9/11/01 – 9/11/11
11 Elul 5771 / 10 September 2011
Rabbi Daniel Cotzin Burg
When Colum McCann wrote his incredible bookLet the Great World Spin, he did so with his father-in-law’s shoes sitting in a box nearby. The shoes, covered with dust from the World Trade Center, accompanied the man as he hastily made his way down from the fifty-ninth floor of the north tower. The book is McCann’s stirring fictionalized account of Manhattan in 1974, on the day when Philippe Petit walked a tightrope wire between the newly-built towers. In the novel’s afterword, the author writes: "One thing that has always struck me is how tenderly my father-in-law thinks of the young firefighters who were climbing the stairs of the towers while he was given the chance to come down."
This weekend we mark the ten year anniversary of the September 11th attacks, the hijacking of four airplanes, the destruction of buildings in New York and Washington, the senseless killing of nearly 3,000 people. This weekend, we remember those who lost their lives and those who risked themselves to save others. This issue of senseless loss is hinted at in the parasha we just read. Ki Teitze contains a curious law calledshiluah hakan. The mitzvah enjoins us to shoo a mother bird away before taking her young from the nest (Deu. 22:6). The Talmud (Kiddushin39b) tells the related story of a boy whose father instructs him to climb a ladder and retrieve some eggs. The boy obeys but, in the process of doing so, falls to his death. The text presents a great theological conundrum since the Torah’s stated reward, both for honoring one’s parent and for themitzvahofshiluah hakan, is "long life." In fact, the Talmud’s account spurred yet another wonderful novel,As a Driven Leaf, in which Milton Steinberg explores the life of a certain heretic, Rabbi Elisha ben Abuyah who, in witnessing this tragedy, proclaims in his moment of apostasy,leit din v’ leit dayan, "There is no justice and there is no judge!"
How, then, do we make sense of the tragic events of 9.11? What do we do with the images of those young firefighters climbing upward like the little boy to fulfill, in their case, the greatmitzvahof saving lives only to be cast downward into the flames? What are we to make of the dust from Ground Zero? The dust of buildings obliterated and lives ripped from the world? The intermingling of human remains and carcinogenic poison? How do we not despair, as Elisha did, questioning the very existence of a God who would allow such injustice, such cruelty to occur?
Perhaps the story of the little boy and the ladder is not really about the existence of God at all, not as much about ontological truths as it is about deontological ones. David Hartman puts it this way: "…as a metaphysical explanation of God’s actions in the world, this Talmudic text makes little sense. For if God is benevolent, if He could split the sea, rescue an enslaved people, and bring manna to the hungry community in the desert, why would He not protect a child from a rickety ladder" (A Living Covenant)? Prof. Hartman goes on to suggest that this text is really about the lack of coherence between the "world of mitzvah and the world of everyday life." Is our theology so simplistic, he challenges us, as to imply that the sacrosanctity of human life is dependent on our proper handling of eggs? Ask yourself, what do you believe?
So if mitzvah, if the law is insufficient here, perhaps we can look elsewhere in Torah, beyond the legal particulars of this week’s parasha to the narrative of Genesis. When Abraham challenges God about the fate of Sodom and Gemorrah, he focuses not on the destruction of property, but on the loss of innocent human life. He cries out to God: "HaShofet kol ha’aretz lo ya’aseh mishpat?! Shall not the Judge of all the earth deal justly?"(Gen. 18:25), a question any one of us has probably asked a thousand times. But, then Abraham also admits, "anochi afar v’eifer, I am but dust and ashes" (v. 27). This second line is often interpreted in terms of humility – real or false. Abraham is simply applying a lawyerly device to receive a favorable verdict – Who am I to even approach the Master of the Universe with such a request!? But what if this is not the whole story? Consider the possibility that Abraham is also realizing something here. What if he’s saying, "I remember how You created us in the first place; that we are dust, animated with Your breath! We carry a spark of You within and, therefore, must act in a Godly way. One day our bodies will return to the earth, to the dust of our origin, but while here, we – inspired by You – must strive for a world of justice."
We are faced with the hard truth: that justice if it is to be done must be done, perhaps in God’s name but by human hands. Which also means that when terrible crimes are committed they are perpetrated by human beings, those who have the capacity to do right.
