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Vayigash: Finding a Way Out of the Pit

12/29/2011

 
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Joseph Thrown into the Pit. Verduner altarpiece in Klosterneuburg, Austria
If you have ever suffered grief after a loss—and many of us have—you know how debilitating it can be. In this this week's Torah portion (Vayigash), we see Jacob as a father who has lost a child and is devastated. Jacob appears to be so fixated on the imagined death of his favorite son, Joseph, that it affects every decision he makes, even decades after the loss.

Joseph, the reader knows, actually was still alive. His brothers sold him into slavery and, rather than reveal the truth, they allowed their father to believe that he was dead. As a slave, Joseph suffered a series of setbacks and redemptions that eventually led him to greatness. He became the viceroy to Pharaoh in faraway Egypt. 

But Jacob did not know about any of that and it was of no help to his grief. It actually may have made matters worse.

Rabbinic tradition puts great emphasis on the intensity of Jacob's inconsolable grief. There is a teaching that says that it is God's compassion that allows people to gradually release themselves from the memory of people who have died. However, Jacob could not be comforted because Joseph was not really dead and, therefore, he could not be forgotten. Jacob's pain remained as intense as it was in the first moment after he heard of Joseph's death (B. Soferim 43b). 

The grief in this story is not limited to Jacob. When family's shatter and fall apart, loss is experienced by everyone in different ways. Each person responds to grief differently. As viceroy of Egypt, Joseph tested and tormented his brothers, and that may have been a part of his way of acting out the grief of losing his family for so many years.

Joseph kept his identity hidden from his brothers. They did not recognize him when they came before the viceroy of Egypt to request food to keep them from starvation. Joseph added to the deception by falsely accusing the brothers of being spies. He told them that they had to bring their youngest brother—Joseph's only full brother, Benjamin—if they ever wanted to seek food from him again. 

When the brothers returned to their father, and told Jacob that they would not be able to get more food from Egypt without bringing Benjamin, it triggered every fear within Jacob from the loss of Joseph. Jacob, it seemed, would have preferred to starve rather than risk a second loss. Eventually, he relented, but only after one of the brothers, Judah, swore upon his life that the boy would return alive.

When Jacob's sons did bring Benjamin to Egypt and Joseph saw his full brother for the first time in decades, Joseph committed his final deception by falsely accusing Benjamin of stealing. He held Benjamin as a prisoner and told the other brothers they would have to leave him behind in Egypt. 

For the brothers, the moment was a repetition of the sale of Joseph. Would they again abandon their little brother? Had they learned anything from the grief of their father and the guilt of their crime?

This week's Torah portion begins with Judah, who was still unaware of the viceroy's true identity, giving an impassioned speech to Joseph. He pleaded for the release of Benjamin. In the speech, Joseph heard his brother's true repentance for selling him into slavery. Judah told the viceroy of their father's debilitating grief after the loss of his favorite son and how the loss of another favorite son would kill him. Joseph could not contain himself any longer. He cried out, "I am Joseph! Does my father still live?" (Genesis 45:3).

Grief and loss pervade the story. On the one hand, there was the pain of the brothers as they re-experience the trauma and guilt of losing Joseph. For Joseph, there was the agonizing grief of losing his entire family and not being able to reveal himself to them after so many years. Most of all, there was the unquenchable grief of Jacob, the man who could never forget the loss of his favorite child. 

The story forces us to wonder about the nature of grief, sorrow and sadness. Loss is a necessary part of life, so grief, too, must be part of our existence. But Jacob's torment was beyond ordinary grief. 

We know of such grief. We know of people who experience such profound and long-lasting grief that it seems to prevent them from ever knowing joy again. Judaism has something to say about such grief.

In Jewish tradition, grief is not a sin. Yet, there is a recognition that even the most dire sin is not as soul-wrenching as unrestrained grief. Deep and long-lasting sadness is dangerous and a person is urged to avoid it as one would avoid walking near an abyss.

In Chasidic teachings, which emphasize the importance of joy and avoiding sadness, the masters say that a Jew "must always be filled with joy." Yet, there is a recognition that this is not always an easy thing to achieve, especially in the face of grief. 

