I’m half Brooklynite. My
mother was born and raised in Flatbush.
That’s the real Brooklyn.
Not Williamsburg, the Brooklyn of the Satmarer. Nor Crown Heights, the Brooklyn of the
Chabadniks. Nor Boro Park, the Brooklyn of
the misdnagdim. Nor Park Slope,
the Brooklyn of the Yuppies. I’m kidding
about all the above not being the real Brooklyn! Those neighbourhoods, and others, are part
and parcel of the incredible mosaic of cultures that is New York City’s most
populous borough. If Brooklyn were its
own city, it would have more than 2.6 million people.
Billy Joel famously
sang that he was in a New York state of mind.
Barbra Streisand made the most famous and soulful recording of the
song. But to New Yorkers in general, Brooklyn
represents a unique state of mind. It’s
more brash, rougher around the edges, more in-your-face than the vibe of the
city’s other boroughs. It’s really the
most ‘New Yawk-ish’ of New York’s five boroughs. And Brooklyn has its own unique dialect of
New York-ese. Hey, you! Yeah, you!
I’m talkin ta you! One time,
I made a joke about the different voices one can program into a satnav
unit. In America, the standard voice says,
“Missed turn; recalculating.” The
Australian version is more polite. It doesn’t
even point out that you erred; it just tells you: “Recalculating.” The Brooklyn version is far less polite. It tells you: “Hey, You! You missed yer turn! Go back!”
Okay, in actuality there would be at least three expletives in the
pronouncement…
Once, I told the
joke about the Brooklynese satnav to my mother.
She rubbed her chin and said:
“That doesn’t sound Brooklynese.
That sounds Eye-talian.” And
maybe she has something there. The
stereotypical soul of Brooklyn, the one we saw in Saturday Night Fever, is after
all heavily influenced by the profusion of working-class ethnic Italians in the
borough…
Probably no
pronouncement better illustrates the Brooklyn state of mind, and the
Brooklynese dialect, than the way a Brooklynite would tell someone to go
away. Hey! Yer outta heah!
Since I began trying to explain the
meanings in the Torah portions to my students and my communities, I have struggled
with how to explain the words Lech Lecha.
In the opening phrases of this week’s portion, we read: ויאמר יי אל אברם לך לך
מארצך וממולדתך ומבית אביך אל הארץ אשר אראך…Hashem said to Abram: lech lecha from your country, from the
land of your birth, from the house of your father, to the land I will show you. Lech Lecha is usually taken to mean
literally, “go for yourself.” In other
words, “go for your own benefit.”
But that, at least on the surface,
makes little sense. Abram’s calling was
not just for himself. It was much
bigger. Abram’s calling was for the
purpose of founding a people who would be privileged to serve G-d in the unique
role of a nation of priests, a light to the nations. They would ultimately be given the Torah as a
repository of wisdom for the benefit of all of humanity. So Abram’s need to roll on out of Haran
wasn’t only for himself…not by a longshot.
Translating lech lecha as “go for yourself, go for your own
benefit” just doesn’t seem to capture the enormity that was the purpose behind
Abram’s need to trek to the Land of Canaan.
It took me a long time to appreciate
the three things Abram must leave behind in order to fulfill his destiny: your country, the land of your birth, the
house of your father. Abram’s family
sojourned in Haran as refugees from their ancestral land – Ur of the
Chaldees. They were allowed to live there
at the sufferance of the local ruler, who saw Abram’s father Terah as benefiting
the city because of his wealth and business acumen. So at least on the surface, G-d’s instruction
to Abram to abandon his country, the land of his birth, and his father’s house
makes no sense. Only the third of the
three descriptions seems relevant.
But in reality, it’s all
relevant. All three descriptions.
We need to see Abram’s journey not
only as spatial, but as spiritual. From Ur
of the Chaldees, to Haran, to Egypt, the world of Abram’s birth was in the grip
of avodah zarah – of the worship and serving of pagan gods. Abram had to make a physical journey, away
from the relative comforts of his family and their wealth, in order to fulfil
his destiny. But more, he had to leave
behind a worldview that was preventing the world from breaking free of service
to the imaginary gods of cults requiring human sacrifice to assuage their
appetites for man’s subservience. The
physical journey – his separating himself from the comfort of the familiar –
was a necessary prerequisite if he was to achieve the spiritual journey.
So Abram had to see himself as
leaving, not only his father’s house, not only the city where his family had
been residing as outsiders. He had to
see himself as separating himself from an entire world.
Almost everybody whom Clara and I
encounter these days, has travelled a physical journey. As indeed, you who know us know that we have
as well. Here in Queensland, Australia,
most of the people whom we meet have come here from elsewhere. Either elsewhere in Australia or, more often,
another country and continent altogether.
Even if they were born in Australia, their parents likely came from elsewhere. We meet very few individuals with deep roots
here. Lest you think I’m making a
criticism of Australia, know that I mean this as a compliment. It is clear that Australia is a magnet for
those who are searching.
But there is a more important question
than why people migrate to Australia.
And that question is: do they
find what they’re looking for here? In
other words, does the physical journey necessarily lead to the realisation of
the spiritual quest?
For Abram, the physical journey to
Canaan was only the start of the realisation of his quest. But it was not the genesis of his sense of
being called to something different. If
you take the midrashic view seriously, Abram had deep reservations about the
social order into which he’d been born.
So the physical journey represented far more from its outset, than just
a quest for different horizons. It
represented the first steps towards realisation of his unique destiny. It was G-d’s call for Abram to begin the
journey, that set him on that path of realisation. But it was his conviction that there was
something better, the opened his heart to receive and heed G-d’s call.
For you hearing (or reading) this
who have voluntarily experienced displacement from the land of your birth, I
have a question. In coming here to
Australia – or wherever your journeys took you – did you find the peace of mind
that you sought? Having travelled far to
settle in an unfamiliar land, did you find what you were searching for? If not, then the journey is not over. Because at the end of the journey is the
satisfaction that comes from having arrived.
Abram knew this. Through his journey that starts with this
week’s Torah reading, we see him constantly growing in stature. We see him transition from Avram – exalted father
– to Avraham – father of many. We see
him move forward. We see him retreat and
regress. We see him as a general in a
war of rescue. We see him as a
philosopher, arguing with destiny. In
all his adventures and misadventures, we see him moving ever closer toward the
goals that his progeny will ultimately realise in his name. But he travels much of the road there
himself, clearly defining the path for those who will follow.
That Abram achieved greatness is
self-evident. He achieved greatness by
fulfilling his destiny, his calling. But
it all began with G-d’s voice telling him, Lech lecha. Had G-d been a Brooklynite, it would have
been more like, Yer outta heah! Perhaps
the idea of Hashem as a Brooklynite is not that outlandish. Many of us have known G-d to instruct us in
the most emphatic terms when necessary.
A polite lech lecha will send some of us packing. But some of us require a sharp yer outta
heah! But even the latter is easy to
ignore if we are too self-satisfied in our own particular exile. Shabbat shalom.
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