rachelmankowitz

            Over the past few decades, most liberal Jewish congregations in North America have emphasized Tikkun Olam (usually translated as “Repairing the World”), especially the social action/giving-to-charity interpretation of Tikkun Olam, instead of the particular rituals of Judaism. And more recently, many liberal Jews have seen Tikkun Olam as almost interchangeable with progressive American politics, supporting movements like Black Lives Matter, LGBTQ rights, efforts against Climate Change, etc.

In a way, this narrowing of American Jewish values down to Tikkun Olam made it easier for parents to explain to their children what it means to be Jewish, though it left a lot out, and also left out a large portion of the Jewish people who, like me, find meaning and solace in the religious aspects of being Jewish, like prayer and study and rituals and history. But, for the most part, my own liberal Jewish congregation was able to bridge the gaps, accommodating the Jews who wanted to have both a particular Jewish identity and to play a role in the repair of the world overall, and I thought that’s what was happening everywhere else too.

Until October 7^th. Many American Jews were caught off guard when their fellow progressives saw Israel, and the Jews who supported Israel, as the enemy. These were Jews who had been raised to see progressive politics and being Jewish as basically the same thing, and couldn’t imagine their lives outside of these movements for social change. Over the next weeks and months, many of these Jews felt alienated and abandoned by their fellow progressives, while others took on the anti-Israel values of their friends; maybe because they’d done their own research and found that they agreed with the progressive stance against Israel, or maybe because they knew very little about the long history of anti-Semitism, and the history of why and how the modern state of Israel came to be and didn’t feel like it was worth losing friends over, or maybe because they identified so much more strongly with their fellow liberal Americans than with the eight million Jews living in Israel (mostly refugees from pogroms and then the Holocaust and then from the surrounding Middle Eastern countries, or the descendants of those refugees), who they knew very little about. I don’t know.

But when I heard from Jews who called themselves anti-Zionists, or distanced themselves from their Jewish communities over conflicting views around Israel, in the aftermath of October 7^th, what I heard over and over again was that they were living up to the Jewish values they’d been raised with, especially Tikkun Olam, and that made me think that I needed to better understand the concept of Tikkun Olam and where it came from and how it came to be understood the way so many Jews understand it today.

            The first use of the term Tikkun Olam that I could find was in the Mishnah (a commentary on the Hebrew Bible written between 200 and 500 CE), where the rabbis invoked the idea of Tikkun Olam, or repairing the world, when they considered how their legal rulings would impact society overall (by which they meant Jewish society, because that was all they had any control over). Often these legal rulings were focused on small details about how to make the laws clearer and easier to follow. I love the idea that just by making road signs clearer you are improving the world and I love this lower case interpretation of tikkun olam, which basically says that by doing your individual job well, whatever it is, or being patient with others, or taking other people into consideration, you are fulfilling the Mitzvah (good deed or commandment from God, depending on your point of view) of Tikkun Olam.

            Maimonides, a medieval Jewish sage, later defined Tikkun Olam as made up of three specific parts: studying Torah, doing acts of kindness, and following the ritual commandments. Many of the small diaspora Jewish communities over the millennia have practiced Tikkun Olam, but most referred to it by its component parts, defining their efforts to help their fellow Jews, by caring for the poor and disabled and elderly in their communities as act of loving kindness (or G’milut Chasadim in Hebrew), rather than referring to them as acts of Tikkun Olam.

            The concept of Tikkun Olam overall got a boost from Rabbi Isaac Luria and the kabbalists of the 16^th century, when they spoke of how God had contracted part of God’s light in order to create the world, and then created vessels into which to pour God’s light, but the vessels weren’t strong enough to hold all of that power and they shattered. The kabbalists determined that, therefore, our role as Jews, or just as human beings overall, is to collect the shards of those vessels and the sparks of God’s light, like a big jigsaw puzzle, in order to repair the world. But the way we collect those divine sparks, they said, was pretty much the same as Maimonides had prescribed: studying Torah, doing acts of kindness, and following the ritual commandments.