Today, we generally think about prolonged and deep grief as a sign of depression. It is an illness that affects a person's capacity to feel hope. When we are depressed, our ability to imagine a positive future is compromised and we feel incapable of taking any action to make our situation better.

Yet, as an illnesses, depression can be treated. There are things that we can do to find our way back toward joy when we are depressed. In helping people who are depressed, I generally recommend that they seek counseling from a qualified professional. I also suggest that they do simple things that can help them rediscover hope. 

Laughing, singing, dancing, meditating, praying, walking outside, painting, writing, and planning for the future are all things that I have seen people do to help themselves out of the hopelessness of depression. Most of all, I have found, that when depressed people do things to help others, it helps them to renew their own capacity to find joy in their own lives.

The Joseph story comes to its climax this week with the revelation of Joseph to his brothers and Joseph's reunification with his father. The separation and loss that led to grief came to an end, but the aftereffects of grief remained. 

Joseph's brothers continued to be wary that their brother would seek revenge against them after their father's death. Joseph, too, seemed to have a permanent emotional separation from his brothers. Before his death, Jacob offered blessings to his sons that reflected the bitterness of his years of grief. We are reminded that the acute pain of grief can be comforted, but it never can be fully healed.

I know, as I write this, that many people struggle silently with grief. I know that there are times when depression seems like a bottomless pit from which there is no exit. The story of Joseph can feel like a betrayal to people who know that they, unlike Jacob and Joseph, will never again see the people they miss. 

Yet, the story can be a reminder that we can take action to emerge from sorrow. Joseph and his brothers found a way to heal the pain of their separation. Jacob did renew his life. He embraced his grandsons and saw the light of their father's eyes within them. 

We can seize our lives and become our own champions. We can find ways to take simple steps toward new hope.


Other posts on this topic:
Devarim: How?

The Last Miracle

12/27/2011

 
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Photo: Brett Z. Feldman
Chanukah is the only holiday celebrated by the ancient rabbis to remember an event that occurred after the biblical period. The miracle of Chanukah, then, is the last miracle that we commemorate.

Rabbi Yehudah Leib Alter of Ger taught in his classic collection, Sefat Emet, that the memory of all miracles tends to fade in time, so, throughout the biblical period, God would keep performing new miracles when the light of the previous miracle had faded. In this way, Israel always would keep the memory of God and draw strength from it. However, since the time of the Maccabees, the miracle of Chanukah has been the only miracle to sustain us and to keep God's memory alive in us. 

He says, "Chanukah is the last miracle that was performed for us. Therefore, we have to find special strength in it" (pp. 1:208-209).  Chanukah, he says, is uniquely able to keep burning within us because "the light of the Chanukah miracle has the power to keep renewing itself until the final redemption comes." This is why, he says, the holiday is called "Chanukah," meaning, "rededication"—this holiday has the ability to rededicate and renew itself through the ages and never fade.

When we consider that the minor holiday of Chanukah is, indeed, one of the two most celebrated Jewish holidays by Jews in North America (along with Passover), it does seem that this little flickering flame of a holiday does have a remarkable power to keep itself going.

We are on the eve now of the last night of Chanukah, the final commemoration this year of the final miracle that renews itself and must sustain until the world's redemption. Therefore, it is a fitting day to ask this: How do you keep the light of spirituality burning in your life? How do you keep the memory of the miracles you have experienced fresh in your mind? How do you sustain a sense of wonder for the world around you?

This is the great question at the center of all of the world's religious and spiritual traditions. We are not just flesh and blood. We are radiant beings of light created to fulfill a divine purpose, yet we keep forgetting this about ourselves. How do we keep ourselves from forgetting?

Judaism's answer takes the form of a hundred small acts of remembrance to be repeated every day. Every time we express gratitude for the food we have to eat, every time we greet a new day as a magical gift that has been given to us without our asking, every time we help a person in need, every time we struggle to find meaning in our lives, and every time we open our hearts in prayer, we help ourselves to keep the fire within us kindled and to keep ourselves from forgetting who we really are.

