Key Words for Yom Kippur Part 1: Chesed

Leshanah Tovah and Gmar Chatimah Tovah; I wish everyone a good year and a worthwhile Yom Kippur. This week I again plan to focus on one word each day.

The period from Rosh Hashanah up to and including Yom Kippur is known as asseret yemei teshuvah, the ten days of penitence or return, when we try to rediscover and re-inhabit the best portion of our inner selves. This is a time of healing, when we seek to make whole again our relationship with our own self, with those closest to us and with those, near or far, for whom we carry responsibility as fellow beings on this earth. In so doing, we hope to open our hearts to the presence of God which flows through us all and thus to make atonement, to be less at odds and more at one with life. This is a both a demanding challenge and a privileged opportunity.

Perhaps the key quality we need is chesed. Usually translated as loving kindness, chesed comprises love, mercy, loyalty and faithfulness. It expresses the best part of the human heart. Its oppositeis anger, cruelty, callousness, rejection.

The Talmud teaches that God ‘inclines towards chesed’, especially at this season. Over and again on Yom Kippur, we repeat the chorus verse of the day: ‘God, God, merciful and gracious’. The meaning is surely that we, too, should try to deepen the kindness, love and generosity in our hearts and view the world from there.

It isn’t hard to find reasons for being irritated with people. The mind all too readily hovers over its vexations and grudges: ‘He did this to me’; ‘She did that’ – few of us would have difficulty completing the sentence. We could no doubt provide ample justification for our hostile feelings. We might well be perfectly right; we might be entitled to feel angry and hurt. But will this bring healing, to us or anybody else? It probably leads only to more entrenched resentments and more alienated relationships.

Matters can look different if we view them with generous eyes. We can step back from judgment and approach life in the spirit of understanding. ‘Perhaps they too felt unheard…’; ‘Maybe I contributed…maybe I’m also at fault’; ‘I get where she’s coming from; she’s been through so much…’ To respond in this manner takes chesed, mercy and forbearance. It makes the situation look different; it doesn’t mean that we forgive or forget everything, but it may take us to a place from where healing is possible.

Therefore, we should try to fill the internal pool of our heart with chesed. We can do so by thinking of blessings we’ve received, altruism we have witnessed, pity we’ve felt, ways in which the world is beautiful, people for whom we love and care.

The world is too full of anger and recrimination. With chesed in our hearts, we may be able to counter at least some of the hatred, bringing healing to others and ourselves.

 

Three key things for Rosh Hashanah part 3: Remembrance

Leshanah Tovah, I wish everyone a good and worthwhile, peaceful and happy year.

My word for today is zikaron, remembrance. It’s the name the rabbis chose for Rosh Hashanah when they called the date Yom Hazikaron, the Day of Remembrance, when we bring to mind what matters most in life, when we travel down to the core of our heart, where we and God can listen to one another undistracted, if only for a few indelible moments.

By God I don’t mean some external entity. I’m thinking rather of the voice which speaks as the truth inside our conscience, as love within our heart, and which flows likes a singing river through our very brain and body, filling us with the vibrancy of life. On Rosh Hashanah, we listen to the God of life, the creative spirit which animates and flows through all being. It calls us from the periphery to the centre, from the inevitable diversions of screens and mobile phones to the ultimate questions: Who am I? Why am I here? What matters? Rosh Hashanah summons us from distraction to Remembrance.

Who am I? The traditional answer is: a being fashioned in God’s image. If ‘there are seventy faces to Torah’, then this verse is no exception. But all the interpretations have this in common: they speak of the gifts and privileges of being human. We have a heart to listen and understand. We have a conscience to tell right from wrong. We have a spirit capable of intuiting beauty and experiencing wonder. We have a mind to weight what best to do and a body which enables us to act. We have empathy and imagination to intuit how the world feels to others. We have language with which to articulate care and compassion, to profess concern and protest injustice.

Why am I here? To make the most of life, to use the gift of life for the good of others and ourselves. My grandfather loved the words at the heart of the prayers devoted to the subject of memory:

zacharti lach – I remember unto you the faithful devotion of your youth, the love of your bridal days, how you followed me through the wilderness, a land unsown.

