From the Rabbi
Rabbi Robert L. Wolkoff
Previous Messages
“Miracle on 4th Street”
It was Thursday, June 30, a beautiful summer evening, an opportunity to launch the kayak at the beach located at the end of Fourth Street. At 7 p.m., my dog Chaya and I were on the water. My phone rang. I saw it was a congregant calling, so I took the phone out of my waterproof pouch, and we conversed while I rowed. As I was speaking, I noticed that Chaya was extremely interested in something in the water, more than usual. Perhaps it was the many oyster cages that are cleaning the water. Toward the end of my phone conversation, I saw that Chaya’s gaze in the water was becoming more fixated. And then, at one instant, she plopped in, head first.
“I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go,” I hollered into the phone while trying to shove it into the swim-secure pouch. I didn’t have time to secure it completely. Nevertheless, I tossed the bag to my friend, Father Roy, who was in his kayak, with his dog. I ripped the air pod from my ear, tossed it into my kayak, and jumped into the water.
As I jumped, my kayak capsized and my toss missed Father Roy’s kayak. The bag sank like a stone. It is supposed to float, but because I had stuffed it with my wallet, phone, car key, and all the rest of the keys to my life, it was too heavy. The water was about nine feet deep. I grabbed Chaya and swam to shore with her while Father Roy was in the water, attempting to find the pouch.
We dropped the dogs at my house, and returned to the beach to continue the search. It was getting dark. We tried to reconstruct our path through the water. We asked a young man near the beach if he had seen our pathway, and also if he knew anyone who could dive, perhaps a local person who deals with the oysters. We had already called the police, but they said they couldn’t help us. Neither could the fire department or a couple of diving places that did not see our predicament as a priority.
The young man apologized, said he was unfamiliar with the area, was here for the summer, going door-to-door to offer chemical-free pesticide service. And then he said, “I’ll help you find it.” By this time, it was too late to get back into the water. A storm was gathering, and the highest tide of the season had been predicted. Aiden, the young man, offered to come back the next day to help us. We exchanged phone numbers. This was encouraging. And even though it was dark out, my heart was starting to brighten up.
Like many stories in the Zohar, the main text of Kabbalah, when protagonists run into mysterious strangers — usually an old man with a donkey or holding a staff — they may at first impression seem unhelpful, but them turn out to be wise and prophetic.
The next day, one of the diving companies agreed to join us at 4 p.m., to spend one hour searching. That would cut it close to Shabbat but what choice did I have? Also, Father Roy would have to come back to Greenport to point out the exact spot, which he felt he could identify. Shortly before 4, the diving company canceled; we were low on the priority list. We had called the police, fire department, and other rescue diving companies, but when those avenues failed, we decided to depend on ourselves. We bought two diving masks and snorkels.
At that exact moment, the phone rang. It was Aiden. He was on his way to us, ready to dive in the water to help. On my way to the kayak, I ran into one of the members of CTI, who had a friend staying for the weekend. When they heard where I was going and what I wanted to do, they immediately offered to help, too. Now, I was starting to feel like Dorothy on her way to the Wizard, collecting friends along the way.
We spent two hours diving. I was looking at the small bay that was starting to look more vast by the minute. Finding this one little bag in the middle of that expanse was looking like mission impossible. But I kept praying — Yaga’ta umatzata ta’amin — seek and you shall find. I was thinking of Moses who, according to a midrash, invoked the magic words Aleh Shor — “Rise bull” — in order to lift up the hidden, mummified body of Joseph from the waters of the Nile in order to take it with them in their exodus. I didn’t have magic words, but I was hoping my prayers would come through. Many times in my life, it was that extra effort that had proved fruitful. But after two hours, we were going to raise the white flag. We returned to the dock and started to dry off. We had really tried. I thanked the “benevolent strangers” and conveyed my immense gratitude.
Suddenly, as a by-the-way, Aiden asked, “Did you happen to have an air pod?”
“What?” Father Roy and I did a double take and asked, in shock, “You found an air pod bud?”
“Yes,” he said, “and here it is.”
We all jumped up. “The bag should be where you found the air pod,” we said. We took our positions again — the divers in the water, me guiding the kayak. We knew we were in the right place, and we remembered that the pouch was heavy.
This situation reminded me of the story of Mizmor L’Assaf in the Talmud (BT Kiddushin 31b in Rashi), which talks about a poor woman whose cheap clay jar fell into the well while she was drawing water. While she was crying over her jar, the king’s maidservant came with a jar of gold. She, too, dropped the vessel into the well. At that time, the poor woman started singing. She said, “Until now, I didn’t think anyone would go down into the well to retrieve my cheap clay jar. However, now I know that surely someone will go down to get the king’s golden vessel. So they’ll bring up mine too.”
