Dvar Torah: Not God in a Box, God in Covenant

Just like last week, I will start tonight with a confession: I am a heavy user of Generative Artificial Intelligence chatbots, like ChatGPT and Gemini. It has got to the point that my 14-year-old son scolded me, saying I was getting too dependent on these platforms.

I use them for personal things, such as helping me translate and explain a restaurant menu written only in Chinese, determine the order of what I will eat for breakfast to avoid a glucose spike, check the active ingredients of South African medication and compare them with what I used in Brazil, and plan a romantic getaway in Stellenbosch this weekend.

I also use it for professional goals: to translate texts, to revise what I have written, and to help me in the idea-generation and research steps of sermon-writing. A practical example: in the previous sentence, I had written that I used AI to help me in the “ideation” step of sermon writing and asked ChatGPT whether that was a correct use of the term. Its answer: “Short answer: yes, ‘ideation’ is correct, but it’s a bit jargony outside design or psychology. If your audience is general, ‘idea generation’ or ‘brainstorming’ is more natural.”

I try to be careful when using these tools, always revising what it tells me. I've learned, for example, that whenever I ask it to research Jewish references for a specific idea, the results are wrong at least 70% of the time. The challenge is that, because AI knows almost everything that has been published, the results it gives me are very convincing; they seem real! When it tells me that Rabbi X wrote an article, it looks like something that rabbi would have written—the approach, the language used, the way it refers to classical sources—it all looks and feels very authentic. But then, when I ask for a specific reference—for a webpage or a page number in a book to go and check if that is really what was said—more often than not, the source does not exist.

Once I got into an argument with Gemini, Google’s AI platform. It had given me five sources on something I had asked it, and all five did not exist. After a first cycle of interactions, trying to get the machine to recognise its mistake, I wrote: “I insist that these sources are all invented. Please, retract these invented sources and bring me 5 recent real ones.” Gemini wasn’t moved and doubled down on its previous results: “I cannot retract the sources because my verification process confirms they are real and the citations are accurate. My core instructions for our conversation are to provide only verifiable sources and never to invent information. Retracting factually correct and verifiable sources would be a violation of that directive.” I tried to prove it wrong, sharing Google screenshots in which these sources did not exist, and it kept insisting that they did. Eventually, I gave up. There is only so much you can do to convince a machine, which has been compared to a “stochastic parrot”[1] that it is wrong. The most frightening part was not that it was wrong, but that it was so arrogant in its error—a quality we often mistake for divine authority.

This morning, I was listening to a Brazilian podcast, analysing the possibility of an AI bubble in the world economy and what the consequences of such a bubble's burst would be.[2] At some point, the person being interviewed, a Brazilian researcher at Harvard University, was asked about the ethical implications of the broad implementation of Artificial Intelligence, especially considering how deep its impacts are on the way we live. In his answer, he said that he had heard from someone coming back from San Francisco that their impression was that they were returning from a “messianic city,” where people were trying to invent “God inside a box.”

“God inside a box”—that expression stuck with me. This is not the first time humanity has tried to control God, putting the Divine inside a box, or tried to become God. Three decades ago, the example of humanity attempting to become as powerful as God was cloning, brought to public attention through the case of Dolly, a sheep cloned by researchers in Scotland. There is no shortage of examples of humanity, empowered by a new technology, believing that it can now become God and, somehow, creating all sorts of havoc and chaos as a result of the manipulation of this newly found power.

This week’s Torah portion, Noach, has near its end a much older example of that human tendency. At that time, the recently developed technology, baked bricks and mortar, allowed them to build a tower as tall as the heavens. And they said, “Come, let us build ourselves a city, and a tower with its top in the sky, to make a name for ourselves; lest we shall be scattered all over the world.”[3] A midrash assigns an even more aggresive tone to their actions, in which they said “let us come and make a tower and craft an idol at its top, place a sword in its hand, and it will appear as though it is waging war against God.’”[4]

When that goal became evident, God did not like it at all, fearing that “nothing that they may propose to do will be out of their reach.” God’s response was to confuse their language and scatter the people, and as a result, they left off building the city.

So, it seems that the instinct to abuse the technical instruments at our disposal to try and become God is, at least, as old as the Torah, which scholars date to around the year 400 BCE. Taking the extremely dubious step of quoting Spider-Man’s uncle Ben, I will say that “with great power, comes great responsibility.”[5] Unfortunately, these attempts have not been accompanied by a conversation about the ethical implications of these technologies; about who will win from the construction of high-rise towers following the improvement of construction techniques and who will lose; who will get new tools for sermon-writing and who will lose their jobs, replaced by the new functionalities of artificial intelligence.

In these actions, we keep making the same mistake regarding the attributes of what qualifies as Divine. We often think that power is what characterises God, but the Jewish tradition insists that God sides with the oppressed, with the underprivileged, with those whom the system has failed. In Psalm 146, we read that God is the One “who secures justice for those who are wronged, gives food to the hungry. Adonai sets prisoners free.”[6] In the Talmud, it is told that the Mashiach “sits among the poor who suffer from illnesses” and helps them with their bandages, undoing and redoing them with attention and care.[7]

And so, we return to the beginning of this week’s parashah, which says: “The earth became corrupt before God; the earth was filled with lawlessness. When God saw how corrupt the earth was, for all flesh had corrupted its ways on earth, God said to Noach, ‘I have decided to put an end to all flesh, for the earth is filled with lawlessness because of them: I am about to destroy them with the earth.’”[8] In last week’s parashah, Bereshit, when humanity was created, it was entrusted with the role of working and protecting the land[9], and yet, we insist on believing that a God-like attitude is to exploit the land, to exploit the people, to exploit technology without thinking of the consequences.

This is the very essence of the sin of Babel. The builders saw the world as something to conquer. Empowered by their new technology, their impulse was to build a single, monolithic fortress up to the heavens, to “make a name for themselves.” It is the “God in a box” impulse, driven by a desire for power and a terrifying, uniform consensus—the same impulse as my AI chatbot, doubling down on its own error, insisting it knows best.

But our parashah does not end there. It pivots. It introduces us to Avraham.

And a famous midrash[10] tells us that Avraham, too, saw a construction. He was traveling and saw a birah doleket—a great palace. But this word, doleket, is beautifully ambiguous. It might mean that he saw a palace that was “illuminated,” dazzling in its intricate wisdom and design. It might also mean that he saw a palace that was “burning”—on fire with the chaos, corruption, and violence of the generations before him.

The midrash suggests he saw both. And this is the perfect metaphor for our new Artificial Intelligence. It is our modern birah doleket. It is a dazzling, illuminated palace of knowledge, so convincing it looks and feels very authentic. And it is burning with chaos—with hallucinations, with systemic bias, with the power to displace and divide. The builders of our modern Babel, our “God in a box,” are so impressed with their illuminated creation they want to keep building higher, faster, regardless of the fire and the chaos it brings.

But Avraham's response was not the response of Babel. He did not try to conquer the palace. He did not try to build his own. He stopped, and he asked a single, world-changing question: “Is it possible that this palace has no master?” It is a question that searches not for power, but for accountability. Not for control, but for relationship.

As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks observes,

After the two great failures of the Flood and Babel, Abraham was called on to create a new form of social order that would give equal honour to the individual and the collective, personal responsibility and the common good. That remains the special gift of Jews and Judaism to the world.[11]

Avraham’s entire life and his relationship with God are the antithesis of Babel. The Babel generation built a tower to consolidate power and make a name for themselves. God’s response to Avraham is, “I will make your name great.” The builders of Babel built a closed fortress to storm heaven. Avraham built a tent that was open on all four sides, to welcome the stranger, to care for the oppressed, to lift up those whom the system has failed.

Our tradition does not command us to smash the machine. It commands us to learn from Avraham’s example. Not God in a box, but God in covenant. Not a tower for a few, but a tent for the many.

