Rabbi michelle greenfield: torah is infinite
Erev Rosh Hashanah 5785
Oct 2, 2024
Watch
L’shanah Tovah. As Rabbi Ari Lev said, I’m Rabbi Michelle, and as a point of visual access, I’m a short white femme with long curly brown hair.
With gratitude to Mazie and Julie for getting us started, over the next ten days we get to hear from Kol Tzedek members on the theme of L’dor vador. It’s an amazing gift to hear these personal stories, to witness these connections.
The theme of L’dor vador is an invitation to think about what we recieve form parents, teachers, and spiritual ancestors. And it’s also an opportunity to think expansively about the Torah we share in this world.
The phrase, literally “to generation and generation” is now catch phrase for spiritual legacy, or passing down learning and traditions. But in the Bible, the phrase is separate from and much larger than human families and human experience. Throughout Psalms and prophets, L’dor vador is a way to signify forever, or a really really long time. A Divine long time. God will rule for generations and generations.[1] God’s plans extend far into the future. God’s place will stand for generations and generations.
Human kings, and human lives in general will come and go each generation, but God’s time has a different kind of staying power. God will be around l’dor vador, for many of our short human generations.
Ecclesiastes, always good for a reminder of our mortality, uses the word dor, generation, in a contrast to this divine timeline:
[2] דּוֹר הֹלֵךְ וְדוֹר בָּא וְהָאָרֶץ לְעוֹלָם עֹמָדֶת׃
Generations come and go, but the world stands forever.
Our lives are short compared to God’s enduring rule and enduring creations.
Somehow, over time, the timeline that was only God’s became shorthand for human legacy. We took a phrase that was so big it applied to The Infinite One, and we decided to use to to talk about what we teach our children. The contemporary American understanding of L’dor vador includes, as Rabbi Ari Lev described, passing a Torah between generations at a B’nei Mitzvah. It includes ethical wills, family education, and creating political change for future generations. We pass on wisdom and stories, hopeful that our teaching will continue past our lifetimes.
Rabbi Ari Lev and I are both now at Kol Tzedek for our ninth high holidays and it was so sweet a few years ago to first welcome a class of Kindergarteners to Torah School, remembering when so many of them were born or named in our community. And over the last year we’ve gotten to celebrate b’nei mitzvah of children who were starting Kindergarten on my first day of Torah School at Kol Tzedek. In my various roles as an educator I spend so much time thinking about how to share Jewish traditions with the next generation of children, how to teach talmud to the next generation of rabbis, how to support our teenagers as they become our adult leaders. I love that we have watched an entire generation of Torah School students grow and learn, and become teachers.
And, for all that I am immersed in the work of L’dor vador, I know it’s not a metaphor that sits well for everybody, and it doesn’t always work for me. Maybe you don’t want to pass on what you were given by previous generations. Not everybody was handed expansive and welcoming Torah– many people in our community hold generational trauma, or were handed harmful beliefs or traditions. Maybe you have had to cut ties in order to grow your own Torah.
Maybe thinking about future generations touches on a pain you feel at not being able to have children, or a pain of losing children. Or, maybe you feel pain of judegement about your family and choices. From our ancient texts straight through to our contemporary culture, there has been a moral judgement that having children is the “right” or “good” or “the only natural way.” I think about a time when my niece was 1 or 2 and I was holding her at another synagogue’s event. Somebody came up to me and told me that I “looked like a natural” holding her. Another person told me that maybe I “would be next.” It was one of many times that I felt invisible in a Jewish community as a non-parent. I had been caring for her, along with her mothers, since she was born. I should hope it looked natural for me to hold her! I have never wanted to be ‘next,’ though that has been questioned many times.
I want to tell you, and I will tell you, that the theme of l’dor vador is bigger than any single family, and not just about blood or marriage, or even adoption. I want to tell you that as a community, we are working so hard to see and to make seen families and legacies that are so much more expansive than biological family. But I know that doesn’t take away from the pain you were handed. And I know it doesn’t take away the cultural messages about family our culture has held for so long.
So, in these coming days, if this topic is challenging to you, I invite you to think expansively about generations, to think about those who helped you express yourself, who welcomed you into the communities and celebrated dentities you hold now. And I invite you to think about how you want to influence those you love. But I also invite you to sit with and acknowledge any pain and discomfort you have with this theme. I invite you to remember you’re not alone, and I invite you to share your experience with others as part of our conversation around this theme.
Our earliest traditions of passing down Torah from generation to generation were, in fact, not family-based, but rather based on teaching and learning. Pirkei Avot is a book of mishna that is largely the wise sayings of many generations of rabbis. It starts with a chain of transmission. The rabbis who compiled the book place themselves in a direct line from God.
