It is a tree of life

Shavuot - Reflections on Ruth

2010-05-21T08:20:00.000-07:00

On Sinai, amidst thunder and lighting, great noise and a huge crowd, the people received Torah.

I can still hear the echoes of donkeys braying and goats bleating. Parents quieting frightened babies. Young children running around, playing games in the background. Teenagers talking one to other, just waiting to be silenced by an adult. People losing focus and then regaining it.

The messiness of mass revelation…

And they had their whole lives ahead of them…

The wounds from the shackles of slavery still healing…

The taste of freedom still just an imagined palate of honey and milk…not yet even touching the tongue.

When our ancestors received Torah, they were just a newly formed group of wanderers, not even sure yet what to expect.

And Torah, full of her commandments and laws. Rules for a new way of life. A gift. A tree to hold fast to. A way to live…

This was still a new relationship for them. Still figuring things out and how to relate to this God, who both whispered and bellowed, and this Moses, who stumbled as often as he stood. What did it even mean to be an Israelite?

No golden calves yet. Or uprisings. No dashed hopes or longings for Egypt.

Just possibility and future and hope…

Revelation with the promise of redemption.

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You know, we read another story on Shavuot. The book of Ruth.

Called the book of Chesed, the book of lovingkindness, this tale begins with sorrow.

Naomi and her family live in that Promised Land. No longer just a hope. This is new a reality. Generations after slavery. Kings come and gone. Freedom fully ours.

And Naomi’s town is auspiciously named Beit Lechem, the House of Bread. But her windowsills are empty of rising dough. Famine grips every home. Until one night son turns mother and wife to husband.

And the family leaves the land of promise.

Naomi and her family off. Out of that promised land and back into the wilderness. Hoping for a better life there. The desert not so bleak after all.

They arrive in Moab, bread baskets empty, not a drop of sweetness in sight…forbidden landscape before.

And there, misfortune falls. Husband and sons pass away.

Naomi left with Moabite daughters-in-law, Orpah and Ruth.

No options. No protection. No future in sight. Calling out to God like her slave-ancestors before: Deliver me.

And so she sets out once again on a journey back to Canaan.

A journey of loss and disappointment and defeat. In Naomi’s mind, there is nothing left.

Orpah turns back and Ruth remains.

Silent steps. No children to cry out, no laughter seeping out of surrounding tents, no animals to bleat or bray, no thunder, no lightning. Whispers so quiet they barely even reach the women’s ears.

Until Ruth, frightened and alone, takes her adopted mother’s hand and says to Naomi “Your people will be my people, Your God will be my God.”

Both women dusty from the journey. Tear lines tracked across their faces. So much devastation. So much sorrow. What is left to see in this world?

No sacred letters etched on stone in the mountains above. No great leader. No voice of God. No scrap of holy text.

Just two women with empty pockets, who lost everything. Alone and a little desperate. Turning to one another. And making a new covenant.

And Ruth intones: That story you sung to me while hanging laundry. That God you cried out to at my husband’s grave. That people whose language you speak. That journey you traced. All that you claim as yours, I claim as mine.

And Ruth promises Naomi redemption. And Naomi can only taste bitterness.

But the two walk on into a town that once again fills its bread baskets. And meet a people who are willing to bend every rule for the good of the women who rejoined them.

This is our Torah they tell them. And Ruth grasps it. This is her tree. And she holds fast to it.

The townspeople sing to them quietly, words of Psalms “She who went out weeping carrying seeds to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves.”

This is a new revelation, born not out of promise but out of the knowledge that not every promise is fulfilled.

This is a new revelation, born not out of commandments, but out of broken rules and changed expectations.

This is a new revelation, born not out of noise and fanfare, but out of the quiet, even the darkness.

And this our revelation as much as the first. Revelation happening not at one moment in time but again and again in our lives. No matter which side of hope we find ourselves upon. No matter which side of the promises we have made or have been made to us.

Torah revealing herself not in one form, but in many, opposites even. Ready for us to add our stories to hers.

Parashat Bamidbar -- Tikkun

2010-05-14T08:17:00.000-07:00

“Teach us to number our days,” declares the Psalmist, “that we may get a heart of wisdom” (Psalm 90:12) .

For the past 45 days, we have counted.

Seven times seven, from Pesach to Shavuot…so close to the end now, 49 in sight. Our days of counting almost complete.

This week, we begin a new book of Torah. This Shabbat we are told to expand our enumerations: “Count people,” Torah tells us.

In Hebrew, this new book of Torah is called “Bamidbar,” in the wilderness. In its columns, the Israelites are neither enslaved nor free. They are the great wanderers trapped in a spiraling 40 year journey. They are neither here nor there. This is the desert.

In English, this new book is called Numbers, called by the Rabbis “The Book of the Census,” for it is bookended by two census takings.
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Rabbi Yaakov Culi teaches that something which is counted cannot lose identity or impact. From this interpretation, a great network of meaning is spun.

For the rabbis, the countings in Bamidbar were not just tactical exercises, but spiritual expressions. The rabbis understood these to be the moments in which each individual Israelite became a part of history. Each one remembered. Black fire on white.

And yet, when I read this week’s parasha, I can’t feel poetry. All I see is injustice. When days are numbered, none is skipped. But in Torah, when our people are supposedly numbered, only some are counted, others pushed aside. These great moments of Numbers, recalled as empowering, are actually alienating and exclusive.

In the opening verses of Numbers, God commands Moses, “Take a census of the entire community of Israel.” But, God continues, “Listing the names, every male, head by head” (Numbers 1:2). According to this, the entire community of Israel only includes Israelite men (and later priests). What to make of this oversight? The qualifiers continue: Only the first born priests, only Israelites of fighting age. For generations, men and women, children and the elderly, teens and toddlers, labored through enslavement together. Now, in the desert, they were sectioned off. You are favored. You are cast aside.

In Hebrew, the words for “take a census” are “s’u et rosh,” or, literally “lift the head.” I imagine a cosmic game of duck, duck, goose taking place in the wilderness. The people sat clustered, waiting with bated breath, tingling with anticipation, yearning for that divine tap, and with it the knowledge that they too were a part of the eidah, of God’s Israelite community. And the disappointment they must have felt, when only some were tapped, others passed. Their heads left fallen.

This is not the only time in which Torah says “the people,” but does not include all. In fact, next week, as we welcome in Shavuot, the holiday on which we receive Torah at Sinai, we will read the famous revelatory passages of Exodus 19. In these verses Moses commands “the people” in the preparations for Sinai, “do not go near a woman” (Exodus 19:14). Clearly “this people” excludes the mothers and grandmothers, daughters and sisters, nursemaids and widows. Duck, duck, goose…

In the 16th century, the rabbis of Safed created a tradition of Leil Tikkun Shavuot, meaning “repairing the night of Shavuot.” This custom, of staying up all night to study, stemmed originally from the rabbis disappointment in their Israelite ancestors, who chose to sleep away the night before receiving Torah. The mystics decided: we will now stay up all night studying Torah every Erev Shavuot in preparation for revelation. A classic act of tikkun, repair. Take something that you wish was done differently in the past and reenact differently—better in the present.

I am inspired by this Shavuot tradition. If the kabbalists can rework aspects surrounding revelation and desert life, why can’t we? Biblically only some were counted, others left marginalized. And so, let us include. Let us make whole. Let us repair.

The rabbis clearly saw the dual nature of counting—both external (How many are we?) and internal (Who are we?).

On an external level, we at TIOH see counting as a value. We are a diverse and inclusive community and pride ourselves on being such. Our membership rolls are, in and of themselves, a tikkun to our ancestors’ missed opportunities to number fully their community. We reject an exclusionary Torah or Judaism. We seek to welcome everyone who walks in our doors. In this community, every child, every man, every woman, every newborn, every senior citizen is not only counted, but also celebrated. We are Jews by birth and Jews by choice, Jews of color, Jews of European descent and Jewish of Sephardic descent. Intermarried, single, gay, straight. And our efforts are ongoing. This past Tuesday night, our Temple took another step toward full repair. Our board unanimously passed a resolution in support of marriage equality. Let every family be counted in this community, they said.

