting better, they may actually get worse. In one set of studies, those subjects who were asked to predict the preferences of people they had known for a relatively short time were accurate 42% of the time. Surprisingly those who predicted the preferences of someone that they had known for a much longer time were accurate just 36% of the time. Perhaps the most telling result of all was how little awareness people had over how well they actually knew people. In pre-study tests, both groups estimated that their prediction accuracy would be at least 60%.”(Excerpted from: Older? Yes! But Wiser? Maybe Not! – Insideinfluence.com July 5, 2011)

Although many people might be surprised by the results of this study, my anecdotal experience as a marriage and relationship coach firmly backs them up. I have often shared my belief that the biggest problem most couples have is not what they don’t know about each other, but rather what they think they do know. I’m amazed by how often my clients – some of whom have been in their relationships for decades – are convinced that they know all sorts of things about their spouse, when in actual fact they don’t seem to have a clue. And although their cluelessness is obvious to me (and their spouse), it’s usually not at all so for them. In fact, as the results of the abovementioned study indicate, the degree to which they are sure of what they know is often a pretty good indicator as to just how off-base they actually are.

The study attempts to identify reasons why longer-term relationships might engender less knowledge and awareness – such as a decreased motivation to learn, a higher likelihood to assume knowledge, or a greater tendency amongst the “more committed” to feel the need to tell little white lies. I believe that all of these explanations are valid, but fail to nail the essential point, which is that we tend to forget that our experience is a product of our unique and personal perception of life. As a result, we generally equate greater experience with greater knowledge, but the simple truth is that no matter how convinced we are about the way something looks to us, we must never assume that it looks that way to the next person. If we truly understood this, we would feel a powerful combination of humility about our own perspective, and curiosity about how the world actually looks through the eyes of others.

I’m personally struck, not so much by the fact that people assume, but rather by the kinds of things that they assume about each other. I’ve come across husbands who are convinced that their wives don’t care about their own children, and wives who believe that their husbands are only interested in working them to the bone. I’ve even had people tell me with complete wide-eyed sincerity that their friends actually derive great pleasure from being difficult and uncooperative. It’s almost as if they believe that people wake up in the morning, look in the mirror, and say to themselves: “I think I’m going to ruin somebody’s life today!”And what’s even more astounding, is that they are often so enamored by their personal take on reality that even when their spouse or friend denies having those thoughts and motivations, they refuse to believe them!

Sad as it may sound, it seems that the basic assumption of innocence that underpins America’s legal system often fails to extend itself to our personal relationships, which means that when it comes to being judged, many of us are likely to fare better at the hands of an anonymous jury of our peers, than at the hands of those who supposedly know us and care about us most!

According to our sages, the Fast of Tisha B’Av* is meant to wake us up to the fact that the painful lack of holiness in our world, and the more than two thousand years of suffering that our people have experienced as a result, have all been caused by simple baseless hatred (“Sinat Chinam” in Hebrew). There is therefore no better time than now to reflect upon the simple truth that hatred stems not from people’s actions, but from our assumption of guilt regarding their thoughts and motivation. No doubt, there are people out there who are making poor choices and behaving improperly on an objective scale, but we must never forget that it’s our tendency to attribute hostile intent, and not the deeds themselves, that causes the anger, resentment, and ultimately the hatred that we feel within ourselves for our fellow human beings.

So next time we feel the urge to judge someone we know – be it a relative, co-worker or a friend – let’s stop and take a moment to get in touch with how frustrating it feels to be misunderstood and pigeonholed by someone else. Then we might just get humble enough about our own perspective to let go of our assumptions, and consider the possibility that the people in our lives are really no different than us, in as much as they are innocently trying to do the very best that they can – regardless of how things may appear to us.

Wishing you an easy and meaningful fast!

Mark

*The ninth day of the Jewish month of Av has traditionally been a day of catastrophe for the Jewish people throughout their history: The spies’ refusal to enter the land of Israel, the destruction of the first and second Temples, and the expulsion of the Jews from Spain, all took place on this day. Because of this, we observe a 24+ hour public Fast, which begins this year on the evening of Monday, August 8th.

