Rabbi Ari LEv: One Thing I Ask
Yom Kippur 5783
October 5, 2022
View the video here.
Achat sha'alti m'et adonai otah avakesh...
One thing I ask of the Holy One, it is this that I seek...
We have officially been singing these words for 40 days at this point. Taken from the middle verses of Psalm 27, these words are somewhere between an anthem and a mantra of the month of Elul and the Days of Awe. We are invited to include them in our morning practice starting on Rosh Hodesh Elul and to journey with them all the way through the gates of the New Year and throughout Aseret Yamei Teshuva.
Having just celebrated my 40th birthday, the number 40 holds personal meaning. But even more so, the number 40 here holds spiritual significance. As a Jewish number, it indicates the completion of a cycle or a chapter. Be it in one's life or in mythic time.
Noah, his family, and a pair of every species of the living world spent 40 days in the Ark waiting for the flood to recede. Moses spent 40 days and 40 nights on top of Mt. Sinai receiving the Ten Commandments from the Holy One. The Israelites spent 40 years in the wilderness. These are all periods of revelation and transformation.
So when we mark the period of intense reflection and introspection from Elul to Yom Kippur, and articulate it as a 40-day period, what we are saying is that it is enough time to develop new insights and transform us individually and collectively.
So what practices have defined this 40 day period?
Blowing shofar.
Teshuva.
And reciting Psalm 27.
Each of these practices is meant to impact us. To call our attention inward. To wake us up. To connect us to our deepest longings.
But for what purpose?
Psalm 27 continues,
Shivti b'veit Adonai Kol Yemei Chayay,
lachazot b'noam adonai, u'levaker b'heichalo.
To dwell in the house of the Holy One all the days of my life,
to behold the beauty of the Divine and visit her Palace.
As a religious person, I can appreciate the poetry here. To feel called into presence. To imagine Divine light radiating out. To feel so intimately connected to all life that it feels like we are together dwelling in the inner sanctum always. This is a fulfillment of a deep, spiritual longing to restore a feeling of connection to all life and the Divine.
But if I am honest, if I am only asking for one thing, this is not often it.
We are living through profound environmental and political uncertainty. There is a pervasive sense of urgency. The foundation of our world, both the natural world and the human world, feels precarious.
So I have been asking myself, what is the one thing that I ask? What is my biggest, most burning question?
What might be the one thing each of you is asking this Yom Kippur?
How might I offer some guidance so we can articulate and respond to the biggest, most urgent questions we are facing collectively?
Leonard Peltier, a Native activist, wrote in his book Prison Writings: My Life Is My Sun Dance:
"I don't know how to save the world. I don't have answers or The Answer. I hold no secret knowledge as to how to fix the mistakes of generations past and present. I only know that without compassion and respect for all of Earth's inhabitants, none of us will survive - nor will we deserve to" (1999, 230).
Let me begin here, with this humbling wisdom: I have no secret knowledge about how to fix the mistakes of generations past and present. I don't have answers or The Answer.
This is not only OK, it is intentional. Judaism pays much more attention to the need to question than our need for answers.
Acha sha'alti me'eit Adonai - One thing I ask of you, Yah...
Before we even teach our kids to read, we teach them to recite the Four Questions at the Passover Seder. In fact, this year at our Seder, we decided that for every question a kid asked, they got extra dessert. It led to so many amazing questions! Most of which had no clear answer.
Our cultural love of questions is so deep that it feels Jewish to answer a question with a question. Not only that, but some of our most important stories are themselves about questions. For example,
The story is told of Hillel - that a person came to him and asked, "Can you please explain to me Judaism on one foot?" To which he famously responded, "Love your neighbor as yourself, the rest is commentary. Now go and learn!" [1]
Rabbi Hillel's answer is brilliant and beloved. But the question is ultimately the more important lesson from this story.
The idea that we can ask a question that's looking for the essence of a thing, the brief version of what is otherwise unanswerable. For this reason, Al regel achat - on one foot, has become its own adage.
In fact, the Talmud's literary style teaches us the importance of asking every possible question, proliferating answers, and recording dissenting opinions. As a student, I was taught that upon studying a passage from the Mishnah, I should begin by listing every possible question I have about the teaching.
The emphasis is so much on the questions that when disagreements arise amidst the answers there is no pressure to resolve them. Often a Talmudic dispute simply ends with the word "Teku" - Aramaic for, "the question stands."
Which is to say, that our spiritual ancestors have also felt that they don't have the answers or THE Answer to the questions of their time.
But that didn’t stop them from sitting around and asking the essential questions of their time. And it shouldn’t stop us.
In the words of the Egyptian Jewish poet and revolutionary, Edmond Jabés, "The question has always been, is, and will remain our best political weapon."
