Kol HaLev is Baltimore's new Reconstructionist synagogue community

Generosity / Magnanimity (nedivut)

Much is made in our tradition of tzedakah, the giving that is tied to righting injustices.  About this kind of generosity there is a sense of commanded obligation.  The premise is that “the heart follows the hand,” or “external motions stimulate internal ones”; we can cultivate attitudes and character traits via regular (and regulated) behaviors.  (Interestingly, this is backed up by contemporary neuroscience; new neural paths can indeed be carved.)  Jewish practice is designed to help fulfill the potential to live as the holy souls that we are.

But I want to speak here about generosity as a movement of the soul, “generosity of spirit.”  This is an attitude or quality one may have whether or not a physical or monetary gift is involved.   It is assuming the best about someone, giving the benefit of the doubt, treating another with the dignity, respect, worth and value he/she deserves.  It is about not having to be “right,” not having to change the other, making room for that person.  It is a loving response, so it starts in the heart, not the hand.  It was recently demonstrated to me by a young man saying (of those who hold a different political position), “Of course, smart people may disagree with me.”  I thought that was commendably humble and generous of spirit.

The opposite of this kind of generosity is called “timtum ha-lev,” a stopping up or blockage of the heart, a constricting of the free flow of lovingkindness and generosity.  It would be good if we were to ask ourselves what our resistances are, what tapes play in our heads that keep us from becoming the generous people we are capable of being?

There are several places in the Bible that emphasize nedivut.  In one, God says to Moses, “…from every person whose heart moves him you shall take My gift…and let them build Me a sanctuary that I may dwell in their midst.”  The commentary suggests that God does not dwell in the tabernacle, but in our hearts.  And elsewhere, “Whoever is of a willing heart, let him bring it, an offering of the Almighty.”  What is the “it” here?  The heart!  It isn’t enough to give money or an object.  And in Proverbs it says, “A person’s giving will broaden [his path], and lead him before the great.”  Yes, “the great.”

Click here to read "Sacred Seams" a special article written by Rabbi Geoff Basik for the Baltimore Jewish Times.

Darkness Before Dawn: "Descent for the Sake of Ascent"

          In the cold and darkness of winter, our tradition offers us Chanukah lights and fun and triumph and joy, and food.  In the warmth and bright light of summer, our tradition offers us what?  Tisha B'Av, the Ninth of Av, and with it the memory and wounds of profound sorrow, and fasting.  On the one hand, the joy that comes from a re-dedicated Temple and connectedness.  On the other, the "pit" of destruction of that Temple and disconnect from God/liness.

     We would all prefer a life of unalloyed joy and celebration, and a religion that keeps us in such a place.  But we know that this is only one side of human experience and that we must, in the profound words of a midrash, "know how to weep."  Our life-cycle rituals and holy days of communal celebration or commemoration provide us with the wisdom maps to navigate both simcha and sorrow.

     What growth and development would there be without challenges, troubles, hardships, struggles and failures?  What joy would there be in "return" if we never left?  How would we appreciate the good if we never experienced its absence?  Reality is a dynamic between wholeness and brokenness.  Living fully means embracing, and balancing, both.   

     The High Holy Days, which are all about "return/teshuvah," are framed by tears and joy, and by two different "houses."  The season begins with the destruction of one house (the Jerusalem Temple), and ends with the construction of another, the sukkah, built in "the time of our joy."  The entire trajectory is from Tisha B'Av to Sukkot; from grief to joy, death to rebirth, estrangement to reconciliation.

     The story is told (pardon the cliched stereotype) of a man who forgot his wedding anniversary, which brought his wife to tears.  Seeing this, he resolved to be the most attentive and caring husband he could be, and so he was from that point on.  And it was that day, the day she was distraught, that became the most important and cherished day for her.

     We ignore or neglect the "down" side of life, and history, at a cost.  There is, fortunately, an appointed time for acknowledging our tragedies, losses, dislocations, pain, suffering and grief.  It is so important that Ecclesiastes teaches, "It is better to go to the house of mourning than to the banquet hall..."  Our people's collective "house of mourning" is our gathering on Tisha B'Av. 

     If we hope to emerge from the High Holy Days in uplift, with a sense of connectedness and wholeness and joy, then it makes sense to allow for the sadness and loss and alienation we have come to know.  Only by acknowledging our vulnerability can we move to healing and strength.

     The invitation, then, is to join us and sit on the floor, listen to the plaintive singing of "Lamentations," talk about what was lost that we want to recover, and begin the healing process.  "Yerida l'tzorech aliyah"  "Descent for the sake of ascent"