Tonight, the Chanukah lights will burn their brightest and then sputter out until next year. However, those lights are a symbol of the light that we can renew daily within ourselves by the way that we choose to live our lives. May this year's Chanukah lights inspire you to rededicate yourself to a year of remembering.

Happy Chanukah!


Other posts on this topic:
Havdalah

The Audacity of the Miracle

12/26/2011

 
The Talmud says that there once was a dispute between the two major rabbinic schools about the way that the Chanukah menorah should be lit. The students of Shammai claimed that one should light eight lights on the first night of Chanukah and reduce the number of lights by one each night. The followers of Hillel said the opposite—on the first night one light should be kindled and one light should be added each night (B. Shabbat 21b).
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We know from the way we light the menorah today that the House of Hillel won this argument. But why? On a purely historical level, the House of Shammai's system seems to make more sense. When the Maccabees lit the Temple Menorah with the one remaining cruse of oil, it must have burned brightest on the first day and gradually faded as the miracle progressed from day to day. On the eighth and final day, we might imagine that the Menorah flame was low, but strong enough to continue until more oil became available. The House of Shammai wanted to light their Chanukah lights to reflect that fading.

The House of Hillel had a different perspective. Lighting the Chanukah lights, to them, was not just a representation of the literal burning of the Temple Menorah when the Maccabees rededicated it. It is meant to represent something deeper, something more spiritual. What does the increasing number of candles on our menorahs represent?

I asked this question a few years ago of a group of students in a b'nei mitzvah preparation class. I will never forget how startled I was when a ten-year-old boy gave this precocious answer: "The lights of the menorah represent the increasing audacity of the miracle." I was floored.

Yes. On the second day after the Temple Menorah was lit, there would have been some surprise and some gratitude that the meager amount of oil was still burning. By the fourth day, the surprise may have deepened into a quiet smiling of the soul. Something special was happening. By the seventh day (that's the day that starts this evening at sunset), there would have been no way to ignore the fact that there was a true miracle. Even if the light had grown more feeble with time, the audacity of the miracle had grown to proportions that could not be denied. Those seven bright, burning lights on our menorahs tonight represent that growing audacity.

And so it is in our lives, if we allow our perception of miracles to burn brightly within us. 

For me, there is no greater miracle in my life than my daughters. On the day that each of them was born, I held them in my arms and knew that I had been touched by God. Every day since, the miracle has grown. They have progressed, step by step, into walking, talking, thinking, feeling, caring and creating people. My oldest now is on the doorstep of remarkable and beautiful womanhood. 

The seventh night of Chanukah has a special meaning in some Northern African Jewish communities. It is called Chag HaBanot, "The Festival of the Daughters." (I learned this today from the blog of my dear friend Rabbi Rachel Barenblat, the Velveteen Rabbi). What could be more appropriate for recognizing the audacity of the miracle tonight than to honor the wonder that parents are privileged to witness in the growth of their children?

The Chanukah lights are not just a reminder of events that happened to other people, long ago. They are a reminder of the blossoming miracles that we experience in our own lives. Tonight is the seventh night. This year's Chanukah cycle almost has reached its climax. Look into those lights and recognize the overflowing growth of the miraculous all around you.

Happy Chanukah!


Other posts on this topic:
The Blind and the Light
What is Chanukah?
The Miracle of the First Day of Chanukah
Season of Miracles, Season of Hope

Beyond the Movie and Chinese Food

12/25/2011

 
It has become a cultural joke among North American Jews that today is a day for going to the movies and a Chinese restaurant. After all, they seem to be the only things that are open.

I have no problem with that and I might partake myself. (I recommend the new Muppet Movie. The eggplant with garlic sauce at the Chinese place in Old Palm City is quite good.)

But I also want to suggest a different take on December 25th. Think of it this way: There is nothing to buy. Your out-of-the-house wokplace is closed. The streets are quiet. Nobody expects you to do much. The kids are home. Chances are that it's a beautiful day. This is your once-a-year chance to turn off the hustle and bustle of our non-stop, busy, wired and wireless, 24/7 society.

