Rabbi Michael Samuel

What we can we do to bring civility back to faith, and remove its thorn of toxicity? Decades ahead of his time, the Jewish philosopher Martin Buber argued that one of the great spiritual challenges of our time is the process of purging our faith of all imagery that portrays the Divine as either vindictive or abusive. In his short but insightful autobiographical book, Meetings, Buber describes a meeting he had with a very pious and learned observant Jew. They had a conversation about the biblical story of King Saul and the war of genocide waged against Israel’s ancient enemy, Amalek. After Saul captures King Agag of Amalek, Saul does not kill him. The prophet Samuel becomes enraged at Saul, who places the onus of the blame on the people rather than himself. Perhaps he cannot kill his enemies with such reckless abandon, but Samuel will not hear of it; he personally hacks Agag to death. Afterward Samuel tells Saul to abdicate the throne, but Saul refuses. Buber tells the man sitting opposite him, that as a child, he always found this story horrifying. Buber recounts:

I told him how already at that time it horrified me to read or to remember how the heathen king went to the prophet with the words on his lips, “Surely the bitterness of death is past,” and was hewn to pieces by him. I said to my partner: “I have never been able to believe that this is a message of God. I do not believe it.” With wrinkled forehead and contracted brows, the man sat opposite me and his glance flamed into my eyes. He remained silent, began to speak, and became silent again. “So?” he broke forth at last, “so? You do not believe it?” “No,” I answered, “I do not believe it.” “So? so?” he repeated almost threateningly. “You do not believe it?” And once again: “No.”

“What. What”—he thrust the words before him one after the other—“What do you believe then?” “I believe,” without reflecting, “that Samuel has misunderstood God.” And he, again slowly, but more softly than before: “So? You believe that?” and I: “Yes.” Then we were both silent. But now something happened the like of which I have rarely seen before or since in this my long life. The angry countenance opposite me became transformed as if a hand had passed over it soothing it. It lightened, cleared, was now turned toward me bright and clear. “Well,” said the man with a positively gentle tender clarity, “I think so too.” And again we became silent, for a good while.[1]

Buber in the end of this anecdote mentioned how people often confuse the words of God with the words of man. To speak of God as “abusive,” is to speak of a man‑made caricature of God. Buber was well aware of the power such imagery has over people in the formation of their own personal relationships.

As the 11^th century Jewish philosopher Judah HaLevi observed in his Kuzari, the God of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, is intimately concerned about the life of humankind.

When Moses first spoke to Pharaoh, he informed him: “The God of the Hebrews sent me unto you,” i.e., the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. For Abraham was well known to the nations, who also knew that the divine spirit was in contact with the patriarchs, cared for them, and performed miracles for them. Moses never said to Pharaoh, “The God of heaven and earth,” nor did he refer to God as, “Our Creator sent me to you . . .” By the same token, when God gave the Israelites the Decalogue, the words of the Divine oracles began with the words, “I am the God (whom you worship,) Who has taken you out of the land of Egypt . . . ” Note that God did not say, “I am the Creator of the world and your Creator. . . .” This is an appropriate answer to not only you, but also to the people Israel, who have long believed in such a faith based upon their self-authenticated personal experience. Moreover, this belief is something that has been confirmed through an uninterrupted tradition, which is no less significant . . .”

Many of the more theistic-minded Greek philosophers like Plato or Aristotle never had a personal name for the One God, whom they regarded as the Prime Mover of the cosmos. To the Greek imagination, it is inconceivable that God could have any interest in the affairs of mortals, much less have an ethical relationship with humankind.[1]

But for HaLevi, God is more than a Creator; He is also a Liberator who takes interest in the needs of all His Creation. Although Maimonides tried to merge Greek and Judaic thought together much like Philo of Alexandria attempted to do in the 1st century, even Maimonides discovered that such a new symbiosis had its challenges. To his credit, Maimonides’s critique of God‑talk reveals that the mystery of God’s reality transcends all analogies. Furthermore, Maimonides stresses that when we construct a theology about God, we must be careful not to take our metaphors and categories of faith too literally. Maimonides himself did acknowledge the importance of analogical language and its importance as a model for emulating God’s ethical conduct (Imitatio Dei). Contemplation of the Divine can only reveal to us God’s behavior (but not His essence) and relationship to the world. Contemplation alone, however, only produces a flawed understanding of God. To know God is to follow God’s moral ways (Exod. 33:13). Maimonides observes:

