Parashat Va-Etchanan 5769--Jewish Knowing

I recently sat with a woman who was weeks away from her formal conversion to Judaism. She and I had studied together for two years, she was raising a Jewish family, and she was actively engaged in adult Jewish learning and prayer. She said to me, “I don’t feel Jewish yet.” As we talked, I assured her that many Jews don’t feel fully Jewish yet. But, she was not calmed. The dissonance between her and her Jewish identity had come to light for her during the Passover seder. As she imagined the Israelites and the Exodus and the desert and the wandering, she thought: Who is this Israel and where is my part in it? What is this desert and where are my steps in it? What is this Mount Sinai and where is my place at it?

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Va-etchanan, Moses, nearing the end of his life and the Israelites’ entrance into the Promised Land, stands before his people and reminds them of who they are and what they have seen. He says:

But take utmost care and watch yourselves scrupulously, so that you do not forget the things that you saw with your own eyes and so that they do not fade from your mind as long as you live. And make them known to your children and to your children’s children. …You came forward and stood at the foot of the mountain. The mountain was ablaze with flames to the very skies, dark with densest clouds. …Adonai spoke to you out of the fire; you heard the sound of words but perceived no shape — nothing but a voice. God declared to you the covenant that God commanded you to observe, the Ten Commandments; and God inscribed them on two tablets of stone. (Deuteronomy 4:9-13)

There is a shocking secret behind this beautiful passage. The Israelites that Moses addresses in his passionate speech are not, on the whole, the Israelites who stood at Mount Sinai. As Rachel Farbiarz writes in her D’var Tzedek, distributed by American Jewish World Service, “The generation to which [Moses] speaks was born in the desert, to parents now buried beneath its sands. And it was those parents who saw the revelation at Sinai, who trod the dry depths of the split sea.” Yes, Moses is reminding a people of events they never witnessed.

Our tradition teaches all of us, young and old, that we ourselves went out from Egypt and that we ourselves stood at Mount Sinai. These traditions, which are central to our people’s identity, go beyond imagination and empathy. We, like the second generation in the desert, were freed from slavery, were wanderers in the desert, were amongst those who stood at Mount Sinai. Even those of us who were not born Jewish. Even those of us who feel disenfranchised. Even those of us who question or challenge or rail against tradition. We all wandered and we all stood. We just might not know it.

The foundation of Jewish learning and living, for Jews of any age and stage, is the continual reworking of the metaphor, the ongoing bending of the mind, the active stretching of the soul until the impossible knowing is reached: I too was freed. I too wandered. I too stood at Mount Sinai.

On this Shabbat, I believe we are invited to join the second generation standing before Moses. We are invited to stretch our minds, just as they were invited to stretch theirs. We are invited to open ourselves up to this fundamental knowing. We are invited to join the Jewish people. Again.

Parashat D'varim 5769--Words and Power

One of the highlights of my work as a Jewish Educator has been to take groups of high school students to Washington D.C. for a weekend of teenage activism organized by the Religious Action Center, the political arm of the Reform Movement (TIOH 9^th graders go every year!). During this weekend, teens learn what it means to speak truth to power. As they write and deliver speeches to their Senators and Members of Congress, they come to understand that our tradition considers this sort of speaking both a sacred and central part of being Jewish. Yes, we all know, words have power. There is just something especially extraordinary about witnessing a member of our community recognizing that power.

This week, we begin reading the final book of Torah. The ancient rabbis called this book “Mishneh Torah,” or the “Second Law,” (Deuteronomy 17:18), because much of this book focuses on a repetition of the laws Moses had previously delivered to the people. The term Mishneh Torah was later translated into the Greek “Deuteronomy,” “deuteros” meaning second and “nomos” meaning law.” In Hebrew, the book is simply called “D’varim” or “Words.”

The names we attribute to people and things tend to shape the way we understand them.

When we call this book “Deuteronomy,” we suggest that its overarching purpose is a reiteration of law. This shapes the way we read its text. As we read, we bend our ears toward Moses’ repetition of the laws of Torah. I believe that when we call this book “Deuteronomy,” we gloss over its central purpose.