I'm turning my computer off now. You can do the same. I think I'll go play with my kids, go for a walk, read a book, sip some wine, and just have myself a lovely little day.

Happy sixth night of Chanukah.


Other posts on this topic:
How Does a Joyful Jew Respond to "Merry Christmas"?

The Blind and the Light

12/24/2011

 
It once happened that I was walking outside in the darkness of night when I saw a blind man who was walking down the street with a torch in hand. I said to him, “My son, why do you need to have this torch?”  He said to me, “Whenever I have the torch in my hand, people see me and they are able to save me from ditches, thorns and briers.”
— Babylonian Talmud, Megila 24a-b
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Photo by Steve Rozansky
Chanukah is a time when we create light against the darkness. We do not understand this act just on a simple, literal level, though. The lights of Chanukah represent the hope with which the Maccabees lit the Temple Menorah even though they only had one day’s supply of oil. The lights represent the struggle against ignorance and intolerance typified by King Antiochus. The lights represent our desire to see beyond material, physical reality and to glimpse the divinity that is hidden in the reality all around us.

This lesson from the Talmud comes to remind us of something else about the Chanukah lights. They are not just there for our own benefit. The light of hope is there for us to help the hopeless. The light of justice and tolerance is there for us to show others the way to create a more just world. The light of mystical insight is there for us to bring greater meaning and understanding to the lives of others. If we look at the Chanukah lights only for our own benefit, we are making ourselves blind to their most important power.  

The light we create at this time of year is a light that is meant to be shared. There are two unique mitzvot associated with this holiday. The first is to kindle the Chanukah lights. That is the mitzvah of creating the light for ourselves. The second mitzvah is pirsum ha-nes, “to make the miracle known.” We put the lit menorah in the window so that everyone who passes by our homes will see it and know of God’s miracles. That is the mitzvah of creating light for others, to give them hope, justice and understanding.

We also must remember that, sometimes, we are the blind man. Sometimes it is we who are groping through the darkness. It is then that we need the assistance of others to help us through life’s difficult ditches, thorns and briers. We hold up the lights of Chanukah as an act of humility that says, when I am in need of help, I am willing to allow others to come and aid me.

Have a happy fifth night of Chanukah!


Other posts on this topic:
What is Chanukah?
The Miracle of the First Day of Chanukah
Season of Miracles, Season of Hope
Devarim: How?

Dreidel: The Board Game

12/23/2011

 
Dreidel is everyone's favorite Chanukah game involving a four-sided top with Hebrew letters on the sides. Really, what's not to like? 

While there are a few variants on the rules, playing dreidel is fairly predictable. The pot never gets too big because someone cleans it out every few turns by getting a Gimmel. The game tends to go on forever without anyone gaining a decisive lead. Eventually, people start eating their chocolate gelt until there aren't enough pieces left to wager. Ho hum.
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That's why, a few years ago, I created a dreidel board game to make things a bit more interesting. The board and the cards for the game can be downloaded below. The rules are printed on the board. You will need a few additional items: A dreidel, chocolate gelt, a menorah, candles, and different colored game tokens for each player to move around the board.

Players in "The Dreidel Game" take turns, spinning the dreidel and moving around the board accordingly. It's a cooperative game in which everyone works together to light all of the candles in the menorah. (I don't actually light the candles with fire. Just putting a candle into one of the holders on the menorah means that it is "lit.") When all the candles are in place, the game is over and everyone wins. 

The game works well in my family because my daughters don't like competitive games with "losers." It might also be more interesting than the traditional dreidel game, especially for older kids and adults, and it gives everyone a chance to hear and tell the Chanukah story and to think about miracles in their lives.

This is my Chanukah gift to you for the fourth night. You're welcome to give it a try tonight or any time you want. It's helpful to print the board in the largest format your printer will allow, or enlarge it on a color photocopier. Let me know if you like it.

Happy Chanukah!
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What is Chanukah?