On an internal level, as well, we are left now to do our own spiritual work. This tikkun is each of ours alone. This is the time for both counting and receiving Torah. This is the time to take stock of our own internal lives. Let us claim our own Tikkun. Our ancestors ignored, pushed aside, and made invisible members of their own community. We too ignore, push aside, and make invisible aspects of our own selves.

Which aspects of ourselves have we pushed to the side?
What internal work have we chosen to ignore?
What difficult conversations have we left unspoken?
What needs have we made invisible?
Which feelings have we left unexpressed?

This is a time for counting that which has been left uncounted. A time for numbering and naming. On this Shabbat let us be reminded: Our work toward a desert tikkun always holds the reward of a Promised Land.

“Teach us to number our days,” declares the Psalmist, “that we may get a heart of wisdom” (Psalm 90:12).

Teach us to number ourselves, we learn, that we may live lives of fullness.

Parashat Emor -- Human Experience

2010-04-29T12:31:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I opened up the text of Parashat Emor to study with Rose Kauffman-Skloff in preparation for her fifth grade d’var torah, which she delivered to the Religious School community last Sunday. Together, we read these words, which God instructed Moses to tell the Israelites “These are My fixed times, the fixed times of the Eternal One, which you shall proclaim as sacred occasions” (Leviticus 23:1). Rose was wide-eyed to discover that many of the holidays she celebrates today were described in detail in the Torah. “Can you believe we’ve been celebrating these holidays for so long?”

This ancient Torah portion not only tells us when to celebrate but how to celebrate these holy days: Pesach, Shavuot, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot. Each day has its own list of commands, reflected in their prescribed active verbs: You shall elevate, you shall eat unleavened bread, you must count, you shall bring, you shall leave, you shall observe complete rest, you shall practice self-denial, you shall make offerings, you shall rejoice, you shall live in booths.

These holy days, accented by these verbs, begin to paint a picture, in miniature, of a life fully lived and experienced. The actions of these days tell the story of our lives: We regret and we rejoice, we bring and we leave, we observe and we elevate, we eat and we live. Other Jewish holy days were added to the calendar in rabbinic times. On Tisha B’Av, we mourn and we experience loss. On Chanukah, we make light and we remember.

These holy days suggest something remarkable: that all of our human experiences—from loss to delight, from low points to high, from sickness to health—all have their place not only in an individual’s lifecycle, but also in the fabric of our communal calendar. They have been embedded in the cycle of our years since ancient times. Our tradition tells us unequivocally: No matter what life brings you, you remain in the fabric of Jewish time, and in the pattern of Jewish life.

Rose summed it up well, “Some of these holidays make you sad. On some you celebrate. Some are sort of boring.” And such is life. Each of us experiences moments of disappoint. Each of us is granted moments for rejoicing. Sometimes life rolls along, unchanged, and is overwhelmingly tedious.

Torah reminds us this week that whether we confront joy or sorrow, illness or loss, pain or healing, wellness or despair, certainty or ambiguity, or life or death, we remain in sync with the sacred rhythm of our people’s time.

In this knowledge we can take some comfort. Our life’s experiences are not ours alone, but are shared with Jewish people across the globe and through out history. As Ecclesiastes teaches, “There is a time for every season under heaven.”

Parashat Sh'mini--Strange Fire

2010-04-08T13:09:00.000-07:00

A few years ago I was given a playlist of contemporary songs that focused on biblical themes. The focus of the music was broad—from the irreverent to the inspired. What was notable about the music was that it was not intended to be religious in any way. The songs were simply illustrations that biblical images and stories weave their way into our daily lives and the art we create. This week’s Torah Portion Parashat Sh’mini is no exception.

It’s ironic that I look forward to this Torah Portion, a portion which is, at its core, deeply troubling and quite bloody. This Torah Portion includes the only narrative incident in all of Leviticus. It goes like this:

Now Aaron's sons Nadab and Abihu each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it; and they offered before Adonai strange fire, which God had not enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from Adonai and consumed them; thus they died at the instance of Adonai. Then Moses said to Aaron, "This is what Adonai meant by saying: Through those near to Me I show Myself holy, And gain glory before all the people." And Aaron was silent (Leviticus 10:1-3).

The story is simple. Nadab and Abihu offer “strange fire” on the altar and God responds by consuming them in fire. Aaron, their father, is left in stunned silence. No explanation is given.

Where Aaron remains reticent, Jewish commentators burst forth with explanations. For generations, our ancestors have done back-flips trying to make sense of what Nadab and Abihu possibly could have done wrong.

I don’t love this Torah Portion for the narrative or for the traditional Jewish commentaries. I love it for the Indigo Girls’ song “Strange Fire.” In this song, the Indigo Girls sing:

i come to you with strange fire, i make an offering of love, the incense of my soil is burned by the fire in my blood. i come with a softer answer to the questions that lie in your path. i want to harbor you from the anger, find a refuge from the wrath. this is a message of love. love that moves from the inside out, love that never grows tired. i come to you with strange fire.

What I love about these lyrics is simple. They take a message of pain and anguish and quite simply, by just a few words, turn it into “a message of love.” While Nadab and Abihu’s strange fire produced wrath, their strange fire is meant to provide “softer answers” and a “refuge from the wrath.” This is a complete reworking of Torah! And I delight in it.

I believe that sometimes Torah’s purpose is not to instruct, but to warn. Why is Aaron silent? Why does Moses’ off-putting attempt to make sense of the incident feel so incongruous? Because this is a story in which God got it wrong. This is a story of innocent life taken. This is a story that is meant to evoke pain and anger. And we are not given answers. And it is not made right. Torah leaves us with two choices: To justify God’s actions by blaming Nadab and Abihu, or to learn from the injustice of the act.

Ancient Jewish commentators choose the former. The Indigo Girls choose the latter.

We have this power too. What messages will we draw from our Holy Texts? Will they be messages of blame or messages of love? Will they be justifications or new paths? What is the purpose of Torah in our lives?

Will we continue to condemn the strange fire or embrace it?

Parashat Vayikra--Hearts Tied Together

2010-03-19T09:46:00.000-07:00

This week, we begin reading Leviticus, the third book of the Torah. In the book’s first portion, Parashat Vayikra, we are introduced to the organized sacrificial system of the ancient Israelites. It is true that we today are far removed from the blood and guts of Leviticus in our daily lives, and it is also true that we are deeply connected to many of Leviticus’ thoughts about community.

The sacrificial system was predicated on an almost unbelievable premise: There was only one sanctioned place in the world at which Israelites were allowed to offer sacrifices to God. These sacrifices represent our ancestors’ primary form of worship, and so it is significant that in their entire known world they were only able to commune with God in one place: The Temple. The ancient Temple, which stood in Jerusalem, functioned as the center of Israelite life in the ancient world. (And while we know today that there were quite a few renegade sacrifice sites in existence, the intent of Leviticus is clear: In order to form a religious community, the people had to gather together together!).

In fact, the nineteenth century’s Rabbi Shmuel David Luzzatto (or Shadal) teaches that the main purpose of the sacrificial system was to build community. He writes:

The Torah commands that each person should not build his own place for sacrifice, but rather that everyone should offer sacrifices in one singular place. The purpose of this is not to belittle the act of sacrificing, but rather, it is for the good of the nation, for success, and in order to perfect our [communal] values. Since there was only one Temple for the whole nation, everyone would gather to one place and, as a result, their hearts would be tied together in fellowship and they would be always as one group.

Shadal paints a beautiful image of community in his teaching. His words allow us to understand the sacrificial system not as something that separates us from our ancestors, but rather as something that connects us.

We all are in search of meaning and community. We too are looking to have our hearts “tied together in fellowship” with others. As our world grows even bigger, this need starts even deeper.

