Rav Ben Goldberg

June 10, 2018

Shlach Lecha

Last Sunday, I had the incredible good fortune to stand under the chuppah with Daniel, as we were married according to the laws of Moses and Israel. In our wedding ceremony, we attempted to balance all of the different elements that make up who we are. On the one hand, the ceremony and reception were both very Jewish events. They had all of the recognizable elements of a Jewish wedding: a rabbi, a chuppah, a marriage contract, a horah dance. We even did the mother-son dance to “Sunrise, Sunset.”

But, obviously, as two men getting married, the ceremony was also a major revision of Jewish tradition. Our wedding in a Conservative synagogue would have been unimaginable even one generation ago. So, we wanted to present our wedding as both ordinary and in-line with lots of other Jewish weddings, but also as a special moment in the history of American Judaism. It was a gay wedding in which several leaders of the Conservative movement could participate without anyone batting an eyelash.

But it was also a wedding just like any other, a time for family and friends to gather and celebrate. It celebrated my and Daniel’s partnership, a partnership that we hope will sustain us through the good times and the bad times, through a long and successful life together. It ended with breaking two glasses, reminding us, even in our happiest moment, of the brokenness and pain that are part of life.

Our Torah portion this week, Shlach Lecha, contains the stories of the 12 spies who scouted out the land of Israel. Moses sent them to bring back a report about the land so the people could prepare to conquer and settle it. Moses instructs them to find out: “Are the people who dwell in it strong or weak, few or many? Is the country in which they dwell good or bad? Are the towns they live in open or fortified? Is the soil rich or poor? Is it wooded or not?” Furthermore, Moses tells them to “take pains to bring back some of the fruit of the land” (Numbers 13: 18-20).

The spies return from their tour of the land, fruit in hand. But they tell the people that the current inhabitants of the land are powerful and strong. The people panic and lose their faith in God and in themselves. They even suggested heading back to Egypt. In response, God decides that the people will have to wander in the desert for 40 years, one year for each of the 40 days that the spies spend in the land. That way, a new, more confident generation, could actually inherit the land.

During their time scouting out the land, the spies reached a place called Eshcol. Following Moses’ instruction, they cut down a branch with a single cluster of grapes, and also some pomegranates and figs. The Torah says that the cluster was so big that it had to be carried by two. Rashi, the great medieval commentator, says this means that it was carried on two poles by eight of the spies together. But a more straightforward reading is that the cluster of grapes was carried on one pole by two of the spies. This scene is usually depicted as such, for example, on the emblem of the Israeli ministry of tourism.

In other words, carrying the grapes could be a symbol of partnership, of two people working together to do something that neither could do alone. In this context, I want to examine two midrashim, two rabbinic interpretations, about this cluster of grapes.

The first midrash (Yalkut Pitron Torah) pays close attention to the word of the bundle of grapes and also the location from where the spies took them: Eshcol. This word sounds similar to the root shin-kaf-lamed, which is the Hebrew root for bereavement or loss. On account of these grapes, and the panic they inspired among the people, the wives of the 600,000 Israelite men were bereaved when their husbands died in the wilderness. This midrash goes on to compare the cluster of grapes to the fruit through which Adam and Eve sinned and were expelled from the Garden of Eden.

So, according to this midrash, the partnership of carrying the grapes was a disastrous one. It led to the bereavement of an entire generation that died off in the wilderness. It shows how harmful the spies’ cooperation was to the fate of the entire people.

But another midrash (Shir HaShirim Rabbah 4:12) shows that there was also a positive aspect to this cluster of grapes. This midrash suggests that this cluster of enormous grapes was the source of the wine that was poured out as part of the ritual in the Tabernacle during the 40 years in the wilderness. Perhaps the grapes were so large precisely so the wine from them would last for 40 years. So, even though this whole episode was the cause of the 40 years of wandering, it also offered the materials to sustain the people’s religious life during that time. The grapes symbolized their lack of faith in God, but also allowed them to worship God as they wandered in the wilderness. That which caused the rupture also contained the seeds of repair.

Together, these two midrashim remind us that partnership is a neutral thing. It can be put both to good and bad ends, even in the same act. The grapes brought about great sadness and mourning, but also were the medium for great joy and celebration.

So too are the fruits of any act of partnership. Even at one and the same moment, any act of partnership can have both good and bad results. Even the best of marriages and relationships can have its high and low points, its cycles of rupture and repair.