What I have realized over the past 40 days is that my big burning question, the one thing I am asking myself over and over, the one thing I want to ask the Holy One, is actually not a new question. In a world that has endless righteous demands for our attention, how do we know what to do? And when? As it turns out, this question is quite ancient.
A story is told in the Babylonian Talmud,
Rabbi Tarfon and the elders were reclining in Nitzah's attic in the town of Lod. When someone asked this question,
תלמוד גדול או מעשה גדול
"Is study greater or is action greater?"
Perhaps this story or even just this question is familiar to you. Let me begin by asking you to suspend what you know it to be, as we explore different possible translations and interpretations.
When I say greater - I am not sure what I mean or even exactly what they meant. The word in Hebrew is gadol - as in big or great. This can refer both to stature and size, but also to weight and importance.
Are they asking which should you do more of or which is more important to do? Or which should you do first?
As if you were stranded on a desert island, and you could only choose one way to spend your time, which would you choose, study or action?
Now, if you are anything like me, you might be asking yourself, "Well, it depends, what kind of action are we talking about?"
The word ma'aseh comes from the infinitive la'asot, meaning to do or to make. It is the final word in the opening story of Creation in Genesis. We invoke it every Friday night just before Kiddush, declaring,
וַיְבָ֤רֶךְ אֱלֹהִים֙ אֶת־י֣וֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִ֔י וַיְקַדֵּ֖שׁ אֹת֑וֹ כִּ֣י ב֤וֹ שָׁבַת֙ מִכִּ֣ל־מְלַאכְתּ֔וֹ אֲשֶׁר־בָּרָ֥א אֱלֹהִ֖ים לַעֲשֽׂוֹת׃
And the Holy One blessed the seventh days and sanctified it, because on it the Holy One ceased their work that they had created to do.
This sentence would have made much more sense without that final "la'asot - to do."
It would have read, "And the Holy One blessed the seventh days and sanctified it, because on it the Holy One ceased their work that they had created."
I can hear the voices of my high school English teachers. It is a dangling clause to say the least.
So what's la'asot doing here?
Commentators explain that its mysterious presence here is a reminder that once the Holy One has completed ma'aseh v'reisheit - the work of Creation, the work of the world is ours to do, la'asot.
So when the rabbis are sitting around in Nitzah's attic, asking about study and action, are they talking about ma'aseh as in the mundane work of the world, as in getting things done?
I am someone who keeps a to-do list, both at work and on my fridge. I love to run errands and get things done. The laundry, food shopping, the hardware store, the bike shop, the post office.
These are all very real things I have to do. Much of which are part of domestic labor that is so often unacknowledged and underappreciated. Are the rabbis asking, Is it better to study than to get things done? 'Cuz that's a tough call!
Or are we talking about ma'aseh as in taking action, like attending a protest or organizing. Is the question, Is it better to study or go to an action?
Achat sha'alti me'et Adonai, one thing do I ask - In a world that is built on stolen beams, a world that is heating up, a world that is at war, a world governed by greed – I often find myself asking, What should I do next?
Let me dwell here to make explicit that when the rabbis say Talmud, I think they are describing both the very specific practice of Talmud Torah, of story study. And also, a more general category of learning and spiritual practice. And it happens that Talmud is their primary spiritual practice. But for us, study might also mean prayer, meditation, exercise, reading, breathing, cooking, martial arts, yoga - the things we do to replenish, to find calm and clarity.
And similarly, when the rabbis talk about ma'aseh, I think they are thinking of actions that fall generally into the category of mitzvot - visiting the sick, burying the dead, and the like, which is their primary realm of action. But for us, action also includes organizing, canvassing, protesting, phonebanking, and many forms of disruption.
The tension between study and action has animated much of my adult life. Perhaps yours as well.
It pulls me back to a time in my life when I was really struggling with the question,
?תלמוד גדול או מעשה גדול
I was in my mid-twenties, living in San Francisco. I had decided to fulfill my life's dream and apply to rabbinical school. But I needed to improve my Hebrew to pass the entrance exam. So I decided to travel to Jerusalem with three friends to study Hebrew and to understand for myself what I had been taught about "the Israeli/Palestinian conflict." We had enrolled in a municipal ulpan. The class was almost entirely made up of Palestinians hoping to learn Hebrew so they could work in Israel.
It was the summer of 2006. Two days after arriving, Israel went to war with Lebanon and Gaza was under lockdown. Protests broke out. Caught in the midst of a political situation I did not fully understand, a friend and I connected with a group called Birthright Unplugged. We dropped out of ulpan and spent 10 days traveling around the West Bank, visiting with Palestinians.
And then we spent the better part of that summer living in Ramallah and traveling around the West Bank, attending Palestinian-led demonstrations. Demonstrations to save people's homes, their olive orchards, to defend their access to water. We would gather as a group, internationals, Israelis, and Palestinians. We were told to always bring a bandana and an onion, because they helped diffuse the pepper spray.