             And then, as Jews began to thrive in places like the United States, where they were free to live and work where they wanted to, many of their G’milut Chasadim efforts to help one another (creating hospitals, social work agencies and charities) grew into more universal organizations meant to help all Americans, Jews and non-Jews alike. At the same time, many Jews were also stripping away the particularly Jewish aspects of their identities in order to fit in with the larger American culture, which they were now free to do, and encouraged to do. And many Jewish congregations and organizations therefore made an effort to keep those more marginally connected Jews in the fold by emphasizing the Jewish value of Tikkun Olam, and redefining Tikkun Olam in a way that allowed these less connected Jews to see their charitable giving and political activism as distinctly Jewish and therefore able to be done in place of the old traditions.

            One of the things that started to bother me about the modern take on Tikkun Olam was that it became very prescriptive and rigid. In part because , from what I’ve seen, when people focus their ethical behavior singularly on social activism, at both the left and the right extremes, they begin to harden their hearts as their goals becomes more important than any individual people involved, and their ideals eventually calcify into weapons. Because, really, it takes a lot of self-knowledge to create real empathy with someone else’s struggle, and to know how to be genuinely helpful, and that wasn’t a value that was being emphasized in these social action movements.

            In the midst of my wrestling with this concept of Tikkun Olam, and feeling torn and bruised by the battle, my rabbi happened to mention another phrase that I hadn’t heard before: Tikkun HaLev, which roughly translates to “repairing the heart.” He said it offhand during a bible study session and I wrote it down, without context. When I looked back at my notes, and realized I didn’t know what it referred to, I went to my friend Google to find out. But I only found a few references, most of which emphasized that repairing the heart is a way to improve your ability to practice repair of the world. I struggled to find any references to what the rabbis themselves meant by the term, or if they had even used it. So I went back to my rabbi and asked him what he’d been referring to when he talked about Tikkun HaLev, and he didn’t even remember saying it, let alone what he’d meant by it.

What all of that said to me was that I was free to translate Tikkun HaLev however I wanted. I could envision a little stick figure character with a broom sweeping the dirt away from a big red heart, or I could imagine a heart-shaped character lifting weights at the gym, or getting surgery, or at least stitches. Or, I could think of the kind of work I’ve been doing in therapy forever, which is about healing my own pain and, only as a side effect, growing my ability to have compassion for others. But the most enduring image that came to mind when I thought of repairing the heart was of the hundreds of times my mom picked up a dog toy from the floor, where its fluffy white guts were spilling out after yet another vigorous play session, and gently re-stuffed and resewed that beloved toy, so that whichever dog it belonged to could continue to play with it and love it.

            If I were going to create my own practice of Tikkun HaLev, or repairing the heart, I would focus on the small details that I actually have some control over, and the ways that fixing those small things improves not just my own life but the lives of the people around me. I can smile at a neighbor, pet a dog, plant a tree, or a flower, practice being patient when a friend tells a rambling story, and take the time to listen and make eye contact when someone needs to complain about the cost of medication. And adding repair of the heart into my vision of how to repair the world could also allow me to be more humble in my assumptions about what needs to be done and what is actually possible.

            In my own version of all of this, I would also want to include outward signs of my Jewish identity, to remind myself and others that being proud of my Jewishness doesn’t mean that I reject the modern and secular world at large, that I can value both at the same time. But that’s just me.

            We are at a point in history where the need to repair our world has become obvious to almost everyone, and we have many different ideas for how that repair should be done. My hope is that we can take some of this energy to repair our hearts as well, and to grieve our losses, and try to be more generous, to ourselves and others, as we go through this process together.

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Young Adult novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

            Yeshiva Girl is about a Jewish teenager on Long Island, named Isabel, though her father calls her Jezebel. Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes it’s true. As a result of his problems, her father sends her to a co-ed Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, and Izzy and her mother can’t figure out how to prevent it. At Yeshiva, though, Izzy finds that religious people are much more complicated than she had expected. Some, like her father, may use religion as a place to hide, but others search for and find comfort, and community, and even enlightenment. The question is, what will Izzy find?