Introduction
One of the great traditions in Judaism is the study and discussion of our writings and history. Often these discussion takes place in a setting called a "Bet Midrash," which translates as "house of learning/explanation/
This particular mode of learning is known as studying in "Chevrutah" and it involves going through a text with a partner and trying to tease out the meanings, the subtleties and the connections to ideas both ancient and contemporary that the text contains. One of the brilliant things about this mode of learning is that the people in the Bet Midrash, from beginners to great scholars, are not just reading the words and ideas of great thinkers, but they are engaging with ideas in the very same way - the Talmud itself is a rich tapestry not just of wisdom, but of argument and debate, surrounded literally and figuratively by the commentary of other great thinkers.
For me, engaging with texts this way has been the best way to learn about the traditions, history and philosophy of the Jewish people. One of the best things about this mode of learning is that it also encourages the student to think about how the ideas and wisdom embodied in texts hundreds or even thousands of years old, apply to life today. So in this spirit I am adding a new section to my 36 Voices blog called "In the Bet Midrash" where I will explore, argue with and attempt to apply the ideas expressed in Jewish texts, from ancient to modern, to problems and situations in the world today.
Much like my occasional series “Words and the World,” meditations on literature and civil society, “In the Bet Midrash” will serve as an occasional series on Jewish texts and ideas. I hope that readers will check back from time to time to read the latest installments in this series and of course I welcome your reactions, questions and comments in the comment section below.
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Honi and the Carob
Tree: Thoughts on Different Modes of Communal Leadership
June 6, 2014
For people who like to engage the study of Jewish text, the holiday of Shavuot, which celebrates the receiving of the Torah at Mount Sinai, is perhaps the Super Bowl of learning - on the first night of Shavuot all around the world in Jewish communities large and small, gather together for a marathon session of all night learning. Often different members of a community will take turns teaching on a particular topic they have prepared, creating space for everyone in the room to share their reactions and ideas. Shavuot also happens to be one of my favorite holidays, and this year I was honored to be invited to take part in the Tikkun (all night learning session) at Temple Beth Abraham in Nashua, New Hampshire.
For my part of the evening I decided to look at two different texts that each have a connection to ideas about "Community." The first thing we looked at was a section of the story about Honi the Circle drawer, a somewhat mysterious figure who shows up in the Babylonian Talmud and is perhaps best remembered for being able to bring rain during droughts by drawing a circle, standing inside it and praying to Gd in a particularly earnest and powerful way. But there is more to Honi than just his, ability to make it rain - he also stands at the center of an important lesson about community and inter-generational connections. While many people might have some familiarity with Honi, I would guess that fewer people know about the interaction that Honi has later in the narrative, with a man he encounters on the road who is planting a Carob tree.
In this part of the story Honi stops and marvels at the man's decision to plant a Carob tree - a tree, which he notes, that will not provide fruit for another 70 years, long after the man planting it has died. Honi seems baffled by this act, but the man explains that when he was born he himself found Carob trees planted by earlier generations that provided him with sustenance, and now he is doing the same for future generations. Honi then falls asleep and wakes up some 70 years later to see a boy standing in front of him, he asks who planted the tree and the boy tells him that his grandfather did.
On the surface this would seem to be a simple narrative with Honi as a kind of foil or everyman, who exists within the confines of the story so that the Talmud can remind us that just as we those who have come before us were kind and selfless enough to provide for us, we too have an obligation to provide something for future generations. And as a simple tale of Tzeakkah (charity) and Chesed (kindness) this is useful, but there is also much more going on here below the surface.
During the discussion at Temple Beth Abraham I was lucky enough to learn with a group of people who spanned the generations and brought with them a range of life experiences from different Jewish communities. One idea that was raised which I have been thinking about now for a couple of days, is the notion that perhaps Honi, by virtue of his unique way of connecting to the Almighty - drawing a circle and effectively creating his own sacred space – is also placing a barrier between himself and the community that he serves. Unlike the man planting the Carob tree, whose contribution does not have limit ( as someone in the room pointed out, each Carob tree will drop thousands of seeds, which in turn can create thousands of trees and perpetuate the cycle without end), what Honi does is much more finite, controlled and bounded. He is someone who can draw his own boundaries, and whose assistance to the community, while vital, is also circumscribed (pun intended) and limited to the time and place in which he chooses to beseech the divine.