I remember that in the month leading up to this trip, I had a nightmare that I was in a war zone running from gunfire. When I woke up one morning, my girlfriend at the time told me not to worry. I was, after all, only going to study Hebrew.
But there I was on a Friday in the town of Bil'in, as we approached the edge of this community's olive grove, where the Israeli government was trying to build a wall. And I could feel that I was part of something much larger. As if this was performance art; as if everyone knew exactly how the script unfolded. A Palestinian couple attempted to walk past the blockade so that they could get married on their land, and the army met them with tear gas. Protesters threw rocks with handmade slingshots. The army began shooting metal bullets and the group dispersed. I ran off with one friend, ducking in and out of stone walls and fruit trees. In one moment I stood and watched a bullet as if in slow motion zoom past my chest within inches of my body. We took shelter in the home of an elderly Palestinian family who served us fresh picked plums, so accustomed to this violence it required no mention.
I spent the rest of that summer traveling around the West Bank, running from gunfire and tear gas, listening to the stories of Palestinians, and using my body as a human shield. I returned home to San Francisco devastated, traumatized, and transformed.
I joined an Arab-led organizing group, protesting the continued war in Gaza and Lebanon. I attended organizing meetings and protests. I got arrested more than once. I slept very little. I was grieving my relationship to the State of Israel, to the State in general, and to the Judaism of my childhood. I was also waking up. I saw that the very war zone I feared and encountered in Palestine was also present for Black and brown communities in every neighborhood I have ever lived in. I was agitated and motivated. Everything felt urgent. Everything felt urgent, and I did everything I could think of to do. After a few months of direct action, I was exhausted. I hadn't paced myself, and I started to experience inner collapse.
I remember the afternoon that I biked all the way across San Francisco to arrive at the Pacific Ocean. I stood on the beach screaming and crying into the horizon. I was so overwhelmed by my own growing awareness of the world's injustice. I decided then to actually apply to rabbinical school. I needed spiritual tools to sustain me.
?תלמוד גדול או מעשה גדול
What is more important, learning or action?
My own spiritual and political development has been about the interaction between the two. Learning leading to action. And action leading to more learning.
But it has also been hard to know which is more urgent or timely or needed. Not just in the abstract, and not just in a war zone, but here in my daily life.
I ask this question every time there is a city-wide or nation-wide protest planned for Shabbat.
?תלמוד גדול או מעשה גדול
What's more important, Shabbat, spiritual practice, Torah study, or taking action, attending this protest that I believe in deeply?
Let’s return to Nitzah's attic and see how our sages answer this question.
As a reminder a group of sages were talking and one of them asked the question, "What's greater study or action?"
First Rabbi Tarfon answered, saying: "Ma'aseh/Action is greater."
Then Rabbi Akiva answered saying: "Talmud/Study is greater."
Pausing here, let's just notice that our greatest teachers disagree, gracefully. There is no one right answer. They are figuring it out by asking the question together.
In response to both Rabbi Tarfon and Rabbi Akiva, everyone in Nitzah's attic had a collective moment of clarity and and responded:
תלמוד גדול שהתלמוד מביא לידי מעשה
"Study is greater, for it leads to action."
Now you might be thinking, how cliche. Of course these rabbis think study is greater. They are after all, building an entire lineage based on the importance of Talmud Torah.
But let's notice that they don't all chime in and agree with Rabbi Akiva, who had just spoken. They actually pause, reflect, and add something important.
Study is great, but not for its own sake. Study is great because it leads us to action.
But doesn't that mean action is greater, if that is the ultimate goal?
To which Rashi comments, study is greater, because it leads to action, which means we end up doing both.
נמצאו שניהם בידו
We end up with both of them in our hands.
But I think it's more than that. When I taught this text a few summers ago, my students helped me understand that study is greater because it leads us into the hand of action. Which is to say, it leads us to wiser action.
Menachem ben Solomon Meiri or Hameiri, a famous Catalan rabbi who lived in the 13th century, reframes this moment, explaining that if you know what action you need to take, then go ahead and do it. But if you don't, then study, reflect, pause, learn, which will lead you to the right course of action.
Which is to say, study and action are equally important, but for different reasons and in different moments.
Lots of practical questions arise as we are thinking about this question.
For example, should we interrupt Torah Study to attend a wedding or a funeral? [2]
Should we interrupt Torah study to go to the bathroom or take care of our bodies, or to take care of other people's bodies?
Fear not, the Talmud finds ways to address all of these questions. And invites us to ask ourselves these questions in our own lives.
