Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel

Picture: Rabbi  Yona Metzger

A question came up recently in my congregation regarding the use of music at a Jewish funeral. The Reform Movement has long permitted the use of music at a Jewish funeral—provided the music does not derive from the Christian liturgy, e.g., Amazing Grace. Most Conservative and all Orthodox synagogues frown upon the use of music at a funeral because they feel it distracts the mourners from mourning. R. Isaac Klein’s book on A Guide to Jewish Practices, says nothing about it, one way or other. However, an argument ex silencio suggests that Rabbi Klein frowned upon this particular practice.

The question is not by any means a new Halachic issue.

About a year ago the Israeli Knesset member Rabbi Hanan Porat died; he was one of the founding members of the Gush Emunim, a religious Zionist organization that is very visible in settling the West Bank. At the rabbi’s funeral, his children sang and played some songs with a guitar that upset Rabbi Yona Metzger, the Chief Rabbi of Israel.  Rabbi Metzger made his opinion known, and is quoted as saying:

• Rabbi Shlomo Amar and I stared at each other and neither one of us knew what was going on –a band, guitars, children singing … One might think that the people came to attend a wedding! But this was a funeral! I have never heard of this kind of ‘mourning’ before–not in Israel, not in Europe, and I am sure not in Yemen. We have never heard of and never saw such a thing like this.[1]

Actually, I applaud the family’s innovative spirit—and I am sure the spirit of their father did not mind either.

The tradition of music in funerals is well attested in biblical, post-biblical texts, Mishnahic and medieval sources.

In biblical sources, the Hebrew term qînâ (qînôt), is an oral poetic music used for times of national calamity and mourning. The best known example of this kind of singing can be seen in the acrostic style of writing found in Lamentations. Indeed, one of the more extraordinary images of God in the Bible is that of a musician and composer. The prophet Jeremiah depicts God as mourning for Moab, “Hence the wail of flutes for Moab is in my heart; for the men of Kir-heres the wail of flutes is in my heart: the wealth they acquired has perished” (Jer. 48:36 NAB).

In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus arrives at the ruler’s home and saw the flute players and a crowd making a tumult, he said, “Depart; for the girl is not dead but sleeping ” (Mt 9:23, 24; Mk 5:38, 39). The NT passage suggests that the flute players went to work immediately at the time of death, as well as the time leading to the internment.

Josephus writes that when the news reached Jerusalem of the fall of Jotapata to the Roman armies in 67 C.E., “Most people engaged flute-players to lead their lamentations.” This style of mourning was common throughout the ancient world; Greece, Rome, Phoenicia, Assyria all utilized the flute in times of loss. Roman funeral processions were especially known for being very noisy. Musicians used to lead the way blowing their trumpets, horns and flutes announcing the presence of the corpse.[2]

The wailing of the flute players, the cries of the mourners, the sound of torn garments, was unmistakably common in the cities of ancient Israel. Note that the Jewish mourners had no afterthoughts whether they were emulating the pagan gentiles or not.

In the Mishnah, we also find: רַבִּי יְהוּדָה אוֹמֵר, אֲפִלּוּ עָנִי שֶׁבְּיִשְׂרָאֵל, לֹא יִפְחוֹת מִשְּׁנֵי חֲלִילִים וּמְקוֹנֶנֶת R. Judah says, “Even the poorest man in Israel should not hire fewer than two flutes and one professional wailing woman [for a funeral]” (Ketubbot 4:4). Other Mishnaic sources speak about the use of pipes or flutes as a normal part of the Jewish funerals.[3] The rabbis lifted their prohibitions against women’s voices being heard in public were relaxed for funerary rituals.[4]

Maimonides similarly ruled  almost 1200 years later,”  When a man’s wife dies, he is obligated to bury her and to have eulogies and lamentations performed as is the local custom. Even a poor Jewish man should provide at least two flutes and one woman to lament.“[5]

