The Partners in Torah Blog

Step back into your childhood. It’s somewhere around the end of March, beginning of April. With the melting of the snow and the first signs of buds on the bushes, you know that something big is coming up. When you see Mom unpacking the chocolate-covered Manishevitz matzahs, the once-a-year (who could stand it more often that?) orange marmalade and that tantalizing box of colorful jelly candies in the shape of citrus slices – you know it’s coming.

The Passover Seder. You just can’t wait to see Danny and Laura. Will they look the same as they did last year? You can’t wait to slowly sip at Grandma’s boiling hot chicken soup, the kind that only she knows how to make, from those antique (or so it seems to you) silver soup spoons, that she only takes out once a year. You can almost taste the fluffy matzah balls, bobbing up and down in the white china bowls. Passover is coming, and you just can’t wait.

It finally comes. You’re sitting around Grandma’s mahogany table, spread with the same white cloth she has used for the last fifty years, chairs stuffed together so closely that getting in and out is a noisy scene. But you don’t care. It’s the Seder. Cousins you haven’t seen for months are dressed up in their finest – and so are you! Your parents look so elegant you almost don’t recognize them. Excitement is in the air, and a warm, cozy feeling fills up your chest to the brim. You’re almost bursting with a sense of…a sense of…a sense of family. You look around at everyone sitting here and you know that you’re related to them all. You belong.

Jewish families have enjoyed the Seder as a time for remembering the great miracles that took place for the Jews in Egypt so long ago. But it’s also something else. Passover night is a yearly opportunity for the Jewish family to unite, to reunite. It’s a night to leave the jobs, schools, hobbies, computers and I-pods and join up with loved ones, catch up on the family news and bask in the warmth of the moment.

One Shabbat, recently, as I was sitting around our table (not sure if it’s mahogany or not) with my family, it dawned on me how fortunate I am to have that same opportunity every week. Our finest cutlery and plates set out on a shiny white tablecloth, with cheery napkins neatly tucked into the glasses (perhaps not quite on the same level of classiness of Grandma’s cloth napkins, but a lot easier to clean up after). The floor is clean (for the moment, anyway), we’re all dressed up. The smell of chicken soup wafting in from the kitchen. The candles adding a mystical glow to the scene.

Sounds like the Passover Seder, doesn’t it?

But it’s not. This is a weekly experience. Shabbat dinner. It’s a time when the Jewish family forgets about their weekday business, joins up and catches up with each other. Friday afternoon, as we’re rushing around the house, each with a job – mopping, wiping the cabinets, putting away clutter, we know we’re getting ready for a big event. Shabbat is a big event. Of course, the real meaning of Shabbat is very deep and mystical. It’s a day to recognize and contemplate that God created the world and keeps it going. It’s a time to disconnect from feelings of power and arrogance and admit that I’m not the one running the world.

However, just as Passover has the “side benefit” of being a yearly chance to unite the Jewish family, so is Shabbat a weekly opportunity. As we sit around the table in our finest, eating specially prepared foods, singing both moving and lively Shabbat songs, that Seder night feeling wells up in the chest. We talk about our week, raise challenging questions and topics of discussion, and try to focus on each child. Someone tells a joke, another adds an interesting point from the weekly Torah reading.

We are one. We are a unit. On a weekly basis, we come together and unite. We recreate that family feeling week after week.

Shabbat is referred to as a “treasure house,” implying that it contains hidden gifts. Perhaps one of those gifts is the sense of family oneness that it imparts on those who take the opportunity of tapping into it.

When that 6 A.M. alarm sounds, I find myself in an intense mental crusade to unhinge my body from sleep … on way too many mornings. I don’t know if it’s the obnoxious alarm noise or the hour itself, but waking up has become almost painful. The only thing that lures me to leave the warmth of my memory foam and goose down is the promise of a hot cup of coffee. Knowing that each sip of black magic will bring me closer to all the places I need to be is pretty much the only thing that gets me vertical in the early hours. I’m not proud of my artificial morning mojo, so I decided to talk it out with my husband and get some loving insight. He mentioned something off handedly that a rabbi of his once said: “If the best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup, then you’ve got a problem.” Well, there you have it folks. I’ve got a problem.