They were his tribute to my grandmother, with whom he was married for 58 years and together with whom he did indeed have to flee Nazi Europe to a country, if not unsown, certainly unknown. But the words meant more; they express the very reason for living: to behave with chesed, loving kindness, to family and stranger, Jew and non-Jew, alike; to have love, not hate, at the centre of one’s heart, whatever life might bring; and to be prepared to follow the sacred call to what justice and goodness demand, however much courage this may take. That is why we are here.

What matters, then? Everything.

Attah zocher – You, God, remember all deeds, ever…

This sentence is not about cowing us into constant anxiety before a God who refuses to let go of our smallest mistakes. Rather, these are words of encouragement: No word or act is too small to make a difference. Never feel ‘there’s nothing I can do’. Every kind deed is lodged somewhere, in someone’s heart. Who knows? Perhaps what you did for that girl ten years ago is quietly growing inside her into the inspiration to go and help another child who was not yet even born back then? Never think: ‘Why bother?’ Never give up.

These may feel like small, all but irrelevant, matters to write about when the world seems at the brink; when history is at not just at one, but at several junctures more perilous than for generations. But just this is what we have within our capacity to set with courage, intelligence and determination against hatred, violence, terror, famine, floods and the increasing threats of wars: our plain humanity, individual and collective. It is the weakest, it is also the most powerful, force in all the world.

Therefore, on this Day of Remembrance, we must strengthen ourselves with our truest, deepest values and muster our stamina and spirit, so that we draw together in solidarity to think, feel, work and struggle for life. As our prayers tell us over and again: ‘Remember us for life, O God of life.’

Leshanah Tovah – May this be a good, worthwhile, safe and peaceful year.

Three key things for Rosh Hashanah part 2: Book

Leshanah Tovah, I wish everyone a good and worthwhile, peaceful and happy year.

Following my plan to write about one key word each day, my second choice is sefer, book, because again and again over the High Holydays we ask to be written in God’s book of life, sefer hachayyim.

The image of the book can be daunting. Drawn from the Bible, it is developed in the Talmud into the idea that God opens, examines and inscribes in the books of the destiny in which the future fate of all living beings is recorded. As the famous mediaeval meditation Untenah Tokef describes, ‘On Rosh Hashanah it is written and on Yom Kippur it is sealed, who shall live and who shall die…’ Taken too literally, this prayer has put people off coming to the synagogue. Does God really seal our fate? Is God’s sentence necessarily just?

Surely not. I’ve always understand the image of the book, and this powerful prayer also, somewhat differently. We do not know what fate lies before us, what the unfolding pages of our destiny may bring. Many events to be recorded in the book of our lives will not be of our choosing, for good or bad: how long we and those we love will live; whether the world will be at peace or at war.

The purpose of this sharp reminder of the unknown nature of tomorrow is not to reduce us to helpless passivity but to urge us to write in the book of our own life, and to do so now. The script is ours, for concern or indifference, generosity or meanness, love or hate.

The words are what we do, – not what we do for a living, though that may be part of it, – but what we do because it truly matters, because that is where our heart is, what Wordsworth described as our

little, nameless, unremembered, acts
Of kindness and of love.                  (Lines Written above Tintern Abbey)

I sometimes think the ink on the page is our deeds, and the blank space all around, wordless, but without which the words have no meaning, is who we are.

We don’t only write in the book of our own life. Our words and deeds inscribe themselves in the books of the hearts of everyone around us, whether we intend it, or like it, or not. Perhaps our chapter in ‘God’s book’ is composed of the sum of all the impacts our conduct has had on everyone with whom we have ever interacted. No kind word or gesture of compassion goes unnoticed. Nor do our moments of anger and injustice evaporate into the ether. Everything matters.

I believe, too, that we write in the vast book of nature, as individuals and collective humanity. If we could understand their language, the birds, forests, elephants and albatrosses would have much to say about our copy. We must urgently renew our respect for this book. For what our behaviour inscribes in it will be read back to our children, with consequences.

Books are testimony, a record of accountability. That is why those who hate truth have so often sought to burn them. But the book of who we are is indestructible. It is written in our conscience, inscribed in the hearts of everyone we know.