For our ancestors, community was built into the system. Do you want to worship God? Go to the Temple! Do you want to interact with other Israelites? Go to the Temple. With no options, the community was built and sustained.

Today, our choices are more varied. Community is certainly not a given. We have to choose our temple. And then we have to choose to walk in its doors. And then we have to choose to be active members of its community. And, only with our work, do we come to find our hearts tied in fellowship.

This week, we are reminded by a nineteenth century rabbi that our efforts to build and connect are worthwhile. Beyond even our own needs, we were intended to be “as one group.” When we gather for learning and prayer, or for connecting and celebrating, we live out our ancestors’ legacy. We take our place in the ever extending line of the Jewish people. Shadal teaches this is our purpose. It may also be our deliverance.

Parashat Ki Tissa--Reacting

2010-03-04T12:15:00.000-08:00

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Ki Tissa, when God sees the Israelites building a golden calf and worshiping it, God is filled with anger and wants to destroy the stiffnecked people (Exodus 32:9). Moses pleads with God, saying “Adonai, do not let Your anger blaze forth against Your people!” (Exodus 23:11). In this first snapshot, God seems to be out of control and Moses seems to be the image of calm.

Interestingly, God is easily swayed by Moses. God not only backs down, but “renounces the punishment” (Exodus 32:14) that had been previously articulated.

On the surface, these verses tell a story of God’s irrationality and Moses’ sage leadership. But, this only tells part of the story.

God may have been initially enraged and even dreamed up some pretty elaborate responses to the Israelites’ betrayal, but God never goes through with them (Think of the parent who finds the child destroying a wall or table with markers).

What is interesting is what happens next. Moses goes down the mountain, sees the people dancing around their golden calf, becomes “enraged,” smashes the tablets of law that God gave him on Mount Sinai, burns up the golden calf, and makes the people drink the ashes mixed in water (Exodus 32:19-20).

This is not exactly the reasonable Moses presented a few verses earlier! What happened to empathizing with the people who had just emerged from slavery? What happened to reasonable leadership and learning?

In the end, I think the real lesson of this parashah lies neither in the reaction of God or nor of Moses, but in the contrast between the two.

God initially reacts with anger and plans all sorts of responses to the people’s infractions, but in the end, God is able to hear words of reason, rethink the position, and act appropriately. For me, what is remarkable in this account is the pause that God takes.

God waits.

God’s initial (justified?) reaction is anger, but instead of simply reacting, God asks for advice and remembers the people (who God ultimately loves deeply).

We think of our own lives: This story has no hastily fired off email dripping with rage before the author could reconsider, no voicemail message left in anger before the speaker could calm their voice.

In the end, God is the picture of grace.

And, Moses?

Well, Moses is able to look at God and see all the appropriate ways to react. But, when faced with the people’s disloyalty to him (and that must have been what Moses imagined as he walked down the mountain), Moses lets loose. Moses is unable to control his own rage and, in fact, enacts his own destructive plot against the people.

Moses was a well-reasoned adviser, but a violently impulsive leader.

In our own lives, I am sure each of us can see ourselves reflected both in God and Moses’ reactions. There are moments when we are able to give reasoned advice, only to turn around and act irrationally on our own accord. And, there are moments when we may lose control initially and are able to reign in ourselves enough to react with calm.

What I love about this week’s portion is that it is understood that sometimes we may lose control. We are human and we get angry. We lose our cool. We blow up. This week’s Torah portion is a lesson in managing these very human and natural reactions. This is the stuff of life.

Ultimately, we are, all at once, created in the image of God, students of Moses, and descendants of those who built the calf.

Parashat Tetzaveh and Purim--Costumes

2010-02-26T09:35:00.000-08:00

In the opening verses of this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Tetzaveh, God says to Moses, “Make sacral vestments for your brother Aaron, for dignity and adornment. Next you shall instruct all who are skillful, whom I have endowed with the gift of skill, to make Aaron's vestments, for consecrating him to serve Me as priest” (Exodus 28:2-3). While studying these verses with two TIOH fifth graders in preparation for their D’var Torah, I asked them the question, “What are vestments?”

One student quickly answered, “A disguise!”

I responded, “Ok, good. And what’s another word for disguise?”

“A costume!” they replied emphatically.

The words “disguise” and “costume” were not the first words that come to my mind when considering priestly vestments. But, these associative definitions have stuck in my mind the past few weeks and have been insistently whispering an important link between this Torah portion and the holiday of Purim, which begins Saturday night.

There is a clear link in the Torah between the decorations made for mishkan or the Tabernacle (meant to be the dwelling place for God), which were described in last week’s parashah, and the vestments made for the priests in this week’s portion. Indeed, our Torah scrolls of today are dressed in much the same way as the ancient priests were, thereby connecting text to people to God.

And what if all of these vestments are simply disguises? Costumes masking something underneath? What, we might wonder, is being hidden?

Jewish mystics teach that the stories of the Torah are a disguise for the Torah’s deeper meanings, the Torah’s essential truths. The stories, say the kabbalists, make Torah more accessible and comprehensible. Might the same be true for the decorations we use to cover sacred space, holy people, and sacred text? Might the costumes we drape upon them allow us to better access and understand their true power and connection to the divine?

We think now of ourselves. Purim is upon us. We are busy dusting off costumes and planning our own disguises. The Purim masks we wear do not only draw attention to silly outer costumes, but also to what we are hiding underneath. Might these costumes, in all their silliness, point to something much truer underneath?

The disguises we wear on Purim might be a far cry from the vestments of priests and Torah, not to mention the craftsmanship of the mishkan, but they make accessible the same inner truth: Dwelling right beneath the surface of each one of us is a divine spark that animates our life. Burning within each one of us is a soul that has the capacity for deep wells of compassion and kindness. The costumes we wear on Purim can barely conceal our inner resources of healing and power, of grief and joy, of resilience and flexibility.

Sometimes when we dress up something seemingly ordinary in something seemingly extraordinary, we are invited to see that thing differently. To see it anew. This is the fun and power for Purim. Disguise yourself well. And enjoy the costume.

Parashat Terumah--If you build it...

2010-02-19T13:56:00.001-08:00

“If you build it, he will come.” Not words of Torah, of course, but an unforgettable quote nonetheless, from the 1989 movie “Field of Dreams.” Yes, this was about a baseball diamond in a corn field. But, couldn’t it be midrash, as well?

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Terumah, “Adonai spoke to Moses, saying: ‘Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart so moves him. ...And let them make Me a mishkan, a sanctuary, that I may dwell amongst them. ...And deposit in the Ark the tablets of the Pact which I will give you’” (Ex 25:1-2, 8, 16).

Commentators note: The text does not say “let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell in it.” Rather the text reads, “that I may dwell amongst them.” Why is it that when the Israelites build a sanctuary of their own free will, they are told that God dwells amongst them? (and not in it)

In “Field of Dreams,” Chicago White Sox players from the early twentieth century show up to play baseball when an Iowa farmer builds them a baseball diamond. “If you build it, he will come.”

In Torah, God shows up amongst the people when they build God a sanctuary. (A loose connection here, I know, but indulge me!)

Here in the TIOH Religious School, we have been building a sanctuary of sorts, as well. Together (parents, students, teachers, clergy, and staff) have been dreaming about what our community can be and making our dreams into reality.

Our Sunday morning flagpole is filled with prayer, songs, blessings, and joy. Families join together weekly for this ritual.

Our Sunday morning t’fillah (services) are meaningful and aim to connect our students with the sacred in their lives.

Our classrooms are electric. Students are engaged and active learners.

On Sunday afternoons, our Teen Program is the place to be. With a “Jew-per Bowl Halftime” party, school-wide celebrations and trips, and thought-provoking class discussions, our junior high and high school students are coming together.

We have new chuggim (elective activities) on Wednesday afternoons. From Jewish Yoga to Social Action, our students are experiencing Jewish together.

