Rosh Chodesh Elul 5769--Counting and Accounting

Today is Rosh Chodesh Elul, the first day of the Hebrew month of Elul. The month of Elul is a time not only of counting, but also of accounting. Our tradition teaches us to spend the 29 days of the Hebrew month reflecting on our lives, taking stock of our actions, and beginning the essential work of teshuvah, the essential work of repentance. This is a time for actively turning, or returning, to the selves that we want to be.

There is another period of counting in our tradition, the period of the Omer, in which we count the 49 days between Pesach and Shavuot. Counting the Omer is, at its core, a communal experience. By “communal,” I mean that it has an external, shared meaning: We count in order to relive the days between the Exodus from Egypt and the Receiving of the Torah on Mt. Sinai. In many ways, this counting creates a sense of communal order in a period of historical chaos: We count in order to give structure to a time when we lived in freedom from slavery, but in absence of Torah.

There are significant differences between the Counting of the Omer and the Accounting of Elul, but there are also important parallels. While the Counting of the Omer is an inherently historical, communal experience, the Accounting of Elul is meant to be intensely present- and individually-focused. And yet, I would suggest that the basic structure of our work during Elul reflects that of the Omer: We recognize each day of Elul in an attempt to assert order in a time of potential chaos. In Elul, we are meant to open the floodgates of reality. We are invited to take stock of our lives, to look deep within ourselves, and to shed light on the realities of our lives. We are meant to hold not a candle, but a bright fluorescent light, to our souls and examine the places we feel are darkened.

We need some sort of a routing beacon to navigate the muddy waters of Elul. I believe that our tradition provides us that beacon in the lessons of the Omer. As my spiritual gift to you this Elul, let me suggest this ritual, which draws upon the powerful images of communal counting usually associated with the Omer.

The Accounting of Elul: A ritual for Elul

This weekend, take a trip with your family into nature. Choose the natural setting according to your own sensibilities and the place that you live: You might find yourself in a wooded area, in a park, at the beach, or in the desert. You may want to organize a small group to go together. Once you arrive, spend a few minutes in silence.

Directions:

As a family or a group, answer the following questions:

Reflection Questions:

What do I think is most important to me in life? What do I act like is most important to me life?

How do I want to spend my time? How am I spending my time?

How do I want to make the world better? How am I making the world better?

How do I want my life to be Jewishly? How am I living my life Jewishly?

How do I want to treat those closest to me? How am I treating those closest to me?

How do I want to treat myself? How am I treating myself?

How do I want God in my life? How is God in my life?

Directions:

Now go out into your natural surroundings. Collect 29 small natural objects (these may be dried leaves, small stones, twigs, feathers, seashells, etc.). Each one of these objects stands for a day of Elul and an aspect of your life for which you want to do teshuvah.

Directions:

Take these 29 objects home with you. Place the objects in a glass jar, bowl, or vase. Next to the filled glass container, place an empty glass container. Each day, either in the morning or the evening, gather as a family and take one object from the filled container and place it in the empty one.

Reflection:

What is my teshuvah-focus for today?

Teaching:

This physical accounting (each day placing one object from a full container into an empty container) helps to focus our spiritual accounting; it helps us to visualize Rosh Hashanah’s approach. Physically moving the objects from one place to another also helps us to see the work of our reflection reified. No longer must we focus only on abstract acts of teshuvah, now we can, in essence, see our acts of teshuvah present before us.

Optional Activity:

You may want to keep an Elul journal that records each day’s act of teshuvah.

Directions:

On the afternoon of Rosh Hashanah, when we gather at the beach for tashlich, take these objects with you. As we perform tashlich, return these reminders of your teshuvah to the earth.

Optional Activity:

You may want to keep the empty glass containers out in your house. Use these containers as reminders for the accounting that you did during Elul, as well as for the acts you still need to take in order to realize your own potential. You may want to remove the empty containers after Yom Kippur, Sukkot, or even Hannukah!

Let me know:

If your family decides to do this Elul ritual. Email me to let me know!

Parashat Re'eh 5769--Crossing the Jordan

When you cross the Jordan…

I visited Israel for the first time when I was seventeen years old. I traveled there on a high school study program, living and learning in the land for two months. During that time, my eyes were opened to a distant geography I had learned about in Religious School and at Jewish summer camp. I arrived in IsraelParashat Re'eh, one memory of that trip stood out. and thought, “Now I am home.” As I read this week’s Torah portion,

As we piled onto the tour bus one day, we were told we were going to see the Jordan River. I had images in my mind akin to the James River, which flows gently through the bluffs behind my parents’ home in Missouri, or the Nile, which I imagined to be a winding snake of a desert river. In reality, the Jordan River looked a lot more like a creek. Or maybe an irrigation ditch. Certainly not raging. Certainly not roaring.

“This is the Jordan?” I thought.

I have since learned that human environmental impact has caused the Jordan to shrink. Or, maybe the river’s size at the time of my visit was purely seasonal. The impression lasted, though.

The words “cross the Jordan” are repeated nine times in the Torah, twice in this week’s parashah, all for the same effect. They spell out a definitive boundary.