12/22/2011

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Chanukah is the most interpreted and reinterpreted holiday in the Jewish calendar. Even the rabbis of the Talmud were not certain how to define it. They began their discussion of the holiday by asking the question, "What is Chanukah?" (B. Shabbat 21b)

Apparently, at the time of the rabbis, there was no single, clear answer to the question. I don't think there is one in our times, either.
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In the Talmud, the rabbis tell the story of how God sustained a single cruse of oil to keep the Temple Menorah lit for eight days. That version of "the miracle of Chanukah" does not appear in any sources earlier than the Talmud, even though the events of Chanukah occurred more than 250 years earlier. What is more, the rabbis gloss over what previously had been the central miracle in the story—the military victory by the Maccabees over the Seleucid Empire in the year 165 b.c.e. 

Why didn't the rabbis of the second century c.e. like the story of Judah Maccabee and the improbable victory of the Israelites over the far more powerful Seleucids? There are at least two reasons: 

1) They despised the Maccabees' descendants, the heavy-handed Hasmonean Dynasty, which ruled over Judea into the first century c.e. The rabbis opposed the Hasmoneans military expansionism and the cruelty with which they ruled their own people. They were not about to celebrate the birth of that dynasty by making Chanukah a holiday about Judah Maccabee. (His name does not even appear in the Talmud).

2) The rabbis lived in a time when Judea was under the rule of the Roman Empire. The Judeans had suffered horribly after disastrous rebellions against the Romans in 70, 117, and 135 c.e. The rabbis opposed any further militant action against the Romans as self-defeating. Their reluctance to celebrate Chanukah as the commemoration of a military victory over occupiers may have been because they did not want the holiday to incite further rebellions.

So, what did the rabbis do? They changed the central story of Chanukah. They cut out the Maccabees military triumph and replaced it with the story about the cruse of oil. The rabbis established a passage from the book of Zechariah as the special reading for the Shabbat that falls during Chanukah. In this passage, the prophet sees a vision of the Temple Menorah and an angel tells him, "'Not by might and not by power, but by My spirit,' says Adonai of Hosts" (Zechariah 4:6).

Get it? The rabbis are telling you that if you're looking for a hero on Chanukah, it isn't the guy with the sword in his hand. It's God.

The rabbis changed the meaning of Chanukah. The funny thing is, we've never stopped changing its meaning to this day. Today, many American Jews love to talk about Chanukah as the anniversary of the world's first rebellion for religious freedom, or as a battle against the threat of assimilation. Both of those versions of the Chanukah story say a lot more about our own times and the attitudes of today's Jews than they say about anything that happened in the second century b.c.e. 

First of all, the Maccabees were not interested in the concept of freedom of religion for anyone other than themselves. They would not have been fans of the First Amendment, which defends the rights of all religions. The Maccabees killed people, including Israelites, for not adhering to their own version of Torah.

The book of Maccabees was written by Jews in the first century b.c.e., and tells the story of the rebellion long before the time of the Talmud. It contains no mention of the miracle of the oil, but it does tell a story about how the Maccabees celebrated their victory by wearing garlands made of ivy (II Maccabees 10). Ivy is the Greek symbol of celebration, associated with the god Dionysus. Why would the Maccabees, of all people, celebrate their victory over the scourge of Greek culture by using a Greek symbol? It seems that cultural assimilation was not really the main point of their rebellion. They were interested mostly in not being under foreign control. 

The meaning of Chanukah has continued to change with the times. To mystics of European Chasidism in the 18th century, Chanukah was the holiday of complete repentance through the ecstatic love of God. To the Zionists of the middle of the 20th century, it was a holiday to remember that "in every age a hero arose to redeem us," and which calls upon the Jewish people to arise again.

So, let me suggest that we are again at a moment when we need to find new meanings for this holiday of many meanings. American Jews today do not need another reason to celebrate military victories while living in a country that has, by far, the most powerful military the world has ever seen. We do not need another reason to preach against assimilation to a Jewish community that needs to make interfaith families feel welcomed, not shunned. We do not need another occasion to get huffy about our right to practice our religion while living  in a society which, honestly speaking, has done more to protect our religious rights than any society in human history.