There’s a story told of Reb Yisrael who loved to study Torah but earned his livelihood as a sandal-maker. One day, a crass and disgruntled customer challenge Reb Yisrael: "Tell me the nature of heaven and hell," he taunted. "If you’re so learned you must know something about them!"Reb Yisrael mustered scorn that did not come easily to him and responded forcefully: "Get out, take your business elsewhere! I’ve no time to waste with you and your condescending questions!" The customer became apoplectic, flew into a rage, grabbed a sharp implement and cried out that he could kill him for his words.
"Ah," said Reb Yisrael, "that is hell."
The customer was disarmed. He immediately realized what he had done. After a few moments, he calmed down and gently replaced the tool. "Thank you for teaching me."
"And that," said Reb Yisrael, "that is heaven."
There is a heavenly voice and it did not stop addressing us at Sinai. Our own Dr. Kaplan once described God’s presence as a broadcast to which we must attune ourselves, and that is exactly right. God is no puppeteer. Can you imagine a loving God who would cause hurricanes or the loss of innocent life? Care must be taken when climbing a ladder, but still inexplicable tragedies do occur. 9.11, though, reminds us of a different truth: that much of the evil in this world is of human, not natural, origin, that we live in a world where blameless heroes reach out to innocent victims – and fall short, not because of their shortcomings but because sometimes bad people do unforgivable things.
The question is not really how or why does God allow this? The most salient question is why does God matter at all? Not, as Elisha, or Nietzsche after him, surmised that without justice there must be no God, but how can God matter in a world such as ours? What is God’s purpose to the human race? It is these: the anthropological, the sociological questions that keep me up at night. But for an answer to these questions, we have to look even earlier in our Torah’s narrative, beyond man’s creation to the creation of the universe itself. "V’ha’aretz haytah tohu vavohu, The earth was unformed and void, with darkness over the surface of the deep and a wind from God sweeping over the water" (Gen. 1:2). The Torah’s first theological statement is quite simple really: God orders the chaos. God is the presence, the force which we can tap, emulate, draw from not only to find comfort in loss but to forge a way forward. God is the good we know should have been done.
"And God said: ‘Let there be light.’" This is the light that God brings to the world. But, as we know, for light to matter it must be somehow perceived. God didn’t run down the stairs or up the stairs. God certainly didn’t make people fly airplanes into buildings. That was the absence of God, hillul HaShem, the profaning of God’s name. God is the bravery of the first responders. God is the determination of those who found Bin Laden. And God is the heartbreak of a nation whose sense of innocence and safety was ripped from us one beautiful and terrible Tuesday morning ten years ago. Rabbi Harold Kushner in addressing the great question of theodicy explains that God suffers with us. And I think this is true: God can be a source of comfort after the storm, because God is not the storm. As Elijah discovered, God is not in the wind or earthquakes or fire … but in the "still small voice" (I Kings 19:12), perhaps one that whispers: "we know better."
Hevre, anniversaries are a time to check-in. For a loving couple to ask, "Are we still, after all these years, greater than the sum of our parts? How are our lives and the world better because the two of us are in it together?" Yahrzeits are a day on which a son or daughter, for example, should ask, "How does the memory of my mother or father continue to influence my life for the good?" The victims of 9.11 have returned to dust, but Abraham’s words live on in their memory. Yes, we are dust and ashes but not "just." We are also infused with a spark of holiness, a taste of heaven. McCann’s wonderful book captures a moment in time when the twin towers were new and an act of daring (and stupidity) captivated a city. But there is some of the tightrope walker in all of us, isn’t there? We are all trying to balance, suspended in a world into which chaos and darkness creep in at the corners. Rebbe Nachman of Breslov put it this way: "Kol haOlam kulo, gesher tzar me’od…. All the word is a very narrow bridge. V’haikar lo lefached klal, the most important thing is not to be afraid." Put differently, we might say that the existential loneliness we may feel when faced with acts of terror is surely no excuse to abrogate our responsibilities. The Ribbono Shel Olam placed us on this planet to continue the creative process. The Psalmist declares (Ps. 115): "The heavens belong to God, but the earth was entrusted to humanity." It is up to us. The perpetrators of this crime may have blood on their hands, but we – all of us – have divine light in our hearts and dust on our shoes.