Their
mother had died the day before and I was in the midst of meeting with them to
help prepare for the following day’s eulogy. The son began to describe a trip
to the national parks, years ago, in which the family enjoyed a three week
excursion, witnessing the wonders of nature, the glories of sleeping late and
homework-free evenings, and the love that his parents showered on him
uninterrupted by work obligations or synagogue meetings. The daughter then
turned to her brother and asked, “What trip was that!” She then proceeded to
tell me about long hours of imprisonment in a moving vehicle, the boring nature
of nature, the anxiety surrounding unstructured time, and the unsympathetic
response of her parents—particularly her mother’s—to her protestations. And such
is memory. Two people, having experienced the same event, will experience it
and thus remember it in different ways. Even one person might remember an event
differently after many years. That cannot necessarily be explained only as the
effects of aging. New experiences help us evolve and we begin to remember the
past in light of whom we have become.
The
slavery in Egypt—was it a horror or just an aspect of the good ole’ days? If I
were an Israelite, I’d vote for horror, and I’m sure I could find some fellow
Israelites to support me. But what about this memory by some of the wandering
Jews: “If only we had meat to eat. We remember the fish we used to eat free
in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions and the garlic. Now
our gullets are shriveled. There is nothing at all! Nothing but this manna to
look to!” (Numbers 11:4b-6). From the “Where’s the Meat?” Israelites, slavery may
indeed have been horrible, but at least they had what to eat. The experience of
slavery is remembered by various Israelites in very different ways.
A
more contemporary but complicated memory has to do with our relationship to the
Internet. It was not long ago that many top social scientists and clergy were
questioning America’s addiction to their electronic screens. It looked as if
everyone walked around deep in prayer, heads bowed and hands together, though
their hands were holding a smartphone and their eyes were glued to a screen.
Some began to wonder if the next generation would even be able to read or
understand facial expressions, let alone communicate with a hard copy human
being, assuming fate would bring them into contact with one. That was a few
months ago. Today, after three months of no concerts, no sports, no theater, no
synagogue, and for too many, no work, most of us are thanking God for the
Internet. In a period of serious social isolation, what would we have done
without our electronic toys and their glowing screens? But how are we to
remember this newfound relationship with our electronic toys—blessing or some
unnatural addiction?
The same
question might be asked of the Israelites’ desire for meat. What could be bad
about such a desire? It seems innocuous enough. God granted the Israelites this
indulgence, sending enough flocks of quail to sate their gluttonous passions
for days. Yet the whole scene ends with an outbreak of a plague that kills many,
and that very spot in the wilderness earns a dark and ominous name, Kivrot
Ha-Ta’avah, Graves of Desire. In this case, the Torah teaches that
sometimes too much of a good thing is not a good thing.
A
similar lesson is conveyed in a racially charged narrative in which Aaron and
Miriam complain about Tziporah, Moses’ wife, for being a Kushite. The
implication seems to be that she was dark-skinned and therefore unsuitable for
Moses. God takes great umbrage with this charge and strikes Miriam with
“snow-white scales” (Numbers 12:10). Many commentators see this as a clear
rebuke of racism, as if God were saying—If you like white then I’ll give you
white. But the white that covers Miriam is the most unwelcomed white there is. The
Torah teaches that the color white may be pleasing, but there is nothing
inherently good or superior to the color white when it comes to human skin
tones.
Prior
to the Covid-19 pandemic, many non-profit organizations commiserated over the
difficulty involved in getting people to come out to anything. Study sessions,
board meetings, lectures, socials, etc., all garnered tepid responses and the
only successful in-person events were those that culminated after a tremendous
human effort. It was not a model of a healthy social network, nor was it
sustainable. The lure of staying home was abetted by a plethora of electronic devices
that brought into our homes everything we ever needed, including concerts,
sports, theater, and so forth. Some argued that life had changed, that the
in-person event was a thing of the past as people grew more individualistic and
our social networks atomized. Still, at
least, we had the option of going out—to a ball game, a concert, the movies, a
dinner with friends. But then the pandemic essentially sent us packing to our
rooms. It was at that point, when we were no longer able to choose to leave,
that we realized what we were missing: the
inability to shake a person’s hand, give a friend a hug, whisper a notion into
the ear of a loved one, or embrace one another in a warm welcome or heartfelt
good-bye. Those rituals are uniquely human though impossible to do in Cyberspace.
When
all this virus disruption is over, I hope we remember these electronic tools
not only for what they provided, but also for what they failed to provide. Our
addiction to them may be a contemporary idolatry, a form of worship so all-consuming
that we deny face-time, that is, with our actual faces, with those who need our
attention the most—our spouses, children, parents and siblings. The Corona
virus may have taught us a profound lesson in the need to turn off these
electronic devices for substantial parts of our day. And maybe all day on
Shabbat.
The
touch screen is only a cheap thrill when compared with the ultimate upgrade,
the blessing of the human touch.
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