What we do need, however, is to return Judaism to being a religion of joy, not one that forever bewails our tearful past. We need to return Judaism to a tradition in which people can fulfill their spiritual needs and find meaning in their lives. Chanukah can be a holiday to celebrate that, and more.

The root of Chanukah is hope. It is a holiday in which we light candles at the darkest time of year to coax the cosmos into turning the clock around and start adding light to our days instead of taking it away. (Miraculously, it works every year.) It is a holiday about finding joy, and not despair, in dark moments. It is a holiday about connecting to our families and communities despite a society that seems to try to pull us apart from one another. It is a holiday in which we celebrate difference—both our own uniqueness as Jews, and also the diversity within the human family that has many and glorious ways of celebrating this time of year. 

This year, as I light my family's Chanukah menorah, I look up and down my street and see a dazzling display of lights celebrating many versions of different holidays. To me, it is not threatening. It is beautiful. Chanukah is an occasion for knowing ourselves to be a part of the bigger story of the cycles of nature and the undying fire of the human spirit. 

What is Chanukah? It is a holiday of joy.

Happy third night of Chanukah!


Other posts on this topic:
The Miracle of the First Day of Chanukah
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Chanukah Chaiku

12/21/2011

 
Patty dripping oil
Beckons me: Eat just one more.
Latke overload.
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My wife's cheese latkes. Mmmmm.
Have a glorious and satisfying second night of Chanukah!

The Miracle of the First Day of Chanukah

12/20/2011

 
As the sun sets this evening, we will be lighting the first candle of Chanukah, our festival of lights at the darkest time of the year. There is something about the first night of Chanukah that is intriguing to me. It all rests on a simple question: What was the miracle of the first day of Chanukah?

As any Jewish schoolchild could tell you, we light the Chanukah menorah in remembrance of the miracle of the rededication of the Temple by the Maccabees following their war against the Seleucid Empire. (We sometimes call them "Syrians" or "Greeks." It's complicated). There was only one cruse of oil available to light the seven-branched Temple Menorah for the dedication, and the oil was only expected to last for one day. 
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Photo editing by Len Radin
However, a miracle occurred and the oil lasted for eight days. That is why we light our nine-branched Chanukah menorahs for eight days, in memory of the miracle. We spin the dreidel with the four letters Nun, Gimel, Hey and Shin to remember the phrase Nes Gadol Hayah Sham, "A Great Miracle Happend There."

So, as you may have guessed, the problem is that, looking at the story in its most simple form, there was no miracle on the first day. There was a quantity of oil that was supposed to burn for one day, and it did. There was nothing miraculous about that, just oil burning the way it was supposed to burn. 

Move along folks. Nothing to see here.

Yet, we call the first day holy. We recite Hallel on the first day of Chanukah as if it were a full festival. We recite the prayer, Haneirot Halalu, in which we say:

We light these candle for the miracles and the wonders, for the redemption and the victories that You made for our ancestors, in those days at this season, through Your holy priests. During all eight days of Chanukah these lights are holy. We are not to make ordinary use of them, but only to gaze upon them to give thanks and praise to Your Great Name for Your miracles, Your wonders and Your redemption.

We say, "All eight days." We say, "For Your miracles." What is the miracle of the first day?

The miracle of the first day is that the Maccabees lit the Menorah at all. The miracle is that they knew that the single cruse of oil was supposed to burn out long before they could get more oil, and they lit it anyway.  They didn't stop to question their obligation to restore sanctity to their community and to their lives. They didn't say, "Let's just wait until we get some more oil and light it then."

They had hope. They had the ability to look at a bad situation and still believe that it could become better. They believed that things would work out if only they had the courage to do what was right.

I talk to my kids about this. When they feel discouraged by difficult situations at school with their friends or when other kids are being mean to them, I tell them to have the courage to hope and try to make the situation better, even if they don't think it will work. I tell them that, when they are willing to hope and believe in what they know is right, it is far more likely to happen. Miracles don't happen to people who expect the worst. Miracles happen when we hope.