Yes, we are building. Brick by brick, our sanctuary is coming together. And, we are promised, with this construction, God will dwell amongst us.

We are all searching for meaning. Looking for ways to connect. Seeking out the holy. We need no longer search. We are building it. They too will come.

Parashat Mishpatim--Step Up/ Step Back

2010-02-16T15:33:00.000-08:00

At the Sela Leadership Training I attended last year, we were instructed to use the “Step up/ Step back technique” in our inter-group relations. This was one of our ground rules. We were told explicitly: for those of you prone to listening rather than speaking, step up and consider talking more. We were told, for those of you who usually speak first or often, step back and consider listening more. Step up or Step back, we were reminded.

The reason why this ground rule was useful is because it called upon each of us to have a level of self-awareness. Do I talk frequently and need to step back or am I often reticent and need to step up? In each situation, should I step back or up? Where to stand?

I am someone who usually listens and thinks before speaking. I have a terrible habit of turning conversations backwards once I finally catch up enough to offer my comment. Step up, I hear my inner voice saying often during conversations. And on the flip side, I have strong and definitive opinions. Step back, I have come to hear my inner voice say often during conversations. In one individual, who knew, there could be such complexity.

Such consideration of where and how to walk in conversations is not only a useful tool for self-development, it is also at the crux of this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Mishpatim.

Last week, our ancestors stood at the foot of Mount Sinai, as Moses ascended the mountain. All the people engaged in a moment of profound revelation. This is why our people left Egypt, to enter into a new and just covenant, to encounter the sacred. And so amidst thunder and lightning, Moses descended the mountain and recited the Ten Utterances or Commandments.

And in this week’s parashah, the recitation continues. Mishpatim. “These are the rules of conduct” by which you will live your lives.

Moses finishes reciting. And the people proclaim, “Kol ha’d’varim asher dibeir Adonai na’aseh” “all the things that Adonai has spoken, we will do” (Exodus 24:3). Moses then offers a sacrifice of well-being, and the people repeat themselves “Kol asher dibeir Adonai na’aseh v’nishmah,” “all that Adonai has spoken we will do and we will hear” (Exodus 24:7). At the moment of Revelation the People choose. Step up. We. Will. Do.

At the moment of Revelation, we see our stiff-necked ancestors at their finest. Not passive, like in the moments following the recitation of the Ten Utterances when Torah tells us the people “fell back and stood at a distance” (Exodus 20:15). Not passive aggressive, like when the people call out, “If only we had meat to eat, we remember that fish we used to eat free in Egypt” (Numbers 11:4-5). No this is the people at their best. We. Will. Do. We. Will. Step. Up. We are active partners in this relationship.

And, Moses? Where is Moses in this narrative? Moses, who has been running up and down the mountain like a spiritual ski gondola since last week. Moses, who has spent the moments of revelation praising and pacifying, listening and repeating, doing and commanding, leading and leveraging: Where is Moses in this conversation?

This week Torah tells us: God says to Moses, “Aleih eilai ha-harah veh’h’yeh sham,” “Come up to Me on the mountain and be there” (Exodus 24:12). Be there. Just be. Stop moving. Stop doing. Don’t ascend, don’t descend, don’t act. Step back.

Moses and the Israelites ultimately came into covenant, entered into the deepest of sacred relationships, in ways that were opposite to their nature. The notoriously passive people responded to covenant by doing. The woefully impulsive Moses responded by being.

They stepped up. He stepped back. And that was Revelation.

We today are wise to hear this story of covenant anew. Experiencing God and the sacred, not to mention the rest of humanity, requires a presence of mind. A spiritual centering. An active choice, different for each of us, different in each moment: Step up or Step back.

We are taught that the true moment of our people’s freedom came not at the instant they fled Egypt. It came only at this moment, at Sinai, when they entered into covenant. The absence of law, we are taught, is not freedom, but chaos.

“We will do and we will hear,” said the people.

“[Moses,] Come up to Me on the mountain and be.”

This is the voice of Torah in our lives. Gently pushing us this week...to rise above our basest instincts. We are more than chaos. In our encounters with Torah, with the holy and with God...and most importantly, in our interactions with each other (each of us who is surely created in God’s image), we are reminded: Step up or Step back. We live our lives in the realm of the sacred when we are self-aware enough to know how to reach out and encounter the other.

We will do. We will be.

Easier said than done. The people’s misguided actions will lead them to build a golden calf. Moses’ over-zealousness in pulling back keeps him covered in cloud and alone, oblivious to the people’s infraction. Torah never calls on us to be perfect. Just a little better than our instincts might tell us to be.

In that one moment, which is every moment, when an encounter of the truest nature is possible, we can do our part to make revelation possible. Step up or Step back. And who knows what blessings we might receive.

Parashat Yitro--Back and Forthing

2010-02-05T11:28:00.000-08:00

There are some days in which I take three trips from my home to my car before I remember everything I need. No sooner do I have the key in the ignition then I remember my forgotten cell phone, iPod, lunch, office key, jacket. This is the way I am in the world. My mind is so often filled with plans and ideas three steps ahead that I have a hard time remembering what’s supposed to be in my hands at the moment. I take comfort in the fact that there is holiness in the back-and-forthing of life.

In Genesis, Jacob falls asleep on a rock. In the middle of the night, he awakes to find angels climbing up and down a ladder. Commentators ask: Why up and then down? Why moving at all? Good questions!

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Yitro, in which our people receive the Ten Commandments (aka Decalogue, Ten Utterances, etc.) at Mount Sinai, we once again are treated to Torah’s love of back-and-forthing. I invite you, before you read my count, to click here http://www.jtsa.edu/Conservative_Judaism/JTS_Torah_Commentary/Yitro.xml, re-read Exodus 19 from the Torah portion, and count how many times Moses goes up and down the mountain. My tally is below:

19:3--Moses goes up the mountain
19:7--Moses goes down to mountain
19:9--Moses goes up the mountain
19:14--Moses goes down the mountain
19:16--Moses leads the people out of the camp and toward God. They take their place at the foot of the mountain.
19:20--God comes down onto Mt Sinai and Moses goes up the mountain
19:25--Moses goes down the mountain
20:1-14--God delivers the 10 Commandments

First of all, I think it is important to say that this is not the image I have of our encounter on Mount Sinai. My view is much more majestic. The stuff of real myth. With Moses on top of the mountain, with thunder and lightning, and great drama. And, yes, in the real narrative, the fireworks and dramatics still exist, but with this odd subtext: This running back and forth from car to door before the day can start. What’s with God and Moses? Why not just stay still?

A few thoughts:

Moses in his back-and-forthing is modeling important leadership skills for us. It is only a few parashot later that Moses ascends the mountain and stays up there again for forty days, enveloped in a cloud with God, while the people lose faith, hope, and any sense of guidance. They break into open revolt and buil a golden calf to worship. We often cite that part of the story in our Torah study, but how often do we check back here to Exodus 19, when Moses gets it right? Sometimes the work of process and consensus building feels exactly like this: Running up and down a mountain, again and again, talking, securing, easing, and explaining. Yet, we see here, this work is sacred. And critical. When Moses and God skip it later on, secure in their own roles and status as leaders, they lose their people.
I see in this a spiritual message. There are moments to stay up on the mountain and there are moments to come back down to our people on solid ground. This parasha reminds us that it is in the balance between the two that we encounter the divine.
There was a time in American political debate in which being “wishy washy” was viewed as a negative characteristic. Let us remember, though, that we are a people who have never been satisfied with first impressions, initial conversations, or singular encounters. We are a people who go back and forth, who wander, who question God, and who challenge authority. We may be a stiff-necked people, but we have no problem with ascending and descending ladders, mountains, and deserts. Let us take comfort in this legacy and know that the possibility to choose and choose again, to learn and learn again, to grow and grow again is always before us.

Shabbat Shalom!