Never being one to shy away from an opportunity for self-improvement, I set out to help myself wake up with a bit more style and grace. Here’s what I’ve learned so far:

1. I am addicted to coffee. I am now on a detox that involves coffee’s idle second cousin, Mr. Earl Grey.
2. Getting to bed earlier helps … a little.
3. Minimizing stress throughout the day and consciously going about my day with a joyous heart helps … a lot.
4. Waking up with gratitude for my breath, soul, legs, mind … trumps all.

That fourth realization really changed things for me. Jewish law demands that before we rise from bed, the first words to cross our lips are “Modeh Ani Lefanecha … .” The full prayer translates roughly to “Thank You G-d, Living and Enduring King, You have returned my soul within me with compassion. Your faithfulness is great.” Now, I’ve been saying “Modeh Ani” for quite some time now, but in light of my desire to wake up better, I decided to put myself back in virtual yeshiva and dive into that prayer. Through my brief study of this fundamental Jewish prayer, I am beginning to mean the words I say … and own them. Now when I wake up, I visualize gratitude as the bedrock of my day, and that awareness fuels my mornings as strongly as the caffeine I crave.

The first instruction in the Code of Jewish Law is “Be strong as a lion when you wake up in the morning to serve your Creator.” When I hear that alarm sound, it is now my rousing bugle, my piping hot cup of spiritual espresso, reminding me that it is time for a word with The King. It is time to thank Him for a heart that pumps … and loves, lungs that breathe, a mind that dreams, and a soul that shines. Today I’m beginning my day with prayer before Peet’s coffee, and hoping I can maintain that roaring jolt all day long.

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MORNING COFFEE
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I recently heard a powerful Jewish thought about the great Rebbe of Kotzk.

Rabbi Menachem Mendel of Kotzk was asked by the famed scholar and Rebbe of Peshischa, “Where does one find G-d?”

Calling on his extensive background in Torah study, the Holy Kotzker answered confidently, “G-d is everywhere. His glory fills the universe.”

“Young man,” the Rebbe of Peshischa said to the Kotzker, “I asked you where one could find G-d?”

The Kotzker replied, “If I do not know, then please tell me.”

The Peshicha Rebbe answered his own question, “G-d can only be found where you let Him in.”

I admit it—there are times I am so committed to my own stress that I leave no space for G-d. When I’m troubled by something particularly disappointing or scary, my vision tunnels so sharply that all other perspectives outside of my negative emotion cease to exist. When I’m in that G-dless place, any number of benign matters can turn into hugely disproportionate “big deals.” The foot of the table on which I stubbed my toe becomes my enemy, bent on destroying me. The mug I broke speaks of my self-worth and confirms my deep ineptitude as a human being. And just like “that,” all the Torah learning and internal work I’ve done about faith and G-d’s providence vanishes.

It was with that headspace that I sat down last week for my weekly study group with my “chavruta” (study partner). It had been a rough week for me; I was spread thin and feeling depleted in mind, body, and soul. A fair description of my mood would be “stressed out.” I walked into our learning session knowing that any stress I was feeling would pale in comparison to the stuff that my friend and chavruta is dealing with. If anyone could help me shine some light and gain some perspective, she could. She’s in the midst of a grueling health crisis, but somehow, her faith in G-d and her willingness to grant Him full access to her life has been rock solid. I couldn’t dream up a holier, more connected, more honest person to learn with. I adore her and love the way she illuminates complex Jewish thought with simplicity, relevance, and good humor.

We picked up the Torah book we were learning and began to hammer it out. The deeper we dove into the text, the more I felt a loosening of the reins that had been tightening over my negative headspace. We read, “I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and deliver you” (Yeshayahu 46:4). Addressing the heaviness I came in with, my wise study partner offered her own spin on that verse: “Think about it, Sarah. G-d promises that He will ‘sustain and deliver you.’ What could possibly interfere with that promise? Do you think G-d needs your stress in order to work things out for you? Or do you think He can pull that off without your worrying?”