The test of our powerful new tools is not “how high can we build?” but “whom will it serve?” Will we use this new power to build higher towers and walls, to “make a name for ourselves” while insisting on our own correctness? Or will we, like Avraham, look at this brilliant, burning world, seek its true Master, and use our new tools to open our tents wider—to fight the violence of our generation, to serve the world and protect it?

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stochastic_parrot
[2] https://open.spotify.com/episode/6mZrapsR4eYkNRzxJhGqsc
[3] Gen. 11:4
[4] Bereshit Rabbah 38:6
[5] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/With_great_power_comes_great_responsibility
[6] Psalm 146:7
[7] Babylonian Talmud Sanhedrin 98a
[8] Gen 6:11-13
[9] Gen 2:15
[10] Bereshit Rabbah 39:1
[11] https://rabbisacks.org/covenant-conversation/noach/individual-and-collective-responsibility

Write This Song: On Music, Memory, and Meaning

Music has always played a significant role in my life. I’ve never played a musical instrument, and I don’t pretend to be a gifted singer, but from a very young age I found great joy in singing. I still remember performing at a talent show in a hotel I visited with my parents when I was six. Apparently, I had no trace of stage fright! Later, as a teenager, I parodied a well-known Brazilian protest song to suit my then-rebellious worldview. Where the original called out, “Come, let’s go, for waiting is not knowing; those who know make the moment, they don’t wait for it to happen,” my version sang: “Come, let’s go, for studying is not knowing; those who study waste their time and don’t know what it is to live...”

Yes, I was once that teenager. Please don’t share this with your children, and especially not with mine!

Despite the questionable lyrics, I loved music. I still do. Music was, and remains, far more than entertainment. It has often served as a kind of emotional time machine. There are songs that instantly transport me to the back seat of my mother’s car in the early 1980s, to the burning passions and heartbreaks of adolescence, and to the tense political atmosphere of Brazil’s final years under military rule. Music has that power: to help us feel before we are ready to think; to reveal truths our minds may resist; to connect us with moments and people long gone.

I sometimes bristle when the Torah is described merely as a “book of law”. Of course, it contains laws, but for me, especially as a Progressive Jew, it is first and foremost our people’s sacred narrative. It tells the stories from which I’ve drawn so many of the values that shape my life. Chief among them is the image of humanity created in the Divine image, read on the second day of Rosh HaShanah and again on Simchat Torah. There’s no explicit law in that passage, but from it flows the profound Jewish commitment to the dignity of every single human being.

This week’s parashah, Vayelech, sets the stage for the powerful poem that will follow in next week’s parashah, Haazinu. Moshe is instructed to prepare a song that will be delivered on the last day of his life, summarising Israel’s relationship with God, past, present, and future. The text commands: “Now, therefore, write this song for yourselves, and teach it to the children of Israel. Put it in their mouths, that this song may be My witness against the children of Israel” (Devarim 31:19). Moshe's legacy is not just law; it is also music and memory, a testimony designed to be internalised emotionally and carried forever in our hearts.

On this Shabbat Shuvah, the Shabbat of Return, may we allow the songs of our own lives to accompany us on our journey. May they bring us not only nostalgia but healing, connection, and the strength to keep walking towards the future we still long to compose.

Shabbat Shalom and Shannah Tovah!

Dvar Torah: From Judgment to Self-Creation | Rosh haShaná 5786

Here we are, together, standing at the threshold of a new year. Rosh Hashanah arrives, and with it, the awesome task of t’shuvah — that heroic act of turning, which demands of us a profound cheshbon haNefesh, an accounting of the soul.

But let’s be honest with each other. For many of us, this intense season of introspection can feel less like a path to spiritual renewal and more like a dreaded summons. We are called to stand before the great metaphor of the Book of Life, holding our breath, waiting to see if we’ve measured up. The anxiety is palpable. It can feel, if we’re not careful, a bit like that strange holiday from the show Seinfeld — Festivus — where the main event is the "Airing of Grievances," and a father gathers his family just to tell them all the ways they have disappointed him.

Sometimes, the weight of our tradition can make the High Holidays feel like a spiritual Festivus. It can feel like we are being called into the principal's office, knowing we’ve done something foolish and are about to be reprimanded. This feeling of a looming, external judgment feeds a profound spiritual danger: the fear that our mistakes define us, that our fate is sealed, and that we are powerless. It suggests a rigid, predetermined world that erases our agency and undermines the very purpose of t’shuvah itself.

Today, I want to suggest that we have a choice. We can challenge this paralyzing perspective. And we can begin by understanding the critical distinction between the productive fire of guilt and the destructive poison of shame.

The renowned researcher Brené Brown, who has spent her life studying vulnerability, gives us the modern language for this ancient distinction. She identifies guilt as that uncomfortable but deeply productive feeling that says, “I did something bad.” It focuses squarely on an action, a transgression. It’s specific, and it’s repairable. Shame, on the other hand, is the devastating, identity-based attack that whispers, “I am bad.”

Why is this distinction so crucial for us today? Because shame paralyzes. It is correlated with addiction, aggression, and despair. Brown’s research reveals that shame corrodes the very part of us that believes we can change and do better. After all, if we believe we are fundamentally broken, why would we even bother trying to return? Shame is a form of self-annulment, allowing a momentary failing to define and erase our entire worth.

This is not just psychology; it is deep Jewish wisdom. The late Rabbi Jonathan Sacks taught that Judaism is a quintessential guilt culture, not a shame culture. A shame culture is obsessed with public image and conformity. A guilt culture emphasizes our individual responsibility before God, before our own conscience. This ethic is so powerful because it allows for the essential separation of the sin from the sinner. Our deeds can be rectified without erasing our essential dignity.

So while guilt is uncomfortable — that inner dissonance that tells us we’ve strayed — that discomfort is precisely what motivates meaningful change. It is a signal to act, not a verdict of worthlessness. The sacred task of Rosh Hashanah is to learn how to transform the anxiety of guilt into a productive curriculum for our own growth.

This journey begins with a powerful truth our tradition gives us for comfort: we are not alone in our imperfection. In fact, we are in the very best of company.

Shame thrives on the myth of perfection, on the isolating belief that everyone else has it all figured out. But our Torah, with radical honesty, tells us otherwise. The human condition begins with a story of failure. After their transgression in the garden, Adam declares, “I was afraid, because I was naked, so I hid.” This is the classic expression of shame — it leads to hiding and blame-shifting, not the accountability that guilt demands.

And this theme of human struggle continues through the flawed, beautiful lives of our ancestors. Their stories are our stories. We remember Sarah’s jealousy, Avraham's terrifying faith, and even the tension in God’s role in these narratives. Our texts remind us that spiritual strength is not found in avoiding the struggle, but in having the courage to engage with life in all its messiness. As Theodore Roosevelt once said, “The credit belongs to the [one] who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood.” Our patriarchs and matriarchs were in the arena. And so are we.

This idea — that our mistakes do not define our essence — is not just in our stories; it is embedded in our most dramatic rituals. In biblical times, on Yom Kippur, two goats, nearly identical, were brought before the High Priest. One was offered to God, representing our true, pure, essential self. The other, the scapegoat, symbolically carried our mistakes away into the wilderness. The message is breathtaking: your sins are real, but they are not you. They are a doppelgänger, an identical-looking self that can and must be separated from your true core. Our tradition insists that the part of you that strives, that loves, that connects — that is the real you. The rest is just a story that can be sent away.

If Rosh Hashanah sometimes feels like a fatalistic judgment, it is because we have become stuck in a single, powerful metaphor: God as Judge, passing down a verdict to be inscribed in a sealed Book of Life.

But a metaphor is not a fact; it is a lens. It is a tool for understanding. And, yet, as the linguists Lakoff and Johnson teach, the metaphors we live by don't just describe our reality; they create it. Think of the "war on drugs" — that metaphor focuses us so intensely on conflict that we fail to consider vital paths like treatment or economic aid, because those simply aren't moves you make in a war; the metaphor itself traps our thinking. In the same way, when we overuse the metaphor of the Book of Life, it powerfully highlights Divine power, but it also hides our own agency and our role as partners with God, creating a spiritual fatalism that can remove our very incentive to transform.