By calling the book D’varim, we come to a deep truth in the text: the last book of Torah holds a similar purpose to the first book of Torah. In Genesis, we witness God creating the world through word. In D’varim, we witness Moses leaving the world through word. This book, then, is wholly about words.

Indeed, there are no laws at all within the words of this week’s Torah Portion, Parashat D’varim. The entire parashah involves Moses standing before the people and retelling their story. This is a parashah of words. In it, Moses retells the triumphs and frustrations of his leadership, the complaints the Israelites made to him, the intricacies of the relationship they have built with God, and the interactions they have had with others along the way. As Moses nears the end of his life, he is compelled to speak, to re-utter, all that happened to him along the way.

A simple lesson: Our words hold enormous power. The words we speak frame the way we (and the people close to us) live our lives. We shape and give meaning to our experiences by the stories we tell and retell. Moses could have just stood before the people and restated law, but instead he poignantly recites his own interpretation of the events of his life and the Israelites’ lives.

When our teenagers go to Washington D.C., they speak truth to power by framing social and political issues within their own experiences and values. When Moses stands before the people, he empowers his own truth, by speaking the story of his life as he knows it to be.

• How might you retell the central stories of our life? (to yourself, to your children, to your community?)
• What is the purpose(s) of your retelling?
  
• What overarching themes or messages emerge?
  
• Who in your life needs to hear these stories?

In my third week at TIOH, I am engaged in what I consider the holiest of work, telling my story and hearing the stories of others. I want to hear your family’s story. Just as Moses’ words shaped the way the Israelites saw themselves, each of your stories shape the TIOH community and the way I will come to see us. I invite you to share your words with me. Sweet or bitter, Torah teaches us, words are the building blocks of creation.

Parashat Mattot-Masei 5769--Making Vows

As a young child, I declared often and with a great deal of earnestness, “When I grow up, I am going to be an orange juice taster.” As a child, my younger sister declared she would only leave the house if she were wearing a bathing suit and tights under her clothes (this lasted almost a year). As a teenager, I declared I would no longer eat meat, I would go to a small liberal arts college on the East Coast, and that one day I would travel to Turkey. These childhood pronouncements stay with me until this day. The vows of young people often pass, and sometimes they don’t.

As an educator, students will often share the vows they take with me:
“When I grow up I will be a…”
“From now on, I will not eat…”
“I will only wear…”
“I will never…”
“I will always…”

Childhood is a time of professed absolutes—some misguided, many inspired. As parents, educators, and members of the TIOH community, we have a series of choices as to how we respond to the vows taken by the young people around us. The first part of this week’s double Torah portion, Parashat Mattot-Masei, speaks to these reactions.

The Torah declares, “If a man makes a vow to Adonai or takes an oath imposing an obligation on himself, he shall not break his pledge; he must carry out all that has crossed his lips,” (Numbers 30:3). The Torah, it seems, takes the oaths of grown men seriously. Not so, with young women. The Torah declares, “If a woman makes a vow to Adonai or assumes an obligation while still in her father's household by reason of her youth, and her father learns of her vow or her self-imposed obligation and offers no objection, all her vows shall stand and every self-imposed obligation shall stand. But if her father restrains her on the day he finds out, none of her vows or self-imposed obligations shall stand; and Adonai will forgive her, since her father restrained her” (Numbers 30:4-5).

The ancient rabbis, medieval Jewish commentators, and modern scholars alike spent much energy re-interpreting this deeply non-egalitarian text. For example, the medieval commentator Rashi attempts to limit the age range of the young woman to which this verse might refer. He suggests that this verse excludes both a young girl and a woman who has reached the age of majority. Quoting Mishna Niddah 45b, he writes “Our Rabbis said: A girl of eleven years and a day, her vows are examined. If she knew in whose name she vowed, or in whose name she consecrated something, her vow stands. From the age of twelve years and one day, she does not need to be tested.” Essentially, Rashi says it is only the vow of an eleven-year-old girl that can be questioned.