In the Greenport Bay, we found the clay jar; now it was time to find the gold. What seemed to be insignificant was now our roadmap.
A few moments later, I saw Aiden coming out of the water with his arm stretched straight up into the air, like the Statue of Liberty. Instead of the fiery torch, he was holding my soaking wet blue pouch. We were elated. We shouted as though we had won the Super Bowl. The water had washed everything. A redemptive rebirth. Was it by a chance? By prayer? By persistence? It was, for us, a miracle from heaven.
And the miracle did not end there. As it turned out, all was intact — wet, but intact. Moreover, the urban legend to bury the phone in rice for three days in order to dry it turned out to be true. After three days, my iPhone arose from the dead.
Aiden came to synagogue with me that evening. No, he isn’t Jewish — that would have been yet another miracle. But I wanted him to see the synagogue, and for people in the synagogue to meet him. Those present at the shul thanked Aiden for helping their rabbi. (The police did call back a couple of days later, promising to look into recording the emergency numbers of divers.)
So, what is the message here? Who saved the day? It wasn’t the respondents you might have expected. It was the willingness of a young lad from Oregon, here for a summer job. In response to my praise, he said, “I’m just a soul trying to do good in this world.” His attitude was a reward — enough to remember that human nature and spirit, when coming together with others, can turn any mission to possible.
As we approach the month of Av, the month of the destruction of both Temples in Jerusalem, let’s remember that this time can also be a time of rebuilding out of brokenness with simple love for a fellow human being. Isn’t that the real story?
Blessings for the month of Menachem Av.
—Rabbi Gadi Capela
“This Land is My Land”
Exactly ten years ago, on July 1, 2012, I began my tenure at CTI. A few days later, on July 4, I moved into the Rabbi’s house. I was feeling somewhat like Abraham, our ancient father, who moved to the land of Canaan and maintained his double status as a ger and a toshav—an alien and a resident. Like Abraham, all Jews — perhaps all people — can ask themselves at some point, “When is this land my land?”
For Jews in particular, the Age of Enlightenment in the 18th century raised again the question of citizenship status. In 1790, President George Washington declared in an official letter that Jews in America shared full equal rights. A year later, revolutionary France emancipated its Jewish population.
In his song from the 1940’s, Woody Guthrie wrote, “This land is your land, this land is my land, from California to the New York island… this land was made for you and me.” It is, in a way, a prayer for Utopian reality, where all people feel they belong.
This land is my land also means taking care of the land, so the land can take care of us. For centuries, Jews yearned for their own land. In the meantime, they had to be content dwelling in foreign lands. But now, they had to meet head-on the opportunities and challenges a modern society had to offer. At what point can we say, this is my land? Can we ever become indigenous to the land, still maintaining both ideas of ger and toshav.
In the Book of Numbers, 10 out of the 12 men that Moses sent to scout the land in Canaan could not see themselves dwelling there. They perceived only the ger, not the toshav. They couldn’t see that land as their land even when it was given to them. Another generation had to pass before they would feel as toshav. People with high upward mobility can move and change lands more easily. But being part of the land means not fleeing when things get tough. If it’s your land, stay and protect it. “The meek shall inherit the earth,” not only those who can’t leave it physically, but also those who stick to it in their hearts can declare this their land.
Over the centuries, this debate has manifested itself through our prayers. For example, the question of omitting Tachanun (supplications) on certain non-Jewish holidays, such as the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving. Both holidays are happy occasions that are shared among all Americans; therefore, no supplications are uttered, as we do in some of the Jewish holidays that are more secular or universal in nature. Purim, Hanukkah and Tu B’Shvat are among them. The Conservative Movement’s Siddur Sim Shalom (for weekdays, p. 44) is the most expansive among Conservative sources on this topic, noting “…and festive days on the civil calendar.” Saul Lieberman, for many years professor of Talmud at the Jewish Theological Seminary, said that Tachanun should not be recited on Independence Day or Thanksgiving, the former being a secular holiday, and the latter a holiday that has religious antecedents even though it is no longer associated with a specific non-Jewish religion and is observed largely secularly today.
Perhaps the key lies in a mixture of religious sentiment. keeping our identity as ger through celebrating the Jewish holidays, and at the same time rejoicing with secular rulers on their happy occasions, as toshav — citizens. The excitement that made Jews celebrate Franz Joseph’s birthday pre-WWI, pray for the British royal family today, or recite the Prayer for our Country here in America is the expression by Jews for the good of what was becoming their land, too.