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know your enemy

6/17/2011

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“If you hear a voice within you say ‘you cannot paint,’ then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced.” Vincent Van Gogh

If God could destroy the mighty Egyptian empire, it stands to reason that the inhabitants of Canaan should have been a piece of cake. So how could the generation that witnessed the miracles of the exodus forget what their own eyes had witnessed? Why were they afraid to enter the land? And perhaps even more troubling, how is it possible that the greatest men of that generation, the leaders who were sent to spy out the land, were the very ones who stoked that fear!

I believe that they actually had good reason to be afraid, but that their fear had nothing to with their belief in God or His ability to deliver the Promised Land. They simply knew that once they entered the Land of Israel, the rules of the game would be changed forever.

Jewish tradition teaches us that the Land of Israel is like no other land:

“For the Land to which you come to possess is not like the land of Egypt that you left, where you would plant your seed and water it on foot like a vegetable garden. Rather, the Land to which you cross over to possess it is a land of mountains and valleys; from the rain of heaven it will drink water; a Land that Hashem, your God, seeks out; the eyes of Hashem your God, are always upon it, from the beginning of the year to year’s end.” (Devarim 11: 10 – 12)

According to the Torah, the Land of Israel isn’t subject to the predictable laws and cycles of nature that govern life in other lands. Instead, it falls under God’s direct providence, which means that rather than relying upon their agricultural prowess, the inhabitants of Israel must look directly towards heaven (i.e. – rain) as they work the land for their sustenance. This is why God’s eyes are “always upon it:” He is constantly scrutinizing the behavior of its inhabitants to determine if they are worthy of His blessing. When they are, the land responds by providing for them in abundance. But when they fail to live up to their calling as a nation, it becomes a land that literally “spits out its inhabitants.” (Vayikra 18:25)

This unique capacity of the land of Israel to literally reward and punish its inhabitants is so central to Jewish belief that we are required to mention it three times a day as part of the Shema:

“And it will be that if you hearken to My commandments that I command you today, to love Hashem your God, and to serve Him with all your heart and with all your soul, then I shall provide rain for your Land in its proper time … Beware for yourselves, lest your heart be seduced and you turn astray and serve gods of others and prostrate yourselves to them. Then the wrath of Hashem will blaze against you; he will restrain the heaven so there will be no rain, and the ground will not yield its produce…” (Devarim 11: 13 – 17)

The greatest men of the generation were afraid to enter the land precisely because of their greatness. They more than anyone, could appreciate the level of moral excellence demanded of the Jewish people, and they, more than anyone, knew how unrealistic it was to expect that the people who worshipped the Golden Calf at Sinai would remain worthy of living in the Promised Land. In their eyes, God’s invitation to enter the land could only end in tragedy. But what they failed to understand is that underlying their “realism” was a cynicism that blinded them to the deeper truth: That regardless of the people’s shortcomings and failures, if God told them to inherit the land, it meant that they could. Which means that their true failure was not a lack of belief in God’s power. It was a lack of belief in themselves.

As a spiritual coach, one of the most common, debilitating and tragic tendencies I come across in my clients is a conviction that they are somehow unworthy of love and success. What’s ironic is that the source of this self-loathing is the very quality that drives them to be great: Their inner moral compass. The same sense of right and wrong that enables them to recognize their failures and shortcomings is also what leads them to mistakenly believe that they must beat themselves up, sometimes mercilessly, in order to motivate themselves to improve their ways.

Sadly, these people fail to recognize that their feelings of unworthiness and negativity are actually what keep them from improving themselves. Like the spies in our story, these feelings almost always lead to a paralyzing sense of hopelessness and despair that ultimately keeps them from even trying to change. And herein lies the greatest shame of all, because if they would just ignore that inner voice and take a step forward, they would see that their only real enemy is their own negativity and cynicism. As soon as they take that step, they will begin to understand that they are still worthy of all the goodness and blessing that life has to offer, regardless of their mistakes and shortcomings, precisely because they already have, and have always had, everything that they need to thrive and succeed in this world.

Shabbat Shalom

Mark

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should we celebrate the killing of obl?

