On Last Days and First Days

This past week, my wife and I — like so many (grateful) parents around the world — dropped our kids off for the first day of school. Yes, the summer was long, and it was even sweet at times, but for so many of us juggling the liminal days or weeks between camp and school, seeing our children off to an enriching day while returning to a quiet office felt like a remarkable luxury.

Much more poignantly, however, after the events of this past weekend – in which six hostages were murdered by Hamas – I can imagine that so many parents around the world lingered in their goodbye hugs just a little longer than usual.

For me, that meant a moment in which the parent-child roles were reversed. The goodbye hug that I intended as a comfort for my four-year-old daughter making her way into Pre-K for the first time ended with her looking up at me and asking, “Abba, are you okay?”

 “Of course!” I managed to say, through a gritted smile and choked-back tears. “Of course!”

But no, I’m not okay. I haven’t been in some time. The relentless vicissitudes of these past 11 months have meant that some days I can do a half-decent impression of an okay person, and other days I don’t even bother trying. As Jonathan Polin, the father of murdered hostage Hersh Goldberg-Polin z”l, shared at the Democratic National Convention just days before his son’s death: “There is a surplus of agony on all sides of the tragic conflict of the Middle East.” Indeed, that surplus has meant that so many of us with hearts open to all of those impacted have struggled to make sense of the events of this past year.

It is precisely in that yearning for sense-making, however, that a sinister form of danger lies in waiting. As the events of this past weekend came to light, so many of us immediately leapt to our corners of moral and tactical certitude (myself included). We consumed think-pieces that concluded (with no circumspection) that all of this could have been avoided, had this party or that party not sabotaged one of the close-but-no-cigar ceasefire deals of the past months. We drank in our podcasts that outlined the only viable path forward, painting apocalyptic pictures resulting from any alternate paths. And perhaps we retreated to the comfort of our peers and friends – the ones remaining after months of whittling away conflicting opinions, the ones always ready to serve us heaping spoonfuls of the ideological comfort foods we crave most in times like these.

Again, though, if you’re anything like me, the empty calories of each of those pursuits might have left you unfulfilled, and that’s precisely where Torah awaits us.

In this week’s parasha, Shoftim, the Torah sets before us a sort of proto-Constitution, one which outlines the responsibilities of the Israelites around courts, kings, witnesses, and war. One thread in particular — about ensuring that kings remain humble in spite of their overwhelming power – was precisely the wisdom I needed most.

After listing a number of requirements for the king, each of which ensures his humility in varying ways, the Torah instructs him as follows: “When he is seated on his royal throne, he shall have a copy of this Teaching written for him on a scroll” (Deuteronomy 17:18). 

Rashi, an 11th-century French rabbi and commentator, picks up on the strange Hebrew wording in the verse. When referring to the Teaching, the verse calls it “mishneh ha’torah,” usually translated as “Teaching,” but Rashi sees that “mishneh” can also mean “two.”: “[These are] two scrolls of the Law, one that is placed in his treasury, and the other [a small scroll] which he carries everywhere with him.” Why two Torah scrolls? Isn’t one enough, especially given that he was surrounded by wise counsel at all times – people who certainly knew Torah by heart and could quote chapter and verse on command? Two generations later, Rashi’s grandson Rashbam adds his own flourish. The purpose of the second scroll, he argues, is so that the king can “delve into the deeper meaning.” In other words, the second scroll is there to remind the king at all times that there is always more to the story than meets the eye, and to act accordingly (i.e., with humility) in all of his judgments.

Given that the Torah text continues (in v. 20), “Thus he will not act haughtily toward his fellows or deviate from the Torah to the right or to the left,” it seems that both Rashi and his grandson were right about this second scroll. But the story doesn’t end there. These verses are also the subject of an extensive Talmudic discussion, and it’s the three insights found there that gave me the greatest sense of hope in this challenging week.

In the Talmud tractate Sanhedrin, the rabbis wonder aloud why it was so important for the king to have not one, but two Torah scrolls. The first interpretation is about the Torah that lives only in his private treasury: even kings need a private place to find meaning. And if kings need such a place for themselves, how much more so do we also – in this moment – need a private place to grieve our own griefs, to cry our own tears, to process the unprocessable?

So much of our response to this war in all of its devastating and compounding tragedies has lived in the public square. The Torah reminds us that even the most powerful kings cry in private, and so might we.

The second insight comes from a play on that odd word Rashi translates as “second” (i.e. mishneh) scroll. This scroll, it is argued, “is written in a script that is apt to be changed (l’hishtannot)” (Talmud Sanhedrin 22a). Even the Torah, the one document that is supposed to be infallible and unchangeable, can change over time. So why can’t we?