I honestly hadn’t thought about it like that. The absurdity of G-d needing me to stress or worry in order to help Him out with the running of the world made me chuckle. She was so right. I wasn’t just blocking G-d from my life, I was trying to be G-d. My commitment to my stress was like saying, “G-d, I got this one. I don’t need you.” That’s not the person I want to be. I want to be able to let go and be unshakeable in my trust and faith in G-d’s providence. I want that faith to become a reflex. Torah learning with my chavruta helps me get there. By sharing her perspective on her own life’s challenges and triumphs, I get to glimpse into her world and learn what she knows. She receives the same gift from me.

We completed our Torah study, and I left her home lighter and more whole than I did when I entered. The root of the Hebrew word chavruta is “chaver,” friend. That root is the beauty of chavruta learning. Friends share with each other and help each other out of sticky spots. Whether I’m struggling with a difficult concept in Jewish thought or simply reviewing the weekly Torah portion, my friend, with her unique spin on things, helps me see perspectives I’ve yet to embrace. Likewise, my experiences and understanding help her to see things differently. That’s the beauty of chavruta learning, opening ourselves to the possibility of a whole new way of seeing things—and sometimes, achieving something as epic as finding G-d.

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It is the 10 year anniversary of the murder of Daniel Pearl. His senseless death, like that of Nick Berg’s, cries out for a Jewish perspective. This lecture, Finding Meaning in a Senseless Death, by Rabbi Lawrence Keleman, offers such a perspective.

Making Sense of Difficult Situations: Listen to the full lecture now.

When I showed up for my first day of formal Jewish learning at the Jewish teen-girls winter retreat, I was a full vessel. At sixteen I didn’t think I knew everything—I was sure of it. But I was a bit of a wild-child back then, and I was in need of a few brownie points with my mom. When she mentioned this Jewish study course that was happening over my winter break, I could tell by her tone that the only acceptable response was, “Sure, Mom. I’d love to.” Truth be told, a Jewish education course was the furthest thing from mind. I was way more concerned about rising in the ranks of “cool” with my public high school friends. A Jewish study program didn’t really fit in with my plans at all.

But I was a good kid and wanted to please my mom, so I packed my bags anyway thinking all the while that I’d put in a few days in this Jewish learning program and then ramble on to wherever the wind might take me next. I had absolutely zero intention of falling in love with what I was learning. But funnily enough, that’s exactly what happened. For the first time in my life—which at the time seemed pretty long to me—I began to feel truly comfortable in my own skin. I felt a part of something and connected to the people I was meeting.

Although the Jewish texts we were learning were written hundreds of years earlier, the message I was getting was totally current, totally relevant, and—surprise, surprise—totally cool. I remember learning about relationships and love through the stories of our matriarchs and patriarchs—Torah stories about jealousy and lust, longing and hope. These were all the kinds of things I thought were unique to my high school experience and modern fiction. We learned in pairs, and with the help of my chavruta, my study partner, I began to draw connections from the Torah’s story to my own life’s story.

Before this immersion in classic Jewish learning, I had always imagined Torah learning as an ancient, religious, intellectual pursuit, and therefore boring and flavorless, kind of like a rice cracker. But the Torah concepts I was learning were anything but boring. They were, as the Jewish saying goes, “geshmachdt,” tasty and satisfying, like a good meal. And the folks I was learning with were cool! They were educated, cultured, warm, colorful, funny, and holy, to boot. That was something I did not even realize I was missing—the holy part.

In Hebrew, the word for holy, kadosh, translates as “separate” or “different.” That is exactly the experience I, a young teenage girl, was so afraid of. I don’t know any high school kid who chooses to be different. But as I’ve come to see in life, the thing that we resist the most is precisely the place G-d wants us to go. It’s that place just outside of our comfort zone where the meaning of life starts to come into sharp focus.

I am so grateful that I listened to my Mom and opened myself to the opportunity to learn something new. My adventures in Jewish learning continuously bring me home to the timeless instruction that I have come to depend on; I’ve learned the value of having a bottom line and the freedom that comes from following a code of law. Boundaries and borders which I once found stifling, like observing the laws of Shabbat, I now find liberating and essential to the peace in our home. It is within the boundaries of a committed Jewish life that I find the space to be the woman I was intended to be. The ancient pages of our Holy Torah are always ripe with a current and relevant lesson for my life. How cool is that?