Why is the music of the flute so special? Maimonides explains that the plaintive melody moves a person to tears at a funeral.[6] The Halachic Codes all acknowledge this custom.[7]

One 14^th century classical work on mourning, Kol Bo al Hilchot Aveilut  admits that during the Talmudic period music was part of the funeral, but rejects its reintroduction because it would be as a result of non-Jewish influence—undoubtedly referring to the Christians, who used music in their mourning rites. Some Halachic authorities had no problem with music being played at a funeral–so long as the musicians happened to be Jewish. It is interesting to note that this custom continued in Egypt during the early 19th century.

A very dear friend of the TBS synagogue died this past week. His name was Kurt Sax, and this Viennese Jew loved the Spanish guitar. In honor of his memory, two of his good friends played a couple selections  that Kurt really loved.  I can personally attest that the music was very  meaningful and moving for the family and their friends.

Was it traditional?

Maybe not by Rabbi Yona Metzger’s standards.

However, I will say Rabbi Metzger is right on one point. If a rabbi chooses to pursue such a path, it is important that he remind the people not to applaud, after all–it is a funeral and not a concert.

However, history has allowed this type of musical innovation. I think Jewish law and tradition needs to be less austere and  become innovative, as it once was before.  If Judaism is to be healthy, we must find a way to make our faith more appealing and less hung up on the external forms of Jewish piety.

In other words, it’s time to allow music to liberate the heart that inspires and experiences prayer—in good times and in bad times. Continue Reading

The Chinese say, “The journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step.” Tonight we begin our spiritual journey with a celebration of Yom Kippur—a holiday that is wholly devoted to the cultivation of forgiveness and spiritual renewal—both as individuals and as a community.

“I have forgiven you as you have spoken” Fewer subjects personally challenge our moral sensibilities like forgiveness—both as individuals and as a society.

As we commemorate the 10^th anniversary of 9/11, it is important for us to revisit some of the important questions about the nature and dynamics of forgiveness.

But what are the limitations of forgiveness? What are its possibilities? Should a person forgive unconditionally? Should the terrorists be forgiven for their crime of murder? In Jewish tradition, it is often customary to broach an important topic with a story. Afterwards we shall examine the important implications of the story to our original questions.

You are a Jewish prisoner in a Nazi concentration camp. You are sent to work in a hospital. A nurse brings you to a German soldier named Karl, who is mortally wounded. The dying soldier confesses that he has committed terrible atrocities against your people and asks you to forgive him. What would you do?

Actually, this was the question faced by renowned Nazi hunter Simon Wiesenthal and is the focus of his autobiographical novel, The Sunflower. Wiesenthal took the soldier’s hand listened to his story.

The patient recounted a horrible act in which he had participated. All of the Jews, mothers with infants and children, young and old, were rounded up and crowded into a large yellow house. The commanding officer ordered the house to be set afire.

When the Jews started running from the burning building and jumping out windows, the commander ordered the troops to fire. After telling the story, the patient asked Wiesenthal if he would forgive him for his role in the massacre.

Ultimately, young Wiesenthal walks away in silence. He can’t forgive the man. But his own soul is scorched with the agony of his decision to walk away.  Liberated from the camps, Wiesenthal seeks out the dead soldier’s mother to ease his mind. He finds a broken woman, left with nothing but the good memory of her son.

Wiesenthal decided not to tell her of her son’s confessed atrocities, his silence brings him peace of mind. He couldn’t forgive the soldier for the murder of others; he can spare an old woman suffering.

WHO HAS THE RIGHT TO FORGIVE?

Wiesenthal later wrote, “Forgetting is something that time alone takes care of, but forgiveness is a choice, and only the person who suffers is qualified to forgive”  As the years went by, his conscience still haunted him: Did I do the right thing in refusing to forgive the SS soldier? What do you think? Are there some crimes that simply cannot be forgiven?