These books of our lives can’t be reduced to tweets. But short synopses are produced after our days are over: ‘She was a blessing to all who knew her;’ ‘He spread kindness wherever he went’. While time is before us, and the page still has room, we should write as richly and fully as possible. For the words are in our heart and the pen is the deeds of our hands.

Three key things for Rosh Hashanah part 1: Life

Leshanah Tovah, I wish everyone a good and worthwhile, peaceful and happy year.

Amidst all the practical preparations for the festivals, shopping, cooking, inviting, and trying not to forget anything or fall out with anybody, it’s hard to focus on the core, the spiritual and personal meanings of the coming holy days. Therefore I plan to write about one key word each day, to help myself, as much as anyone else, to reflect.

My first word is life, chayyim. ‘Remember us for life;’ we pray. ‘Write us in the book of life;’ we ask God. ‘You sustain life with loving kindness,’ we say.

I’m putting life first because death has been so menacingly present this last year, in terror attacks, the Grenfell fire, and the shocking flooding in America, the Caribbean, Africa and Asia. So many people have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and so many hearts left aching with grief.

Judaism teaches that life is the gift of God. It is a brief privilege, our almost infinitesimal opportunity in the endless unfolding of time to develop our understanding, deepen our heart, listen to our conscience and expose our soul to beauty. ‘Who taught me understanding; who gave me the gift of wonder?’ asked the 11th century poet Ibn Gavirol. Life can offer us adventure, companionship, love and joy. Our prayers remind us never to take such gifts for granted. We have an unqualified responsibility to cherish our own life as well as that of others.

As I write, I am anxiously aware that life can be unutterably painful; that not just the many organs of the body, but the mind, consciousness itself, can feel like a pulsing wound beyond the deepest reach of the most tender loving care. We have a responsibility, a duty guided by love, to help those in pain, knowing that we too will have moments when we need such support. At those sad times when the resources of healing are exhausted, we are left with sorrow and compassion.

‘If I am only for myself, what am I?’ asked Hillel. Our own life cannot be happy unless we experience it as meaningful, and the deepest source of meaning comes through what we give and receive from others. ‘You sustain life with loving kindness’ may be less a hopeful statement about God than a fact about human nature. What makes life worth living is the opportunity to show kindness and live in solidarity with others, be it as partner, parent, friend, colleague, teacher, even passer-by. For virtually no interaction is too small to offer the opportunity for a moment’s friendliness and humanity. I think of the chorus line from Naomi Shemer’s hit song: ‘Od lo ahavti dai – I haven’t loved enough’ as the great reason for living.

Judaism asks us to dedicate our life to two overriding values, chesed and tzedakah, compassion and justice. We must give of both our inner and outer capacities, our heart, money and time, to make the world less lonely, cruel and unjust. We are called upon to care not only for our own society, but for all human beings who suffer, for all living things and the very earth itself. The sacred stream of existence flows through us all; we are more inter-dependent than any of us can fully comprehend. We are all part of sefer hachayyim, God’s holy book of life.

Will life harden, or soften, our hearts?

I often think of King Lear’s question. As he shelters in a hovel from the storm which rages not only among the elements but in his mind, he contemplates how cruel humanity can be and asks:

Is there any cause in nature makes these hard hearts?

It’s not really a question but a cry from the soul. No one around him attempts to respond.

I’m struck at least as frequently by the opposite thought: What makes so many hearts soft? That’s why I find the verse from this week’s Torah portion especially moving:

God will open your heart and the hearts of your children to love your God with all your heart and all your soul, for the sake of your life. (Deuteronomy 30:6)

Harder, softer; kinder, crueller – what happens to the heart as we progress through life? What about my own heart as I get older? Which way is it going?

I meet many people whose hearts have been opened by experience. For example:

-   ‘Those children I met in Greece have suffered so much. And they’re so lovely to each other. The older ones look out for the younger; when one of them is sad, the others comfort him. I can’t just leave them.’

-    ‘I wanted to have a meal with their family. I promised to pay, because they were very poor. Then I saw their meagre food, their water from a cistern of mud, where the children mess…. I’d rather go back to Africa to help my people and risk prison, than be a free here in London.’