The rabbis in the Talmud even tell stories about themselves interrupting their teaching to use the bathroom, reminding their students to wait until they have had a chance to say a blessing before asking them more questions. [3]
Practically and personally, I must confess that I have interrupted both my own study and my own teaching of Torah many times during this pandemic to wipe my kid's tush in the bathroom. With great gratitude for the ability to turn off one's camera!
From all of this we can conclude that even though learning is greater, there are three circumstances when ma'aseh, when action, takes precedence:
In fact the rabbis make explicit that if you see injustice in your home, you are obligated to protest, to take action. If you see injustice in your town or your city, you are obligated to take action. If you see injustice in the world, you are obligated to take action.
When text says "if you see..." what it means is that you are able recognize injustice and you know what to do about it. As opposed to needing to figure out and learn which is another worthy option.
This is an obligation I know we take seriously as a community. It is after all our namesake, Kol Tzedek - A Voice for Justice.
It's helpful to see that when we dig deeper in this conversation, there isn't actually a clear binary between study and action. This is not a privileged armchair conversation. This is about our real lives and the choices we need to make about how we live and what we prioritize. When done together, study and action deepen and strengthen each other. And that is what the rabbis mean when they say talmud gadol sh'meivi lidei ma'aseh.
Spiritual practices are so important because they shape and sustain our actions in the world.
It can be hard to prioritize learning and spiritual practice in a world on fire. In a city aching with injustice. In a country banning access to abortion and undermining the right to vote.
It is essential to hear this in a crucial election year. An election I am not only counting on you to vote in, but also counting on you to help get out the vote.
It is precisely because there is so much we need to do in this world, that we need to prioritize our own inner lives and the spiritual practices that keep us connected to what we feel is right and just, and that sustain our capacity to act.
One of the most important lessons I learned from my time living in Palestine and San Francisco, one of the core reasons I decided to enter rabbinical school, was to develop spiritual practices to support, sustain, and guide my work for justice in the world. It is perhaps what I feel I am most able to share, teach, and transmit to each of you.
Your spiritual practices are invaluable. They are so important.
Not despite every other demand on your time. But because of every other demand on your time.
Time you spend in prayer, time you spend studying Torah, meditating, or taking a walk, exercising, practicing a martial art, or playing an instrument, any activity that for you supports mindfulness and presence, is time well spent. It will transform your day, your week, your year.
The way the rabbis express this is to say that Torah study has no measure, no defined amount of time, no time limit. Which is like saying, "You cannot overdo it." [4]
But it doesn’t have to be a lot of time. Studies show that 12 minutes a day of mindful practice will have a dramatic impact on your mental health and state of being. In my own experience, a little bit of meditation or prayer changes the scope of an entire day. It settles anxiety and leads to more clarity.
And if you don't yet have a personal spiritual practice, 5783 might be a good year to develop one!
תלמוד גדול שהתלמוד מביא לידי מעשה
This is what the rabbis meant when they said,
Study leads to wise action.
Which is what our world needs.
In the words of Dane Kutler,
"And G!d says: You, who are exhausted with the work already.
You, with the asphalt-worn boots, with the house full of placards.
You, who are always breathing in, preparing to shout, who sees the work everywhere and swallows the impossible sea of it: breathe out, weary ones.
Prepare yourselves to go in, and to go in deep.
Find the work inside: the work of self-kindness, the work of healing and repair.
The work on the street will still be there when you re-enter.
The world needs you whole."
If you are sitting here thinking you don't know what it would mean for you to have a spiritual practice, first of all, you have already managed to carve out 25 hours to be here on Yom Kippur. You are well on our way!
And second, I know you are not alone. Reach out to a friend to brainstorm ideas. Reach out to me. Let's find time to connect after the holidays.
When we prioritize study and spiritual practice, we are not abandoning the work of the world, we are supporting and sustaining it. We are setting ourselves up to be more courageous, compassionate people.
Achat sha'alti me'et Adonai...
What is the one question you are asking this Yom Kippur? What are the big questions you are asking yourself this year and how might you begin to answer them? What is going to be my "limmud," my spiritual practice this year that will help me do my ma'aseh better?
May we have the courage and discipline to take the time to meditate and reflect on these questions. To be with the uncertainty and fear embedded within them. And may we emerge with greater clarity and compassion about how we can each make the world and ourselves more whole.
Gmar Hatimah Tovah!
[1] See B.T. Shabbat 31a.
[2] See B.T. Ketubot 17a.
[3] See B.T. Bava Kama 17a.
[4] See Mishnah Peah 1:1: .אֵלּוּ דְבָרִים שֶׁאֵין לָהֶם שִׁעוּר. הַפֵּאָה, וְהַבִּכּוּרִים, וְהָרֵאָיוֹן, וּגְמִילוּת חֲסָדִים, וְתַלְמוּד תּוֹרָה
October 5, 2022
View the video here.