In this series of developments, we realize that it is not only the vows of men and women that should be taken seriously, but also the vows of young men and women. Why do the commentators of later generations attach such value to youthful declarations? Why are they so concerned with their validity? I wonder if behind these seemingly fanciful statements is the very stuff of identity formation. Young people try on new aspects of self through the declarations they make.

I find that parents and educators most often approach the vows of young people with equal measures of creativity, concern, humor, and respect. These well-balanced responses allow young people to express who they are in any given moment without feeling overly constrained by the sometimes rigid walls of pragmatism or reality. This is a liberating way to be and imagine in the world.

What happens as we grow older? Do we allow ourselves this same creativity? Do we allow ourselves the same opportunities to try on new identities, to change the way that we see ourselves or act in the world? Or, do we limit ourselves through the very constraints from which we liberate our children?

On this Shabbat of vows (mistaken or otherwise), I hear a playful message from Torah: Remember the vows of your youth. Dust them off from the recesses of your mind. Try them on. Do they speak to who you have become as an adult? Do they inform how you might hear the words of your children? Do they inspire parts of yourself now dormant?

This, indeed, is the gift of Torah. Imagine well!

Parashat Pinchas 5769--Being Punctual

While in Rabbinical School, I trained in broad based community organizing. One of the most significant lessons I learned in the training was to be intentional about how I use my resources. I was taught to define resources as where we put our time, our energy, and our money. I often ask myself in both my professional and personal life: Am I using my resources wisely? This week's Torah portion, Parashat Pinchas, calls upon the Israelites to ask a similar question of themselves.

In this week's Torah portion, in the middle of the Israelites' desert wandering, it becomes clear that Moses is nearing the end of his leadership tenure. He will not be going with the people into the Promised Land. The Israelites need a new person in charge. This week, God tells Moses that this new person will be Joshua son of Nun, "an inspired man."

What becomes clear at the outset is a very simple fact. Joshua is not Moses. And, the people will need guidance as to how to respond to this new leader. The Torah explains:

Moses did as Adonai commanded him. He took Joshua and had him stand before Eleazar the priest and before the whole community. He laid his hands upon him and commissioned him-as Adonai had spoken through Moses. Adonai spoke to Moses, saying: Command the Israelite people and say to them: Be punctilious in presenting to Me at stated times the offerings of food due Me, as offerings by fire of pleasing odor to Me (Number 27:22-28:2)

I can imagine the confusion Joshua, Moses, and the people felt at this moment. Here, in a time of great transition, God responds not with sage advice or words of blessing, but with a reminder to be punctual. To be punctual?!? On the surface, this advice may seem to be inconsequential (or at least non-sequential). I believe, though, that there is a deeper message inherent in the statement. God is telling the people to use their resources wisely. God is saying to the people: In moments of change, you have an opportunity to reflect not only on how your community is changing, but also on what your community chooses to invest. God seems to be reminding the people to apply their resources to that which is sacred in their lives.

This is a time of change in the Religious School. It is a time for us to ask ourselves the very questions to which the Torah hints this week:

• What are our central needs and how can we seek to fill them?
• How can we invest in that which will bring real meaning to our lives?
• How can we create relationships that are rooted in our community?
• As a school community, how do we best define and use our resources?

Today is my seventh day at TIOH, and I am delighted that we have already begun asking and answering these and other important questions together. I deeply value your thoughts and invite you to reply to this email with any reflections you might have on this D'var Torah (or with anything else on your mind!). I so hope you will come in and meet with me over the summer, or at any other time this year. I look forward to getting to know you and your family. This is the real sweetness ahead.

Parashat Chukat-Balak 5769--Standing at the rock

My mother-in-law, who lives in Israel, recently spent a month visiting Tali and me here in Los Angeles. Yael is a successful immigration lawyer and her job requires long hours and hard work. A familiar story. The time she spent with us here was focused on renewal. And so, almost spontaneously, she decided to fill her hours by writing her life story.

For almost four weeks, Yael was chained to her computer. One night, during dinner, she let us know that she had put the life story down in pursuit of a simpler goal. She would write a 140 character story. A microstory.