I see kindness in little things too, all the time: ‘I’ll help’; ‘I can do that’. It’s just the shopping, or giving a friend’s child a lift. It’s just listening as someone shares the sorrow which has engulfed her. Except there’s no ‘just’; these are not responses to take for granted.

I sometimes think the answer to Lear’s question isn’t difficult. Life is often cruel and unjust. There are plenty of reason why, involuntarily perhaps, people protect their heart against the pain with which life pierces it. It’s far from incomprehensible that we should want to build a wall of self-protection and turn our heart into a fortress. Its foundations are made of evasions: ‘I can’t bear to see; I don’t want to feel’. Its fortifications are protected by dogmas: ‘Why should I care? Those aren’t my kind of people. They’re……’.

But in truth those walls are also often made of pain: It’ll hurt too much if I let down the drawbridge to my soul.

None of us knows in advance whether experience will make our heart softer as we grow older, or harder and more defended. That’s why the verse from the Torah is more of a prayer than a description: God, open my heart; awaken me to deeper solidarity and compassion; make me more human.

Unlike many prayers, the answer is all around us. It comes not as a voice from heaven, but in the innumerable voices of life, crying out from a child, from a person in grief, or lonely. God speak in them all, and in all of us. The answer to the prayer lies waiting in our own heart, in our response.

Eva Ehrenberg fled from Nazi Europe to Britain. She wrote poetry in both German and English. In a witty rhyme, she notes that when you boil eggs in their shells they get hard, but if you bake potatoes in their jackets and they go soft. She concludes:

In pain as all of us are oft, we too become in our skin or shell
Some of us hard and others soft. (with thanks to Professor Timms)

It takes courage and trust, as well as compassion, to let the heart grow soft; maybe that’s why we need God’s help to open it.

Saying thank you: the art of gratitude

‘Modeh ani lefanecha – I’m thankful before you’: these are the opening words of the day, the first prayer one’s supposed to say in those dim, semi-conscious moments when one’s not sure if it’s 4.00am or 7.00am, whether one’s woken too late and missed the alarm, or too early because the dog barked at a fox.

Modeh ani lefanecha – I’m grateful to you’: there’s an art to thankfulness. ‘You’ve forgotten the magic word’, people say to their children, probably thinking of ‘Please’. But ‘Thank you’ works at least as many wonders. And children aren’t the greatest culprits at failing to say it. Few of us are as generous at gratitude as we might, and ought, to be.

This week’s Torah portion describes the rite of Viddui Bikkurim, thanksgiving for the first fruits. In Temple times, villagers from across the Promised Land brought their best, first figs, dates, grapes and pomegranates to Jerusalem in decorated baskets and offered them before God with joy.

But being grateful isn’t a once-a-year affair. It’s an art, a grace, a wisdom at the heart of daily living.

Gratitude turns the ordinary into the special. It’s a way of appreciating every person, valuing the simplest object or experience. It’s the opposite of taking for granted, entitlement, greed and exploitation; of treating life as if it persistently fell below one’s expectations.

‘What have you learnt from your seventy-five years?’ an elderly lady was asked at a conference on spirituality in Edinburgh. ‘To be thankful’, she replied.

My teacher, Art Green, recently told me that if he had to reduce the entire morning service to just three minutes, he would still include Psalm 100, ‘a song of thanksgiving’. I’m thinking of him now, today, saying these words. His wife, whom he cared for with adoring dedication during all the years of her Parkinson’s, just passed away. Saying thank you isn’t always felicitously easy; it demands of us the good grace to let go, the capacity to be satisfied with life, to acknowledge that we’ve had our turn, and that we ourselves and those we love must leave the world for others, with generosity and forbearance.

Life doesn’t only rejoice the heart; it pierces it. Can I see the good, can I find blessing even then? Puzzling over the meaning of the word meodecha, generally translated as the injunction to love God ‘with all your might,’ the Mishnah (2nd century) plays alliteratively with the original Hebrew and demands: ‘With whatever measure of fortune God metes out to you, acknowledge and thank God most profoundly.’ It’s easier said than done.