Parashat Beshalah--The Long Way Around

2010-01-29T08:58:00.000-08:00

The Talmud teaches, “There is a long way which is short and a short way which is long” (Babylonian Talmud, Eruvin 53b). Yes, I think, it’s true; although, when setting off on one’s journey it’s often hard to know the difference. I can think of times when I’ve set off on a course of action, confident that I am traveling down a short road of slim resistance, only to find myself mired in the thick of things and wondering how I got myself there in the first place. And then there are those times, when a long view and careful planning, a tough trek anticipated ahead, is filled with sweetness and ease. Knowing which roads we’re embarking upon, it seems to me, is the stuff of life and measurements of growth.

This week’s Torah Portion, Parashat Beshalah, begins, “Now when Pharaoh let the people go, God did not lead them by way of the land of the Philistines, although it was nearer; for God said, ‘The people may have a change of heart when they see war, and return to Egypt. So, God led the people roundabout, by way of the wilderness at the Sea of Reeds” (Exodus 13:17-18).

The Israelites had one short road ahead, which God feared would be too difficult and would cause the Israelites to complain and beg to return to Egypt. So, God sent them the long way. The irony of our people’s journey is that the long way was not actually any easier. While traveling the long way, they spent years crying out to God and begging to be returned Egypt with just as much force as they did to be freed from it in the first place (Numbers 14:1-5, for example).

So, I will be a little chutzpadik and suggest an addendum to the Talmud’s wisdom: There is a long way which is long and there is a short way which is long. Sometimes, we’re blessed to find a long way which is short and, every once in a great blessed while, a short way which is actually short

What might we learn from this week’s Torah Portion? A few thoughts:

Rachel Lewin, Head of School of the TIOH Day School, wrote a few months back about the importance of parents letting children experience the very natural process of learning something new, which can include feelings of frustration and challenge. Rachel explained that learning how to cope with these feelings and moving through them are important life lessons. For parents, it can seem easy enough to make a child’s long road shorter, but sometimes we find on the other end, that the short road missed the journey all together.
Sometimes, it is not until we have reached the end of a journey that we realize we have traveled the long way around. It is often this realization and the lessons we have learned along the way that help us to take the shorter roads ahead.
Most of all, this week’s Torah portion reminds us that our life’s pursuit should not be a search for short roads. Long roads and 40 year journeys are a part of our historical memory. Even the long roads that are long hold blessings and lessons along the way. Torah’s promise to us is that God travels with us no matter which road we take or that the sacred is within us no matter how long the journey.

This is a Shabbat for choosing new journeys and reflecting on the ones we have chosen. This is a time for reorientation. What journeys are you on? Were they expected or no? Have they proven long or short? What are the blessings to be gleaned from them?

*A huge thank you to Darcy Veber for pointing out this gem of a Talmud verse to me.

Parashat Bo--Myers-Briggs

2010-01-22T10:12:00.000-08:00

In the opening verse of this week’s Torah Portion, Parashat Bo, we learn again of the phenomenon of Pharaoh’s “hardened heart” when it comes to the Israelites and their situation (Exodus 10:1). This idea of a “hardened heart” is repeated no less than 20 times in Exodus: half of the references referring to Pharaoh having a hardened heart and half of the references referring to God hardening Pharaoh’s heart (Etz Hayim 335). This repeated phrase begs a couple questions:

In the context of Torah, what is the role of the heart and what does it mean for a heart to be hardened?
How can we learn from this lesson of a hardened heart today?

The role of the heart
As far as the Torah is concerned, the heart functions “as the seat of the intellectual, moral, and spiritual life of the individual” (Etz Hayim 335). Said differently, the biblical heart is understood in much the same way as our mind functions today (the role of today’s heart, the emotional center, is found in the biblical kishkes or gut).

Hardening of the heart
We come to see then that what happens to Pharaoh is not an emotional hardening, but rather an intellectual and spiritual hardening. When the Torah says that Pharaoh’s heart is hardened, it signals to us that Pharaoh has become increasingly entrenched in his own thoughts, beliefs, and assumptions. Pharaoh becomes so convinced he is right, so convinced in the unjust social order of his day, and so sure in his own reasoned justifications that he becomes unable to hear the voices of others, to see their suffering, or recognize injustice.

Lessons of today
In studying these verses this past week, I was reminded of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (or personality test), which I first completed as a professional development tool while studying at the Hebrew Union College. One of the preference pairs on the test helps the test-taker to understand how s/he likes to make decisions: by Feeling or by Thinking. People who make decisions by Feeling “believe [they] can make the best decisions by weighing what people care about and the points-of-view of persons involved in a situation.” People who make decisions by Thinking “like to find the basic truth or principle to be applied, regardless of the specific situation involved.” As my professor explained it to me, for a Feeling decision-maker the feelings of the other person are more important than being rational and right, and for a Thinking decision-maker being right and rational is more important than sparing the feelings of others or his/her own self.

This Test comes to mind today because I see in its carefully laid-out boundaries the lessons of Pharaoh’s heart. When we harden our hearts, we allow ourselves to exist in the extremes of decision making. For the Feelers amongst us, we allow ourselves to ignore the moral universe in service to the individual in front of us. For the Thinkers amongst us, we allow ourselves to ignore the realities of the individual in service to what we have labeled as moral certitude.

The lesson of Pharaoh is this: We are responsible, always, for justice and compassion; for morality and empathy; for being right and for being kind. This dual-responsibility is what Torah, mitzvot, and Jewish ethical living are all about. Our tradition asks us to rise above are most basic instincts.

Tests like Myers Briggs are helpful for understanding ourselves, the ways in which we make decisions, and our own tendencies toward action and reaction in this world. They are not, however, excuses to live in extremes and harden our hearts. We are reminded this week not to decide in the image of Pharaoh (who sees neither justice nor compassion), but in the image of God (who seeks always to embody both).

Parashat Sh'mot--Spiritual Exile

2010-01-10T15:13:00.000-08:00

This week, we begin a new book of Torah. Exodus. Sh’mot in Hebrew. We often speak of the famous exodus memorialized in this book. The Exodus from Egypt, in which Moses leads the Israelites out of bondage, out of slavery, out of the Narrow Place.

But, as this book of Torah opens, there is no hint of bondage, no hint of slavery, no fear of the Narrow Land. Rather, this week’s Torah portion begins with an exodus into Egypt, as Joseph’s brothers and their families follow his footsteps southward from Canaan.

They had no idea what they were walking into.

And, doesn’t this story of our ancestors ring true? That which enslaves us often creeps up unannounced…out of places of plenty, experiences of goodness, lives of fullness. And then slowly, and without warning, we find ourselves not on some exotic adventure or frivolous vacation, but in exile. Distanced from freedom, separated from wholeness.

To be in exile is a spiritual condition. We are in exile when we find ourselves somehow separated from God, separated from the sacred. We are in exile when we feel an absence of the divine in our lives.

When we are in exile, we are spiritually marooned. Spiritually lost. Disconnected.

This week’s Torah portion is about experiencing exile and longing for redemption.

---

The Torah tells us how the Israelites went from freedom to slavery. It reads: “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph. And he said to his people, "Look, the Israelite people are much too numerous for us. Let us deal shrewdly with them, so that they may not increase” (Exodus 1:8-10).

Exile happens to us. Without our intending it. Without our wishing it. Suddenly, something around us changes. And what started as a journey to a land of plenty (good living), becomes enslavement. A simple story.

But, Torah teaches us that exile is not a permanent condition. Every exile holds the promise of redemption.

The Sefat Emet teaches us that Torah speaks of three different types of exile.
1.    Imprisonment
2.    Humility
3.    Poverty

And with each of these types of exile, we are promised three different acts of redemption, for Torah teaches us that God:
1.    Brings forth the prisoners
2.    Delivers the humble
3.    Helps the needy

And we ask: What is the meaning behind each of these types of exile? What does it mean to be a prisoner? What does it mean to be humbled? What does it mean to be needy?