Happy Fourth of July 5782.
Rabbi Gadi Capela
“Judaism on Roe v. Wade”
What do we mean by Jewish continuity? This was the main question in our last session of the “Beyond Dispute” series on pivotal Jewish discourse over the centuries. It happened to coincide with the leaked draft of the Supreme Court’s decision on Roe v. Wade and was a good opportunity to explain Jewish views regarding this sensitive issue. From the main question in the class, many others stemmed. For example, is procreation an absolute value in Judaism? What would it mean to think about Jewish continuity, not solely in terms of fertility rates and swelling the Jewish population, but enhancing and enlarging a sense of community while also cultivating and supporting the values central to our tradition?
In January 1973, the U.S. Supreme Court decided the case of Norma McCorvey — known by the legal pseudonym “Jane Roe.” Four years earlier, she became pregnant with her third child and wanted to have an abortion. At that time, abortion was illegal in Texas, except when necessary to save the mother’s life. The case alleged that Texas’s abortion laws were unconstitutional, and addressed the issue of “fundamental rights.” Should these issues be decided by the states or by the Federal government — issues that many allege apply to us today, such as healthcare, gay marriage, and the legal use of cannabis. Should such issues be decided by the people in the states where they live, or should they be legislated from the courts? Some argue convincingly for “states rights,” but do these rights supersede the law of the land? Is it critical to determine when life starts and make that the law of the land?
What makes this such a divisive issue? In the beginning of Genesis, following God’s creation of the first human beings in His image, the Torah says, “God blessed them and God said to them, ‘be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth…’” Already here, we can see the different approaches to procreation. Was God commanding them or blessing them? Is it both, or does it mean that only by bringing children into this world is the rubric fulfilled? What are the reasons Jews are encouraged and commanded to procreate, and what values compete with those commands?
On one hand, the people of Israel have always valued life. The Tosefta, a second-century compilation of Oral Law, in Yevamot 8:7, Ben Azzai says, “One who does not engage in procreation sheds blood and annuls the image [of God], as it says, ‘For in His image did God make human beings,’ and it is written ‘And you, be fruitful and multiply.’” On the other hand, our session explored rabbinic and modern sources about procreation and contraception that discuss what happens when the value of procreation comes into conflict with other values. Those values can be education, harmonious marital relationships, financial stability, and the welfare of women, children and communities. The first concern in Judaism is for the living, Moses commands us always to choose life. But in many cases, the picture is not so clear; we must determine which direction will be more life giving. Is a person blessed only in relation to having children?
Suppose we shift the discussion from one of personal responsibility to responsibility for continuity? What are our obligations to future generations? What is our responsibility toward life in our society after birth? Judaism also values ideas that are greater than life, at least the life of the individual. The values that preserve the life of the community often come before the life of the particular. It is true that we need children to create a society, but what good is that society if its people are not cultivated, if they bring down low the image of God as in the Biblical cities of Sodom and Gomorrah? Furthermore, the three cardinal sins — idol worship, bloodshed and incest — require one to give up life before transgressing. Society is flesh, but it is also content — a house that is built for the purpose of making a home. Religions have differing views on the question of when life begins. Talmudic sources note that the fetus is “mere water” before 40 days of gestation, often the time of the first heartbeat. Following this period, the fetus is considered a physical part of the mother’s body. It does not yet have a life of its own until the first breath allows the soul to enter the body. However, the Torah, in Exodus 21, recounts the story of two men who are fighting and, in so doing, injure a pregnant woman, resulting in her subsequent miscarriage. The verse explains that if the event results in miscarriage, then the perpetrator must pay a fine. If the pregnant woman is gravely injured, the penalty shall be a life for a life, as in other homicides. From that, we learn that a fetus is precious and contains a level of life, yet the interests of the mother will always come before that of the fetus. According to Jewish law, abortion is healthcare, and is commonly interpreted to encompass psychological health as well as physical health.
In the end, we must consider the value of life. Why are we saddened to learn of Britney Spears’ miscarriage? Why should we arrest someone who disturbs sea turtle eggs? If we mourn this loss of potential life, why don’t we mourn for others? What about the future sense of loss and other consequences of abortions that many women suffer, sometimes years later? It’s easy to claim that the most intimate relationship on earth is between a mother and child — one flesh, separated. In the end, it’s not just about procreation. The most prominent evidence is that Jewish law is generally liberal about the use of contraception (a topic for another article). The message is to respect life and not to treat it cheaply, to not make abortion in our minds a substitute or the ultimate correction for contraception, that we take responsibility for the life we make and its blessings.
Lechayim. To Life!
—Rabbi Gadi Capela
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