Nonetheless, my hope is that is that our marriage and life together will result in more sweetness than sorrow, more joy than dejection. In all of our partnerships in life, with our spouses, our relatives and our friends, may the grapes we carry together always be sweet.

April 11, 2018

Passover Yizkor Sermon

Rav Ben Goldberg

One of my favorite television shows growing up was Boy Meets World. The show featured the middle-school antics of Corey Matthews and his friends. They would inevitably find themselves in need of the wise guidance of their teacher Mr. Feeney, played by the actor William Daniels.

I remember one such valuable life lesson from the show, made memorable by the clever use of a metaphor. In that particular episode, there had been some breach of trust between two of the main characters. One of the young students sought the advice of his beloved teacher. Mr. Feeney pulled out a roll of canvas cloth, which he had on hand for his painting hobby. “Very strong material; difficult to rip,” he told the student. He then produced scissors and made the smallest of cuts in the canvas, saying: “Of course, rugged as it is, even the smallest snip and…” Rip. The previously resilient fabric easily tore in two. “Once the integrity has been breached,” he concluded, “even the strongest fabric can unravel.”

Perhaps our own lives and relationships can feel like that piece of canvas. The people we love are woven in to the warp and woof of our lives. Our lives are bound up with others’, much like the threads in a piece of canvas. And like the canvas, we are stronger for it. Our beloved family and friends can sustain and support us as we go through the ups and downs our lives. Just as canvas keeps out the wind and rain, our loved ones can help shield us from the unexpected things life throws our way. And just as canvas can hold a beautiful painting, our loved ones help create the platform for something beautiful to emerge. What a blessing it can be to live an interwoven life.

But of course, this can all unravel in an instant. For if we love, we will inevitably experience loss. The strongest of canvas can easily be torn asunder, never to be reunited. This is true even when those we love—our parents, siblings, spouses and partners, our children, other relatives and dear friends—are with us for a full lifetime. All the more so, when our loved ones leave us before their time. And when we have strained or disappointing relationships with our relatives, their passing can leave us in mourning for what might have been.

Perhaps this is the symbolism of k’riya, the ritual tearing of garments usually performed just prior to a Jewish funeral. The custom of tearing garments in response to a death is ancient. In the Torah, both Reuben and Jacob tear their clothes in response to hearing that their brother and son Joseph is dead. (Of course, the death was faked and Joseph was very much alive.) King David also tore his garments upon hearing of the death of King Saul and his son Jonathan, with whom David had an especially close friendship.

The symbolism of these acts is fairly obvious: something which previously had held strong has been destroyed. Traditionally, those ripping their clothes would even expose some skin as a sign of grief. We do this so to have a tangible sign, both to ourselves and others, that we have lost someone we love. It provides a sense of catharsis of the intense emotions of grief. As Rabbi Joseph Ozarowski writes, “the healing process cannot begin until one has confronted the fact that loss has occurred. By acknowledging what has befallen through the ripping of clothing … we begin this process as we address our deepest psychological needs as a mourner.”

So this kind of k’riya, tearing, is a sign of what has been lost. But there is another kind of k’riya that is a sign of possibility for the future. On these final days of Passover, we commemorate the splitting of the Red Sea, an event our tradition calls k’riyat Yam Suf, using that same word for tearing or splitting.

We know the story well: Pharaoh and the Egyptian army chased the freed slaves out of Egypt, cornering them at the Sea of Reeds. Behind the people was a seemingly un-crossable sea, in front of them, an army of horses and chariots. The situation looked hopeless. But then a great miracle occurred: the sea split, the people crossed on dry land, and then the sea drowned the pursuing Egyptian army. Having feared for their lives, the people sang out joyously on the other side: “I will sing to the LORD, for God has triumphed gloriously; Horse and driver God has hurled into the sea. The LORD is my strength and might; God is become my deliverance” (Exodus 15:1-2).

So perhaps the torn garment, in a way, might also evoke this triumphant moment. Yes, when we lose someone we love, there can be a sense of irreparable loss. But the tearing of the cloth, like the tearing of the sea, might also symbolize a previously unimaginable future, a new beginning, a new wilderness in which to wonder. The rupture might point the way forward toward a new reality, a reality in which we can become liberated from whatever previously constrained us.

We live with our losses. Even when the rips are sewn back up, we can still see that they were once there. But the rupture of loss might also allow us to enter a new future. We may even find ourselves singing a new song to God.

About Rav Ben Goldberg

Posts by Rav Ben Goldberg:

Shlach Lecha

Passover Yizkor Sermon