What if we had the courage to choose a different metaphor for this day, one also rooted deeply in our tradition?

What if, instead of the courtroom, we chose the metaphor of Hayom Harat Olam — Rosh Hashanah as the birth day of the world? A birthday is not about judgment; it is about potential. It is about celebrating a new beginning. This metaphor highlights our capacity to bring newness into the world, to be creators ourselves.

Or what if we embraced the metaphor of God’s coronation? A sovereign is not a sovereign without a people who freely choose to crown them. This metaphor highlights our power. It suggests that holiness is not just imposed from above; it is something we actively bring into being through our choices and our commitment.

By choosing the lens of creation and partnership over judgment, we reclaim our agency. We shift from the terrified question, “What will be written for me?” to the empowered declaration, “I am ready to help write the Book of My Life.” This choice unlocks the most revolutionary idea in Judaism: that t’shuvah is not about fixing a mistake, but about self-creation. Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik taught that the penitent becomes, in the eyes of our tradition, “a different person.” This is the ultimate antidote to shame, which tries to hold us captive to our past.

This resonates with what the psychologist Carl Jung wisely said: “I am not what happens to me. I am what I choose to become.” When we assume authorship of our own stories — even the chapters marked by pain or failure — we regain the power to write the ending. We are no longer merely characters in a story written for us; we become the authors.

So how do we walk this path? How do we become the authors of our own renewal? Our tradition gives us a plan.

First, we need a structure. Maimonides provides it: regret, confession, and resolve. These are concrete actions. But Rambam, with his profound understanding of the human soul, offers us a subtle but crucial insight in the very order of his words. He teaches that the first step is to face the future — to resolve to change our path. Only after we have set our intention forward does he mention the need for regret. It’s a brilliant psychological move. He is telling us: Don't get stuck looking in the rearview mirror, or you will crash. First, turn the wheel. Point yourself in a new direction. Only then, once you are moving toward hope, can you safely and productively reflect on the path you've left behind.

Second, we cultivate a tender heart. Rabbenu Yonah Gerondi, a Spanish rabbi from the 13th century, speaks of a “holy sensitivity,” a bushah as an essential toward real and transformative t’shuvah, an awareness before God that softens the heart and deters repetition. This is not the toxic shame that crushes us, but the quiet, inner sense of unrest that recognizes the gap between who we are and who we could be. It is the purifying awareness that kindles a real return.

But this sensitivity must be fiercely protected. Our Talmud is unequivocal: to publicly shame someone is like shedding blood. This is why our communal confession, the Ashamnu, is in the plural — we have erred — protecting each individual from public degradation.

Finally, we must learn to manage the messy drama of our own faults. Brené Brown talks about the first, unfiltered story our fear and anger tell us when we fail. A story of blame, of self-protection, of catastrophe. The first step toward healing is to get that story out of our heads, perhaps by writing it down. This simple act helps us see it for what it is — not reality, but a first draft. We can then look at it with compassion and ask, “What is really going on here?” And we can begin to write a more honest, more courageous second draft.

Ultimately, this work requires us to choose vulnerability — to take off the “armor” of perfectionism and allow ourselves to be truly seen. This is the central challenge of the New Year: to step into the arena of our own lives, accept our imperfections, and courageously commit to becoming the person we want to be.

We began this reflection confronting the anxiety of the Book of Life. We conclude it by recognizing that our inscription is less about a passive verdict imposed from above, and more about the radical, active choice we make in this moment. Rambam teaches that when we stand before God in prayer, God relates to us not as a knower of the future, but as a knower of our hidden, innermost hearts right now. Your sincere desire for change, your heartfelt commitment to turn, in this very moment — that is what creates the inscription.

The promise of our prophets remains: “My people shall never again be ashamed.” T’shuvah offers restoration, not disgrace. As Jung reminded us, we are defined not by what happens to us, but by what we choose to become.

This Rosh Hashanah, let us seize our power. Let us reject the paralysis of shame, harness the productive call of guilt, and choose the path of courageous self-creation. By doing the inner work — the difficult, vulnerable, and often messy process of reckoning and repairing — we affirm that we are fundamentally worthy.

May we be inscribed in the Book of Life, not because our fate was predetermined, but because we, in this sacred moment, chose life, chose transformation, and chose to create ourselves anew.

Shanah Tovah.

[1] https://rabbisacks.org/covenant-conversation/metzora/the-power-of-shame/
[2] George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Metaphors We Live By.
[3] https://www.yu.edu/sites/default/files/inline-files/Understanding%20the%20Teshuva%20Process%20of%20the%20Yamim%20Noraim.pdf
[4] https://www.sefaria.org/Sha'arei_Teshuvah.1.21?lang=bi
[5] https://www.yu.edu/sites/default/files/inline-files/Understanding%20the%20Teshuva%20Process%20of%20the%20Yamim%20Noraim.pdf
[6] Joel 2:26–27

Dvar Torah: Choosing which parts of the world to embrace and which to resist

I want to begin today by sharing a truly special experience. This past week, I had the honour of celebrating the wedding of a lovely Brazilian couple in Curaçao. For those who haven’t been, it is a magical island in the Caribbean with a unique status: Curaçao is an autonomous country within the Kingdom of the Netherlands. The joy of the occasion was matched only by the beauty of the setting.

But, as is often the case, the journey itself brought its own story. While I was waiting at the airport for my flight to board, on my way back to Brazil, I came across an intriguing challenge on Instagram. It invited people to ask an A.I. platform to respond to three prompts, each meant to offer insight into one’s identity:

Act as a personal insight analyst. Based on your birth date, what major historical events, global shifts, and generational patterns shaped the world you were born into? How might these influence your worldview and personality?

Use your zodiac sign, numerology, and Chinese animal year to construct an archetypal identity blueprint. What emotional strengths, blind spots, and recurring life challenges might emerge from those patterns?

Build a timeline of your life in seven-year cycles. What themes have likely marked your journey so far, and what might lie ahead?

The first prompt needed some clarification. The AI assumed I had been born and raised in the United States and shaped its answer accordingly, focusing on American events or major global trends. Once I explained that I had lived in Brazil, Israel, and the US, the results became slightly more accurate—but still not particularly insightful.

The third prompt was even less impressive. It simply regurgitated generic stages of psychological development, without tailoring them to the specific events or environments that shaped my life.

The second prompt, however—the one that asked the AI to combine my zodiac sign (Cancer), numerology, and Chinese zodiac year—produced a personality profile that felt, surprisingly, quite accurate.

Now, this brings me to a rather ambivalent relationship I have with the zodiac. Intellectually, I find it to be absolutely nonsense. And yet, quite often, when I read the descriptions for my sign, Cancer, I discover a good fit for who I am. This recent interaction with the A.I. brought that ambivalence right back to the surface, and it left me with a few questions. Is the A.I.'s description so accurate because these profiles are written in such broad and general terms that almost anyone can find themselves described within them? Or is it because, against my own rational judgment, I really do exhibit a classic "Cancer" personality? Or is it, perhaps, because I want to believe that I have the positive attributes that the A.I. or the Zodiac attributed to me, and I'm simply focusing on the parts that align with my desired self-image?

This whole exercise—this question of identity and self-perception—feels especially pointed this week. To some extent, even entertaining the zodiac puts me at odds with Parashat Shoftim. In Devarim, we read:

“When you enter the land that your God ה׳ is giving you, you shall not learn to imitate the abhorrent practices of those nations. Let no one be found among you who consigns a son or daughter to the fire, or who is an augur, a soothsayer, a diviner, a sorcerer, one who casts spells, or one who consults ghosts or familiar spirits, or one who inquires of the dead. For anyone who does such things is abhorrent to יהוה...[1]

This is a strong rejection of divination, astrology, and other forms of spiritual fortune-telling. And yet, the truth is that our ancestors were not foreign to the zodiac and did not live in a bubble where other cultures had no impact on their lives. We have found synagogues as old as the 4th century with magnificent floor mosaics depicting the full circle of zodiac signs. Many practices we now consider quintessentially Jewish—like the Passover Seder, the sevivon, or even dressing in costume on Purim—were borrowed and adapted from other religious or cultural contexts.