First—The prisoner.

The Sefat Emet teaches us that we are prisoners when we are “unable to broaden out that point of divine life that is within [us].” We are imprisoned when we fail to recognize that there is an essential spark inside each of us. We are imprisoned when we are unable to tap into that source of life and goodness. We are imprisoned when we are unable to tap into its strength.

But, God brings us prisoners forth.

Second—The humble.

The humble person is a righteous person, one who need not be in exile, but who remains there selflessly. Working to redeem others. Moses, the Sefat Emet teaches, was one of the humble. He himself could have been redeemed, but remained in Egypt in order to lead his people out. And there are those of us who spend our days redeeming others. We work tirelessly to rescue those amongst us who are lost or fallen or faltering. We are reminded this week that this work comes at a toll. We who exile ourselves by choice need special care. We too must claim moments of rest, moments of freedom, moments of peace.

And, God, we are taught, delivers the humble.

And finally, the third type of exile—The needy.

“The needy,” we are taught, refers to “those lowly ones who do not yet even feel their exile.” Yes, says the Sefat Emet, “they are in need of the greatest salvation.” Our ancestors suffered under the cruel king’s tyranny for years without realizing they were enslaved. It was not until that king died that the Israelites first cried out. They moaned and called out for help. And God heard them. And remembered. And saw them.

God, we are taught, helps the needy

Redemption is impossible until we recognize that we are in exile. Until we cry out. Until we sigh under the burden. This is the great act of strength. Falling into exile is passive. Readying for redemption is active.

We are taught there is a final act of redemption, one that is due to us all. God tells us: “I will take you as My people” (Exodus 6:7). No longer lost. No longer separated. Claimed. Whole. Connected.

The Sefat Emet finishes, “Something like this is true of every exile. But more than that, all these rungs seem to exist in every person as well. Every [person] has some inner place in which he is a free person.”

--

And now I invite you look inward. Imagine that first cry our ancestors made. The original sigh, which grew to a moan, and cascaded into a call, one heard by God. Imagine the relief they felt, finally naming that which oppressed them.

And now I invite you to consider your own life. Imagine the divine spark deep within you, your source of freedom. Breathe into it. Breathe out of it.

This is the first act of redemption. This a Shabbat for claiming freedom. All the rest is still yet to follow. Only potentials. Only possibilities.

Parashat Vayehi--Making Sprials

2010-01-03T09:25:00.000-08:00

There are many elements converging together this Shabbat. I believe these elements, which are seemingly disconnected, might actually suggest to us something new (or at least something to reflect upon) during the day of rest ahead.

A few elements worth noting:

We are coming to the end of the first day of a new calendar year.

We are one night past a fairly rare blue moon on a New Year’s Eve.

We are reading the last Torah portion in the book of Genesis.

And, with Joseph’s death at the end of the parashah, we are standing on the border between freedom and slavery in Egypt.

Remember these disconnected elements as we dive for a moment into the particulars of the Torah portion itself.

This week’s parashah begins with Jacob on his deathbed. Jacob’s son Joseph brings his two sons Manasheh and Ephraim to their grandfather’s bedside, asking Jacob to offer a blessing over them.

As is the custom, Joseph leads the older son Manasheh to Jacob’s his right side and the younger son Ephraim to his left. Jacob is blind by this time and Joseph helpfully arranges the boys perfectly so that Jacob would be able to easily use his right hand to bestow due honor on Manasheh, Joseph’s firstborn son.

A word about firstborn sons...

In the Tanakah, the Hebrew Bible, we are taught that the firstborn son is due quite a lot in life—his father’s blessing, a double portion of his family’s inheritance (Deut. 21:15-17), and the authority to rule over the rest of his family after his father’s death.

What a privilege...

And yet, in this week’s Torah portion, we are reminded that so-called divinely ordained privileges are often not all that they seem to be.

In this week’s parashah, Jacob intentionally crosses over his arms, laying his right hand on the younger Ephraim’s head and his left hand on the older Manasheh’s. When Joseph seeks to correct the mistake, Jacob says, “I know, my son, I know. He too shall become a people, and he too shall be great. Yet his younger brother shall be greater than he” (Genesis 48:19). And Jacob blesses the younger Ephraim.

Jacob is clearly sensitive to birth order, having tricked his older brother Esau out of birthright and blessing.

And at that, Jacob’s father Isaac knew a bit about superseding the so-called “natural order of things,” as he, the younger son, was granted his father’s birthright and blessing in place of his older brother Ishmael.

And why is it that Jacob is blessing the sons of Joseph at all? Let us remember that Joseph is the eleventh of Jacob’s twelve sons. Why is not the oldest son, Reuben, at his father’s bedside? Jacob himself explains that it is because of Reuben’s immorality that the sons of Joseph receive Jacob’s birthright (1 Chr. 5:1).

The list continues. King David passes over his firstborn son Adonijah in favor of the younger Solomon. (2 Chr. 21:3). Chosah chooses Shimri.

In the end, even God chooses to turn aside custom, claiming the Levites as priests, in place of the Israelites’ firstborn sons (Number 8:6-18).

And so, we are left with a dilemma. What sort of a lesson are we meant to take away from this systemic undoing of what is presented as a preordained “donesss”? That is to say, why does the Torah teach of a firstborn’s birthright, if, more times than not, this birthright is given not to the privileged older son, but to the younger son?

We are reminded of this intentional rebalancing on a weekly basis. In the Shabbat blessing of the children, parents are called upon to say, “May you be like Ephraim and Manasheh.” Our words flip the natural birth order, Manasheh and Ephraim, and we continually reinforce the reconstituted hierarchy of life.

---

I mentioned earlier that there are a series of elements converging upon us tonight. We are moving beyond beginnings (full moons and new years) and into the possibilities that lie ahead, at the same time we come to the end of a book of Torah. This Shabbat is one of endings and beginnings.

Our patriarchs begin and end as well. Ephraim begins his new life as favored son. Manasheh ends his. Jacob dies. Joseph dies. And the Israelites are poised to begin a new, not necessarily better, tenure in Egypt.

Beginnings and Endings. Torah tells us: At these moments, things are ever hardly what we expect them to be. What we are told they should be. What we want to order them to be.

Margaret Atwood writes, “Beginnings are sudden, but also insidious. They creep up on you sideways, they keep to the shadows, they lurk unrecognized. Then, later, they spring (The Blind Assassin 232).

Rabbi Zoë Klein told me once that a circle is a dangerous shape. Circles continue revolving on and on, without stopping and without ever advancing. A spiral is much healthier. Spirals have the roundness of circles, but are ever pushing forward, ever advancing.

Maybe this is the lesson we are to learn this week. Not just that Torah favors younger sons or that hierarchical establishments are made to be broken...but, that we have the power to change the seemingly preordained and inevitable circles of our lives. Endings and beginnings are perfect times for making spirals.

Joseph set two sons before Jacob. The future all lined up. Neat and ordered. All Jacob did was flip his hands. Circle made spiral.

And here we are, the moon pregnant with possibility, waxing yet again. The 0s and 1s of 01-01-10 lined up neatly on our calendars. All we have to do is flip our hands. Set the spiral in motion. Start a new book of Torah once again.

Chazak, chazak, v’nitchazek. Be strong, be strong, and may you be strengthened.

Chanukah and Shabbat 5770

2009-12-10T18:48:00.000-08:00

A prayer for tonight, which is Shabbat and the first night of Chanukah:

May the lights we light tonight not be limited to four small flames.
Rather, may each of these flames expand—expand into a soft light that illuminates the shadows within each of us.
May tonight’s flames serve as some sort of gentle inner glow—a glow that radiates from the outside in and from the inside out.
A light of awareness.

May the lights we light tonight not be limited to four small flames.
Rather, may each of these flames blaze like torches—torches that throw light onto the injustices around us.
May tonight’s flames serve as urgent, alarm-like reminders that our world is not yet perfect and that we have a pressing responsibility to act for change.
A light of awareness.

