September 25, 2009

Yom Kippur 5770 -- Is this the fast I ask for?

It may be due to my lowered sense of decorum when hungry, but I have an inappropriate reaction every year when I hear one particular line from the Yom Kippur Haftarah. In the portion, God asks the people what I would label as a snarky rhetorical question:

Is a fast like this the one I asked for?
A day for self-affliction, to bend the head like a reed in a marsh,
to sprawl in sackcloth on the ashes?
Is this what you call a fast, a day to seek the favor of God?” (Isaiah 58:5).
This line always makes me laugh because I think to myself, “Well, yeah?!? Isn’t that the fast You asked for?” While this reaction may seem chutzpadik, I actually think it is exactly the intention of the Prophetic writer. This question is meant to challenge the listener. It is meant to be heard as snarky. It is meant to be subversive.

The following verse of the portion delivers the zinger. God asks another, decidedly not snarky, rhetorical question:
Is not this the fast I ask for:
to unlock the shackles of evil,
to loosen the thongs of the yoke,
to send forth crushed souls to freedom,
to tear every yoke into two!
To tear your loaves for the hungry,
to bring the poor wanderer home,
when you see the naked, clothe them,
when you see your own flesh and blood, do not turn aside (Isaiah 58:5-7).

This is nothing short of a radical call for justice. And, it is this message of justice and morality that the rabbis ensured we would hear every Yom Kippur.

Fasting has a limited definition in the Western vocabulary; the Merriam-Webster On-line Collegiate Dictionary writes that “to fast” is “to abstain from food, or to eat sparingly, or abstain from some foods.” Meriam-Webster is clearly not reading its bible! In Biblical times, the term “fasting” had a variety of meanings. Fasting was a form of action; it was understood to be accompanied by a vast range of activities—from sleeping in sackcloth (Psalms 35:13), to going without food or drink (Esther 4:16), to limiting one’s diet (Daniel 10:3). Fasting was a leveler of social classes—an activity for royalty (2 Samuel 1:12) and common people alike (Joel 2:12-18). Fasts could be communal activities (Esther 4:16) or individual expressions (Nehemiah 1:4). And from our Yom Kippur Haftarah portion, we learn that fasting could be a call to justice.

The Tanakh, the Hebrew Bible, is full of descriptions of individuals who fast as a form of pro-activity. As explained by Jewish Gates, “There are…numerous private fasts mentioned in the Bible. They served a variety of functions, but their most important purpose was to gain God’s compassion and thus avert a personal or communal crisis.” On Yom Kippur, the purpose of a personal fast is inverted to create a new sort of communal fast. Instead of fasting as an individual for the purpose of getting God’s attention to change one’s own fate, on Yom Kippur we fast as a community (by abstaining from food, water, leather, and worldly pleasures) with the purpose of demanding justice in our world.

This leads me to an important question: WHY? Why do we continue to fast today? I would contend that the answer “we are supposed to, or, we are commanded to” is insufficient. I believe that our Haftarah portion suggests the same. Simply fasting, that is to say going through the motions of not eating, is insufficient. By simply abstaining from food and humbling ourselves before God, the Haftarah radically suggests, we miss the opportunity for holiness. Our fast must include acts of justice.

It is traditional to wish others a “tzom kal” on Yom Kippur, an “easy fast.” This Yom Kippur, I do not wish you a “tzom kal,” but rather a “tzom m’atger,” a challenging fast. I wish each of you a fast imbued with intention and integrity. I wish you a fast that calls you to justice. I wish you a fast that engages you in the ongoing work of creation. “Now this is the fast I ask for.”

September 17, 2009

Rosh HaShanah 5770

I remember kitchen pomegranate picnics from my youth. During those adventures, my mother placed my younger sister and me on a towel in the middle of our kitchen floor. We were dressed in old shirts and were warned over and over again of the pomegranate’s unique ability to stain any article of clothing. The pomegranates of my youth were delicious and dangerous.

In recent years, my Rosh Hashanah celebrations have centered around a single piece of fruit, the pomegranate. My New Year ritual began eight years ago with one beautifully formed, homegrown pomegranate. This piece of fruit, sticky and deep red, was grown by my close friends, who live on a kibbutz in Israel. My Rosh Hashanah pomegranate was cut open on an outdoor picnic table in Kibbutz Gezer. This pomegranate was enjoyed with total abandonment. It was the complete decadence of the act, an exuberant shehechiyanu and then kernel after kernel of the fruit scooped into our mouths, that made it so powerful. Fruit picked off the tree, brought to the table, cut open, and eaten. Enjoyed in holyday white shirts. Stains and all.