When Wiesenthal first printed his book, there was a remarkable range of responses. Most Jewish respondents felt that Wiesenthal was right in not forgiving the dying Nazi. How could a mass-murderer be forgiven?

DID KARL FINALLY REPENT?

Did Karl truly repent? Possibly. However, in Karl’s case, we cannot confuse the beginning of a journey with its ending. Only God knows, but it is possible that he took a significant meaningful first step toward some form of redemption . . .  The rest of his journey can only continue in the World of Eternity. Therefore, it seems only apropos for the souls of the victims to deal with the souls of their perpetrators on their own terms.  But regardless how one views the story, this much is known: Could either young Simon or Karl have ever imagined that their mysterious encounter would challenge the moral sensibilities of countless millions of people across time? I believe there is a profound spiritual significance that is behind this synchronicity–one which ought to give our souls a pause to reflect upon . . .

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN JUDAISM AND CHRISTIANITY

Wiesenthal’s book highlighted for me one of the most important distinctions between Judaism and most but not all forms of traditional Christianity.[1] Many Christian thinkers and theologians argued the opposite. Forgiveness should and ought to be unconditional. Just as God is gracious in forgiving sinners, so must we be as well.  Not long after 9/11, Pope John Paul II expressed the following prayer:  “We pray for the victims today, may they rest in peace, and may God show mercy and forgiveness for the authors of this horrible terror attack . . .”

This position is not altogether new. Shortly after Timothy McVeigh was found guilty of murdering 168 people in the Oklahoma City bombing, a minister invited Americans to forgive him In a second case, Michael Carneil, a freshman at Heath High School in West Paducah, Kentucky, gunned down three students attending a prayer group on campus. A few days later the students erected a banner saying, “We forgive you, Michael.”

A personal note: Within a day of the 9/11 attack, I will never forget the words of the local Presbyterian minister who said, “We should understand and forgive the terrorists for bombing the World Trade Center which left over 3000 dead, since they were only reacting to our foreign policies . . .” Some local ministers said, “We need to love the bombers in the spirit of compassion and forgiveness . . .”  There seemed to also be a consensus of religious leaders across the world see who felt that we must solve the problem of evil by listening, offering compassion and bestowing forgiveness. As one might have expected, they were more concerned about the terrorists than they were about their innocent victims.

IMAGINING MAIMONIDES’ RESPONSE TO 9/11

Maimonides in his Laws of Repentance writes that repentance requires five elements: recognition of one’s sins as sins (hakarát ha‑chét’), remorse (charatá), desisting from sin (azivát ha‑chét’), restitution where possible (peira’ón), confession (vidúi) and–only then–forgiveness (michila).

From Maimonides’ criteria, we can deduce several important points: Forgiveness can only be given by the victims; those clamoring for forgiveness were not the ones who were wronged—it is the victims of these terrorist attacks who were wronged. Therefore, it is totally inappropriate for anyone to offer forgiveness on behalf of someone else. Fortunately, not all Christians believe like the Pope, the Protestants and countless New Age cults. Some of the scholars and theologians I will briefly mention offer a very Judaic understanding of forgiveness and even may serve to amplify our understanding of Maimonides’ Laws of Repentance.

One of the great Lutheran heroes of WWII was the German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer (1906-1945); he will always be best remembered for participating in a plot to assassinate Hitler; in the end, he was hung by the Nazis. Aside from being a great symbol of conscience, he went against the classical Christian understanding of forgiveness and warned all Christians about the dangers of “cheap forgiveness” because it enables evil. Had Bonhoeffer lived to see 9/11, he would have condemned the desire to forgive Al Qaeda terrorists as misguided and morally outrageous.

Bonhoeffer is not the only one thinker to challenge the morally vacuous theology of carte blanche forgiveness.  One contemporary Korean Christian theologian, Andrew Park, develops a similar approach. He argues that every broken or shattered relationship requires that the offender heal the shame of the victim; this applies no less if the person is a victim of emotional abuse, sexual victimization, violence, or any number of other ways.