May the lights we light tonight not be limited to four small flames.
Rather, may each of these flames serve as markers—markers of the Sacred Presence in our hearts and homes.
May tonight’s flames serve as the purest of symbols—symbols of a Sheltering Peace that envelops us even in these longest, darkest days of our year.
A light of awareness.

Parashat Vayishlach--thoughts on Thanksgiving cont.

2009-12-04T07:40:00.000-08:00

In this week’s Torah portion, Vayishlach, Jacob gives something of himself to his brother Esau. In this parashah, Jacob sees Esau for the first time in twenty years. You may remember that the last time these two brothers saw one another was when Jacob was fleeing his family’s home in fear of his life, for Esau had just discovered that Jacob had stolen his birthright.

In the beginning of this week’s portion, Jacob spends a night of restless wrestling, he is filled with the deepest fears imaginable. Jacob is terrified that Esau, in violent retribution for his earlier thievery, would attack him and his entire family. We can imagine how relieved and shocked Jacob must have been when Esau, instead of attacking him, received him. We can imagine what Jacob must have felt when he realized that his worst nightmares would not become reality. We can imagine that Jacob, by the end of this encounter, was unbelievably grateful to his brother and to God.

I believe that we can all identify with Jacob: We know the feelings associated with being given a gift that we feel we might not have deserved. We can empathize with the deep gratitude that Jacob must have felt when he knew that his life would be spared.

But, what is remarkable about Jacob’s behavior in this story is what Jacob does with his gratitude. For, when Jacob realizes that Esau is granting him the gift of peace, Jacob says to him: “‘…I pray; if you would do me this favor, accept from me this brachah (blessing), for to see your face is like seeing the face of God, and you have received me favorably. Please accept my blessing which has been brought to you, for God has favored me and I have plenty’” (33:10).

Jacob responds to his heartfelt gratitude by giving something essential of himself to his brother. The blessing that Jacob gives to Esau is more than just a simple offering. This gift is Jacob’s attempt to make right the wrong he had committed against Esau twenty years ago. The Hebrew word for birthright is “b'racha” or “blessing.” And so, when Jacob offers Esau a “b'racha,” a blessing as a gift of gratitude, I believe that Jacob is trying to set right what he had done wrong. For, Jacob, in his gratitude, gives Esau a “b'racha,” something that is profoundly essential to who he is, and something which Esau lacks.

The truth is, it would have been easy for Jacob to have simply walked away from his brother. Jacob could have fallen to his knees, in perfect biblical style. He could have thanked and praised God, his Provider and Protector, his Rock and his Shield for delivering him from his brother. But, Jacob does not just do that. Jacob knows that prayer, in this case, is not enough. His gratitude warrants action. We can learn a lot from Jacob.

This is thanksgiving.

Questions for further reflection (perfect for family-sharing during Shabbat meals):

What is a gift that have you received for which you did not feel worthy?
How did you feel when you received it? How did you react?
What life-lesson(s) did you learn from the experience?

Parashat Toldot--Thanksgiving

2009-11-20T15:24:00.000-08:00

The word “Thanksgiving” is an assertion. From it, we learn that the appropriate response to gratitude is giving. Thanksgiving. Because we feel deeply grateful for what we have in our lives, we give something of ourselves to someone or something else.

In this week’s Torah Portion, Parashat Toldot, we encounter the opposite of thanksgiving. Said simply, this is a parashah that focuses on ingratitude and taking. Jacob pushes his (slightly) older brother Esau into selling him his birthright for a cup of soup, and then Jacob steals Esau’s blessing through outward trickery. They boys’ parents, Isaac and Rebekah, each choose their favorite son and support his efforts.

If this were the end of the Torah’s story about thanksgiving, we would be in a sorry state. In fact, it’s just the beginning. The real story of Jacob and Esau is not the taking or the trickery, but the gratitude and giving that come later. For me, the real story of Jacob and Esau is one of reconciliation and redemption. But, that is still yet to come...

The joy of studying Torah each week is the spiritual reflection that is possible when we know the end of the story, but willfully ignore it. This week we learn of taking and losing. This week we are left to consider the isolation and unhappiness that selfishness breeds. We are left longing for giving and gratitude. (and we know they are still yet to come)

As we move toward Shabbat, and then toward the holiday of Thanksgiving, I invite you to reflect again on the word “thanksgiving.” This word implicitly asserts that living a life filled with gratitude is insufficient. Unlike gratitude, thanksgiving is renewable. It spreads from person to person, life to life, soul to soul. Gratitude is a feeling. Thanksgiving is an action. In fact, this week, we hear a call to action: Seek out gratitude. Embrace opportunities for giving.

Questions for further reflection (perfect for family-sharing during Shabbat meals):

What are you grateful for in your life?
How might your gratitude inspire you to give?
What gifts do you still have yet to share with the world, and how might they be used to help others?

Parashat Chayei Sarah--Choosing Meaning

2009-11-13T13:30:00.000-08:00

They say that Abraham was the first Jew, because God said to him “Lekh l’kha!” (Go!) and Abraham went.

They say that Ruth was the first convert, because Naomi said to her “Go back to your people,” and instead she stayed, saying “Your people will be my people.”

And both of those accounts might be true, but I believe Rebekah was the first Jew by choice. Because, in this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Chayei Sarah, Rebekah’s family asks her, “Will you go with this man?” And Rebekah answers, “I will go.”

“This man,” by the way, is Abraham’s servant, sent by Abraham to find a bride for his son Isaac. And this servant believes Rebekah is not only the best choice for a bride, but someone sent by God for Isaac. What is incredible about this little piece of text is that it doesn’t really matter what the servant thinks, what Rebekah’s family wants, or what God ordains. The choice is Rebekah’s.

“Will you go?” they ask.

“I will go,” she says.

Rebekah is the first Jew by choice. Rebekah is asked and she agrees.

I imagine that Rebekah paused a long time before answering the question “Will you go?” I imagine that in her pondering she heard a divine whisper saying to her, “What will be the meaning of your life?”

(As long as we are imagining the question and divine whispers, we might as well imagine the answer, as anachronistic as it may be!)

Yes, I imagine that it was the twentieth century philosopher Victor Frankl who answered, “I doubt whether a doctor can answer this question in general terms. For the meaning of life differs from [person to person], from day to day and from hour to hour. What matters, therefore, is not the meaning of life in general but rather the specific meaning of a person’s life at a given moment.”

The moment that Rebekah answered, “I will go,” what she really said was, “My life will take on a new, unprecedented, and as of yet unknown meaning.”

In our lives, we are asked the question “Will you go?” again and again, in different forms and in new iterations, always with the same divine whisper “What will be the meaning of your life?” The answers we supply to these questions have ripple effects. They determine the purpose of our lives (if not forever, at least for a given moment).

This week, Torah invites us to reflect on the “Will you go?” questions of our lives, those already asked and answered and those, as of yet, still unimagined. The text encourages us to consider our own responses, and possibly even nudges us to take a risk or two. This is a Shabbat for renewed purpose and direction. This is a Shabbat for thanking Rebekah.

Shabbat Shalom!

Questions for further reflection (perfect for family-sharing during Shabbat meals):

Have there been moments in your life when you were asked to take a new direction in life? How did you answer and how did it effect things to come?
Right now, in one sentence, what would you say is the purpose of your life? How has your answer to this question changed over time?

Parashat Vayera--A Community of Welcoming

2009-11-06T12:34:00.000-08:00

This past Shabbat, I experienced pure joy as I gathered with many of our TIOH 6th Grade Religious School Families and our 6th Grade teachers (Libby and Manda) at the Karic family’s home for Shabbat dinner. As each guest arrived, the Karics greeted us warmly. And, soon, everyone was greeting one another. As the evening drew to a close, one parent told me she had spoken to many, many people she had never met before. This, to me, is what it means to be a welcoming community. This week’s Torah portion, Parashat Vayera, offers us the perfect opportunity to reflect on our own practice of welcoming.