Achat sha'alti m'et adonai otah avakesh...
One thing I ask of the Holy One, it is this that I seek...
We have officially been singing these words for 40 days at this point. Taken from the middle verses of Psalm 27, these words are somewhere between an anthem and a mantra of the month of Elul and the Days of Awe. We are invited to include them in our morning practice starting on Rosh Hodesh Elul and to journey with them all the way through the gates of the New Year and throughout Aseret Yamei Teshuva.
Having just celebrated my 40th birthday, the number 40 holds personal meaning. But even more so, the number 40 here holds spiritual significance. As a Jewish number, it indicates the completion of a cycle or a chapter. Be it in one's life or in mythic time.
Noah, his family, and a pair of every species of the living world spent 40 days in the Ark waiting for the flood to recede. Moses spent 40 days and 40 nights on top of Mt. Sinai receiving the Ten Commandments from the Holy One. The Israelites spent 40 years in the wilderness. These are all periods of revelation and transformation.
So when we mark the period of intense reflection and introspection from Elul to Yom Kippur, and articulate it as a 40-day period, what we are saying is that it is enough time to develop new insights and transform us individually and collectively.
So what practices have defined this 40 day period?
Blowing shofar.
Teshuva.
And reciting Psalm 27.
Each of these practices is meant to impact us. To call our attention inward. To wake us up. To connect us to our deepest longings.
But for what purpose?
Psalm 27 continues,
Shivti b'veit Adonai Kol Yemei Chayay,
lachazot b'noam adonai, u'levaker b'heichalo.
To dwell in the house of the Holy One all the days of my life,
to behold the beauty of the Divine and visit her Palace.
As a religious person, I can appreciate the poetry here. To feel called into presence. To imagine Divine light radiating out. To feel so intimately connected to all life that it feels like we are together dwelling in the inner sanctum always. This is a fulfillment of a deep, spiritual longing to restore a feeling of connection to all life and the Divine.
But if I am honest, if I am only asking for one thing, this is not often it.
We are living through profound environmental and political uncertainty. There is a pervasive sense of urgency. The foundation of our world, both the natural world and the human world, feels precarious.
So I have been asking myself, what is the one thing that I ask? What is my biggest, most burning question?
What might be the one thing each of you is asking this Yom Kippur?
How might I offer some guidance so we can articulate and respond to the biggest, most urgent questions we are facing collectively?
Leonard Peltier, a Native activist, wrote in his book Prison Writings: My Life Is My Sun Dance:
"I don't know how to save the world. I don't have answers or The Answer. I hold no secret knowledge as to how to fix the mistakes of generations past and present. I only know that without compassion and respect for all of Earth's inhabitants, none of us will survive - nor will we deserve to" (1999, 230).
Let me begin here, with this humbling wisdom: I have no secret knowledge about how to fix the mistakes of generations past and present. I don't have answers or The Answer.
This is not only OK, it is intentional. Judaism pays much more attention to the need to question than our need for answers.
Acha sha'alti me'eit Adonai - One thing I ask of you, Yah...
Before we even teach our kids to read, we teach them to recite the Four Questions at the Passover Seder. In fact, this year at our Seder, we decided that for every question a kid asked, they got extra dessert. It led to so many amazing questions! Most of which had no clear answer.
Our cultural love of questions is so deep that it feels Jewish to answer a question with a question. Not only that, but some of our most important stories are themselves about questions. For example,
The story is told of Hillel - that a person came to him and asked, "Can you please explain to me Judaism on one foot?" To which he famously responded, "Love your neighbor as yourself, the rest is commentary. Now go and learn!" [1]
Rabbi Hillel's answer is brilliant and beloved. But the question is ultimately the more important lesson from this story.
The idea that we can ask a question that's looking for the essence of a thing, the brief version of what is otherwise unanswerable. For this reason, Al regel achat - on one foot, has become its own adage.
In fact, the Talmud's literary style teaches us the importance of asking every possible question, proliferating answers, and recording dissenting opinions. As a student, I was taught that upon studying a passage from the Mishnah, I should begin by listing every possible question I have about the teaching.
The emphasis is so much on the questions that when disagreements arise amidst the answers there is no pressure to resolve them. Often a Talmudic dispute simply ends with the word "Teku" - Aramaic for, "the question stands."
Which is to say, that our spiritual ancestors have also felt that they don't have the answers or THE Answer to the questions of their time.
But that didn’t stop them from sitting around and asking the essential questions of their time. And it shouldn’t stop us.
In the words of the Egyptian Jewish poet and revolutionary, Edmond Jabés, "The question has always been, is, and will remain our best political weapon."
What I have realized over the past 40 days is that my big burning question, the one thing I am asking myself over and over, the one thing I want to ask the Holy One, is actually not a new question. In a world that has endless righteous demands for our attention, how do we know what to do? And when? As it turns out, this question is quite ancient.