For people who like to engage the study of Jewish text, the holiday of Shavuot, which celebrates the receiving of the Torah at Mount Sinai, is perhaps the Super Bowl of learning - on the first night of Shavuot all around the world in Jewish communities large and small, gather together for a marathon session of all night learning. Often different members of a community will take turns teaching on a particular topic they have prepared, creating space for everyone in the room to share their reactions and ideas. Shavuot also happens to be one of my favorite holidays, and this year I was honored to be invited to take part in the Tikkun (all night learning session) at Temple Beth Abraham in Nashua, New Hampshire.
For my part of the evening I decided to look at two different texts that each have a connection to ideas about "Community." The first thing we looked at was a section of the story about Honi the Circle drawer, a somewhat mysterious figure who shows up in the Babylonian Talmud and is perhaps best remembered for being able to bring rain during droughts by drawing a circle, standing inside it and praying to Gd in a particularly earnest and powerful way. But there is more to Honi than just his, ability to make it rain - he also stands at the center of an important lesson about community and inter-generational connections. While many people might have some familiarity with Honi, I would guess that fewer people know about the interaction that Honi has later in the narrative, with a man he encounters on the road who is planting a Carob tree.
In this part of the story Honi stops and marvels at the man's decision to plant a Carob tree - a tree, which he notes, that will not provide fruit for another 70 years, long after the man planting it has died. Honi seems baffled by this act, but the man explains that when he was born he himself found Carob trees planted by earlier generations that provided him with sustenance, and now he is doing the same for future generations. Honi then falls asleep and wakes up some 70 years later to see a boy standing in front of him, he asks who planted the tree and the boy tells him that his grandfather did.
On the surface this would seem to be a simple narrative with Honi as a kind of foil or everyman, who exists within the confines of the story so that the Talmud can remind us that just as we those who have come before us were kind and selfless enough to provide for us, we too have an obligation to provide something for future generations. And as a simple tale of Tzeakkah (charity) and Chesed (kindness) this is useful, but there is also much more going on here below the surface.
During the discussion at Temple Beth Abraham I was lucky enough to learn with a group of people who spanned the generations and brought with them a range of life experiences from different Jewish communities. One idea that was raised which I have been thinking about now for a couple of days, is the notion that perhaps Honi, by virtue of his unique way of connecting to the Almighty - drawing a circle and effectively creating his own sacred space – is also placing a barrier between himself and the community that he serves. Unlike the man planting the Carob tree, whose contribution does not have limit ( as someone in the room pointed out, each Carob tree will drop thousands of seeds, which in turn can create thousands of trees and perpetuate the cycle without end), what Honi does is much more finite, controlled and bounded. He is someone who can draw his own boundaries, and whose assistance to the community, while vital, is also circumscribed (pun intended) and limited to the time and place in which he chooses to beseech the divine.
This doesn't negate Honi's contribution - the
people still needed and were grateful for, the rain - but it does draw a sharp
distinction between how Honi and the planter see the communities of which they
are a part.
For me, this text points to two different attitudes toward
community and two different ways of serving a community. In the case of Honi we
see a man who has particular talents that address a specific need, but he has
become so focused on this unique ability, that he fails to see the limits of
his ability – more than that, he fails to see how more than one way of serving
the community or giving back, is even possible. In this sense, the story of Honi becomes a
cautionary tale for leaders, reminding them that however important their own contributions
may be, that they need to see beyond what they can accomplish on their own. The
man planting the tree also has own perspective, but it is a much wider one – he
knows that someone who came before him planted Carob trees so that he would
have food, and so he feels a duty to do the same for future generations. He has
no way of knowing exactly who planted the trees that he uses, and no way to
know who may come along after he has died and benefit from the trees he is planting
today. Both Honi and the man planting the tree represent the importance of
fulfilling the needs of communities in different, and complementary ways. Honi
is the right person at the right time – as RabbiHyim Shafner writes in his essay The Dream of Exile: A Rereading of Honi
the Circle-Drawer:
What each of us contributes to the
universe is not just the sum of what we have to offer but a unique structure
only we can bring to a certain time, place and state of the world. We are not
just the substance of our knowledge, emotion and personality, but a specific
form, woven into a certain historical time, generation and zeitgeist.