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I remember being a kid at a science museum and staring up at a towering canvas filled with tiny, multicolored dots. They looked like miniature, polished gumballs. I loved the colors and how they danced all over the canvas. It was beautiful. I followed my older brother upstairs to another section of the museum, and as I looked down from the second floor, I saw the canvas from a different perspective, a second-story perspective. From this new vantage point, the dots disappeared; in their stead was a larger-than-life portrait of a smiling, young, tow-headed boy holding a yellow pail and a shovel. I was shocked by this new information and felt betrayed by my eyes. I ran up and down the stairs several times in awe and wonder, comparing my original vision of tiny dots with my new perspective of a cohesive picture. On that day I learned how different things can look depending on where I stand.

Throughout my life I have been amazed and bewildered by countless people and things that began looking one way and turn out to be something else. I have been stunned by kindness performed by heavily tattooed and pierced strangers, and I have been scared silly by the most righteously costumed punks. I have learned that assuming who someone is based on how they look, speak, or behave is like pulling out one pixel out of thousands and saying with arrogance, “I know what that picture is.”

I think that’s part of the reason G-d commands us not to judge each other. Because as wide and as all encompassing as we fancy our lens to be, it will never be wide enough to take in the totality of a human complexity with our joys, neuroses, and lifetimes of baggage. We are each a tiny pixel and a whole portrait at the same time, and it takes a special kind of vision to take in all the details and not lose focus of the entire picture. All too often we zoom in on a specific aspect or impression of a person, their style of dress, the neighborhood they live in, the number of children they have, without proper perspective, and we wind up cheapening each other’s resolution and tarnishing each other’s image. G-d expects more from us than that. After all, we are created in His image.

The Torah teaches us that when we camped out at the foot of Mount Sinai ready to receive the Torah, we were like “one man with one heart” (commentary Rashi, on parshat Yitro, 19:2). This is a beautiful sentiment, but interesting in that the singular event in Jewish history that expresses perfect unity is when we were camping. Wouldn’t it seem more appropriate to have had that kind of harmony when we were doing something spiritual, like praying together or receiving the Torah or building the holy temple? Camping? Really?

Here’s the thing about camping, though … it is an intensely physical experience. Everybody’s stuff is sort of plopped down and hanging out there for the rest of the campground to see – dirty socks, dishes, empty water bottles. I find it challenging enough to love my neighbor and see him favorably when a fence and a driveway separates our yards, but camping is tougher because the boundaries between my space and my neighbor’s are so easily blurred. Yet it was in that place—during the mundane and physical experience of camping—where we as a nation sharpened our personal and collective lenses and figured out how to be like G-d. Dirty laundry, sandy food, and all, we pulled it together and saw each other as G-d sees us—as one.

We are given opportunities to express that level of unity daily. Smiling at someone who looks different than we do, helping someone in need, speaking favorably about another, or inviting a lonely soul into our homes, are all simple things that bind us to each other. If we look from the right perspective, we begin to  see the little babies playing peek-a-boo, and Israeli soldiers buying a falafel, and young pig-tailed school girl skipping to class, and we recognize that they are each a perfect and precious pixel, a whole and complete dot in the larger and ever evolving portrait of the Jewish people. By valuing and respecting each other, we show G-d that we’re grateful to be chosen for His canvas. That’s how we live in G-d’s image.

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Mysiyum.com is a unique and revolutionary Jewish learning experience designed for Jews of every walk of life to connect with that kind of oneness—daily. Through learning the entirety of classic Jewish texts you can zoom in on Torah learning, while connecting to the community at large. You choose the text, you set the pace. It doesn’t matter what you look like, how much or how little Hebrew you read, or how much day school you attended or missed—if you are a Jew, then you are already on the map. Join us. We’re excited to begin.

Thoughts on tefilla and attachment

When I was growing up, I didn’t know many Jewish prayers—in fact, I didn’t know how to pray at all. I remember being told at some point that if I were ever in a bind, I should say the words “Shema Yisrael,” but beyond that I never received any formal instruction in Jewish prayer. I did however check in with G-d every so often to give Him a status update. When I was scared, or in pain, I often asked Him for help and guidance. When something particularly beautiful or wonderful crossed my path, like an amazing sunset or a timely job offer, I complimented Him on His work. And from time to time I submitted a wish list that ranged from the profoundly spiritual matters, like faith and providence, to the intensely mundane, like weight loss and prom dates. After a topsy-turvy high school experience spent knee deep in all kinds of off-the-beat and path soul-searching, I decided to narrow my search for self and focus on my Jewish roots. I threw myself into classic Jewish study in yeshiva in Israel with a “go hard or go home” attitude. The more I learned, the more I came to understand that all those years of simply “checking in with G-d,” I had been praying all along.