[3] “משֶׁה קִבֵּל תּוֹרָה מִסִּינַי, וּמְסָרָהּ לִיהוֹשֻׁעַ, וִיהוֹשֻׁעַ לִזְקֵנִים, וּזְקֵנִים לִנְבִיאִים, וּנְבִיאִים מְסָרוּהָ לְאַנְשֵׁי כְנֶסֶת הַגְּדוֹלָה.
Moses received Torah from Sinai and he transmitted it to Joshua. And Johsua to the elders, and the elders to the prophets, and the prophets transmitted it to the men of the great assembly.
Maybe this is the beginning of our understanding of l’dor vador, a sense that we have something worth passing down, worth transmitting.
When we receive and transmit Torah, we put ourselves in line with Moses, Joshua, the prophets, and the rabbis. We weren’t on top of Mount Sinai, or at Solomon’s Temple, or at the academy in Yavneh, we are all part of this tradition. We acknowledge that our teachers, and their teachers, hold and held incredible amounts of Torah.
This is not to say that we simply transmit exactly what we have received. Even the early rabbis didn’t see the transmission of Torah as simple and unchanged. They weren’t trying to live out the literal meaning of the Torah text. They found meaning in the text, added meaning to the text, and sometimes even twisted the meaning of the text to come to a totally different conclusion that fit their values better.
In one of my favorite Talmud stories, Moses, on Mount Sinai asks God “Why are you adding all of those tiny detailed crowns and dots to the Torah you’re writing for me?” God says, “Ten generations from now, there will be a man named Akiva who will make mountains of meaning from each tiny dot.” Upon Moses’ request, God whisks him away through time and space to a seat in the back row of Rabbi Akiva’s classroom. Moses can’t follow the lesson, but he hears Rabbi Akiva say “This rule given to Moses at Mount Sinai.”[4] When we recieve Torah l’dor vador, from generation to generation, we receive what our spiritual ancestors and teachers were given, but we also recieve the potential for more learning and interpretation.
The concept of l’dor vador is an invitation to think about what Torah we want to keep around, to consider what learning we want to make sure is still here after this generation is gone. What do we want to cultivate so that it exists on a divine timeline and not just in fleeting human time? It’s also an opportunity to think about doesn’t merit preserving, what isn’t worth nourishing. So, like the rabbis in Avot, we make our own statements. We write our own midrash. We interpret the dots and crowns. And so we have to believe that the next generation is also able to expand and adapt Torah, to rewrite our midrash and reinterpret our teachings.
Our ancient tradition sees Torah as expansive. The written torah wasn’t big enough. The word Torah also came to mean the Mishna and the Talmud, the midrash. And, according to the Jerusalem Talmud [5], the Torah that Moses received on Mount Sinai even included what future learned students will teach their rabbis. Yes, I read that right. The Torah includes what students would teach their rabbis. And hopefully, their rabbis are listening.
Torah is not static, there’s no moment when the world will have all of the possible teachings. Torah expands and grows with each generation. Torah is infinite. We need to believe that there is always something new to be learned and taught, and that the next generations will be able to do that teaching.
L’dor vador is an invitation to teach, and also to listen to those who are younger than us. They will have more Torah than we do. They already do. When I was in high school, some of my teachers were among the early gay and lesbian students at HUC, the Reform movment’s rabbinical school. In the mid 90s, out students were admitted, but they had to learn from faculty members who would refuse to sign their diplomas. These teachers shared a Torah of pushing boundaries and making space, about showing up in community, even when we are not fully acceped. I often think about those teachers of mine when I hear our students at KT discuss their queer identities and talk about their queer families. When laws make the world less safe for queer kids and the political discourse is terrifying, we are working l’dor vador, from generation to generation, to create spaces that are expanding and ready for all their Torah, so much more so than what my teachers experienced. Maybe they will continue this work, teaching Torah that can truly hold all of our infinitely complicated identities.
Torah is ever expanding. Mordechai Kaplan famously changed our liturgy to do away with references to Jewish chosenness and superiority. Last year, learning about these change, our students had a serious conversation about whether true universalism and shared social responsibility could include animals. Maybe they will grow Torah to more fully teach about the equal value of every life.
Torah is infinite. L’dor vador, from generation to generation, we get to receive Torah, interpret it, change it, and add to it. And then, if we’re lucky, we get to listen to what the next generation shares. They will throw out some of our teachings, and add heaps of their own learning, add more Torah. And there will still be more space, because Torah is infinite.