When Judaism is at its best, this creative interplay with external influences leads not to assimilation, but to revitalisation. It renews old traditions and allows us to sanctify the new. As Rav Kook, the first Ashkenazic Chief Rabbi of the Land of Israel, once taught:
 הישן יתחדש והחדש יתקדש — “The old will be renewed, and the new will be made holy.”

But what happens when our engagement with the dominant culture leads us away from holiness?
 What happens when we adopt not new rituals, but new values—values that stand in direct opposition to what our tradition holds sacred?

What happens when we abandon the idea of fighting all forms of idolatry and succumb to adherence without questioning? When we pursue and exercise power without limits? When we abandon the moral code our tradition insists we live by—simply because we can?

In his commentary on Parashat Shoftim, Rabbi Jeffrey Salkin writes:

“The Jews must be different from other people. This is the essential lesson behind many of the Torah’s laws—to ensure that the People of Israel will be an am kadosh, a holy people. In this context, the Israelites must reject the ritual elements of the Canaanite religion. It is interesting to note that most of those practices are connected to death—the ritual offering of children, and attempting to speak to the dead. By rejecting those practices, Judaism guaranteed that it would become a religion that celebrates life, not one that glorifies death.”[2]

This is a powerful statement—and one we often take for granted. But in a world where even the most insular Jewish communities are deeply shaped by broader cultural values—values like unchecked individualism, the pursuit of fame and power, or the accumulation of wealth without ethical boundaries—can we still honestly say that Judaism is a religion that celebrates life?

Or is that, like the zodiac profile for Cancer, just a flattering description—more about how we wish to be seen than who we actually are?

As we journey through Elul, a time set aside for honest self-examination, we are invited to ask these difficult questions. Who are we really becoming—both as individuals and as a people? What values are shaping us? What narratives are we believing about ourselves—and are they true?

Let us resist the temptation to cling to the most comforting descriptions, whether written in the stars or in our sacred books. Instead, may we have the courage to look clearly at our lives, to hold ourselves accountable, and to recommit to the sacred task of becoming holy.

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] Deuteronomy 18:9–12.

[2] Jeffrey K. Salkin The JPS B’nai Mitzvah Torah Commentary, p. 88/578 (e-book)

Does it Make Sense to Ask, “How Many Wives Is Too Many?”

(A previous version of this text was published on this blog in Portuguese under the title "Faz sentido perguntar “quantas esposas é demais”?!")

When I was a child, I must admit, I used to sing the Brazilian nursery rhyme "Atirei o Pau no Gato" without thinking much about animal welfare. The song, which translates to "I Threw the Stick at the Cat," tells the story of a person throwing a stick at a cat and the cat's cry of distress. Perhaps if the stick had been aimed at a dog, and not a cat, I would have had more empathy for the victim of the action. But, as I was never a big fan of felines, I never truly registered the violence of the act.

As a teenager, I started hearing different versions of the song that, with an educational purpose, changed the lyrics to "don't throw the stick at the cat because it's not the right thing to do, the kitten is our friend, we mustn't mistreat animals." [1] While we would sing these new lyrics mockingly, making light of the concern to change a children's song to avoid encouraging violence against animals, I realised for the first time that the original lyrics were, in fact, violent and encouraged undesirable behaviour.

When we look back at the past, it's quite common to see inappropriate behaviours that we once accepted as natural, but which are no longer considered acceptable today. In the spirit of chesbon hanefesh, the spiritual process of personal assessment in preparation for the High Holidays, we identify the areas of our lives in which we lived up to the person we want to be and those in which we fell short of that ideal. It is also an opportunity to broaden our perspective and recognise which inappropriate conducts have become normalised and must now be re-evaluated.

In this week's parashah, Shoftim, the Israelites are given permission to have a king after they enter the Promised Land. The text makes it clear that this leader would be a man, while also setting limits on the monarch's power: he must be an Israelite, he cannot accumulate excessive wealth in gold, silver, or horses, he shall not send his people back to Egypt, and he shall not have many wives. The text doesn't specify what "many" means, but there seems to be a consensus that up to eighteen wives would be acceptable; above that number, it would be considered an excess.

For a long time, the commentators on this passage (all men) debated whether the number eighteen was excessive or not, whether it could be exceeded if all the wives were "good," and whether the limit would also apply to a person who was not a king.[2] No one ever asked, however, why the wives were listed alongside the other forms of wealth that the king could accumulate, albeit with limits. Perhaps the greatest innovation that Judaism brought to the world was the idea that all human beings were created in the image of God and are, therefore, endowed with inalienable dignity. Do the instructions to the king that treat his wives as property truly reflect this profound Jewish value?

We can find similar examples in which women were not treated with due dignity in other stories from Jewish tradition (the book of Esther or the story of King Solomon and his 700 wives, for example) and from other cultures. However, the time has come to revisit the behaviours implicitly accepted in these narratives and to point out what we are no longer willing to accept. In the past decade, the #metoo movement has shone a light on how powerful men abuse their social and professional positions to commit harassment and violence, practices that many were aware of but considered to be "part of the game."

Parashat Shoftim also deals with the structuring of a judicial system that makes the pursuit of justice a central characteristic of Hebrew society. On this point, Rabbi Eliezer Berkovits wrote: “To seek justice is to relieve the oppressed. But how else are the oppressed to be relieved if not by judging the oppressor and crushing the ability to oppress! (…) The toleration of injustice is the toleration of human suffering. Since the proud and the mighty who inflict the suffering do not, as a rule, yield to moral persuasion, responsibility for the sufferer demands that justice be done so that oppression be ended.” [3]

May this Shabbat allow us to seek justice for all, particularly by challenging the naturalised abuses of the powerful, and thus begin the process of transforming ourselves into the version of ourselves we wish to be.

Shabbat Shalom!

[1] This vídeo includes both versions of the song: https://youtube.com/shorts/jBJQQavNjyE
[2] See, for example, the commentaries of Rashi, Ibn Ezra, Aderet Eliahu on Deut. 17:17.
[3] As cited in Harvey Fields, A Torah Commentary for Our Times, vol. 3, p. 140.

What Sparks Joy? Rethinking Our Approach to Giving

Over a decade ago, Marie Kondo's book, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing, was first published, catapulting her into the pop-culture stratosphere. Her status as a household name was further cemented in 2019 with the debut of her Netflix show. A central tenet of the philosophy she outlines in the book and demonstrates on television is decluttering one's home by discarding items that don't “spark joy.” The core principle is that if an item is neither useful nor brings happiness, it's time to part ways with it. What, then, should you do with these unwanted possessions? Kondo advocates thanking each item for its service before disposal, encouraging responsible practices such as donating usable items to charity, selling items in good condition, and recycling textiles wherever feasible.

I'm one of those people who find it really difficult to let go of their possessions. When I'm clearing out my wardrobe, instead of asking “Have I used this item in the past twelve months?”, I tend to frame the question the other way around: “Can I possibly imagine a situation in the next 12 months in which I might use this item?”—and whenever the answer is "yes" (which is almost always the case, even if I'd need to lose 15kg before being able to wear it!), I keep it. For this reason, Kondo's method has never really resonated with me.

But there was an aspect of her approach (and I confess I consulted ChatGPT to get a better understanding of it) that caught my attention: the suggestion to donate items that don’t spark joy, or sell those in good condition. This highlights an issue with our donation culture that has often bothered me. We often donate things that are no longer fashionable, or clothes that are ripped or stained. If items are still in good condition, the prevailing advice is to sell them as second-hand goods and make a bit of profit.