A story is told in the Babylonian Talmud,
Rabbi Tarfon and the elders were reclining in Nitzah's attic in the town of Lod. When someone asked this question,
תלמוד גדול או מעשה גדול
"Is study greater or is action greater?"
Perhaps this story or even just this question is familiar to you. Let me begin by asking you to suspend what you know it to be, as we explore different possible translations and interpretations.
When I say greater - I am not sure what I mean or even exactly what they meant. The word in Hebrew is gadol - as in big or great. This can refer both to stature and size, but also to weight and importance.
Are they asking which should you do more of or which is more important to do? Or which should you do first?
As if you were stranded on a desert island, and you could only choose one way to spend your time, which would you choose, study or action?
Now, if you are anything like me, you might be asking yourself, "Well, it depends, what kind of action are we talking about?"
The word ma'aseh comes from the infinitive la'asot, meaning to do or to make. It is the final word in the opening story of Creation in Genesis. We invoke it every Friday night just before Kiddush, declaring,
וַיְבָ֤רֶךְ אֱלֹהִים֙ אֶת־י֣וֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִ֔י וַיְקַדֵּ֖שׁ אֹת֑וֹ כִּ֣י ב֤וֹ שָׁבַת֙ מִכִּ֣ל־מְלַאכְתּ֔וֹ אֲשֶׁר־בָּרָ֥א אֱלֹהִ֖ים לַעֲשֽׂוֹת׃
And the Holy One blessed the seventh days and sanctified it, because on it the Holy One ceased their work that they had created to do.
This sentence would have made much more sense without that final "la'asot - to do."
It would have read, "And the Holy One blessed the seventh days and sanctified it, because on it the Holy One ceased their work that they had created."
I can hear the voices of my high school English teachers. It is a dangling clause to say the least.
So what's la'asot doing here?
Commentators explain that its mysterious presence here is a reminder that once the Holy One has completed ma'aseh v'reisheit - the work of Creation, the work of the world is ours to do, la'asot.
So when the rabbis are sitting around in Nitzah's attic, asking about study and action, are they talking about ma'aseh as in the mundane work of the world, as in getting things done?
I am someone who keeps a to-do list, both at work and on my fridge. I love to run errands and get things done. The laundry, food shopping, the hardware store, the bike shop, the post office.
These are all very real things I have to do. Much of which are part of domestic labor that is so often unacknowledged and underappreciated. Are the rabbis asking, Is it better to study than to get things done? 'Cuz that's a tough call!
Or are we talking about ma'aseh as in taking action, like attending a protest or organizing. Is the question, Is it better to study or go to an action?
Achat sha'alti me'et Adonai, one thing do I ask - In a world that is built on stolen beams, a world that is heating up, a world that is at war, a world governed by greed – I often find myself asking, What should I do next?
Let me dwell here to make explicit that when the rabbis say Talmud, I think they are describing both the very specific practice of Talmud Torah, of story study. And also, a more general category of learning and spiritual practice. And it happens that Talmud is their primary spiritual practice. But for us, study might also mean prayer, meditation, exercise, reading, breathing, cooking, martial arts, yoga - the things we do to replenish, to find calm and clarity.
And similarly, when the rabbis talk about ma'aseh, I think they are thinking of actions that fall generally into the category of mitzvot - visiting the sick, burying the dead, and the like, which is their primary realm of action. But for us, action also includes organizing, canvassing, protesting, phonebanking, and many forms of disruption.
The tension between study and action has animated much of my adult life. Perhaps yours as well.
It pulls me back to a time in my life when I was really struggling with the question,
?תלמוד גדול או מעשה גדול
I was in my mid-twenties, living in San Francisco. I had decided to fulfill my life's dream and apply to rabbinical school. But I needed to improve my Hebrew to pass the entrance exam. So I decided to travel to Jerusalem with three friends to study Hebrew and to understand for myself what I had been taught about "the Israeli/Palestinian conflict." We had enrolled in a municipal ulpan. The class was almost entirely made up of Palestinians hoping to learn Hebrew so they could work in Israel.
It was the summer of 2006. Two days after arriving, Israel went to war with Lebanon and Gaza was under lockdown. Protests broke out. Caught in the midst of a political situation I did not fully understand, a friend and I connected with a group called Birthright Unplugged. We dropped out of ulpan and spent 10 days traveling around the West Bank, visiting with Palestinians.
And then we spent the better part of that summer living in Ramallah and traveling around the West Bank, attending Palestinian-led demonstrations. Demonstrations to save people's homes, their olive orchards, to defend their access to water. We would gather as a group, internationals, Israelis, and Palestinians. We were told to always bring a bandana and an onion, because they helped diffuse the pepper spray.