5/20/2011

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“Do not despair of retribution” (Chapters of the Fathers (Pirkei Avot) 1:7)

Osama Bin Laden was a despicable human being, and his death is a positive development for mankind. But is it okay to take it a step further? Can we, or perhaps even should we go as far as to openly celebrate his demise?

When I recall the events of 9/11, there’s a part of me that would like nothing more than to dance for joy. But there’s another part of me that can’t forget the crude images of Palestinians distributing candy in the streets on that terrible day. Of course, I realize that they were celebrating the death of innocent victims, while Osama was anything but innocent. Nevertheless, I can’t help but wonder whether a celebration like that on our part would lower us to a level dangerously similar to theirs.

I’ve seen some interesting attempts to answer this question; some making use of God’s well-known and oft-quoted rebuke of the ministering angels at the splitting of the sea: “My creatures are drowning in the sea and you are singing praise!”(Megillah 10b) Reference to this source is certainly appropriate, but those who quote it tend to ignore an obvious problem: God wasn’t bothered by the song of praise sung by the Jews themselves. In fact, that song is deemed holy enough to be incorporated into our daily prayers. Which leaves us with a troubling question: Why was it okay for the Jews to celebrate at the sea, but not for the ministering angels?

Our mystical tradition teaches us that God had to somehow diminish, or hide, His otherwise overwhelming, infinite presence in order to create the universe. Although the true nature of this “hiding” is beyond our finite ability to grasp, one thing we know is that it’s ultimately an illusion. An Infinite Being, by definition, can’t even change, much less hide. What can change however is His creation’s ability to perceive His presence, regardless of the fact that He fills the universe.

When it comes to perceiving the infinite source of reality, our tradition teaches us that not all creatures are equal. Spiritual beings such as angels are by their very nature highly conscious of this presence. But for human beings in this physical and illusory world, high levels of consciousness are anything but intrinsic. In fact, although we may not always realize it, our perception of God is damaged whenever an act of evil is committed, in as much as it appears to contradict the very notion of His benevolent, omniscient and omnipotent existence. The deeper truth of course, is that evil is only “tolerated” so that man can have free will. Nevertheless, a world where evil is allowed to flourish can easily appear to be a world where God doesn’t exist at all.

As long as Pharaoh was allowed to get away with his plan, the Jews’ perception of God’s reality was diminished. But the miraculous destruction of Pharaoh’s army at the sea constituted a dramatic and powerful revelation of His presence. In fact, it was so powerful that even the lowliest maidservant was literally able to point her finger and say: “this is my God, and I will extol Him.” (Shemot 15:2) This revelation, and not Egypt’s destruction, was the subject of the Jewish people’s joy and celebration. The ministering angels, however, were incapable of experiencing revelation, since their awareness of God could never be diminished in the first place. Which means the only thing they could celebrate was Egypt’s downfall – and this we are told unequivocally, was completely unacceptable.

Based upon this understanding, it would be inappropriate for us to gloat over the death of Osama Bin Laden. The openly miraculous and complete redemption of the Jews at the sea constituted a clear and dramatic revelation of God’s presence. But the death of Osama at the hands of US Navy Seals, as part of an ongoing and far-from-finished “war against terror” does not. This of course, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be glad that he’s dead. Nor should we conclude that killing him was wrong. Quite the opposite, we are morally obligated to do everything in our power to fight evil and protect innocent lives. It’s just that we should never lose sight of the fact that taking a life in order to save lives, while proper and justified, is still when all is said and done, a tremendous tragedy.

Evil doesn’t just threaten our lives and our well-being. It threatens us spiritually, whenever it causes us to lose sight of the deeper good that underlies all of existence. This, I believe, is the real lesson of both the song at the sea, and God’s rebuke of the ministering angels. We must never allow evil to keep us from perceiving the good that pervades all of reality. Nor should we lose sight of the innate potential for goodness and meaning that is embedded within every human being, no matter how bad they have become. But most of all, we should always seek out, and never take for granted, any opportunity that we get to appreciate and celebrate the revelation of that good, wherever and whenever we are fortunate enough to experience it.

