Love. Can you feel it? I mean, can you feeeeel the looooove?
Why am I saying the
word ‘love’ in a mocking way? Well,
because I can. And because it is
a problematic word. Why
problematic? Because it carries so many possible
meanings. When we utter the word ‘love’
we mean it to convey one of those meanings. But we can never be sure that the
one hearing the word attaches the same meaning to it in that instance.
So then, what is
love?
In the past I’ve
used a cute song ‘As the Years Go By’ as an illustration for this dilemma. The song was written and released by a
Canadian band called ‘Mashmakhan.’ It was an almost accidental addition to
their first, eponymous album. The name
of the band alludes to a variety of hashish.
And that should tell you why memory of this band and its work has
largely gone, pun intended, up in smoke.
But the song was memorable because its lyrics rang so true:
(first verse) A
child asks his mother, ‘Do you love me?
And it really
means, ‘Will you protect me?’
His mother
answers him, ‘I love you.’
But it really
means, ‘You’ve been a good boy.’
(second verse) At
seventeen a girl asks, ‘Do you love me?’
But it really
means, ‘Will you respect me?’
The teenaged
boy answers, ‘I love you.’
But it really
means, ‘Can I make love to you?’
(third verse) At
sixty-five his wife asks, ‘Do you love me?’
But it means,
‘I’d like to hear it again.’
Her husband
answers her, “I love you.’
But it really
means ‘I’ll love you to the end.’
(final verse) Now
you’re asking me if I love you.
But it really
means, will I marry you?
And I answer,
‘Yes, I love you.’
And it really
means that I’ll be true to you.’
(chorus) And as
the years go by/True love will never die.
It’s a
wonderful example of why I, as one who is generally sceptical about the value
of pop culture, am nonetheless open to occasionally finding gems of profound
truth in its messages. This song
purports to answer the question: what
is love. And the song’s answer
is: it depends.
It would seem
that, in English, the word ‘love’ carries so many possible connotations that its
meaning depends entirely on the cotnext. So too for Hebrew. Some of you know that the Hebrew word for
‘love’ is ‘Ahava.’ One word only. For ‘love of God.’ For ‘love of one’s fellow Jew.’ For ‘love of the non-Jew.’ So it’s the same situation: the word not carrying an exact meaning which
must be drawn from the context. What
is love? It depends.
Or does
it? Maybe at any given time the exact sentiment
of the speaker can be different. But perhaps,
in the end, love is love. Think
about it.
Today is
Valentine’s Day. Our Israeli cousins
call it, Yom Ha’ahava – ‘the day of love.’ Now obviously, the sentiment alluded to by
the theme of the day is romantic love.
The love that makes your little heart go pitter patter, pitter patter,
boom! Right? Emotional love. But is that really something unique
and special? Or, is love really just love. And the emotions that we attach to
the concept of love something separate and situational?
That’s my thesis. What I’m trying to say to you tonight in my
convoluted, rabbinic way, is that ‘love,’ itself, has nothing to do with
emotions. It is a rational
impulse. We make a decision to
love. Or not to love. And having made that decision, we decide what
to do about it. That is
where the emotional content comes in.
That is where our impetus to act on that love may vary. What is Love? Love is love. But what it leads us to do, is
situational. And what we do do,
is driven by our emotions. Sometimes,
unfortunately so.
Love is
love. I love my wife, Clara. Out of the love I decided to have with
my wife, I committed to spend my life with her.
To raise children with her. To
care for one another until my dying day…or hers.
I love my
children. My love for them is also, in
effect, a decision. After all, Clara and
I decided to make our children. But
even if the children had been ‘unplanned,’ we still decided to commit
the act that, in the end, resulted in their coming to the world. So out of the love that I decided to
confer upon my children, comes a commitment.
But a different one. A commitment
to protect and nurture and teach them and ultimately, inspire them to become
good people and productive citizens.
I also love you,
the members of my congregation. That
love does not lead to the same commitment I have made to Clara, nor that I have
made to my children. My love for you is
the basis of a different commitment. The
commitment to lead and teach. And
interpret the Jewish wisdom of the ages.
And hopefully, to inspire you to lead better lives. A different sort of commitment. But the same love. What is love? Love is love.
I’m speaking in
First Person, because obviously I can only speak for myself…and not for anybody
else in this room. But you might ask
yourselves: whom do you
love? And what sort of commitment, and
treatment, should result from that love?
Think about it. Do you love one
another? I mean, the other human beings
in this very room. The other members of
this congregation, as well as our guests.
Do you love them? You should. Guess what:
you’re commanded to do so, in the Torah.
Va-ahav-ta
la-re-acha kemocha. You shall love your (fellow Jew) as yourself. (Levicitus 19:18) Ke-ezrach mikem yih-yeh lachem hager hagar
itchem, ve-ahav-ta lo kamocha. The (non-Jew)
who lives among you shall be as one of you, and you shall love him as yourself.
(Leviticus 19:34) If we’re to be
obedient to this call, what sort of commitment to one another, does it call
for? Close your eyes, and try to
visualise the sort of treatment that would follow. What it would look like. If you have decided to love one
another, then what should that translate to, in terms of the way that
you treat one another? Ask
yourselves: does the commitment, the way
that you treat one another, even resemble the picture you see when you
try to visualise it?
Think about it
in terms of how we treat one another tonight.
How we invite, or fail to invite, someone who is alone tonight to sit
with us at dinner after the service. I’m
going to be upfront with you. The last
time we had an Oneg Shabbat, some of you rushed into the Jacobs Hall and
immediately tilted groups of seats to save them for the members of your own
party. Now I get this practice. You want to sit with your family or friends. But think about it: does this help the person who happens to have
come alone tonight, or with one other person, feel welcome? Ask yourselves. And if you decide that it does not? Well then, maybe saving seats is not the way
to act at a communal Oneg Shabbat.
Maybe the way to act, is to look for someone whom you know is
alone or not with a group…and invite them to sit with you.
This is just
one example, but it struck me at the time as, perhaps, not being compatible
with the notion that we are a warm, welcoming, and yes, loving congregation. What do you think? If we see ourselves as a loving group, if we
think that we love one another or at least like to think so, then what
sort of behaviour vis-à-vis one another should that translate into. When we gather for Oneg Shabbat. And at other times. All other times.
So love is a
rational choice, and depending on the relationship, that choice should lead to
a certain mindset and a certain set of behaviours towards the one who is the object
of that love. Behaviours that,
themselves, aught to be rational decisions. But many of us cannot break from the notion
that love is an emotion. And because we
internalise it that way, our love – the way we treat one another – is hostage
to the way we may feel about the other at any given time. And that, my friends, is what results in
sometimes un-loving behaviour towards one another. Whether that other is our spouse. Or our child.
Or our neighbour in the contemporary sense, meaning the one who lives in
close proximity to us. Or our neighbour
in the Biblical sense, meaning our fellow Jew.
Meaning a fellow member of Temple Shalom.
It’s
Valentine’s Day. Yom Ha-ahava. The ‘day of love.’ We are conditioned to use this as an occasion
to express our love towards one particular person, the person with whom we’re
in a unique relationship. But since love
is love, after all…let’s use it as an occasion to take stock of all those we
hold that we love. And take stock of the
way we express our love for them. And if
we’re honest, we’ll realise we fall short in at least some of those
relationships. Each one of us. Because we’re all, after all, human.
But the good
news is that tomorrow is a new day. And
each tomorrow gives us an opportunity to work on the way that we treat one
another. And decide to make it
better. And then, make it better. Love is love. And let us act towards one another, in love. Shabbat shalom.
No comments:
Post a Comment