I recall a senior consultant in palliative care saying: I’ve seen a child of nine approach death cheerfully content with what life had given him, and a man of ninety angry at what he felt he’d been denied.

I took a cup of tea with that lady at the seminar in Scotland. She said: ‘There’s a spiritual practice of never going to sleep before reflecting on five things for which you’re grateful’. I haven’t been consistent, but it’s a habit I’m trying to adopt.

Intriguingly, the Hebrew words modeh, ‘thanks’, and vidui, ‘confession’, derive from the same root. As we approach the New Year and Day of Atonement we’re called upon to improve our lives through repentance, confession and remorse. Viddui, confession, is the watchword of the season.

But it also means thankfulness, and there’s wisdom and humility in gratitude too. It’s at least as important to show those we love how much we appreciate them as it is to apologise for our faults.

There’s a beauty to people who know how to be thankful, even amidst distress. Their hearts are like a magnifying glass over life’s most ordinary details, a cup of tea, the sight of the moon, a moment of kindness. They teach us to notice, to appreciate; they turn life into grace.

On destruction and creation

I had a nightmare last night which concluded with a vision of our home smashed to pieces, debris all over the ruined garden, the animals dead, the family scattered and broken. I woke up not only frightened but with that sense of inner unease and dismay which dreams sometimes leave.

A few moments’ thought made me realise where this vision had come from: the terrible flooding in Texas; the appalling devastation caused by the monsoon in Nepal, India, Pakistan and Bangladesh; the burnt-out homes and lives destroyed at Grenfell; the hurt and pain I often witness close at hand. I am sure everyone knows the details, but

My colleague Julie Schonfeld, the Executive Director of the (Conservative) Rabbinical Assembly, wrote:

Our hearts are breaking over the circumstances of those affected by Hurricane Harvey. Congregation Beth Yeshurun of Houston, one of the flagship Conservative synagogues in North America, took on very heavy flooding throughout the building. The homes of at least 500 congregant households were flooded.

Houses, schools, churches, mosques, factories are ruined, leaving hundreds of thousands exposed to the health dangers which threaten to follow: “From the bacteria, viruses, and fungi harbored in floodwaters to a potentially staggering mental health toll inflicted on those hardest hit by Harvey, the risks are expected to be great.” (The Houston Chronicle)

Shocking as this is, the flooding in South east Asia is on a different scale. A third of Bangladesh is under water; Nepal, significant swathes of India and now of Pakistan are devastated. Children are particularly affected. As schools close, so pupils lose key periods of their education. “The longer children are out of school following a disaster the less likely it is that they’ll ever return. That’s why it’s so important that education is properly funded in this response.” (Rafay Hussain, Save the Children)

I remember at the close of my nightmare trying to find the family to talk about rebuilding. Soon after I woke up I found myself thinking about the words of Rebbe Shalom Noach of Slonim, which we put near the front of our Shivah book of prayers in times of mourning:

A broken heart
must always belong to the world of building
not to the world of destruction

I thought then of how rich the language of creativity is in the liturgy: borei – create; yotzer – fashion; bonei – build; oseh – make. From the intimate domain of the heart to the vast creation of the universe, – with homes, communities and the city of Jerusalem, symbolically representing all human habitation, in between – God’s creativity, with our own creative capacities in partnership, pervades our prayers and hopes.

The power of destruction is fierce in nature and, tragically, in humanity. But let the courage, determination, generosity and imagination of those who strive to build and create be greater!


Julie Schonfeld referred me to the relief fund established by The Jewish Federation of Greater Houston to which local colleagues have asked people to donate.I will send a contribution on behalf of the synagogue.

The DEC (the 10 leading UK charities) will have appeals for South East Asia. See https://www.dec.org.uk/

Looking for God with the eagles and otters

I’m writing on the night train home from Scotland, trying to garner in my mind’s eye and in my heart the wonderful sights of mountains and eagles, mist and rain, waterfalls and sea shores, and the sunset quenched in the flaming red water; and to preserve in the soles of my feet the sensations of scrambling on grass, rock and heather; of walking, running and climbing through the thick highland mud.