Park argues convincingly that forgiveness is a two-step process; whenever you harm someone in word or deed, you are unleashing anguish and misery to that person, resulting in a scarring of the soul. The offender cannot find healing in his own soul until he takes the necessary steps to heal his victims. Both the Catholic and Protestant Church have done a serious injustice by ignoring the victims, putting the onus on them to find their own way to wholeness and inner peace.

Thus, the person who was once a drug pusher who now commits his life to keeping young kids off the streets, or the father who had in the past neglected his children, now becomes a model father who is truly involved in their lives, or the spouse who cheats, who later becomes an ideal mate and life-partner—all these examples personify the concept of han. Or as the Talmud would say, Yom Kippur has the power to transform sins into good deeds—provided someone truly repents.

I believe that Park’s observation fits perfectly with the Maimonidean paradigm that we have mentioned.

The process of addressing the victim’s pain is what Korean society refers to as han; han is the relational consequence of sin—and shame of their victims. To reconcile yourself with God and with other humans, you must take the steps to heal the pain you have caused.

The bottom line is simple: The evil we see in the world is a sad reflection of the apathy and tolerance we have for evil. Religious leaders have to stop making excuses for the diabolical exploitation of religion. For the most part, Muslim leaders especially, have done a terribly poor job speaking out against the hijacking of their faith; we have a duty to hold their leaders accountable and insist that they take a more active role in condemning the jihadistic theology that inspires young people to commit such acts of violence in the world. Yes, there are some outspoken Muslim leaders who share this sentiment, but they pale when compared to the lunatics that speak in the name of  the Islamic  faith. The media can play an important role in assisting these men find a broader audience, but the media seems to be only interested in only maintaining the status quo. Continue Reading

The subject of demonology has fascinated me ever since I first began reading scary stories as a child. In our culture today, the belief in demonic spirits continues to play a role in literature, movies, and religion. The recent stories about Rabbi Batzri and his exorcisms show that in Haredi and Hassidic communities, the belief in demonic possession is still very much alive and well–irregardless whether such malevolent entities exist or not.

In the world of the psyche, the imagination runs amok in our unconscious and conscious minds. Our dreams bear witness to this mysterious reality where the line between the real and the unreal seem to conflate. The Talmud actually has a pretty sophisticated treatment of demons. In one of the more remarkable passages of the Talmud, we find:

Abba Benjamin says, If the eye had the power to see them, no creature could endure the Mazikin [the "damagers"]

Abaye says: They are more numerous than we are and they surround us like the ridge round a field.

R. Huna says: Every one among us has a thousand on his left and ten thousand on his right (Psalm 91:7).

Raba says: The crushing in the Kallah lectures comes from them.  Fatigue in the knees comes from them. The wearing out of the clothes of the scholars is due to their rubbing against them. The bruising of the feet comes from them. If one wants to discover them,  let him take sifted ashes and sprinkle around his bed, and in the morning he will see something like the footprints of a rooster. If one wishes to see them, let him take the placenta of a black she-cat that is the offspring of a black she-cat that is the first-born of a first-born, let him roast it the placenta in fire and grind it to powder, and then let him put some into his eye, and he will see them. Let him also pour it into an iron tube and seal it with an iron signet that they the demons should not steal it from him. Let him also close his mouth, lest he come to harm.

R. Bibi b. Abaye did so,  saw them and came to harm. The scholars, however, prayed for him and he recovered.[1]

Most of you reading this probably think some of the rabbis may have been taking hallucinatory drugs. This is one interpretation we cannot rule out. As we suggested above, the rabbis might have been describing frightening dreams or nightmares they experienced. We do not really know the original context that fueled these interesting discussions. In the spirit of open-minded discussion, it pays not to rush and invalidate points of view that we make find disagreeable.  Continue Reading