The Hebrew word for prayer is tefillah, which is generally translated as “prayer.” But the English word “prayer” implies two distinct entities: one inferior (me) making a request of the superior other (G-d). Bakasha is a better word for the English word “prayer.” Tefillah is a lot more than prayer. It implies communion and attachment—a genuine effort to join mind and spirit in honest communication with G-d. Although I wasn’t raised with a formal Jewish education and was pretty unclear about the how-to’s of Jewish prayer, when I included G-d in my life and communicated with Him in my own language while asking for help or offering thank you’s, I was indeed nailing it in the tefillah department.

The Torah refers to prayer as “service of the heart.” Anytime we offer thanks to the Creator or plead for help with health matters or even ask for help finding a parking spot, we are praying. To pray is to attach ourselves to G-d, to realize that there is something bigger than ourselves, and to communicate from that place. The famed sage Maimonides writes that “prayer without concentration is akin to a lifeless body.” In other words, it’s not only the words we chose to communicate to G-d, but the intention behind the words that give rise to a prayer.

There was a time in Jewish history when Jewish prayer didn’t include specific times or defined text; everyone sort of “shot from the hip” when they addressed the Divine. But when the Jews were exiled to Babylon, the Men of the Great Assembly saw that the younger generation had difficulty finding the words to communicate with G-d in the way their fathers and mothers had. So Ezra the Scribe, together with the Men of the Great Assembly, established a standard text for prayer in Hebrew and set three times a day (morning, afternoon, and evening) for tefillah.

As I began to learn about the structure of Jewish prayer, I remember getting a little panicky. How was I supposed to serve G-d with my heart using someone else’s words? How genuine of a connection could that be? Then I thought about all the great music I grew up listening to and how I found the voice of my soul in other people’s lyrics. I learned that my feelings of yearning, joy, power, vulnerability and angst were not unique to me alone. Hearing versions of my own story told through popular music helped me understand that I was not alone. Similarly, as I tuned into prayer-book prayer, I began to connect with those words as if they were lyrics in a timeless song: “My G-d, the soul You have placed within me is pure.” The holy words of the Hebrew prayer book helped me confirm that my presence in this world matters, and that my experience is shared. When I get myself in the right headspace, I can hear mandolins and jazz pianos accompanying those words, and they become my own song.

Another groovy thing about tefillah is that you can do it just about anywhere. Owning a Jewish soul means that you’ve got a wireless connection with G-d, so whether you are following the opus that our Sages so brilliantly composed for us, or simply riffing with your Creator and producing your own sound– as long as you are speaking honestly and coming from your heart, then you’re praying Jewish. Just like music, words that come from the heart enter the heart.

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Image: NOTES BACKGROUND
© Igor Shootov | Dreamstime.com

Thoughts on family life and tikkun olam – fixing the world through the simple things

These days, weather has become background music to my life. I love the variation of sound, feeling, and texture that a winter day in our life in Israel provides –the chill, the wind, the pitter-patter of rainfall. We moved to the Golan Heights this past summer after eleven years of living in Beit Shemesh in the center of Israel, and for two decades before that in southern California. The experience of wide-ranging weather conditions of the Golan is pretty new to me.  In San Diego, where I grew up, the weather varied from different expressions of warm and sunny. During our time in Beit Shemesh, save for a few rainy days throughout the winter months, it was hot-pretty much all the time.  But here in the Golan, we’ve had all kinds of weather.  We’ve experienced wind so strong that if I didn’t hold on to my steering-wheel tightly enough, my car would have begun to swerve off the road.  We’ve had snowy days that have taught me the meaning of “bone chilling”.  Cold fronts have afforded me a new and deeply dependent relationship with wool socks, hot water bottles, and cinnamon tea.  This winter we have been blessed with heavy rains that have turned ditches into creeks and painted the rolling hills around us the color of emeralds.   We’ve had sun-kissed, cloudless days under the biggest sky I’ve ever seen.  On days like those, I feel like a brush stroke on the canvas of an illustrious masterpiece.  Sometimes the landscape is so beautiful, I literally have to pause and catch my breath.