Shabbat Shalom

Mark

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rediscovering you

4/14/2011

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Obese Ohio Man Found Fused to Chair he Sat in for 2 Years
March 29, 2011

“A morbidly obese Ohio man was in the hospital Tuesday after police found him fused to a chair he had not moved from in two years and were forced to cut a hole in the wall of his house just to get him out, WTRF-TV reported. Officers who responded to the scene said that the man’s skin was fused to the fabric of the chair, and that he was sitting in his own feces and urine with maggots visible. One officer said it was the worst thing he had ever responded to. The landlord told WTRF that the man used to be an active person, and said she had no idea how bad his condition had become …” (Excerpted from foxnews.com)

He used to be an active person. Those words reverberate in my head. Obviously he wasn’t like this all of his life. Obviously he once led an active life, and before that he was someone’s child with hopes and dreams just like you and me. Nevertheless, the image of that pure and innocent child slowly being enveloped in rolls of flesh until he’s no longer recognizable evokes a troubling question: How can someone lose himself so completely that he literally begins to fuse with the material that he has ingested and accumulated over the course of his life?

All around the world, Jewish families will begin their Seders by pointing to a piece of matzah and saying: “This is the bread of poverty.” Rabbi Yehudah Loew, known as the Maharal of Prague (1520 – 1609), asks why Matzah, the quintessential symbol of freedom, is referred to as the bread of poverty, since we generally do not equate poverty with freedom. He answers that the true definition of a poor person is someone who has nothing but himself. Matzah is therefore called the bread of poverty because it is bread that has been stripped to its essence. It is pure flour and water without the fluff. It possesses nothing but itself.

According to the Maharal, the “poverty” of the Matzah teaches us how to become free. We don’t have to be impoverished in a literal sense, but from time to time we must strip away everything that is not essential to our true identity, so that we can reconnect with our innermost self. If we fail to do this, we run the risk of being overwhelmed by the life that we have created. If we lose sight of who we are, we can never be truly free.

Pesach comes around once a year precisely because it’s so easy for us to lose sight of ourselves. If you ask people who they are, some will tell you where they came from, others will tell you what they have or do, and still others will describe what they think and feel. But none of these things are us. They all can and do change, and yet we wake up every morning with a remarkable sense of continuity. Even the dramatic changes that our bodies go through from birth to death cannot alter our unshakable sense of self. But what exactly is that “self?” If we could peel away the various aspects of our lives like the leaves of an artichoke, what would we find at the very core of our being?

Judaism teaches that we are fundamentally spiritual beings. We are souls, not bodies. But our souls are not monolithic entities either. They are comprised of different levels, each deeper, or more essential than the next. The most external or superficial level of the soul is the life force that animates us and enables us to live and act in the world. Deeper levels enable us to feel, speak and think. But according to our mystical tradition, the deepest and most authentic “source” of the soul – the true core of our being – is our creative will. Our will is what creates our thoughts, feelings and actions. It exists on a higher level than our intellect, which is why it is paradoxically both the most essential and the most elusive aspect of our identity. This is why it’s so easy to lose sight of who we are. The ever-changing, formless source of our creativity is ultimately beyond our ability to define or even grasp with our minds.

Matzah reminds us of the most fundamental aspect of what it means to be free: That at our essence, we are creators, and that our thoughts, feelings, and actions are our creations. Even our sense of identity, or ego, is nothing more than a product of the thinking that we make up about ourselves. As products they may be important aspects of our lives, but we must never allow them to define us to the point where they limit our freedom to choose. We must never forget that we have the ability, at any moment, to create something entirely new, regardless of our past. We must never confuse what we produce with who we are. Because whenever we lose sight of our true nature, we run the very real risk of being trapped, weighed down, and sometimes even crushed, by the overwhelming weight of our own creation.

Wishing you a meaningful and joyful Pesach!