I had no shofar with me to blow on the first day of Elul, but instead stood and prayed next to the hill-wise sheep with their impressive curled horns. It is of them and their glens that I will think on Rosh Hashanah when I say the blessing and endeavour to listen as deeply as I can to the sound of the shofar. Their hills are my personal Sinai, my place of revelation, where the wordless utterance of God says simply and constantly, ‘I am’.

I haven’t forgotten during this fortnight in the Highlands that the world is complex, full of violence, pain, alienation, unresolved conflicts and millions of innocent people who suffer for what they have not done. I spend most of my life inside the circumference of such concerns.

But all of us need to charge our heart and soul, to fill them with beauty, grace and inspiration so that we have the strength of spirit and the resilience to negotiate with courage and loving kindness the struggles of our own life and those of others. I often ask people when they turn to me in times of distress: ‘What nourishes your spirit?’ Perhaps it is music, prayer, poetry, nature, walking the dog, the companionship of those friends to whom you don’t have to tell everything because they know and understand. Then I say to them, ‘Whatever happens, take the time to restore your soul’.

Elul and Tishrei are the months of the beautiful 27th Psalm, ‘On your part does my heart say: “Seek my Face.”’ The heart, teaches the Zohar, is God’s temple within each person, God’s sacred abode in each and every life. It longs for its home with God, and, like a satnav to a different dimension, tries to help us locate it here on earth.

Libbi, our elder daughter has always loved otters. The Isle of Mull has at least one otter family for every mile of its 360 miles of coastline, so at dusk we went down to the shore to see if we could find one of their havens. We sat in silence as the twilight deepened in to darkness. We listened to the washing of the waves against the rocks, the constant variations in the movement of the ripples of the water, the seaweed, the boats moored a small distance from the shore. We found not a single otter.

Instead a deeper presence found us, calmed and silenced us, and without words reminded us that the world is full of the presence of God. For a moment, we were privileged to enter malchut shamayim, the sovereign domain of heaven.

 

Where comfort lies?

I am always glad when Shabbat Nachamu, the Sabbath of Consolation, arrives. The bleak fast of the Ninth of Av has passed and we move from contemplating destruction to hope and comfort.

Comfort, O comfort my people; speak to the heart of Jerusalem   Isaiah 40:1

But where does comfort come from? Experience as a community rabbi has made me wary of trite comments like ‘time is a healer’. Time pushes us by the shoulder into the bewildering future. But it rarely fills in the holes in the heart through which, mercifully, painfully, those we have lost make unpredictable reappearances in our consciousness. No one lives only in the present.

In the wider frame of history, what is destroyed is rarely speedily rebuilt. The impact of persecutions, wars, disasters, marks those affected forever, and often defines the lives of their children, even their children’s children. Violence hasn’t vanished from the world, or racism, anti-Semitism and hatred gone away.

So where is comfort?

I saw a sign stuck on a lamppost ‘Ich liebe mein Leben’, ‘I love my life,’ with a small red heart underneath. Thank God, the love of life has tenacious powers. Like the pale leaves emerging in April from the thick, sticky buds of a chestnut tree after a winter of dormancy, the will to live reawakens in the human heart.

Like the wild flowers that grew in the bomb craters of London after the war, life has extraordinary resilience. It finds a foothold once again, not the same as it once was, but life nonetheless.

Destruction is powerful. But creation and creativity have – so far – found the subtle, visceral, tenacious resources to fight back:

However many rings of pain the night welds around me,
The opposing pull is stronger, the passion to break away.   Boris Pasternak

Yet, as life rushes on, what about the wounds left behind?

The issue takes me to the story of Rabbi Yehoshua ben Levi and his desire to question the Messiah. But where should he find him? ‘Among the poor at the gates of the great city’, Elijah informs him, referring to Rome, recently responsible for the sacking of Jerusalem. The rabbi promptly travels to the great metropolis, where he sees a host of destitute people taking off their bandages and gazing at their injuries. The Messiah, however, removes only one bandage at a time before hastily replacing it, saying ‘Maybe I am needed’.

I’ve met a lot of people like that. Sometimes they come up to me and say, ‘Remember me when you hear about someone else going through what I’ve been through’. It may be grief, depression, illness, the sudden loss of their job. They have turned their wounds into ‘Maybe I am needed’.