Several months ago, in March, or April maybe, a Facebook friend of mine posted something along the lines of “It’s okay to change your mind. I’m here to listen.” What followed shocked me; people of all stripes and creeds poured out their hearts to her and to each other, sharing all of the ways that they were rethinking their previously-hard stances. From Gaza to abortion to critical race theory to Biden to Trump to guns to God-knows what else. And all they needed was a friend and an invitation: It’s okay to change your mind.

Finally, as the Talmudic discussion winds down, one last insight emerges, based on an interpretative comparison from the book of Daniel (5:8): “Then came in all the king’s wise men, but they could not read the writing, nor make known to the king the interpretation.” In other words, the text implies that this second Torah scroll that the king kept in his treasury was actually one that he couldn’t even comprehend.

What if – in addition to maintaining our desperate grip on the Torah of certainty – we also kept in our libraries a precious book filled with words that are completely incomprehensible to us, and we treat it with the same reverence that a king treats his treasury? I think of the tattered copy of Kahlil Gibran’s “The Prophet” that my father kept for decades, reading and re-reading it until it finally revealed itself to him over time. That same copy now sits on my shelf, even as so much inside that book remains a mystery to me.

As much as the king of our ancient ancestors may have felt compelled to deliver concrete decrees to his people, to guide them with a steady hand on the straight and narrow path of the Law, he was also required to consult a Torah that evaded his understanding, to hold dear the unknown possibilities within. Would that each of us might turn to the Torah of the Other, the Torah of the Unknown, even as we ever reach for the comforts of the Torah we know best.

While the drop-off experience for our two youngest daughters went smoothly on the first day, our oldest son had a much more complicated first day. He came home from his new Middle School thrilled to have met so many new classmates and excited to learn from a cadre of outstanding, committed, and passionate teachers. But when prompted to share a “thorn” after reflecting on so many “roses,” he opened up about a troubling moment.

One of his teachers, he shared, had put up (among many other posters in his classroom) a “Free Palestine” poster, and Micah was concerned that this poster meant that as a Jewish Israeli-American, he would not be welcomed in this classroom, let alone this school. His mind jumped to the many possible connotations of the phrase, ranging from a desire for a peaceful two-state co-existence to a “River to the sea” vision of Israel in ruin. When the teacher led them through an exercise in which they shared elements of their identity with one another, he decided not to share that he was Jewish. Horrified, I did my best to hide my dismay, although anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that my poker face leaves much to be desired.

We spoke at length that night about how Micah might choose to respond, and what kind of support he felt that he needed most from his parents. We outlined a number of potential paths forward, and we all agreed that we would sleep on it, not wanting to jump to any conclusions, and also not wanting to wear out our welcome in his new school.

A couple of days later, Micah walked home from the bus stop, and as soon as he had our attention he proudly shared that he had taken it upon himself to open up a conversation with his teacher. While my wife and I had been waffling about the most appropriate, respectful, and thoughtful way to proceed, Micah had come up with his own game plan: he would set aside all of the assumptions that he held on that first day of school, and ask his teacher a simple question: “What does that poster mean to you?”

To the teacher’s credit, he immediately understood the difference between intent (i.e. showing support for Palestinians) and impact (i.e. a Jewish kid in class feeling isolated and unsafe), and took full ownership over the impact.

But what followed was a heart-opening dialogue in which our 12-year-old son and his 20-something-year-old teacher shared stories about the people they loved who were in harm’s way. The teacher has many family members in Gaza, and half of Micah’s family is in Israel. They talked about the shared values that matter most to them both: human dignity, peace, and understanding. And by the end of their conversation, they both found something surprising: they shared many of the same hopes and dreams for the region, built on many of the same values. And, notably, they have suffered so many of the same heartaches over these past 11 months. 

Without abandoning the Torah they each knew best, they read from one another’s Torah of the Unknown, with enough earnest curiosity that both Torah scrolls were transformed.

Our section of Deuteronomy, which sets up so many guideposts for the king, seems solely focused on one outcome: that the kingdom might endure. The text is written from a knowing place; kings are human, kingdoms rise and fall. They are both vulnerable to the elements that so often wear down even the sturdiest of nations: war, avarice, and the as-yet-undefeated Father Time. The result of keeping and reading from these Torah scrolls is that, according to the most common translation, “he and his descendants may reign long in the midst of Israel” (Deuteronomy 17:20). 

The Hebrew, however, points to something almost supernatural. The outcome is, in Hebrew, “l’ma’an ya’arich yamim” – literally, that he will “lengthen his days.” By keeping faith with both Torahs — the private and the public one, the constant and the ever-changing one, the Known Torah and the Torah of the Other – it’s as if he will learn to stop time. To live with more hours in his day, more fullness in his life.

As we each move through these days of firsts and lasts, of grief and grievance, may we learn to consult both Torah scrolls — each in their time. And may those scrolls come to guide us to lengthened days in which our sorrows give way to joy.