Why was this particular piece of fruit so memorable? First of all, its intense sweetness, color, and form were a palpable reminder of the intense life that exists in the world, even in its darker moments. Second, it was an edible souvenir of the cycle of nature, to which Jewish time organizes itself. I ate that pomegranate in 2001, in the midst of the Second Intifada, in the wake of September 11th. That pomegranate was a tiny beacon of hope and life in a particularly dark time.

I have found myself thinking of that pomegranate this year.

As 5769 draws to an end, we close the book on the year gone by. This has been a year of global loss and instability. We have all experienced rapid change. None of can say that the world looks the same this Rosh Hashanah as it did the last. And yet, here we are.

And yet, here we are.

I think of that pomegranate, a reminder of goodness and sweetness in the world in a time of chaos and pain. And I find myself searching again this year. Looking on my neighbor's tree, down the aisles of a supermarket. I am searching for the perfect pomegranate.

This morning, I spent a few minutes in one of our TIOH Nursery School classes. Together, we looked at a shofar, and I talked to the students about its meaning. “This is the alarm clock of the Jewish people,” I told the students. “We use it to wake ourselves up.”

This year, I believe, the message of the alarm is more insistent. It is ringing loudly, reminding us, as we read in this past week’s Torah portion, “I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life!” (Deuteronomy 30:19).

This is our challenge in the coming year! We must ask ourselves, despite what life has brought us, despite what chaos looms, despite the loss, and despite the change (and maybe even because of them): Am I living my life the way I want to live it? Our purpose over these next ten Days of Awe is not just to pray and contemplate, but to do nothing short of create a paradigm shift in our lives! “Wake up,” the shofar screams. “Choose life,” it wails. We are celebrating a new year, a new beginning. Our tradition teaches us that it was on Rosh Hashanah that the world was created. It is time to allow ourselves to access that first world of hope and color and light. Existence will always be a mixture of life and death, curses and blessings. Despite it all, choose life.

The Hebrew word Kaddish has the same root as the Hebrew word Kiddush. That root is Koof, Daled, Shin, and it means “holy.” Kiddush, a blessing of holiness, is said over the fruit of the vine, a sweet and juicy reminder of joy. Kaddish is said in order to praise God for our lives, especially as we remember those loved ones whom we have lost. The message of both is clear: We should choose life and be grateful for the Holiness that infuses all life, that infuses each our lives.

On this Rosh Hashanah, I pray that each of us is able to awaken inside of ourselves the spark of life. Wish the people around you a shanah tovah u’metukah, a good and sweet year, and mean it! Focus on that hope, that undeniable desire for life, and live it. Find a perfect apple. Dip it in fine honey. And feel the crisp, sweet possibilities that this New Year holds for you.

Shanah Tovah! May this be a Good Year for you!

September 11, 2009

Parashat Nitzavim-Yayeilekh 5769--Writing your own Torah

The Torah, we are taught, is sprinkled with 613 Mitzvot or Commandments. From the esoteric to the obvious, from the offensive to the inspiring, from the irrelevant to the meaning-filled, we struggle to understand, to accept, to reinterpret, and to challenge. In this week’s double Torah Portion, Parashat Nitzavim-Vayeilekh, we are given the 613th mitzvah (commandment).Parashat Ha’azinu, which we will read in two weeks).

The commandment seems to be delivered by God to Moses and Joshua or the entire people. The ancient rabbis were not so tied down to minor issues of context. They explained that this 613th Mitzvah is as follows: A person must write a Torah Scroll. Deuteronomy 31:19 declares, “Therefore, write down this poem and teach it to the people of Israel; put it in their mouths, in order that this poem may be My witness against the people of Israel.” In the context of the Torah verses, it seems clear that “the poem” to which the verse refers is the chapter-long poem that follows shortly after (this poem is found in

Ralbag (Rabbi Levi Ben Gershom, a 14th century Biblical interpreter) has a different take on the verse. He says that “the poem” to which this verse refers “is the entire Torah from beginning to end.” He adds: “And this was the purpose of the commandment, that each man should write a complete Torah scroll for himself, including the poem [Ha’azinu] within it, so that nothing shall be missing from all the things that are in the Torah.”

I read this with an egalitarian eye and understand: Each person should write a Torah for him/herself.

And I ask: What does it mean to write a Torah?

In explaining this verse, Rabbi Abraham Chill explains “It is not sufficient to be related to the Torah in a detached and objective way. What is required of the Jew is to involve himself personally and subjectively—body and soul—in the commandments of Torah...” I agree.