We are commanded to follow these intermediate paths—and they are the good and decent paths alluded to in the Torah: “And you shall walk in His ways” (Deut. 28:9): The Sages define this precept in the following manner: Just as He is called “Gracious,” so shall you be gracious. Just as He is “Merciful,” so shall you be merciful. Just as He is called “Holy,” so shall you be holy. In a similar manner, the prophets called God by other titles: “Slow to anger,” “Abundant in kindness,” “Righteous,” “Just,” “Perfect,” “Almighty,” etc. These metaphors serve to inform us that these are good and worthy paths. A person is obligated to accustom himself to these paths and emulate Him to the extent of his ability.[2] Read more…

Rather than focus on the explosive religious issues of the day, I thought I would write about the importance of providing pastoral care. Often times, we hear that providing such care is usually the “job” of the professional clergy. Nothing can be farther from the truth! Mirroring God’s love and compassion is a responsibility we all share. I personally know of a number of clergy and non-clergy who find this particular precept difficult because it often forces us to confront and face our own insecure sense of mortality. However, such a self-awareness is necessary if we are going to make our contribution toward bettering the world we live in. Like Abraham, we must learn to respond to the problem of human suffering with the word: hineni – Here I am. . . . How can I help? God calls upon us all to behave as shepherds toward one another.

According to rabbinic tradition, the entire book of Job is a parable about pastoral care. For many years, I have personally find this insight very illuminating—especially if we interpret the Jobian drama in light of the principles found in Psalm 23.

In terms of providing care that is pastoral, the story about Job’s suffering (or any human being), represents a spiritual challenge to the family, friends, and community. The Bible does not subscribe to a belief in fatalism. The existence of the poor and needy is a spiritual problem for any just community. The way we respond to suffering defines and reveals the depth of our own spirituality and faith. The imagery of Psalm 23 provides a spiritual way good people can respond to the problem of suffering in their communities. Here are several ways how the pastoral imagery of Psalm 23 might serve as a praxis for how helping caregivers can become shepherds to those who are experiencing loss and a sense of abandonment. In the Jobian story, the pastoral imagery of Psalm 23 was absent in the way Job’s caregivers related to him. Read more…

“Anti-Semitism is a horrible disease from which nobody is immune, and it has a kind of evil fascination that makes an enlightened person draw near the source of infection, supposedly in a scientific spirit, but really to sniff the vapors and dally with the possibility.”

Mary McCarthy quotes (American novelist and critic,1912-1989)

The world often reflects what we want to see. This is precisely the illusion that feeds anti-Semitism. Strange as it may sound, the same people who criticize someone because he is Jewish, more often than not ignore the good that many Jews do—because they are Jews! What is wrong with this picture?

Despite the thousands of stories and analysis lavished by editorials about the awful way Israel treats the poor Palestinians, one almost never reads stories about how Israel goes out of its way to provide electricity and other important human services to a people who have sworn to commit genocide against their benefactors. I doubt very seriously that the British would have acted so kindly toward the Germans in WWI or WWII.

Would one ever expect to find in the Palestinian territories a hospital that would treat Jewish or Israeli patients with as much care as they treat their own? The very question invites ridicule and scorn—if you happen to be a Palestinian living in Gaza or the West Bank. Yet, Hadassah Hospital of Jerusalem routinely provides care for the injured among the Palestinians, who curse the Jews even as they recover from their life-saving operations. Aside from promoting a religion extolling victimhood, what other kind of gifts have the Palestinians contributed toward the betterment of the world? Sad but true, if the Palestinian community would love life more than they love death, the Messiah would have been here a long time ago.

But why digress?

After Paul Newman died, throngs of people spoke about his greatness and generosity of spirit, but the pundits conveniently forgot to mention Paul Newman considered himself Jewish.

Then again, if you look at the Nobel Prize winners, you will discover an amazing array of Jews, whose brilliance made the world a better and healthier place for all humankind. Of course the media never bothers to mention the number of Jews who have won this prize; they would rather focus on the droll characters of our people. The list is impressive: Read more…

The ultra-Orthodox rabbis in Israel never cease to take the Jewish imagination to places where no rabbi has ever gone before. A case in point: One Israeli Haredi rabbi, Dovid Kornreich, thinks that homosexuals are better off dead than alive. In one of his popular blogs (his blogspot is called “A Voice from the Wilderness”), the rabbi offers a third possibility for Orthodox Jews who are struggling with their homosexuality—how about trying suicide?