I love the way these weather changes inform my day and set my pace. This morning I left my house to drive the kids to their bus stop. The fog was so dense I couldn’t see two feet in front of my headlights. It was like a heavy, white blanket, so thick it looked like I could cut a slice out of it and hold it in my palm. As I inched along the long, country road that lies between my house and my children’s bus stop, there were occasional breaks in the fog. For a few fleeting moments, the clouds thinned and revealed green rolling hills, or a 16-wheeler truck, or a grazing cow. Every time the fog lifted, it was like the world around me was playing peekaboo.

I can’t help but think about that beautiful, foggy ride as an instruction for my life. There are days when I am so bogged down by my perspective that it seems like nothing else exists. Because I  am blessed with Jewish family life involving, thankfully, raising children, it’s easy to get lost in my own personal dramas and lose sight of the beauty and opportunity that exists all around me. I can easily trap myself under a thick blanket of responsibilities that I have assigned myself—deadlines, phone calls, laundry, food prep, pick-ups, drop-offs—and allow precious moments of family life to disappear from my view. Just like the fog can hide the road in front of me, I far too often allow my demanding schedule to hide the things that matter the most to me. Things as simple as playing a card game with my kids, or taking a family stroll can get clouded by the list of duties I have deemed more important than that moment.

As I witnessed thick fog lifting in patches on a winter day over our Jewish homeland, I imagined my son asking for another bedtime story. I saw my daughter, with her hairbrush held to her mouth, lip-syncing to my favorite song, beckoning me to dance with her. I pictured all the things that appear more time sensitive than they really are, and I saw myself choosing to see my family and our home without any fog blurring my vision. What a perfect and whole scene it was. Our Sages call that kind of wholeness “Tikkun Olam,” a fixing and healing of this world.  Tikkun Olam starts in our own backyards, with our very own eyes.

Thanks to G-d, the ultimate Weather Man, for providing us with such a beautiful landscape and such kind instruction.

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Maybe it’s because I’m a Libra and balance is supposed to be my thing, or maybe it’s because I consistently spread myself too thin in so many areas of my life, but to me the very concept of a “truly balanced life” seems like a faraway land.  I seek to imbibe my life and family with Judaism, but to have a fully “Jewish mom balance?” It’s beyond my comprehension. I do my best to find harmony and equilibrium between the different parts of me– the mom, the Jewish woman, the educator, the doula, and the scullery maid–but more times than not, I feel like a tightrope walker in hiking boots – teeth clenched, butterflies in my stomach, wondering how in the world I am going to make it safely to the other side.  At the same time, I’d like to offer some insights into this idea of a Jewish mom balance.

A lot of us have a vision of a balanced life being a perfectly sliced pie: equal portions of attention to specific slices of life. But that’s not real, and I’m not sure it should be. To expect that I will be able to apportion my attention equally among my children, my clients, my husband, my laundry, and my thirsty Jewish soul is to set myself up for failure. Life is messy, and laundry and Jewish souls can be very taxing on this “Jewish mom balance”. For me, it’s not about equal division of attention; instead, being balanced means that I am sturdy enough within myself to choose who and what gets my attention in this moment.

Real balance means that my core is connected with a purpose of being, and everything I do emanates from that centered place. Having balance means understanding that at any given time some aspect of my life may take a cut, but whatever does get my attention is going to get a good dose of it. Again, the Jewish mom balance means figuring out what G-d wants from me in this moment. Whether it’s washing asphalt off a skinned knee or putting a wet washcloth on a laboring mother’s forehead, my job is to commit to being there and giving all that I’ve got.

We’re not designed to compartmentalize and maintain a perfect balance among everything, and where’s the fun in that anyway? That’s like saying “I pushed my kid for ten minutes on the swing today (check in the good parenting box). Now it’s time to pray for ten minutes so I can ‘check’ the spirituality box.” That’s not Jewish mom balance, that’s just going through the motions. Harmony comes when there is a natural flow from one place to another. Talking to your kid about something that matters deeply to him while you are playing together at the park, that’s balanced, that’s spiritual, and that’s beautiful.