Without Honi to bring rain to the land in winter, people in
his generation might have died of thirst and starvation, without the planter
looking ahead (and behind) there would be no one to continue the legacy and
provide for future generations. This is true not only to Carob trees and rain,
but to all of the resources that a Jewish community needs. Perhaps our sages
are trying to remind us that a successful community, one which continues from
one generation to the next, is made up of a mix of people, some who have the
right answer for the moment and others who are cognizant of their place in the
chain of memory, culture and community, those who look to both the past and the
future.
Copyright Daniel E.
Levenson 2014.
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What does Deuteronomy have to teach us about leadership?
September 12, 2014
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What does Deuteronomy have to teach us about leadership?
September 12, 2014
In my professional life I spend a lot of time thinking about
leadership and community building. With so many methods, models and
ideas out there, trying to figure out how to approach any particular
challenge can become an all-consuming process. For this reason, I
always feel a little better after studying Jewish texts that tackle this
topic - not because they provide an easy or automatic answer, but
because so often they portray these challenges in a familiar way,
highlighting the difficulties that both leaders and communities face in
the real world. To put it bluntly, there's just something comforting
about knowing that everyone from Moses to King David faced seemingly
insurmountable obstacles, anyone way or another, found a way to
overcome them.
But it is not only high-profile
leaders who need to do the work in a community - it's also the people who form that community who are share the responsibility for what happens. As Jews
around the world get ready to celebrate Rosh Shannah this month and
welcome in a new year, I've been reflecting on concepts and portrayals
of leadership I might be able to draw inspiration from within Jewish
tradition, to help guide me in my work.
With
this in mind, I'd like to explore two pieces of text from the book of Deuteronomy, which comes at the end of the Torah. The
first section is lines 12-14 of chapter 30, in which Gd makes it clear
that the commandments given to the Israelites are not impossible tasks,
nor are they dependent on direct contact with the divine. The text tells
us that:
To
me, the Torah is telling not only the generation of Moses, but all who
would come after, that we have been handed the things we need in order
to find our way in the world and to try to live a good and ethical life.
Gd seems to be saying, in effect, that Gd has given us the tools we
need - we don't need to look for a voice from heaven to guide us in each
tough situation we face in life. It's a statement of confidence.
Perhaps
this is partly what the great sage Hillel had in mind when told an
aspiring convert "do not do to others that which is hateful to you, the
rest is commentary, now go and learn." It's a
particularly democratic idea, because it also seems to tell us that we
don't necessarily always need to look to a separate class of people -
ancient priests or modern clergy- to interpret the wisdom of the
divine.
Later in Deuteronomy, when Moses knows
that he will not be allowed to enter the land of Israel, he follows Gds
example, bolstering the spirits of the Israelites who have come to see
him as their indispensable leader ( a few bumps along the way not
withstanding) and whom he must now spur on to continue the journey
without him.
To me, these are two brilliant
examples of a people being asked to stand up and take responsibility for
their conduct in the world, and for the future they must create
together. Recognizing that this change had the potential
frighten the Israelites, Moses not only assures the people that Gd will
still be with them once they enter the land, but recognizes Joshua as
his political heir.
Both Gd
and Moses know that things will not be easy for the Israelites in their
new home - they will find myriad threats rising up to face them - and so
the Torah closes with Moses blessing each of the tribes and recognizing
the inherent strengths that each possesses. In each case the "leader" is not really abandoning the people, but expressing confidence in the community.
This
mode of leadership is by no means easy - to be able to inspire
skeptical followers, to build trust and cohesion and then to have the
foresight and humility to take a big step back, is no mean feat. Nor is
it always easy to discern the positive attributes that each group may
bring to a particular situation. But it is a model which might be useful
in communities both large and small, in both public and private life,
and certainly one worth pondering as we head into the year 5775.
Copyright Daniel E. Levenson 2014.
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