[1] Psalms 146:10, Lamentations 5:9, and others
[2] Ecclesiastes 1:4
[3] Avot 1:1
[4] Menachot 29b
[5] Chagiga 2:1, Peah 2:4
Oct 2, 2024
Watch
L’shanah Tovah. As Rabbi Ari Lev said, I’m Rabbi Michelle, and as a point of visual access, I’m a short white femme with long curly brown hair.
With gratitude to Mazie and Julie for getting us started, over the next ten days we get to hear from Kol Tzedek members on the theme of L’dor vador. It’s an amazing gift to hear these personal stories, to witness these connections.
The theme of L’dor vador is an invitation to think about what we recieve form parents, teachers, and spiritual ancestors. And it’s also an opportunity to think expansively about the Torah we share in this world.
The phrase, literally “to generation and generation” is now catch phrase for spiritual legacy, or passing down learning and traditions. But in the Bible, the phrase is separate from and much larger than human families and human experience. Throughout Psalms and prophets, L’dor vador is a way to signify forever, or a really really long time. A Divine long time. God will rule for generations and generations.[1] God’s plans extend far into the future. God’s place will stand for generations and generations.
Human kings, and human lives in general will come and go each generation, but God’s time has a different kind of staying power. God will be around l’dor vador, for many of our short human generations.
Ecclesiastes, always good for a reminder of our mortality, uses the word dor, generation, in a contrast to this divine timeline:
[2] דּוֹר הֹלֵךְ וְדוֹר בָּא וְהָאָרֶץ לְעוֹלָם עֹמָדֶת׃
Generations come and go, but the world stands forever.
Our lives are short compared to God’s enduring rule and enduring creations.
Somehow, over time, the timeline that was only God’s became shorthand for human legacy. We took a phrase that was so big it applied to The Infinite One, and we decided to use to to talk about what we teach our children. The contemporary American understanding of L’dor vador includes, as Rabbi Ari Lev described, passing a Torah between generations at a B’nei Mitzvah. It includes ethical wills, family education, and creating political change for future generations. We pass on wisdom and stories, hopeful that our teaching will continue past our lifetimes.
Rabbi Ari Lev and I are both now at Kol Tzedek for our ninth high holidays and it was so sweet a few years ago to first welcome a class of Kindergarteners to Torah School, remembering when so many of them were born or named in our community. And over the last year we’ve gotten to celebrate b’nei mitzvah of children who were starting Kindergarten on my first day of Torah School at Kol Tzedek. In my various roles as an educator I spend so much time thinking about how to share Jewish traditions with the next generation of children, how to teach talmud to the next generation of rabbis, how to support our teenagers as they become our adult leaders. I love that we have watched an entire generation of Torah School students grow and learn, and become teachers.
And, for all that I am immersed in the work of L’dor vador, I know it’s not a metaphor that sits well for everybody, and it doesn’t always work for me. Maybe you don’t want to pass on what you were given by previous generations. Not everybody was handed expansive and welcoming Torah– many people in our community hold generational trauma, or were handed harmful beliefs or traditions. Maybe you have had to cut ties in order to grow your own Torah.
Maybe thinking about future generations touches on a pain you feel at not being able to have children, or a pain of losing children. Or, maybe you feel pain of judegement about your family and choices. From our ancient texts straight through to our contemporary culture, there has been a moral judgement that having children is the “right” or “good” or “the only natural way.” I think about a time when my niece was 1 or 2 and I was holding her at another synagogue’s event. Somebody came up to me and told me that I “looked like a natural” holding her. Another person told me that maybe I “would be next.” It was one of many times that I felt invisible in a Jewish community as a non-parent. I had been caring for her, along with her mothers, since she was born. I should hope it looked natural for me to hold her! I have never wanted to be ‘next,’ though that has been questioned many times.
I want to tell you, and I will tell you, that the theme of l’dor vador is bigger than any single family, and not just about blood or marriage, or even adoption. I want to tell you that as a community, we are working so hard to see and to make seen families and legacies that are so much more expansive than biological family. But I know that doesn’t take away from the pain you were handed. And I know it doesn’t take away the cultural messages about family our culture has held for so long.
So, in these coming days, if this topic is challenging to you, I invite you to think expansively about generations, to think about those who helped you express yourself, who welcomed you into the communities and celebrated dentities you hold now. And I invite you to think about how you want to influence those you love. But I also invite you to sit with and acknowledge any pain and discomfort you have with this theme. I invite you to remember you’re not alone, and I invite you to share your experience with others as part of our conversation around this theme.
Our earliest traditions of passing down Torah from generation to generation were, in fact, not family-based, but rather based on teaching and learning. Pirkei Avot is a book of mishna that is largely the wise sayings of many generations of rabbis. It starts with a chain of transmission. The rabbis who compiled the book place themselves in a direct line from God.