The idea of the microstory comes from twitter, which forces users to limit their messages to 140 characters. An impossible task? Yael told us that the great author, Ernest Hemingway once wrote a story, which he called his best story, in only six words, “For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.”

The idea of the microstory came to my mind as I read this week’s double Torah portion Chukat Balak.

In this week’s parashah, the Israelites are complaining of thirst. God commands Moses to assemble the people Israel. God tells Moses to hold up his staff and “speak to a stone.” From this stone, God promises, water will flow out and quench the thirst of the stiff necked people. God says, speak to the stone. And inexplicably, Moses doesn’t. Or he can’t. Or he won’t.

In any event, Moses disobeys, he smashes the stone twice with his staff.

Water comes forth. The Israelites drink.

And God tells Moses he will not enter the Promised Land because of it.

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A few years ago, I spent a summer teaching at a Jewish preschool. During my first day on the job, I learned the sentence that every early childhood educator must know: “Use your words.” A child approaches crying, inconsolable and the teacher responds, “Jacob, use your words.” A child grabs a toy from another student, and the teacher responds, “Erin, use your words.” A child stamps her foot in frustration and the teacher cooes, “Naomi, use your words.”

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Use your words. Hemingway did it in six. A microstory develops in 140. And Moses, our great teacher and leader, fails to utter even one.

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As a young man, Moses witnessed deep injustice. We know this story. He saw an Egyptian taskmaster strike an Israelite slave. He looked left and right and mirrored the violent act, striking and killing the Egyptian taskmaster. No words. Action.

The next day, Moses witnessed a second injustice, two Hebrew slaves fighting. He approached them and asked “Why do you strike your fellow.” The Israelite responded, “Who made you chief over us? Do you mean to kill me as you killed the Egyptian?” Moses was frightened. He realized that his secret was out and he fled. No words. Action.

Moses fled to Midian and there God approached him in a burning bush. God told Moses, “I will send you to Pharaoh, and you shall free My people, the Israelites, from Egypt.”

Moses replied, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh…Please, Adonai, I have never been a man of words.” Moses knew himself. He was not a person of words.

But God was insistent. God said, “Who gives man speech? Who makes him dumb or deaf, seeing or blind? Is it not I, Adonai? Now go, and I will be with you as you speak and will instruct you what to say.” God believed that he could change Moses. That he could make him a man of words.

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I wonder if Moses reflected on this exchange as he stood by the beaten rock, the flowing water, his brother, his people. Moses struck the rock, water flowed out, and God said, “Because you did not trust Me enough to affirm My sanctity in the sight of the Israelite people, therefore you shall not lead this congregation into the land that I have given them.”

Did God get it right? Was this really about mistrust? Or a negation of sanctity? Or was this about something much more fundamental. Moses’ inability to change. And God’s inability to teach him.

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What might Moses have said to the rock if he would have spoken?

140 characters? Six words?

140 characters: I am tired. The people won’t stop moaning. My sister is dead. They’ve risen against me twice. Give me water. Give me silence. Promised Land.

Six words: Stark desert. Desperate people. Water, please.

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“Use your words.”

God gets it wrong this time. There is no divine cure for Moses. God can tell Moses, use your words. But the command is where it ends. The speech—the growth, the change, the evolution—was up to Moses.

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Ecclesiastes tells us, “a time for silence and a time for speaking.”

But, in the end, this week’s parashah is not only about speech and silence. It is about Moses facing the rock. And rising above his own limitations. Or not. It is about realizing full potential, or missing the moment.

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And so it is for us, each one of us here. We too have found ourselves, or find ourselves, or will find ourselves in the desert. Wandering. This is the nature of existence.

We too have limitations. Limitations that repeat themselves. Again and again, aspects of ourselves that hold us back. That we seek to change.

And we too will be called upon again and again to stand before our own rock. We will have our own opportunities to rise above our limitations. Or not. For us, the Promised Land is still so very much a possibility.

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And so my prayer for us this Shabbat is simple. “Still yet, sweet water…will flow.” Six words. Shabbat Shalom.