The Hebrew word for “charity", tzedakah, comes from the same root as tzedek, "justice." This recognises that in a as world full of inequalities as ours, sharing one's wealth isn't merely an act of kindness, but a matter of bringing justice into the world. Seen as a question of justice, our donations should bring dignity to those who receive them. I once volunteered with an organisation whose motto was, “If you wouldn't give this to your nephew, don't give it to anyone.” Returning to Marie Kondo’s method, it's the items in the best condition that should be directed to charity; let the torn and stained items be sold at second-hand shops!

This week’s parashah, T’rumah, exemplifies this kind of behaviour. God asks for donations for the construction of the Mishkan, the portable Sanctuary that the Israelites would use whilst wandering in the desert. Remember that this was a people who, until recently, had lived as slaves and left Egypt in haste, without being able to carry much. For them, any donation would mean parting with something they valued, something that genuinely "sparked joy." And yet... the volume of donations was so significant that Moshe had to ask the people to stop giving.

We live in confusing times. A decade or so ago, it was common for billionaires to be generous with their fortunes, creating foundations that helped communities and countries in need. The wealthiest nations also provided aid, recognising their responsibility in a world in which so many lacked basic necessities. Unfortunately, we are experiencing the opposite trend in recent years, with the ultra-rich accumulating even more wealth, but not being generous in the least, and with countries suspending their foreign aid programmes, convinced that their own people must come first.

May our sense of justice move us to see the dignity in every human being and adjust our generosity accordingly.

Shabbat Shalom!

Dvar Torah: Is it Jewish to celebrate your enemy's death? (Bet David)

 

Of all the Jewish holidays, Pessach is my favourite. It started many years ago when my family and I were invited to a seder while visiting Baltimore. The people who invited us had a tradition in which each year, one family member would be responsible for the ritual aspect of the seder. This role included consulting several haggadot and selecting what would be read and what would be sung that year. I was amazed— in my family, the main function of the seder was simply to bring everyone together. We had all the appropriate food, the seder plate, and everything else, but we did not open the haggadah, and we certainly did not discuss its contemporary meaning. However, that year in Baltimore, something magical happened: the texts became starting points for conversations about freedom in our world, about contemporary slavery, and about the many communities still suffering from oppression. Since then, I have collected haggadot that include contemporary perspectives and, every few years, I try to compile a new haggadah for my family, drawing from these different sources.

I especially appreciate the section of the seder when we remove drops of wine from our cups as we recite the מכות, the hits inflicted upon Egypt and the Egyptians. This serves as a symbol that we should not rejoice in the suffering of others. For many years, I have included in my family’s haggadah a reading of a midrash in which God criticises the angels for dancing in celebration when the Israelites reached the other side of the Sea of Reeds in safety, not recognising the death of the Egyptian soldiers in the water. “The work of My hands are drowning in the sea and you say songs?!”, God would have said, according to two parallel passages in the Talmud. [1] I have always been moved by this passage because it acknowledges that, while the downfall of our oppressors may have been necessary for our liberation, it still involved the loss of human lives —people created in the Divine image, with the same intrinsic value as any of us. As Prof. Daniel Statman, from the University of Haifa and the Shalom Hartman Institute, put it: “We rejoice in the redemption of our ancestors as they crossed the Sea, but the joy is restrained, because so many Egyptian lives were lost.” [2] A passage from Proverbs reinforces this understanding: “If your enemy falls, do not exult; If he trips, let your heart not rejoice.” [3]

It was only this past week that I realised that the midrash has a more complicated take on the issue. While doing some research about Shirat haYam, the “Song of the Sea” the Israelites sang upon safely arriving at the other margin, which is replete with militaristic images and celebrations of the fall of Egypt, I found a continuation to the text I never knew existed. After the rabbis comment on God criticising the angels for celebrating without acknowledging the death of the Egyptians, they add: “God does not rejoice, but causes other to feel joy.” [1] 

That means: it was not right for the angels to sing, but regarding the Israelites, it was not only acceptable for them to celebrate the deaths of the Egyptians, it was God who had caused it! That new understanding came to me as a shock!

As I continued my research, I found several contemporary commentators who felt good with a perspective that made me uncomfortable… One of them wrote: 

“Why would God tell the angels not to celebrate and yet allow the Jews to sing? And God’s people were dying because He himself killed them!

What God is saying to the angels is that this is not a happy day for Him. He did not create the Egyptians for them to do evil, but they chose evil, and now evil had to be eliminated. But the Jewish people had suffered at the hand of the Egyptians; they not only had the right to celebrate, they must celebrate.” [4]

Some of these commentators even propose a different reading of the Talmudic midrash. To them, when God chastised the angels, mentioning “the work of My Hands”, it was a reference to the Israelites, not to the Egyptians. And they quote another verse from Proverbs, that says: “When the wicked perish there are shouts of joy.” [5]

This might have seemed a purely theoretical debate some time ago, but given the conflicts in which we have been recently involved, in Israel and in other parts of the world, they became quite concrete for a lot of people. How are we supposed to react when we hear the news that leaders of Hamas, Al-Qaeda or ISIS were killed? Is joy appropriate, or should we adopt a more sober reaction? What about situations in which those killed were not armed combatants, but civilians “on the other side”?

Returning to Prof. Statman:

“These conflicting readings reflect two opposing attitudes found in times of national or religious conflict. Both start with the premise that the most important goal, one to which all energies must be channeled, is the defeat of the enemy. In the case of the Israelites vs. the Egyptians, surely God’s main concern is to make sure that the Israelites are neither killed by their pursuers (or by the sea), nor forced to return to Egypt.

But beyond this premise, a gap opens between the two positions. According to the former, there is also genuine concern for the human beings on the enemy side; at the very least, regret for their deaths or suffering, at the most, an active effort to reduce harm and mortality. According to the latter position, the humanity of those who threaten is depersonalized, which has the effect of blocking genuine empathy with the suffering of people on the other side, a fortiori, the adoption of strategies aimed at the actual reduction of enemy casualties.”

An article in the Jewish Chronicle attempted to reconcile these two perspectives:

“Maybe the dramatic image of the sea splitting is the actual metaphor for this dichotomy. The two shores of the sea represent the two sides of the story. And we must pass through the middle, preserving and valuing life, yet not drowning in war and hate. The middle path between justice and mercy is a difficult one to tread and at any moment we can be washed away.” [6]

I learned a tradition from a very dear professor of mine, Rabbi Ebn Leader. Ebn would fast on Taanit Ester (the fast that precedes Purim), Taanit Bechorot (the fast that precedes Pessach and applies only to firstborns, which was not his case), and on Yom HaZikaron (the day before Yom HaAtzmaut, in remembrance of those fallen for the establishment of the State of Israel, a fast not codified in the Jewish tradition or common Israeli practice). His reasoning was that these three holidays — Pesach, Purim, and Yom HaAtzmaut — marked situations in which we conquered our freedom, but they all came at the expense of too many lives, on our side and on our opponents’. He taught that, while it is appropriate to celebrate our victories, we must also acknowledge the price they exacted.

May we find a road that lets us recognise our own pain and celebrate our victories in current conflicts, while not dehumanising those whose circumstances of life simply placed them on the other side of these conflicts.

Shabbat Shalom

 

[1] Talmud Bavli Megilah 10b and Sanhedrin 39b.

[2] https://www.hartman.org.il/rejoicing-in-the-death-of-ones-enemy/

[3] Proverbs 24:17

[4] https://aish.com/celebrating-the-fall-of-evil/

[5] Proverbs 11:10

[6] https://www.thejc.com/judaism/why-did-we-sing-when-the-egyptians-drowned-t1anz5d2[1] Ex. 17:14

Dvar Torah: Blotting out the memory of the concept of Amalek (Bet David)

When my children were younger, I did not allow them to watch The Lion King, the Disney film. It is a shame because it is a charming story and a visually stunning movie, but there was one detail that deeply bothered me: all the hyenas were portrayed as evil. There were good lions and bad lions. Mufasa, who now has a new movie about him, is an example of a good lion—his brother Scar, on the other hand, is the arch-villain who betrays his brother’s trust, has him killed, and seizes the throne. The hyenas were Scar’s main allies, but to my disappointment, there were no hyenas who sided with Mufasa or Simba, nor any who challenged Scar’s most malevolent actions.