Mark

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why we drink on purim

3/17/2011

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It is an obligation to get intoxicated on Purim until you don’t know the difference between blessed is Mordechai and cursed is Haman (Babylonian Talmud Tractate Megillah: 7b)

In 370 BCE the Jews of the Persian Empire were saved from annihilation at the hands of Haman, the evil advisor to the Persian king Achashverosh. So naturally, each year on Purim, the anniversary of that victory, we celebrate our salvation by reading the Book of Esther, sending gifts to our friends and to the poor, enjoying a festive meal and of course, getting drunk.

Wait a minute. Getting drunk! What’s that all about? Is Purim just another variation of the unfortunately all-too-familiar Jewish theme: “they tried to kill us, we won, let’s eat?” Is it simply Judaism’s version of a Super bowl tailgate party? What could possibly be the reasoning behind such a strange obligation – to drink until you can’t tell the difference between the righteous leader of the Jews and his evil protagonist!

In truth, Purim is much more than a story of good triumphing over evil. It’s the story of the Jewish people’s survival in what is for them an entirely new kind of world. Exiled for the very first time in their history, the Jews of the Persian Empire are captives in a strange land, without sovereignty, Temple, prophecy, priests, army or king – and to top it all off, they are facing a mortal threat to their existence. In fact, they seem to have been totally forsaken by God, which, according to tradition, is why the Book of Esther is the only book in the Bible where God’s name isn’t even mentioned once!

So how do the Jews respond to this dire predicament? We could hardly blame them for feeling abandoned or for posing the question often heard after the holocaust: “Where was God?” And yet, their response was entirely different. Instead of doubting, they chose to see their situation as a response to their own shortcomings, and as a result, they fasted and repented. Instead of despairing, they chose to see events as part of a larger plan, and remarkably, by the end of the story, that greater plan was revealed as the ironic twists and turns of the narrative clearly demonstrate that far from being absent, God was in control all along, orchestrating every move to the point where Haman and his ten sons are hung on the very gallows designated for Mordechai!

This is lesson number one of Purim: Reality isn’t what it appears to be. There is someone running the show. He’s just hiding. Nothing is random. Even great evil and suffering, however difficult they may be for us to comprehend, are ultimately part of a larger plan.

But the bigger question still remains: why would God hide while He carries out His plan?

Perhaps the answer lies in what could be considered the climax of the Purim story, when Mordechai, the leader of the Persian Jewish Community, tells his niece, Queen Esther, that she must reveal her true identity to the king and beseech him to save her people from Haman’s decree. When Esther reminds him that she can be put to death for approaching the King without an invitation, Mordechai responds in a surprising manner. Instead of begging her to use her power and influence as we would expect, he calmly says to her:

“Do not imagine that you will be able to escape in the king’s palace any more than the rest of the Jews. For if you persist in keeping silent at a time like this, relief and deliverance will come to the Jews from another place, while you and your father’s house will perish. And who knows whether it was just for such a time as this that you attained the royal position!” (Esther 4:13-14)

In other words, we don’t need you Esther. You need us! Because when God steps out of the picture, so-to-speak, and allows evil to rear its ugly head, it’s not because He’s lost control of His world and needs our help. It’s because He wants to create an opportunity for us to step in and fill the void. The challenges and imperfections that we experience in our lives are the very things that spur us on to fulfill our potential; which means that even the “bad” in our world is ultimately the very best possible thing for us.

Which brings us back to getting drunk to the point where we can’t tell “the difference:” Our drinking on Purim isn’t meant to cloud our perception – it’s meant to deepen it. Because in the end, there is no difference between a Mordechai and a Haman, since both good and evil are part of a bigger plan. Both are essential components of the very best possible world.

Purim reminds us that we alone determine the quality of our lives, and that each of us are capable of experiencing joy regardless of how things seem to be on the outside. It inspires us to take a deeper look at life and see it as it truly is: a tremendous gift and opportunity. But perhaps most of all, it challenges us to look deep within ourselves and recognize what we already know to be true: That even our greatest personal challenges, when all is said and done, are nothing more than tailor-made opportunities to step up to the plate, discover what we are truly made of, and shine.

Wishing you a joyful and meaningful Purim!

And please – drink responsibly!

Mark

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how to wreck a relationship

2/18/2011

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“Love is not love until love’s vulnerable.” Theodore Roethke

So what’s wrong with building a golden calf?