I remember that in the month leading up to this trip, I had a nightmare that I was in a war zone running from gunfire. When I woke up one morning, my girlfriend at the time told me not to worry. I was, after all, only going to study Hebrew.
But there I was on a Friday in the town of Bil'in, as we approached the edge of this community's olive grove, where the Israeli government was trying to build a wall. And I could feel that I was part of something much larger. As if this was performance art; as if everyone knew exactly how the script unfolded. A Palestinian couple attempted to walk past the blockade so that they could get married on their land, and the army met them with tear gas. Protesters threw rocks with handmade slingshots. The army began shooting metal bullets and the group dispersed. I ran off with one friend, ducking in and out of stone walls and fruit trees. In one moment I stood and watched a bullet as if in slow motion zoom past my chest within inches of my body. We took shelter in the home of an elderly Palestinian family who served us fresh picked plums, so accustomed to this violence it required no mention.
I spent the rest of that summer traveling around the West Bank, running from gunfire and tear gas, listening to the stories of Palestinians, and using my body as a human shield. I returned home to San Francisco devastated, traumatized, and transformed.
I joined an Arab-led organizing group, protesting the continued war in Gaza and Lebanon. I attended organizing meetings and protests. I got arrested more than once. I slept very little. I was grieving my relationship to the State of Israel, to the State in general, and to the Judaism of my childhood. I was also waking up. I saw that the very war zone I feared and encountered in Palestine was also present for Black and brown communities in every neighborhood I have ever lived in. I was agitated and motivated. Everything felt urgent. Everything felt urgent, and I did everything I could think of to do. After a few months of direct action, I was exhausted. I hadn't paced myself, and I started to experience inner collapse.
I remember the afternoon that I biked all the way across San Francisco to arrive at the Pacific Ocean. I stood on the beach screaming and crying into the horizon. I was so overwhelmed by my own growing awareness of the world's injustice. I decided then to actually apply to rabbinical school. I needed spiritual tools to sustain me.
?תלמוד גדול או מעשה גדול
What is more important, learning or action?
My own spiritual and political development has been about the interaction between the two. Learning leading to action. And action leading to more learning.
But it has also been hard to know which is more urgent or timely or needed. Not just in the abstract, and not just in a war zone, but here in my daily life.
I ask this question every time there is a city-wide or nation-wide protest planned for Shabbat.
?תלמוד גדול או מעשה גדול
What's more important, Shabbat, spiritual practice, Torah study, or taking action, attending this protest that I believe in deeply?
Let’s return to Nitzah's attic and see how our sages answer this question.
As a reminder a group of sages were talking and one of them asked the question, "What's greater study or action?"
First Rabbi Tarfon answered, saying: "Ma'aseh/Action is greater."
Then Rabbi Akiva answered saying: "Talmud/Study is greater."
Pausing here, let's just notice that our greatest teachers disagree, gracefully. There is no one right answer. They are figuring it out by asking the question together.
In response to both Rabbi Tarfon and Rabbi Akiva, everyone in Nitzah's attic had a collective moment of clarity and and responded:
תלמוד גדול שהתלמוד מביא לידי מעשה
"Study is greater, for it leads to action."
Now you might be thinking, how cliche. Of course these rabbis think study is greater. They are after all, building an entire lineage based on the importance of Talmud Torah.
But let's notice that they don't all chime in and agree with Rabbi Akiva, who had just spoken. They actually pause, reflect, and add something important.
Study is great, but not for its own sake. Study is great because it leads us to action.
But doesn't that mean action is greater, if that is the ultimate goal?
To which Rashi comments, study is greater, because it leads to action, which means we end up doing both.
נמצאו שניהם בידו
We end up with both of them in our hands.
But I think it's more than that. When I taught this text a few summers ago, my students helped me understand that study is greater because it leads us into the hand of action. Which is to say, it leads us to wiser action.
Menachem ben Solomon Meiri or Hameiri, a famous Catalan rabbi who lived in the 13th century, reframes this moment, explaining that if you know what action you need to take, then go ahead and do it. But if you don't, then study, reflect, pause, learn, which will lead you to the right course of action.
Which is to say, study and action are equally important, but for different reasons and in different moments.
Lots of practical questions arise as we are thinking about this question.
For example, should we interrupt Torah Study to attend a wedding or a funeral? [2]
Should we interrupt Torah study to go to the bathroom or take care of our bodies, or to take care of other people's bodies?
Fear not, the Talmud finds ways to address all of these questions. And invites us to ask ourselves these questions in our own lives.
The rabbis in the Talmud even tell stories about themselves interrupting their teaching to use the bathroom, reminding their students to wait until they have had a chance to say a blessing before asking them more questions. [3]
Practically and personally, I must confess that I have interrupted both my own study and my own teaching of Torah many times during this pandemic to wipe my kid's tush in the bathroom. With great gratitude for the ability to turn off one's camera!