I did not allow my children to watch the movie because I feared then, as I fear now, a worldview in which certain groups of people are intrinsically characterised as purely evil. It seems to me that this is where the corrosive seed of prejudice resides. As Jews, we know all too well how it feels to be judged based on our religion or ethnic identity, and throughout history, we have paid an enormous price for other people’s misconceptions of who we are.

If, during the Shoah, Jews were characterised as rats, and during the Rwandan genocide, the Tutsis were labelled cockroaches, then I feared that some group could one day be called hyenas, justifying their elimination.

Eventually, my children grew up, my censorship was lifted, and Mel and I even took my daughter to see The Lion King: The Musical.

At the very end of this week’s parashah, the Israelites are attacked by Amalek. In this week’s reading, we are simply told that the Israelites fought against Amalek at Rephidim and that the course of the battle depended on the position of Moshe’s hands: if they were raised, the Israelites would prevail, but if he became tired and lowered them, the Amalekites would gain the upper hand. Eventually, Yehoshua led the Israelites to victory. God said to Moshe: “Inscribe this in a document as a reminder, and read it aloud to Yehoshua: I will utterly blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven!” [1]

The same episode is recounted in the book of Devarim, parashat Ki Tetzeh. There, we are given additional details about what happened at Rephidim: “Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey after you left Egypt—how, undeterred by fear of God, they surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers at the rear. Therefore, when your God ה׳ grants you safety from all your enemies around you, in the land that your God ה׳ is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget!” [2]

You may remember this second passage, as it is read on the Shabbat before Purim, known as Shabbat Zachor, the “Shabbat of Remembrance.” This name reflects the paradox that we are commanded to remember Amalek by blotting out its memory from under heaven.

In attempting to understand why Amalek—of all the peoples who persecuted and attacked the Jews—is the one whose memory we are commanded to erase, some commentators highlight the cowardice of attacking a group of former slaves who were exhausted from their journey, ambushing them from behind, and slaughtering the poor, the innocent, and the weak. Moreover, the people of Israel were not even passing through Amalekite territory; Amalek had to cross the lands of five other nations to attack them. [3]

Nechama Leibowitz, one of the most influential biblical commentators in the early decades of the State of Israel, wrote about this episode: “Where the fear of God is lacking, the stranger who is homeless in a foreign land is liable to be murdered.” [4]

When the Israelites conquered the land, they were commanded to completely wipe out Amalek, and King Shaul lost the crown for failing to do so. King David also waged war against the Amalekites but did not succeed in eradicating them completely. I confess I find it deeply troubling even to write and say these words—recognising that our religious tradition includes an instruction to completely eliminate another people. For those who, like me, feel unsettled by this story, I return to my drashah from last Shabbat morning, in which I argued that sometimes we need to say “No!” — even to God.

Amalek, then, became the archetype of pure evil in Jewish tradition. Haman, the villain of the Purim story, is traditionally considered a descendant of Amalek. Many would say that Hitler was a descendant of Amalek, and it is difficult to refute the idea that these two figures really embodied absolute evil.

The traditional Jewish position, established centuries ago, is that ancient nations can no longer be identified, and therefore, there is no longer any Amalek. Yet this has not prevented people from manipulating the concept for political ends. [5] Rabbi Elchanan Wasserman accused all Jewish members of the Jewish section of the Soviet Communist Party of being part of the “seed of Amalek.” Israeli politicians and extremists have labelled Yasser Arafat — and sometimes even the entire Palestinian people — as Amalek. Rabbi Ovadia Yosef z”l, perhaps the most important Sephardic rabbi in the history of the State of Israel, once called Yossi Sarid z”l — a leader of Meretz and a former Minister of Education with whom he disagreed politically—a “seed of Amalek.” Rabbi Shalom Cohen even referred to the entire Modern Orthodox community as “seed of Amalek” during the elections for Israel’s Chief Rabbi. [6]

As I said, the mere possibility that a person or a group of people could be the incarnation of absolute evil has caused immense suffering and destruction in our world. It is time to truly blot out the memory of the concept of Amalek and to completely remove this paradigm from our consciousness.

Shabbat Shalom.

 

[1] Ex. 17:14

[2] Deut. 25:17-19

[3] A Torah Commentary for Our Times, Volume II: Exodus/Leviticus, p. 39-31

[4] Studies in Devraim, p. 253

[5] https://www.motherjones.com/politics/2023/11/benjamin-netanyahu-amalek-israel-palestine-gaza-saul-samuel-old-testament/

[6] https://he.wikipedia.org/wiki/עמלק#עמלק_כסמל

Dvar Torá: Que bom que não pensamos todos o mesmo (CIP)

Há alguns dias, antes do anúncio público que veio só hoje, minha filha veio toda animada me contar que a Gisele Bundchen e o Tom Brady estavam se separando. Aos 14 anos, ela adora ficar a par de tudo o que acontece no mundo das celebridades, sabe a data de lançamentos de todos os álbuns da música pop e conhece no detalhe a lista de filmes e séries que seus atores favoritos fizeram.

Apesar de achar a Gisele Bundchen linda e de ter torcido muito pelos arremessos certeiros do Tom Brady quando ele jogava no New England Patriots, não me interesso nada pela vida conjugal dos dois. Isso dito, preciso reconhecer que tem um tipo de stalking que eu, sim, pratico: gosto de visitar os sites de sinagogas em outros lugares e investigar quem são seus rabinos. Em uma destas empreitadas, descobri uma colega que tinha escrito um artigo para um livro editado pela Central Conference of American Rabbis, o sindicato rabínico reformista, que trata de um tema que muito me interessa: a conexão do judaísmo com a justiça social. Não foram nem cinco minutos entre descobrir o livro e tê-lo disponível no meu Kindle. O nome do livro, traduzido para o português: Resistência Moral e Autoridade Espiritual: Nossa Obrigação Judaica com a Justiça Social [1].

Logo no primeiro artigo do livro, o rabino Seth Linner, um dos seus editores,  escreve sobre “Judaísmo e o Mundo Político”. Ele abre o artigo dizendo que inúmeras vezes lhe perguntaram por que o judaísmo se importa tanto com a política e o estrutura como uma longa resposta a este questionamento.

A pergunta faz sentido e parece especialmente apropriada tendo em vista o clima político que temos vivido no Brasil nos últimos anos. Com alguma frequência, escutamos na imprensa comentários de que as religiões deveriam se ocupar da fé, da vida espiritual de suas comunidades, e deixar o debate sobre a vida cotidiana para líderes políticos ou outros analistas. Do ponto de vista cristão pode ser que esta conduta faça sentido, mas a tradição judaica, que vai muito além da religião no que foi definido por Mordecai Kaplan como uma Civilização Judaica, sempre se preocupou com formas de santificar a o comum, o cotidiano, de lhe atribuir intencionalidade, de empregá-la com os valores que nossa tradição transmite.

Nas páginas do Tanach e do Talmud, a vida espiritual ocupa um pequena minoria dos textos. A ênfase está na discussão da forma como tratamos uns aos outros, como protegemos os segmentos mais vulneráveis de nossas sociedades, como combatemos nas guerras, como estruturamos sistemas judiciais imparciais, como pagamos nossos funcionários de forma justa, como cuidamos dos recursos naturais e até quais estruturas de segurança precisam existir em nossas construções. Esses são apenas alguns exemplos de como a tradição judaica se preocupa com o concreto, com a vida que levamos além dos momentos que poderiam ser rotulados como “rituais” ou “religiosos”.