Here you are homeless. When you cross the Jordan, you will be home.

Here you are in limbo. When you cross the Jordan, you will be free.

Here you want. When you cross the Jordan, you will have.

Here you are hungry. When you cross the Jordan, you will be sustained.

As a teenager, the Jordan loomed large in my imagination as a mighty boundary. It separated the people between what was and all that could be.

It was THE JORDAN.

Funny how, in reality, it was so small. Funny how, in reality, it seemed so inconsequential. Funny how, in reality, I never would have noticed it if my teacher Yossi hadn’t point dramatically and said, “This is the Jordan River your ancestors crossed as they marched into the Promised Land.”

As an adult, I am comforted by the image of the mighty Jordan River shrunk down to size. In our lives, again and again, we are called upon to walk to the edges of our own Jordan Rivers. For our ancestors the Jordan was physical. For us it is emotional and spiritual. We move from brokenness to wholeness, from grief to acceptance, from pain to wellness, from sadness to joy, from fear to peace, from anger to forgiveness. In between these states of being lies the Jordan.

In the weeks leading up to the High Holydays, I find that we talk about our own “Jordan crossings” even more than usual. This is the time to cross over, to move forward. It can be a daunting task, this crossing.

When I first read this week’s Torah portion, I pictured the Jordan as a mighty, definitive, and intimidating boundary. “When you cross the Jordan...” But, my mind was playing tricks on me. The Jordan River may actually be diminutive is size. Maybe it is only in significance and symbolism that it looms so large.

Might the Jordan Rivers of our lives be easier crossed if we shrink them just a little?

This is a secret hidden in this week’s parashah: The boundaries between one state of being and another are often not that mighty. Nor that definitive. In our lives, we don’t cross our Jordans one time; rather, we skip back and forth across them, dancing between two states with regularity. Maybe even with ease.

And so, on this Shabbat, I pray that we are blessed with the wisdom to see that the Jordan that separates us from where we are and from where we want to be is not all that daunting after all. It does not take a long, intricate bridge and many years of wandering to cross over. It is just a few steps. And a leap of faith.

Parasht Eikev 5769--Making Meaning

I do not necessarily believe that things happen for a reason. I do believe that we make reasons out of the things that happen. Viktor Frankl, a philosopher, Holocaust survivor, and author of Man’s Search for Meaning, teaches that it is up to us to decide how we will respond to what life brings us.

Frankl teaches that there are those who see daily life as an opportunity and a challenge. These people see life as a test of their inner strength. They seek to grow spiritually beyond themselves (Frankl 93). Frankl writes, "One could make a victory of [his/her] experiences, turning life into an inner triumph, or one could ignore the challenge and simply vegetate" (Frankl 93). Yes, we make reasons out of the things that happen. Whether life brings us pain or joy. Whether we find ourselves at low points or high. We hold the power to make meaning.

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Eikev, Moses explains the meaning he has made out of the Israelites’ troubled wandering in the desert. Nearing the end of his life, he looks back on what he has experienced and suggests the following to his people:

Remember the long way that your God Adonai has made you travel in the wilderness these past forty years, in order to test you by hardships to learn what was in your hearts: whether you would keep the divine commandments or not. [God] subjected you to the hardship of hunger and then gave you manna to eat, which neither you nor your ancestors had ever known, in order to teach you that a human being does not live on bread alone, but that one may live on anything that Adonai decrees. The clothes on you did not wear out, nor did your feet swell these forty years. Bear in mind that your God Adonai disciplines you just as a parent disciplines a child. Therefore keep the commandments of your God Adonai: walk in God’s ways and show reverence. For your God Adonai is bringing you into a good land, a land with streams and springs and fountains issuing from plain and hill; a land of wheat and barley, of vines, figs, and pomegranates, a land of olive trees and honey (Deuteronomy 8:2-8).

According to Moses, the years of desert wandering served two purposes: To test the people’s faith and to help the Israelites come to know and rely upon the divine (see The Torah, A Women’s Commentary, “Parashat Eikev”). This is certainly one way to interpret the desert narrative. Interestingly, in another portion of the Torah (Numbers 14:26-38), God articulated a different meaning behind or reason for these same circumstances. God suggested that the forty years of wandering were meant to punish the Israelites, not to the test them or teach them.

There are a number of significant lessons here:

1. The Torah suggests that there can be multiple reasons for and meanings made out of a singular event.

2. God does define the reason or the meaning out of what life brings. We too can articulate reasons and meanings.

3. As we grow and change, our understanding of circumstances and events can also change.

This past week, you should have received your High Holy Day packet from TIOH. The packet, like the first sprouts showing in a newly seeded garden, reminds us that the High Holy Days will soon be upon us. As we spend the weeks ahead reflecting on our lives, let us open ourselves up to the possibilities of new meaning. Let us welcome the opportunity to reflect and recalibrate. Let us understand that we are blessed with a most precious gift, the gift of interpretation. Let us cherish this gift and may it bring us wholeness (shleimut) and peace (shalom).