Nervous before the start of the Royal Parks half marathon last year, I asked the runners waiting next to me why they were doing the race:

‘For the Alzheimer’s Society, in memory of my mum’
‘For Cancer Research, because of what happened to my brother’

They too have turned their sorrow into ‘Maybe I am needed’.

Such people are my heroes, healers, redeemers, the rebuilders of Jerusalem.

Much as I sometimes wish to, I don’t think I believe in a single personal magical Messiah who’ll descend from heaven on a long rope into the maelstrom of history and solve all its ills.

But I believe in the redemptive spirit in humanity, within each of us, and in our capacity, with each other’s help, to try to turn pain into healing, destruction into rebuilding, grief into consolation, mourning into hope.

Causeless hatred – and its causes

The Talmud teaches that the Second Temple was destroyed by the Romans:

‘because there was gratuitous hatred during that period’. Talmud, Yoma 9b

As the Fast of the 9th of Av approaches, the day in the Jewish year in which we are asked to reflect on destruction and destructiveness in our world, I find myself puzzling over what that ‘hatred’ is, and how we can stop hating.

‘Gratuitous hatred’, sinat chinam in Hebrew, may be defined as the opposite of righteous indignation. If the latter is anger directed at removing a wrong or injustice in the world, the former is pointless rage and recrimination, justified by no cause.

Sinat chinam has both a personal and a political dimension.

On the personal level, I don’t think gratuitous hatred means hatred which has come from nowhere and has no source. Anger almost always has its pretexts; the mind is liable to hover over them until they become an ingrained bitterness of the soul: ‘I was neglected’ ‘I was treated unfairly’ ‘Life never gave me what I deserved’. Ground can always be found, or invented, for such thoughts.

‘Gratuitous hatred’ draws attention to their futility. Where do they take us, if not back to our own mental prisons of grudges and resentments? As Nelson Mandela famously said:

As I walked out the door towards the gate that would lead to my freedom I knew that if I didn’t leave bitterness and hatred behind, I’d still be in prison.

None of us wants to go through life with part of our heart in an internal solitary cell of our own making. Once one has taken two or three turns in the labyrinth of resentment, it is extremely hard to find one’s way out. We need kindness, from ourselves as much as from others, inner understanding and self-discipline to help us.

On the political level, gratuitous hatred means wantonly or ignorantly engaging in disputes which could and should have been avoided.

This is probably what the Talmud means by the phrase. The wars against Rome were driven by extremists. The zealots who eventually burnt the food supplies in the besieged city of Jerusalem and forced its citizens to fight to the hopeless end, refused to listen to moderating voices.

The heirs of sinat chinam today are all who practise a politics of extremism and rejection and all of us who demonise others. The healers are those who practise the difficult, dangerous, often seemingly futile art of building bridges with the fragile armoury of words and relationships; with tentative sensitivity to how the world may feel like to others…all who reach out to care for others with humility, courage and faith.

I believe causeless hatred also describes pain and anger we end up provoking without even thinking about it. In a news report from the civil war in Yemen, Orla Guerin interviewed a family whose son had lost both legs in a bomb, then spoke to a local journalist, who asked: ‘Why does the west arm Saudi Arabia? You are people who believe in humanistic values, so why do you leave us to suffer?’ Sixty per cent of the population of Yemen don’t know where their next food is coming from.

No doubt the politics are complex. But it is a fact that, indirectly and without wishing to do so, we are all implicated in vast suffering in many parts of the world.

It is not pleasant to face a date established in the Jewish calendar to ponder the terrible exiles and persecutions we as a people have been forced to undergo, and to think about why there is so much hatred across the globe. But the day is important. If we refuse to visit the angriest, most hurt places in our hearts, our history and in the world, we will not be able to bring healing.

It is only out of understanding that redemption is born. Hence the teaching that it is on the Fast of the 9th of Av that the Messiah is born. This may be understood metaphorically as the desire and determination in each of us to rebuild and restore creation through justice, compassion and love.

Hatred paralyzes life; love releases it. Hatred confuses life; love harmonizes it. Hatred darkens life; love illuminates it. Martin Luther King

 

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