In seminary, one moral dilemma seriously divided the class. The question was whether to give money to the homeless on the street in downtown Cincinnati, where the seminary was located.
This question concerned me directly, as I was also interning in Chicago and encountered several homeless people on my walk to the synagogue.
Most of the class said yes. We are not, Jewish tradition tells us, to “close our hand to an impoverished neighbor.”
The dilemma arises, however, because the neighbor referred to in the Talmud is a fellow Jew, and the tradition was shaped in a time when people lived in small villages, not major urban centers. Does the same practice apply today?
We never resolved the exact disagreement, but we did arrive at a consensus. We should try to have either a sandwich to give or a coupon for a McDonalds or other easily accessible restaurant. Why? Because those in need are fellow human beings, and each of us is created in the image of God.
What we have is not solely ours. “The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it,” the Bible tells us. (Psalm 24)
In other words, what we own does not ultimately belong to us. It belongs to God, and we are stewards of it for all of God’s creation.
In modern America, this approach can feel counter-cultural. If we got it, we earned it, and it’s ours to do with what we please. We think a homeless person or a beggar must have done something wrong with their life, and it’s not our problem or responsibility to fix it.
Yet, the Bible reminds us we share one earth, and were created by one God. We are to “love your neighbor as yourself.” (Leviticus 19)
Are we looking out only for ourselves? Are we looking only for those we know or who look like us? Or are we truly doing for each of God’s children what we pray they would do for us? What do you think?
On the most sacred Jewish holiday of the year–Yom Kippur–we literally imagine our own funeral. Men traditional wear a white sash that will also serve as their burial shroud. The purpose is to picture our own death in a way that helps us live more fully.
What if, however, we could not only imagine our death, but choose it. And what if that choice seemed the right and dignified thing to do. This acute question faces those suffering from terminal illness. It has entered the public spotlight in the case of Brittany Maynard, a 29-year-old woman with terminal cancer who moved to Oregon so she could take advantage of the state’s death with dignity law. This law allows physicians to prescribe lethal drugs a patient can choose to take.
Amidst the enormous public attention to Brittany’s story, the religious voice has been noticeably absent. Typically strident religious voices would be amongst those to quickly condemn her choice. They were amongst the most vociferous opponents of Oregon’s law when it was implemented in 1997.
Perhaps their absence speaks to a generational shift, or at least a recognition of the complexities of the issues involved.
As a spiritual leader and son and grandson of physicians, I am torn. I believe passionately in the value of life and imperative to seek and give healing. Yet, I have seen the misery and sheer pain felt by so many in the late stages of terminal illness. I have also seen the simple comfort brought by simply having the choice–even if one does not make it–to end one’s life in such conditions.
Jewish tradition has a nuanced approach to this challenge. Thoughtful rabbis and scholars disagree. What is clear, however, is the various factors that matter in making the decision. Here are four of them:
1. Quality of Life: A Jewish legend tells of a rabbi with terminal illness. He was in great pain. Yet, so long as his students stood and prayed around his bed, however, he could not die. They served as the ancient equivalent of a ventilator.
His housekeeper saw the great pain he was in. She knew the students would never stop praying. So she took a pot and threw it out the window. The shattering sound of its land distracted the students from their prayers, and the rabbi died.
She knew, better than his own students, that the rabbi would not want to live with such pain. Her actions made her the hero of the story.
2. Personal Choice: The Talmud teaches that “Everything is foreseen, but the freedom of choice is given.” In other words, we have free will. This freedom comes with limits. We cannot destroy property or harm others, even if we may the legal right to do so.
Scholars also disagree on how much we freedom we have over own bodies. Some argue the freedom is minimal, since our bodies ultimately belong to God. Others say we are stewards of our bodies, and thus have the freedom to choose how we take care of them.
The bottom line is that no text clearly prohibits a terminal patient from hastening his or her death. We have some choice in the matter.
3. Unforeseen Consequences: The Bible is filled with small deeds leading to big consequences. Joseph’s brothers, for example, sell him to slave traders. This action ultimately results in his becoming Prime Minister of Egypt.
We don’t know all the results of all of our choices. Caution needs to accompany vision in passing laws dealing with life and death.
4. Different Opinions: An old joke says that when when two Jews argue, they express at least three opinions. Our tradition cherishes debate. So does American democracy. No group can claim it has a monopoly on moral truth.
When it comes to end of life dilemmas, views often lose their nuance and perspective. Let’s not let stridency stifle our thoughtfulness. Rather, let our disagreements enhance our empathy.