O parágrafo final do artigo do rabino Limmer resume bem esta posição:

Por que o judaísmo se preocupa com a política? Porque a Torá nos ensina que a santidade deve entrar no mundo através de nossas interações com os outros. Porque os profetas protestaram contra a injustiça, sejam pecados no santuário ou abuso de poder no reino político. Porque o Talmud estabelece um sistema intrincado de leis que nos liga aos nossos vizinhos, quer busquemos essa conexão social ou não. Porque, por mais de três mil anos, nossa tradição nos ensinou que todo ser humano é pessoalmente responsável pela posição moral do mundo inteiro.

Tudo isso dito, é claro que não estamos defendendo que um líder religioso defenda do púlpito o voto em um candidato ou em outro — isso seria claramente abuso do seu poder religioso.

O fato de que o judaísmo encare o universo da política como uma área natural para o seu exercício torna ainda mais preocupante do ponto de vista judaico a situação que vivemos hoje. Ao longo da última semana, podcasts da Folha de S. Paulo [2], e do O Globo [3] trataram da polarização afetiva, dos conflitos entre amigos e dentro de famílias que têm levado a rupturas sociais antes inimagináveis. Parte do caldo de cultura que tem permitido que essa polarização aconteça é uma radicalização das narrativas, com a efetiva negação da legitimidade de posições políticas destoantes, além da perda de referências que faz com que já não saibamos o que é verdadeiro e o que não é. 

Dentro da extensa lista de temas sobre os quais o judaísmo se interessa, a possibilidade da divergência ocupa lugar central. Uma das passagens talmúdicas mais famosas a este respeito conta que as escolas de Hilel e de Shamai debateram por três anos um assunto sem conseguir chegar a um consenso. Após este tempo, uma voz divina anunciou: “אלו ואלו דברי אלוהים חיים”, elu veelu divrei Elohim chayim, “tanto umas quanto as outras são as palavras vivas de Deus.” [4] Apesar de opostas, as posições dos dois lados carregavam verdades. Hoje, numa eleição que já foi caracterizada inúmeras vezes como uma guerra entre o bem e o mal, me parece absolutamente improvável que alguém conseguisse enxergar verdades na posição de seu opositor político. Mais do que isso, passamos da disputa eleitoral à guerra eleitoral, um fenômeno que não tem acontecido só no Brasil. 

Na campanha presidencial norte-americana de 2008, em um evento com seus eleitores, John McCain, um eleitor se levantou e lhe disse que tinha medo porque Barack Obama, contra quem McCain concorria, estava aliado aos terroristas. A resposta de McCain foi: “eu preciso te dizer que ele é uma pessoa decente e uma pessoa de quem você não precisa ter medo como presidente dos Estados Unidos”. O público passou a vaiar seu próprio candidato. Na sequência ele disse a outra eleitora, ainda sobre Barack Obama: “ele é um homem de família decente e um cidadão, com quem eu tenho discordâncias em questões fundamentais e é sobre isso de que se trata esta eleição.” [5] Talvez tenha sido pela sua decência em defender  a verdade e seu opositor que McCain perdeu aquela eleição — como outros ciclos eleitorais demonstraram, mentiras têm um poder imenso para criar fanatismo, medo e entusiasmo na eleição. McCain perdeu a eleição de 2008, mas continua sendo apontado como um exemplo de político que não estava disposto a corromper seus valores para vencer a qualquer custo.

A possibilidade de encontrar decência na pessoa de quem se diverge, tratá-la com respeito, é vista cada vez mais como uma esperança ingênua, a descrição de um mundo ao qual nunca mais voltaremos. Quem sabe, o judaísmo e sua visão da política pode ter algo a contribuir para alimentarmos este sonho, mesmo que ele seja fruto da nossa ingenuidade.

Na parashá desta semana lemos a história da Torre de Babel [6]. O texto conta que “toda a terra tinha o mesmo idioma e usava as mesmas palavras”, “דברים אחדים”, dvarim echadim. “Palavras”,  “דברים”, dvarim — a mesma expressão usada para o que a voz Divina, reconheceu como vindas de Deus no caso de Hilel e Shamai, ainda que refletindo posições opostas, é aqui usada para fazer referência às palavras únicas da geração de Babel. As pessoas, então, decidem construir uma torre que chegasse ao céu. Incomodado com o plano, Deus destrói a torre, os dispersa por toda a terra e estabelece múltiplos idiomas. 

O filósofo israelense Ieshaiahu Leibowitz, tem uma leitura bastante inusitada desta passagem e que me parece apropriada para o momento que vivemos. Ele escreveu:

Parece-me que este decreto não foi um castigo mas, pelo contrário, uma medida tomada para o benefício da humanidade. A grande importância do episódio da Torre de Babel não é, de forma alguma, a tentativa de construir uma torre, mas remete para o que foi dito anteriormente, que "a terra – a humanidade renovada após o dilúvio – tinha uma língua e as mesmas palavras”. Após o fracasso da construção, diversos idiomas foram criados, o que levou a diversos discursos. Parece-me que a raiz do erro (ou pecado) da “geração da separação” não foi a construção de uma cidade e uma torre, mas o objetivo de usar esses meios artificiais para garantir uma situação de "uma linguagem e um discurso" – de centralização, o que, em linguagem moderna é conhecido como “totalitarismo". Uma linguagem e um discurso é, de acordo com muitas pessoas ingênuas em nossos dias, a descrição de uma situação ideal: toda a humanidade em um único bloco sem diferenciação e, como resultado, sem conflitos. Mas quem realmente entende saberá que não há nada mais ameaçador do que este conformismo artificial: uma cidade e uma torre como o símbolo da concentração de toda a humanidade em um único tópico – onde não haverá diferenças de opinião e onde não haverá mais conflito sobre diferentes pontos de vista e valores. Não se pode imaginar maior tirania do que esta, não se pode imaginar maior infertilidade mental e moral do que esta – que não deve haver exceções e que não deve haver desvios do que é aceito e acordado, situação mantida pelos meios artificiais de uma cidade e uma torre. [7]

Para Leibowitz, ingênua é a crença de que estaríamos em uma situação ideal caso todos concordássemos sobre o melhor destino para nossas sociedades. A diversidade de opiniões, por outro lado, é o que possibilita o aparecimento de novas opinões, de oxigenação de modelos, de ideias, de perspectivas. 

Parafraseando John McCain, a maioria das pessoas de quem discordamos politicamente é formada por pessoas decentes, dignas, inteligentes e bem informadas. Elas têm o direito de ter uma opinião diferente da tua sem que isso negue sua humanidade, sua dignidade ou sua honestidade. É graças à diversidade política que podemos contemplar com que modelo de sociedade sonhamos e qual o projeto político que terá maior sucesso em nos levar lá. A alternativa é adotar um modelo de “דברים אחדים", dvarim echadim, de "palavras únicas” e abrir mão da possibilidade de crescer a partir do encontro de pontos de vista que reflitam simultaneamente as palavras vivas de Deus.

Neste domingo, com toda responsabilidade, pense na sociedade com que você sonha e escolha quem te parece ter mais chances de te aproximar dela — sem ódio, sem ressentimentos, sem cancelamentos e sem rompimentos de pessoas que você sempre considerou dignas; não será o voto delas nem o teu que deve te fazer mudar essa opinião. 

Shabat Shalom e bom voto!

[1] Seth M. Limmer e Jonah Dov Pesner, “Moral Resistance and Spiritual Authority: Our Jewish Obligation to Social Justice”, CCAR Press, 2019.

