Last month, an international aid organization reported that after observing a 12-year decline in global hunger, there has been a concerning increase over the last two years.
This called to mind a hand-lettered sign I saw in a community food bank: "Sometimes I want to ask God why She allows people to go hungry when there's plenty she can do to fix that. But I am afraid God would ask me the same question!"
A number of verses in this week's Torah portion urge us to address global hunger. One of these verses stands out. Not because of what it says about the hungry. Rather because of what it says about those of us responsible for addressing it. Torah says, "when you gather your harvest if you forget a sheaf of grain, don't go back for it. Leave it for the stranger, the orphan, and the widow." (Deuteronomy 24:19.) In other words, don't gather every last scrap of food from your field. Leave forgotten sheaves as food for the most poor and vulnerable people in society.
Without question feeding the poor is our shared obligation. But using the "forgotten sheaf" to do that seems a questionable response to world hunger. How many vulnerable people really would be fed if caring for them depended exclusively on our forgotten sheaves of grain!?!
One of the 20th century's foremost Torah commentators, Nehama Leibowitz (Israel), puzzles over this mitzvah not only because it is insufficient to feed the poor. But also because it uniquely requires that in order to perform it, one can't give it any conscious thought. It is the only mitzvah that depends on unconsciously forgetting something. (Leibowitz, Studies in Devarim pp.243-248.)
For Leibowitz, the rationale behind the mitzvah is to combat human selfishness and miserliness at the subconscious level. It is about molding our character toward developing a consciousness of kindness and reflexive generosity.
This called to mind a hand-lettered sign I saw in a community food bank: "Sometimes I want to ask God why She allows people to go hungry when there's plenty she can do to fix that. But I am afraid God would ask me the same question!"
A number of verses in this week's Torah portion urge us to address global hunger. One of these verses stands out. Not because of what it says about the hungry. Rather because of what it says about those of us responsible for addressing it. Torah says, "when you gather your harvest if you forget a sheaf of grain, don't go back for it. Leave it for the stranger, the orphan, and the widow." (Deuteronomy 24:19.) In other words, don't gather every last scrap of food from your field. Leave forgotten sheaves as food for the most poor and vulnerable people in society.
Without question feeding the poor is our shared obligation. But using the "forgotten sheaf" to do that seems a questionable response to world hunger. How many vulnerable people really would be fed if caring for them depended exclusively on our forgotten sheaves of grain!?!
One of the 20th century's foremost Torah commentators, Nehama Leibowitz (Israel), puzzles over this mitzvah not only because it is insufficient to feed the poor. But also because it uniquely requires that in order to perform it, one can't give it any conscious thought. It is the only mitzvah that depends on unconsciously forgetting something. (Leibowitz, Studies in Devarim pp.243-248.)
For Leibowitz, the rationale behind the mitzvah is to combat human selfishness and miserliness at the subconscious level. It is about molding our character toward developing a consciousness of kindness and reflexive generosity.
A popular Asian and Middle Eastern folktale amplifies this message, "The Magic Seed*":
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*This version of The Magic Seed is adapted from Nina Jaffe and Steve Zeitlin's The Cow of No Color (1998) p.55.
Once upon a time, there was a very poor and hungry man. He was so poor and hungry that he stole a loaf of bread from behind a bakery to feed his family. The queen's guard caught him as he was returning home with the loaf. They took him immediately to the Queen and her court. Outraged that one of her subjects would steal, the queen announced his punishment without even looking to see his poverty or hunger, "The punishment for stealing in my realm is 10 years in the dungeon!"
"Wait!" the man shouted before being led to his cell, "Before I disappear for ten years, maybe her majesty will give me the chance to share a family secret with her." With that, he took a shriveled, dry seed out of his pocket. The queen and her court were startled by the man's shouts.
In that moment, the man continued, "This is a magic seed. Once planted it will grow food in a single night. But only if it is planted by someone who has never told a lie or done anything wrong their entire life. Your Highness, to whom shall I give this magic seed?"
The queen hesitated. She remembered telling a lie just yesterday. No way could she plant the seed. The queen turned toward her closest advisors. But they also remembered times when they had lied or done things that were wrong, even small things. They also couldn't plant the seed. The queen looked around her court. Everyone had turned away and was looking down. No one wanted to plant the magic seed.So it is with us. Often we expect more from others than we are willing to ask of ourselves. Whether it is about acting with integrity or feeding the hungry. We hope others will take care of those in need. It is more than we can even attempt. At this season of self-reflection as we prepare for Rosh Hashanah and the start of a new year, let's set our intention to do better in the year ahead. May we have the strength in the new year to fight against our unconscious selfishness, our self-centeredness, and the wisdom to promote our conscious kindness, our reflexive generosity.
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*This version of The Magic Seed is adapted from Nina Jaffe and Steve Zeitlin's The Cow of No Color (1998) p.55.
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