When I speak with people (parents, in particular) about the purpose of Jewish Education, I often explain that my goal is to bring each student to Torah. When I say this I have a few particular assumptions in mind:

- Different people have different paths to Torah. Each person’s path to Torah is unique.

- Different people arrive at different Torahs. Each person’s Torah is unique.

- The process of coming to Torah never ends. The route is ever-changing. Torah is ever-evolving.

I love the 613th Mitzvah for these very assumptions. Each of us is commanded to write a Torah for ourselves. Our Torah is unique. Our selves are unique. And all of us, we as individuals and the Torahs we write, are hugged tightly by our tradition, cushioned in the words of our People’s Torah. And our People’s Torah seems to know: Torah is only relevant when it is owned by every individual.

This 613th mitzvah holds particular meaning as we enter the last week of Elul. We are in the heavy work of reflection. We are taking stock of our lives and reflecting on where we have been, where we are going, and where we want to be. We are reflecting on who we have been, who we are, and who we want to be.

“Write yourself a Torah” and live it with delight.

On Sunday, we will begin a new year of Religious School. Our students will walk back into their Temple Home and rededicate themselves to Torah. They will begin authoring Torah anew, finding their path, and coming into Torah wholly with body and soul. Write for yourselves a Torah!

As adults, our work of teshuvah (of turning and returning) this week is to ask ourselves: How will I write a Torah for myself? What will be my path? What will be my Torah? We should ask and seek not only for ourselves, but also for our children. They are looking for our guidance and our love along their way. Write for yourselves a Torah!

September 4, 2009

Parashat Ki Tavo 5769--Elul Reflections

A recent article in the New Yorker magazine discussed what is known by economists as the “status-quo bias.” Economic studies have shown that once a “default” option is identified, people tend to choose it. And, once making a choice, people tend to stick with what they’ve elected. In fact, “just designating an option as the status quo makes people rate it more highly” (James Surowiecki, August 31, 2009, 29).

As we continue navigating this month of Elul (the 29 days leading up to the High Holydays), such reflections on change jump out at me. Yes, these observations by economists ring true. It is often easier to simply stick with the status quo, the default option, the known entity. And yet, our Jewish calendar compels us to stop and reexamine. This is a time for us to recognize that which is unsatisfactory in our lives and to make efforts to change.

This we know. This we have heard again and again. But, still we remain the same. Still we choose the default. Still we stick with the known. Why?

The New Yorker article continues:

Some of this may be the result of simple inertia, but our hesitancy to change is also driven by our aversion to loss. Behavioral economists have established that we feel the pain of losses more than we enjoy the pleasure of gains. So when we think about change we focus more on what we might lose rather than what we might get. Even people who aren’t all that happy with the current system, then, are still likely to feel anxious about whatever will replace it (James Surowiecki, August 31, 2009, 29).

This year’s season of Elul is different. We are called upon to change ourselves internally in a time of great upheaval and external change. We have spent the past year watching and experiencing gas prices, personal savings, home values, places of residence, jobs, benefits, economies, corporations, budgets change. Often not for the better. Often to places that feel intolerable.

This has been a time of deep loss for our society. We must recognize this as we head into Elul. This loss shapes our own process of teshuvah. This loss affects the way we are able to change. How can we risk changing and losing again when it feels that so much has already changed and been lost?

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Ki Tavo, the people stand on the edge of the Promised Land. Moses speaks to them of the ritual of first fruits, which they will be called upon to enact once they enter their New Land. They are told, “When you enter the land that Adonai your God is giving you...you shall take some of every first fruit of the soil...put it in a basket and go to the place where Adonai your Good will choose to establish the divine name” (Deuteronomy 26:1-2).

Amidst the many commandments reviewed by Moses, this commandment holds deep importance, not only to the Israelites, but also to us today. Amidst the loss, the change, the wandering, and the harsh realities of the desert, Moses makes us a subtle promise: You will still yet know sweet new fruit. Your wandering is not all there is. Or, as the Psalmist declares, “Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy” (Psalm 126:5). Every new season brings with it the opportunity for hope and new life.

Our tradition asks us to change, to risk loss (even at this time of great upheaval), because our tradition is cyclical. We are taught that life is an ever turning circle. We are taught that “One may lie down weeping at nightfall; but at dawn there are shouts of joy” (Psalm 30:6). This year, we may not know which songs of joy are still to come. They may be different tunes than we had planned. The text may be altered from the versions we have known. The rhythm may be reimagined. But the joyful song will be pleasing to our souls all the same. This is the promise of Elul. Let us embrace it.