To make his idea more appealing, Kornreich says that such behavior would be permitted provided that person commits suicide “al kiddush HaShem” as a means of sanctifying God’s Holy Name

Sounds pretty weird, no?

Well, the 18th century American philosopher Jonathan Edwards once wrote, “Even the Devil can cite Scripture for his purposes …” Actually, the Devil can even cite Talmud, Maimonides, and Jewish law as well!

Rabbi Kornreich doesn’t seem to realize the every human life is precious and of inestimable value. God created every person to be a unique expression that serves to glorify His Presence in the world. In Judaism, our Sages teach us that the true sanctification of God’s Name does not come with death, but with life. Suicide—even for religious purposes—only applies when the person is confronted by a disease or circumstance that threatens to debilitate the human spirit through a life of intense suffering.

In the case of Samson’s suicide (Judges 16: 30), Samson preferred to destroy himself in order to sanctify his God before the pagan Philistines. Given the choices Samson had, he did not wish to be tortured any further by the enemies of his people.

Thus, when King Saul saw the Philistines approach him, he asked his armor-bearer to kill him, so that he would not be tortured by the enemy in their pagan shrines. However, his armor-bearer refused. In the end, the narrator relates: “So he took his sword and fell on it” (1 Sam. 31:4).

According to the Talmud, After the time of the destruction of Jerusalem, the Roman soldiers gathered four hundred youths in Israel and sent to Rome on ships. The children realized that they would become victims of immorality and abuse at the hands of their Roman captors. They decided it would be better to take their own lives than be sexually degraded by their new masters. And so it was, they jumped into the sea and died (T.B. Gittin 53b). Read more…

Pope Benedict XVI visits Yad Vashem Memorial, Jerusalem

“I will give in my house and within my walls a memorial and a name … I will give them an everlasting name which shall not be cut off” (Is 56:5).

This passage from the Book of the prophet Isaiah furnishes the two simple words which solemnly express the profound significance of this revered place: yad – “memorial”; shem – “name”. I have come to stand in silence before this monument, erected to honor the memory of the millions of Jews killed in the horrific tragedy of the Shoah. They lost their lives, but they will never lose their names: these are indelibly etched in the hearts of their loved ones, their surviving fellow prisoners, and all those determined never to allow such an atrocity to disgrace mankind again. Most of all, their names are forever fixed in the memory of Almighty God.

Sacred Scripture teaches us the importance of names in conferring upon someone a unique mission or a special gift. God called Abram “Abraham” because he was to become the “father of many nations” (Gen 17:5). Jacob was called “Israel” because he had “contended with God and man and prevailed” (Gen 32:29). The names enshrined in this hallowed monument will forever hold a sacred place among the countless descendants of Abraham. Like his, their faith was tested. Like Jacob, they were immersed in the struggle to discern the designs of the Almighty. May the names of these victims never perish! May their suffering never be denied, belittled or forgotten! And may all people of goodwill remain vigilant in rooting out from the heart of man anything that could lead to tragedies such as this!

The Catholic Church, committed to the teachings of Jesus and intent on imitating his love for all people, feels deep compassion for the victims remembered here. Similarly, she draws close to all those who today are subjected to persecution on account of race, color, condition of life or religion – their sufferings are hers, and hers is their hope for justice. As Bishop of Rome and Successor of the Apostle Peter, I reaffirm – like my predecessors – that the Church is committed to praying and working tirelessly to ensure that hatred will never reign in the hearts of men again. The God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob is the God of peace (cf. Ps 85:9).

- Excerpts from Pope Benedict XVI’s remarks at Yad Vashem Memorial in Jerusalem (May 11, 2009)

One of the most interesting aspects of the Pope’s recent visit to Israel was the interfaith group that met with the Pope to discuss important issues and challenges that Jews, Christians and Muslims face as a faith community. Despite the good intentions of the forum’s organizers, the Pope’s desire to act as a facilitator for religious tolerance found some explosive road-blocks along the way, as they met at the holy site Norte Dame.