Have a wonderful first night of Chanukah tonight. Light that one little candle with its feeble, flickering flame and know that it represents a full, complete miracle. It is the miracle that, on one of the longest, darkest nights of the year, we light a small candle of hope—the hope that the days will soon get longer and our every darkness will turn into light.  May it be so for you.

Happy Chanukah.


Other posts on this topic:
Season of Miracles, Season of Hope

The Tebow Effect

12/19/2011

 
There's been a lot of talk about Tim Tebow, the quarterback for the Denver Broncos, because of two simple facts: A) Since making him the team's quarterback, the Broncos have reversed a trend by actually winning a few football games, and B) he is very public and demonstrative about his Christian faith. Most of the talk about Tebow has centered around the possibility of a relationship between A and B.
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Now, in respect to both, A and B, I root for different teams. I am a fan of the New England Patriots (who thrashed Tebow and the Broncos last night, thank you very much) and I am a Jew. Yet, I can admire Tebow both for his considerable athletic prowess and for his sincerely held religious beliefs. What is more, as a religious person myself, I know that there almost certainly is a relationship between Tebow's faith and his performance on the field.  

When faith is a regular part of people's lives, their awareness tends to expand beyond their personal desires to include a broader sense of what is best for their community, for their coreligionists, or for the world and all humanity. People who practice faith are in the habit of approaching life with an ideal of service to others, and, like a muscle, that potential strengthens with use. People who practice faith are practiced in seeing the universe as a place of order and seeing themselves as having a place within that order. As a result, they tend to approach life with greater acceptance of "what is" and tend to have a greater sense of equanimity and inner strength. 

How could these qualities not be an asset to a quarterback, whose job requires awareness of the needs of his team, dedication to serving those needs, and the confidence and inner stillness required to throw a perfect spiral with a 250-pound defensive end approaching?

Before folks get huffy with what I just wrote, let me be clear on two points about what I am not saying. I am not saying that people who do not practice a faith do not have these qualities. I, and you, know lots of people who are generous in spirit, devoted to service, who have great inner strength, and who have never once prayed, studied a sacred text, meditated, or practiced downward facing dog. I am just saying that engaging in these practices, on the whole, can help a person achieve those qualities. I am not saying that a quarterback can be successful only by being a person of faith. I submit Ben Roethlisberger as exhibit for the defense. I am just saying that the practice of faith can help—or, as the Jewish saying goes, "It couldn't hurt." (To make it Jewish, pronounce the last word as if spelled "hoyt.")

So, yes, I do believe that there is a connection between Tim Tebow's devotional life and his success on the field. That makes sense to me and, I think, it makes sense to most people who have a significant faith practice.

The place where the conversation about Tebow and religion gets silly for me, though, is when people ask if Tebow's success is due to divine intervention. Is Tim Tebow "God's Quarterback"? 

The fact that people even ask the question is due to a phenomenon that I will call "The Tebow Effect." The Tebow Effect has gone by other names, such as "The Reggie White Effect" and "The Michael Chang Effect," named for earlier athletes who stirred controversy by professing their faith in the same manner as others might endorse a product. In each case, the controversy was magnified by the suggestion (sometimes by the athlete, sometimes by others) that God favors the faithful on the playing field. That, of course, raises hackles on all sides. 

Secularists respond by scoffing and saying that such beliefs show how mindless and absurd religion is. Religious fundamentalists then react with equally passionate statements about how they are persecuted and derided in mainstream culture. Religious liberals, like me, write essays (peppered with self-effacing humor) about how both sides are wrong. The athlete gets to be the center of media attention for a little while, making his publicist very happy. Voila, there you have it—The Tebow Effect.

Being a creature of the fickle media, The Tebow Effect can never last very long. It will soon be displaced by the next cultural phenomenon to divert our attention. So, let's just enjoy The Tebow Effect while it lasts and use it as an opportunity to reflect. It can remind us what religious faith is really about—deepening our connection to life's meaning, honing our appreciation of the miracles that surround us, acting to make the world a better place, and finding peace within ourselves and with the world around us. 

And if winning the odd football game should enter the process at the same time, bravo to that.

Other posts on this theme:
Why Torah is Like Baseball 
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