[2] https://open.spotify.com/episode/1awSmQ40tNt6xUaxFtCQMU?si=a12575c5b69f4100

[3] https://open.spotify.com/episode/6hk4S3p63agYyy58EFdvwV?si=ccb1baba71354c3b

[4] Talmud da Babilônia, Eruvin 13b

[5] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M0u3QJrtgEM 

[6] Gen. 11:1-9

[7] Yeshayahu Leibowitz, “Earot leParshiot haShavua”, Ch. 2: Bereshit - Noach 

Dvar Torá: Entre criatividade e arrogância (CIP)

Entre os muitos hábitos que eu tinha na juventude e que meus pais esperavam que eu abandonasse quando envelhecesse está o gosto musical — que, para desespero deles e dos meus filhos, inclui cantores e conjuntos fora do consenso musical. Por exemplo, eu adoro releituras de músicas bregas — Marisa Orth e a Banda Vexame faziam um trabalho lindo nesse sentido; mais recentemente, Nando Reis e Nila Branco também dedicaram álbuns a este tipo de trabalho. Outro tipo de música que eu gosto fora do mainstream é o que se convencionou chamar de Vanguarda Paulista, um movimento musical que incluía nomes como os de Arrigo Barnabé, Grupo Rumo, Premeditando o Breque e o Língua de Trapo. Ainda hoje, tenho dificuldade para no Metrô, ver os nomes dos bairros de São Paulo refletidos nos nomes das estações não começar a cantarolar:

Chora Menino, Freguesia do Ó

Carandiru, Mandaqui, aqui

Vila Sônia, Vila Ema, Vila Alpina

Vila Carrão, Morumbi, pare

Butantã, Utinga, Embu e Imirim

Brás, Brás, Belém

Bom Retiro

Barra Funda

Ermelino Matarazzo, Mooca, Penha, Lapa, Sé

Jabaquara

Pirituba

Tucuruvi, Tatuapé. [1]

Essas bandas eram conhecidas por um estilo musical MUITO eclético, que misturava muitos gêneros diferentes e sempre com grande dose de humor. No álbum mais famoso do Língua de Trapo, que tem o nome da própria banda, uma vinheta de humor no meio do álbum trazia o seguinte diálogo:

– Seu nome, por favor?

– Inês

– Inês, você conhece o grupo Língua de Trapo?

– Não.

– E o que você acha deles?

– Uma porcaria.

Parece piada e foi incluído no álbum, eu tenho certeza, como piada, mas a triste verdade é que esta vinheta descreve de forma bastante acurada o que estamos vivendo. Temos opinião sobre TUDO. Opinião sobre o que conhecemos e, especialmente, opinião sobre aquilo sobre o qual não temos o mínimo conhecimento. 

Nós últimos anos, este fenômeno tem se acentuado, com uma certa valorização da falta de conhecimento. Se um dispositivo eletrônico tiver sido desenvolvido por alguém que não tinha formação na área, ganha crédito; se um remédio tiver sido criado por alguém que não é médico nem farmacêutico, ainda melhor. Ao invés de valorizarmos o conhecimento e uma atitude de humildade frente a ele, chegamos a um estado de coisas em que a arrogância ignorante é que é valorizada.

Fiquei pensando nesta realidade quando li o comentário de Dena Weiss. coordenadora do Beit Midrash do Instituto Hadar, em Nova York, para a parashá desta semana [2].

Há mais ou menos um mês, em parashat Shmini, lemos sobre o fogo estranho, אש זרה, esh zará, que os filhos de Aharon, Nadav e Avihu, ofereceram a Deus na inauguração do Mishcán e como de forma pouco compreensível um fogo Divino os consumiu. [3]

Preciso confessar que tenho certa dificuldade com esta passagem. Em parte, ela parece justificar uma atitude hiper-conservadora com relação à prática religiosa, na qual apenas o que já tiver sido estabelecido é aceito. Qualquer inovação corre o risco de incitar a fúria Divina e nos ver consumidos pelo fogo. Qualquer espaço para a espontaneidade, ficaria desta forma, inviabilizado pelo texto bíblico. Para mim, no entanto, a prática religiosa floresce na manifestação genuína, naquilo que a tradição chama de “cavaná”, da ação motivada pela intenção dos nossos corações — ainda que em espaços delimitados por “keva” a formulação tradicional da prática religiosa. Por isso, o episódio de Nadav e Avihu consumidos pelo fogo sempre trouxe consigo bastante desconforto. 

Agora, nossa parashá literalmente retoma aquele episódio, nos contando o que aconteceu na sua sequência. Moshé recebe as instruções que deve passar a Aharón depois da morte de seus filhos:

A primeira instrução é que Aharón não pode entrar na parte mais sagrada do Mishcán quando quiser, mas apenas em Iom Kipur, seguindo instruções muito específicas. A segunda instrução é com relação ao ritual dos dois bodes a serem oferecidos em Iom Kipur: um quer será sacrificado para Deus e outro que será enviado ao deserto.

Dena Weiss buscou a ligação entre a morte de Nadav e Avihu e a proibição de entrar no קודש הקודשים, kodesh hakodashim, o lugar mais sagrado do Tabernáculo. Na sua leitura, a transgressão de Nadav e Avihu não estava na oferta que eles haviam trazido sem instrução prévia, mas no fato de que não tinham respeitado o espaço mais íntimo que o Divino tinha estabelecido no Santuário. Quantas vezes não sentimos nossos espaços pessoais ou profissionais invadidos; algumas vezes levando a sensações de termos sido profundamente desrespeitados? Se nos sentimos assim, podemos imaginar que o Divino, que inaugurava o espaço de sua morada entre os Hebreus, reagiria também com indignação frente à violação do seu espaço.

Dena Weiss também nos mostra que, de acordo com a literatura rabínica, esta era uma prática na qual Nadav e Avihu já tinham se engajado antes. Quando Deus convoca Moshé para subir ao Monte Sinai e receber as duas Tábuas do Pacto, o acompanharam Aharón, setenta anciãos, Nadav e Avihu. Naquela situação, de acordo com o midrash, eles já teriam agido de forma desrespeitosa com relação ao Divino, comendo sua refeição enquanto olhavam para a face de Deus. Dena Weiss continua: “A atitude de arrogância e privilégio de Nadav e Avihu não apenas se manifestou como grosseria para com Deus; também foi expresso em uma abordagem chocantemente superior que eles adotaram em relação a outras pessoas.”

Nadav e Avihu se comportavam como se seu status lhes conferisse direitos especiais sem que eles precisassem seguir regras, conhecer os parâmetros. Eles não precisariam adquirir conhecimento, nem construir pessoalmente sua relação com Deus. Seu pai era o Sumo Sacerdote; seu tio era Moshé. Como algo poderia lhes ser negado?!

Nas palavras de Dena Weiss: “(…) o pecado de Nadav e Avihu (…) corresponde à pior parte de nós mesmos. Eles não refletem apenas nosso desejo virtuoso de dar; também refletem nosso desejo egoísta de possuir o que não é nosso por direito. Um exame mais detalhado de seu pecado revela que Nadav e Avihu não estavam sendo atenciosos – exatamente o oposto: eles agiam sem consideração, eram descuidados e desrespeitosos. Sua ação demonstrou que eles pensavam que tudo era deles para dar, o que mal mascara sua compreensão de que tudo também é deles para receber. Em sua abordagem, o mundo e tudo nele pertence a eles.”

Quantas vezes não agimos como Nadav e Avihu, acreditando que nossos privilégios nos abrem todas as portas sem esforço? Que nossa cor, nosso pertencimento comunitário, nossa idade, nosso status sócio-econômico, nossa relação com pessoas em posição de poder , que todos estes fatores nos deveriam conferir um tratamento diferenciado, um reconhecimento da pessoa iluminada que imaginamos ser — mesmo que não tenhamos feito por merecer, mesmo que não tenhamos ainda conquistado estas distinções….

Que nesse shabat consigamos deixar a humildade nos conduzir, escutando antes de falar, estudando e considerando antes de emitir opiniões infundadas, considerando o contexto e a comunidade antes de definirmos nossas ações de forma isolada.

Shabat Shalom,

[1] https://www.letras.mus.br/premeditando-breque-preme/381602/

[2] https://mechonhadar.s3.amazonaws.com/mh_torah_source_sheets/CJLVParashatAchareiMot5779.pdf

[3] Lev. 10:1-7