[3] “משֶׁה קִבֵּל תּוֹרָה מִסִּינַי, וּמְסָרָהּ לִיהוֹשֻׁעַ, וִיהוֹשֻׁעַ לִזְקֵנִים, וּזְקֵנִים לִנְבִיאִים, וּנְבִיאִים מְסָרוּהָ לְאַנְשֵׁי כְנֶסֶת הַגְּדוֹלָה.
Moses received Torah from Sinai and he transmitted it to Joshua. And Johsua to the elders, and the elders to the prophets, and the prophets transmitted it to the men of the great assembly.
Maybe this is the beginning of our understanding of l’dor vador, a sense that we have something worth passing down, worth transmitting.
When we receive and transmit Torah, we put ourselves in line with Moses, Joshua, the prophets, and the rabbis. We weren’t on top of Mount Sinai, or at Solomon’s Temple, or at the academy in Yavneh, we are all part of this tradition. We acknowledge that our teachers, and their teachers, hold and held incredible amounts of Torah.
This is not to say that we simply transmit exactly what we have received. Even the early rabbis didn’t see the transmission of Torah as simple and unchanged. They weren’t trying to live out the literal meaning of the Torah text. They found meaning in the text, added meaning to the text, and sometimes even twisted the meaning of the text to come to a totally different conclusion that fit their values better.
In one of my favorite Talmud stories, Moses, on Mount Sinai asks God “Why are you adding all of those tiny detailed crowns and dots to the Torah you’re writing for me?” God says, “Ten generations from now, there will be a man named Akiva who will make mountains of meaning from each tiny dot.” Upon Moses’ request, God whisks him away through time and space to a seat in the back row of Rabbi Akiva’s classroom. Moses can’t follow the lesson, but he hears Rabbi Akiva say “This rule given to Moses at Mount Sinai.”[4] When we recieve Torah l’dor vador, from generation to generation, we receive what our spiritual ancestors and teachers were given, but we also recieve the potential for more learning and interpretation.
The concept of l’dor vador is an invitation to think about what Torah we want to keep around, to consider what learning we want to make sure is still here after this generation is gone. What do we want to cultivate so that it exists on a divine timeline and not just in fleeting human time? It’s also an opportunity to think about doesn’t merit preserving, what isn’t worth nourishing. So, like the rabbis in Avot, we make our own statements. We write our own midrash. We interpret the dots and crowns. And so we have to believe that the next generation is also able to expand and adapt Torah, to rewrite our midrash and reinterpret our teachings.
Our ancient tradition sees Torah as expansive. The written torah wasn’t big enough. The word Torah also came to mean the Mishna and the Talmud, the midrash. And, according to the Jerusalem Talmud [5], the Torah that Moses received on Mount Sinai even included what future learned students will teach their rabbis. Yes, I read that right. The Torah includes what students would teach their rabbis. And hopefully, their rabbis are listening.
Torah is not static, there’s no moment when the world will have all of the possible teachings. Torah expands and grows with each generation. Torah is infinite. We need to believe that there is always something new to be learned and taught, and that the next generations will be able to do that teaching.
L’dor vador is an invitation to teach, and also to listen to those who are younger than us. They will have more Torah than we do. They already do. When I was in high school, some of my teachers were among the early gay and lesbian students at HUC, the Reform movment’s rabbinical school. In the mid 90s, out students were admitted, but they had to learn from faculty members who would refuse to sign their diplomas. These teachers shared a Torah of pushing boundaries and making space, about showing up in community, even when we are not fully acceped. I often think about those teachers of mine when I hear our students at KT discuss their queer identities and talk about their queer families. When laws make the world less safe for queer kids and the political discourse is terrifying, we are working l’dor vador, from generation to generation, to create spaces that are expanding and ready for all their Torah, so much more so than what my teachers experienced. Maybe they will continue this work, teaching Torah that can truly hold all of our infinitely complicated identities.
Torah is ever expanding. Mordechai Kaplan famously changed our liturgy to do away with references to Jewish chosenness and superiority. Last year, learning about these change, our students had a serious conversation about whether true universalism and shared social responsibility could include animals. Maybe they will grow Torah to more fully teach about the equal value of every life.
Torah is infinite. L’dor vador, from generation to generation, we get to receive Torah, interpret it, change it, and add to it. And then, if we’re lucky, we get to listen to what the next generation shares. They will throw out some of our teachings, and add heaps of their own learning, add more Torah. And there will still be more space, because Torah is infinite.
[1] Psalms 146:10, Lamentations 5:9, and others
[2] Ecclesiastes 1:4
[3] Avot 1:1
[4] Menachot 29b
[5] Chagiga 2:1, Peah 2:4