Yes, I know that idol worship is one of the “big three” transgressions that we are required to avoid, even under pain of death. And yes, I agree that it would be an inexcusable offense for the generation that stood at Mt. Sinai! Nevertheless I ask this question, because in spite of the way things appear, I don’t believe this was a case of idol worship at all – at least not in the classic sense. Don’t forget, the people requested the calf only when their leader Moshe failed to return as promised, after spending forty days on Mt. Sinai without food or water.

“And the people saw that Moshe had delayed in coming down from the mountain, and the people gathered around Aaron and said: ‘Rise up and make for us gods (aka: “powers”) who will go before us, because this man Moshe who took us up out of Egypt – we do not know what became of him.’” (Shemot 32:1)

The fact that the people wanted something that would “go before” them, as opposed to something that they could worship, indicates that the calf was meant to replace Moshe, rather than God. What they really wanted was a tangible symbol that they could follow; a physical focal point that would help them relate to the otherwise ungraspable Infinite Being we call God. This desire hardly seems inappropriate, considering they were about to receive two stone tablets that would be placed in an ark topped by two angelic figures known as Cherubim. Keep in mind, these Cherubim were to serve as the focal point for God’s presence in the sanctuary, and they were to be made out of pure gold!

So if the people were destined to build a symbolic focal point out of gold anyway, what was wrong with a golden calf?

According to a section of our oral tradition known as the Midrash, their mistake can actually be traced to the splitting of the sea, when every member of the nation had a prophetic vision of the mystical divine chariot, known as the Merkava. Tradition teaches that the Merkava was borne aloft by four angels, each with a different face: that of a lion, an eagle, an ox and a cherub (with a human face). According to the Midrash, their error was that they were inspired by this vision to choose the ox as their symbol when they should have chosen the cherub.

Although this may seem like a harmless mistake, tradition teaches that these two faces actually represent two modes of God’s interaction with the world. The face of an ox represents a predictable, cause and effect mode of relationship that we experience via the laws of nature. The face of a free-willed human being, on the other hand, represents a more sovereign and therefore less predictable mode of relationship that is not bound by those laws. According to Jewish thought, God tends to limit his interaction to knowable patterns that we call “nature,” but these patterns in fact hide His more authentic "personality," which is free, unlimited, and ultimately unpredictable. This deeper level of divine providence is what is revealed during miracles, when the laws of nature are temporarily suspended.

The people’s choice of the ox therefore indicated a desire for a more conventional “natural” relationship with God that would ultimately afford them a greater measure of predictability and security. To use a corporate analogy, it would be like passing up on a senior role in a large company because you’re afraid that proximity to the C.E.O would make you more vulnerable to his day to day mood swings. Better to remain on a lower level and allow the corporation to insulate you from all but the most serious issues. The main difference between our case and the analogy is that while the corporation is a real entity, nature is actually an illusion that hides the deeper truth of God’s direct involvement and control. The choice of an ox was therefore really an attempt to create distance, and ultimately, to opt out of the relationship altogether.

As a marriage coach, I am amazed at how often couples fight over issues, when the real issue is that they barely know each other. Ironically, these couples usually think they understand each other perfectly, which of course keeps them from ever getting curious enough to actually listen and learn. If they did, they’d realize that much of their “understanding” is really just a two dimensional, fictitious caricature that they have essentially manufactured. Like the builders of the golden calf, instead of relating to their spouse, they choose to interact with a creation of their own making, because it’s ultimately safer and more predictable. After all, if they saw each other as they truly are they would have to recognize and respond to each other’s legitimate needs. In fact, they might even have to be vulnerable enough to take a closer look at themselves.

The saddest part of this however, is that if they would just stop and listen, they would discover a great deal of innocence and common ground. In fact they would see that most of their pre-conceived notions and fears are unfounded. Then they’d realize that it’s not their spouse, but their own fear of vulnerability that has led them to create distance in their marriage, and ultimately destroy the very thing they were trying to build in the first place: a loving and intimate relationship.

Shabbat Shalom

Mark

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