As my teacher and America’s incoming Ambassador for International Religious Freedom, Rabbi David Saperstein puts it, “Good moral people can differ. But the one sin from all of our religious traditions is to close our eyes to injustice and close our ears to suffering.”
Tonight begins the Jewish “Festival of Tabernacles.” Known in Hebrew as Sukkot, we spend time in temporary outdoor dwellings.
They remind us of the fragility of life our ancestors experienced during their journey across the Sinai Desert.
Vanity, Vanity, All is Vanity!
The biblical book we read on Sukkot is Ecclesiastes. Tonight we will chant it in my synagogue.
I confess this book has always mystified me. Ecclesiastes seems to contradict other parts of the Bible.
Consider, for example, “Vanity, vanity, all is vanity.” (1:2) Or “there is nothing new under the sun.” (1:9)
The first suggests life is meaningless. We are all simply selfish people concerned with our needs. The second suggests the world is static. That leaves little room for God.
So how can we read Ecclesiastes? It’s part of the Bible, so we know it conveys God’s word. How do we make sense of it?
1. Remember what kind of book it is: The meaning of a book depends on the way you read it. We read a poem differently than we read a novel. We read history differently than we read science.
Ecclesiastes is not a theological book. It is more of an autobiographical reflection. It is the reflection of King Solomon, the wisest of Jewish kings.
He is sharing the wisdom from his life experience. He is not telling us what one must believe. He is recounting and reflecting on his life. He is conveying life lessons.
His feelings and observation may resonate with us, even if we do not believe in their literal truth.
And there are times when we know that life is not futile. When a new child comes into the world, when we see righteousness in action and justice prevail.
Ecclesiastes represents one side of life. And life is complex. As the book points out later, in another of its most memorable sections,
“There is a time for every season; A time for every purpose under heaven… A time to love and a time for hate; a time for war and a time for peace; a time to laugh and a time to grieve…” (3:1-8)
2. Remain Humble: Much of life is outside of our control. We did not choose to be born here. We did not choose our parents. Many of us simply got lucky. And no matter who we are, we face pain, and our lives are limited.
Time and chance, as Ecclesiastes puts it, befall us all. Reminding ourselves of this truth helps us remain grateful for what we have and accept with calmness the difficulties with which life challenges us.
3. Look for God in the tension: The Bible is not always say to decipher. Verses that seem inconsistent may contain a deeper level of congruence. The tension compels us to learn, pray and grow. Life emerges out of that tension.
Think of a battery. It is a positive charge and a negative charge. The tension between those charges creates the spark of energy that gives a device power.
So it is with us. The tension between life as it is and life as it ought to be–between the past and the future, between the world we we inhabit and the one to come–it is that tension that pushes us to live with grace and faith.
Want to more about Sukkot and other holidays? Click here to get a free 1-page guide to all the Jewish Holidays!
Religious leaders are public figures. We live on display. People look at what we drive, what we eat, what we wear.
Unfortunately, sometimes we hide parts of ourselves in order to conform to people’s expectations. We might convey feelings of invulnerability or perfection in public as we struggle in private. Trying to be different people in public and private can be draining. Ultimately, it can be self-destructive. We cannot pretend someone we are not forever.
Yesterday a prominent rabbi ended that destructive tension by announcing he was gay. He did so in an loving and thoughtful way, noting his faithful marriage of twenty years and the active support of his wife in making this announcement.
While sad for the dissolution of a marriage and mindful of the range of feelings his announcement will generate, I found myself moved by the rabbi’s honesty, compassion and lack of selfishness. He noted his profound struggle as an adolescent. He described why he had chosen to marry and have children. And he explained how the wholeness and sense of identity for which we all yearn continued to elude him.
(If you want to explore this issue more, click here to discover different Jewish views of Homosexuality.)
Even as he struggled, he did not evade his responsibilities as a husband and father. He embraced them. He reached the point, however, where good parenting and personal happiness demanded honesty and resolution. As he put so beautifully, “Batya and I can no longer remain married, despite our fidelity throughout our marriage and our abiding friendship and love. As our divorce is not born of rancor, we pray that together with our children we will remain bound by a brit mishpachah, a covenant of family.”
There is no such thing as a happy divorce. Yes, the decision can be for the benefit of both parents and children, but it still involves pain, sadness and loss. Rabbi Steinlauf seems to acknowledge this truth. I pray that my colleague and his family be blessed with strength and love in the years ahead.