As passionate as many of us are about our various life slices, we all fall off our self-imposed tightropes … plenty. But losing balance is the easy part. Taking a deep breath, remembering to invite G-d back into our lives, and trusting that we have the tools to complete whatever assignment is in front of us — now that takes skill, and that’s a tightrope worth walking.

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Yesterday I was served a face full of humble-pie and I’m still trying to figure out what I did to deserve it.

I was strolling through the supermarket doing my thing: piling mounds of fresh, Israeli produce into my cart, fantasizing about all the yummy Shabbat soups and dips it would become. Abuzz with anticipation, I rolled my hunger-induced shopping spree into the checkout line and awaited my bill. A man was standing behind me with an armload of fresh-baked rolls. The atmosphere was cheerful, and the checkout clerk was chatty and friendly. I was nearing the end of my purchase when the cashier said to both me and the fresh-roll-man behind me, “You know, those rolls will only cost you (him) 5 shekel with a purchase of over 150 shekel. Why don’t you join this (my) purchase and pay this woman (me) the 5 shekel directly?”

The other shopper and I were pleased with the idea, but as he fished around in his pocket for the money, he realized that he didn’t have exact change, so he said with total sincerity, “No. It’s fine. I’ll pay full price.” Emboldened by the jovial atmosphere and the heaps of fresh, lush produce I was purchasing, I asked the checker to put his purchase through anyway. “So what if you don’t have exact change,” I said to him in an “I-got-this-one” voice. “Five shekel for fresh-baked bread is a bargain. I’d like to buy you a gift.”

Suddenly the good-humored atmosphere of Jewish giving came to a screeching halt … “Do I look like I need your charity? I can buy them myself thank you very much.” Ouch.

Since that humbling experience, I’ve thought a lot about where I went wrong. Here’s what I’ve come up with so far. For starters, thinking that this man was in need of my gift never occurred to me. I was not judging his financial holdings—I was just trying to be nice and practice what I always preach by performing a random act of kindness. But somehow my gesture was blown entirely out of proportion.

My first conclusion was that I cannot control the responses or actions of others. I can try to anticipate reactions or imagine myself in another’s place, but at the end of the day, the only things under my jurisdiction are my choices. Second, the fact that this man couldn’t receive the gift I offered is not my issue. But did I do the right thing by offering to pay for his groceries? Not in this instance. I embarrassed him, which means that the way I chose to give him a gift was not as pure as it should have been. Giving in its purest form is about the receiver, not the giver. It would have made me feel good to buy him a gift, but it didn’t make him feel good to receive it.

No matter how kind or altruistic a random act of kindness may be, if it could cramp someone else’s style, I need to check myself by going back to my starting point and making sure I’m shooting from an ego-free space. We have a commandment to give what is called tzedakah.  Tzedakah is generally translated to mean “charity,” but that is not its full meaning. Tzedakah literally means “justice” or “righteousness.” In other words, giving tzedakah is about doing the right thing.  If a hungry person crosses my path, my job is to feed him. My kindness and generosity are irrelevant; feeding a hungry person is simply the right thing to do.

Had I brushed up on Maimonides’ eight levels of giving, I could have spared myself the embarrassment of embarrassing the other shopper. Maimonides (also known as the Rambam) writes that the highest level of giving is providing a person with the means to make a living. The second best way to give is anonymously so that the giver doesn’t know to whom he is giving and the receiver has no idea who he’s receiving from.

I missed both of those steps in the checkout line yesterday. Not only did I make my giving a public event, but worse, by offering that man a gift, I implied that he was beholden to me, somehow dependent upon my generosity to get a good deal. Although I was altogether well intentioned, I let the generous spirit of the supermarket cloud my judgment about how that gift would translate to him. Honestly, I’m not sure I could have received that kind of gift from a stranger if the tables had been turned. I’m pretty sure I would have politely declined the kind offer.

At the end of the day, what I offered had more of “me” in it than it should have. Kindness is meant to transcend self – not become saturated within self. That was one grocery cart full of food for thought.

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