From all of this we can conclude that even though learning is greater, there are three circumstances when ma'aseh, when action, takes precedence:
- When we know what to do and how to do it.
- When we need to care for our bodies and take care of each other.
- When the action fulfills another obligation that is time-bound, as in attending a funeral or a wedding.
In fact the rabbis make explicit that if you see injustice in your home, you are obligated to protest, to take action. If you see injustice in your town or your city, you are obligated to take action. If you see injustice in the world, you are obligated to take action.
When text says "if you see..." what it means is that you are able recognize injustice and you know what to do about it. As opposed to needing to figure out and learn which is another worthy option.
This is an obligation I know we take seriously as a community. It is after all our namesake, Kol Tzedek - A Voice for Justice.
It's helpful to see that when we dig deeper in this conversation, there isn't actually a clear binary between study and action. This is not a privileged armchair conversation. This is about our real lives and the choices we need to make about how we live and what we prioritize. When done together, study and action deepen and strengthen each other. And that is what the rabbis mean when they say talmud gadol sh'meivi lidei ma'aseh.
Spiritual practices are so important because they shape and sustain our actions in the world.
It can be hard to prioritize learning and spiritual practice in a world on fire. In a city aching with injustice. In a country banning access to abortion and undermining the right to vote.
It is essential to hear this in a crucial election year. An election I am not only counting on you to vote in, but also counting on you to help get out the vote.
It is precisely because there is so much we need to do in this world, that we need to prioritize our own inner lives and the spiritual practices that keep us connected to what we feel is right and just, and that sustain our capacity to act.
One of the most important lessons I learned from my time living in Palestine and San Francisco, one of the core reasons I decided to enter rabbinical school, was to develop spiritual practices to support, sustain, and guide my work for justice in the world. It is perhaps what I feel I am most able to share, teach, and transmit to each of you.
Your spiritual practices are invaluable. They are so important.
Not despite every other demand on your time. But because of every other demand on your time.
Time you spend in prayer, time you spend studying Torah, meditating, or taking a walk, exercising, practicing a martial art, or playing an instrument, any activity that for you supports mindfulness and presence, is time well spent. It will transform your day, your week, your year.
The way the rabbis express this is to say that Torah study has no measure, no defined amount of time, no time limit. Which is like saying, "You cannot overdo it." [4]
But it doesn’t have to be a lot of time. Studies show that 12 minutes a day of mindful practice will have a dramatic impact on your mental health and state of being. In my own experience, a little bit of meditation or prayer changes the scope of an entire day. It settles anxiety and leads to more clarity.
And if you don't yet have a personal spiritual practice, 5783 might be a good year to develop one!
תלמוד גדול שהתלמוד מביא לידי מעשה
This is what the rabbis meant when they said,
Study leads to wise action.
Which is what our world needs.
In the words of Dane Kutler,
"And G!d says: You, who are exhausted with the work already.
You, with the asphalt-worn boots, with the house full of placards.
You, who are always breathing in, preparing to shout, who sees the work everywhere and swallows the impossible sea of it: breathe out, weary ones.
Prepare yourselves to go in, and to go in deep.
Find the work inside: the work of self-kindness, the work of healing and repair.
The work on the street will still be there when you re-enter.
The world needs you whole."
If you are sitting here thinking you don't know what it would mean for you to have a spiritual practice, first of all, you have already managed to carve out 25 hours to be here on Yom Kippur. You are well on our way!
And second, I know you are not alone. Reach out to a friend to brainstorm ideas. Reach out to me. Let's find time to connect after the holidays.
When we prioritize study and spiritual practice, we are not abandoning the work of the world, we are supporting and sustaining it. We are setting ourselves up to be more courageous, compassionate people.
Achat sha'alti me'et Adonai...
What is the one question you are asking this Yom Kippur? What are the big questions you are asking yourself this year and how might you begin to answer them? What is going to be my "limmud," my spiritual practice this year that will help me do my ma'aseh better?
May we have the courage and discipline to take the time to meditate and reflect on these questions. To be with the uncertainty and fear embedded within them. And may we emerge with greater clarity and compassion about how we can each make the world and ourselves more whole.
Gmar Hatimah Tovah!
[1] See B.T. Shabbat 31a.
[2] See B.T. Ketubot 17a.
[3] See B.T. Bava Kama 17a.
[4] See Mishnah Peah 1:1: .אֵלּוּ דְבָרִים שֶׁאֵין לָהֶם שִׁעוּר. הַפֵּאָה, וְהַבִּכּוּרִים, וְהָרֵאָיוֹן, וּגְמִילוּת חֲסָדִים, וְתַלְמוּד תּוֹרָה