The Torah Portion Reads:

Adonai appeared to [Abraham] by the terebinths of Mamre; he was sitting at the entrance of the tent as the day grew hot. Looking up, he saw three men standing near him. As soon as he saw them, he ran from the entrance of the tent to greet them and, bowing to the ground, he said, "My lords, if it please you, do not go on past your servant. Let a little water be brought; bathe your feet and recline under the tree. And let me fetch a morsel of bread that you may refresh yourselves; then go on—seeing that you have come your servant's way." They replied, "Do as you have said." (Genesis 18:1-5).

Parashat Vayera is considered by many to be our tradition’s definitive text on the practice of welcoming. The commentator Rashi teaches us that Abraham is sitting at the entrance of his tent because he is in the process of healing from his circumcision. He is at the ripe age of 99. So, Abraham is sitting outside his tent, on his land, focusing on his life, and his issues. At that moment, three strangers appear (later we are taught these strangers are actually angels). Despite all this, Abraham steps out of himself, his life, and his own experiences and welcomes the three men into his home. He offers them food, water, refreshment, and rest. From this text, we learn the value of hachnasat orchim, welcoming guests.

This past Tuesday night, a group of fourteen TIOH 6th grade families gathered. Each of these families has volunteered to host an Israeli student in their home during our Partnership visit with Israelis students from the Tzahala School. These families are living out the core values of TIOH: A welcoming community, connected to one another and to the land and people of Israel. Again, this past week, my soul was filled as I understood the kindness these families were extending to our soon-to-be communal guests.

In his book The Spirituality of Welcoming, Ron Wolfson writes:

The spirituality of welcoming elevates both the guest and the host. A warm greeting eases the unspoken anxiety a guest feels at being a stranger and immediately answers the first question anyone in a strange place asks: Will I be welcome here? For the host, the act of hospitality is a gesture of spiritual generosity, uplifting the soul. It is an offering of oneself, an invitation for connection between human and human and, in that meeting, between human and God.

Each week, we begin Sunday morning Religious School with our Flagpole gathering. This gathering is a time for students, parents, teachers, madrichim, and our TIOH clergy to connect with one another and, through that connection, to connect to the Sacred in our lives. Our Flagpole time, which is filled with much laughter and joyful singing, is our opportunity to open the doors of our Tent wide, and to invite all to enter. If you have not yet joined us for this weekly practice of welcoming, I invite you to do so (every Sunday at 9:00 a.m. in Miller Hall).

In our TIOH community, our roles are fluid. At times, each of us is a host and at times each of us is a guest. Sometimes we might even feel as if we are the stranger. When we acknowledge and internalize this reality, we realize that it takes all of us to sustain and build our community of welcoming.

As this year continues and time goes on, there will be opportunities for all of us to open our hearts, our homes, our souls, and our arms to one another. Parent and student, alike. This, I believe, is Torah’s call to us this week: How will you live out the spirituality of welcoming? How might you serve as a welcoming presence in our community? What will you do to ensure that we have a community of welcoming?

Parashat Lech L'cha--An Open Destiny

2009-10-30T14:55:00.000-07:00

Sarai and Avram are called the first Jews. In this week’s Torah portion, Lech L’cha, they are the first to pledge themselves to the one God. They are the first to leave their lives behind in search of a new destiny. In the chapters of Torah that unfold over the next weeks, we learn the complexities of Avram's inner and outer life. We learn the lengths of his faith. But what about Sarai? What does she have to say?

What follows is an imagined look into Sarai's thoughts and experiences. This is my reimagining of sacred text, an attempt to fill in the gaps. I invite you to leave your comments here and offer your interpretations, as well.

The text of this week’s Torah portion can be found online by clicking here.

Grace Paley teaches that “everyone, real or imagined, deserves the open destiny of life.” My life had no open destiny. Avram was my husband. He led, I followed. His God was my God; not by choice, but by circumstance. Yes, there were ways to subvert the subservience. Yes, there were opportunities for small changes along the way on our journey. Some days I would suggest that we stop a little longer. I would whisper into Avram's ear, "The animals need feeding, the people need rest." Yes, I would say, let’s not stay here too long, I feel danger around us.

In time, as we marched through the desert, I came to know Avram’s God. I came to know God, because when all else failed--my husband, my place in our family, everything known--God remained with me. And, I realized, it wasn’t just Avram who could talk to God. I could too.

God knew Avram well. Maybe even better than I knew him. God knew that with a divine directive of “Go,” Avram would go. God knew that with a divine whisper of “Follow,” Avram would follow. But, God also knew that if I said, “Help,” Avram wouldn’t. And, if I said, “Wife,” Avram would say “Sister.”

My journey was a troubled one. One day I was by Avram's side. His wife, his partner, his companion. And the next I was in the Pharaoh's court, a play thing for royal amusement. Avram said to me, plain as day, "Look now, I know what a beautiful woman you are! So when the Egyptians see you, and say: 'This is his wife,' they may kill me; but you they shall keep alive. Please say then that you are my sister, so that on your account It may go well for me…" (Genesis 12:11). One small move and I was no longer wife, I was sister. I was left on the side of a road, in a forgotten kingdom, to serve the Pharaoh. A stranger in a strange land? No matter. "Stay there," I overheard Avram saying as he settled in to reap his rewards. It did go swell for him. But I knew my story: No land is mine through inheritance. No land is mine through struggle or trial or journey. I have no property, I am chattel.

God had promised Avram children, but God never made any promises to me. And neither did Avram. And it wasn't until things started going not well for Pharaoh that he figured us out, and I was released. Sister no more. Who helped Pharaoh get there? Who helped him realize this purposefully mistaken identify? God.

And so, you see, Avram was chosen, selected by God. Faith through honor. I was rescued. Rescued by God when I felt forgotten in life. I was remembered.

And so, in this most sacred of texts, I remain. I am here to remind you that the desert and wandering of life can be lonely. And we may come to the holy through the most desperate of circumstances. But, I know, that in the depths of despair, sometimes God is waiting. Avram might have heard God's call, but God heard mine.

My legacy is a troubling one. Told in the spaces between the letters. Left for you to imagine. What else do you read here? Please post your comments.

Thank you to Soni Sanberg for first helping to read Sarai in a new light. My first insights into this side of Sarah came from Rosellen Brown and Ruth Behar writing in Beginning Anew: A Woman’s Companion to the High Holy Days.

Parashat Noach 5770--Walking with Humanity

2009-10-23T12:51:00.000-07:00

“Noah was a righteous man (ish tzadik), blameless/innocent in his generation; Noah walked with God” (Genesis 6:9). Last week, I had the privilege of sitting down with members of Dorot Tzedek (Generations of Justice), a group of people at TIOH committed to working on behalf of justice. Noah and this group of folks from TIOH have something in common. He was called an ish tzadik and they are called Dorot Tzedek. Tzadik and Tzedek are from the same Hebrew root, meaning justice or righteousness. The similarities between them end here. You see, Noah learned that his world was coming to an end and he “walked with God” and “built and ark.” Folks from Dorot Tzedek see that our world is broken, and they have begun building relationships, accessing power, and publicly speaking words of truth to heal us.

Rabbi Moses Alshekh (c1498-1593) asks “Why are Jews not considered to be the descendants of Noah but rather of Abraham…?”

Alshekh answers:

The explanation is that even though Noah was righteous and perfect in his actions, he was not the ideal of the righteous Jew. “Noah walked with God,” not with people, not with others—he was not interested in humanity, in the environment. His righteousness was directed inward, to himself and his family…

In the face of brokenness, Noah was given a choice: Focus inward or focus outward? Focus inward: Either in despair, or personal triumph, or fear, or in an attempt to sustain life as he had known it. Or focus outward: Like the prophets of the biblical world and modern times, rail against injustice, seek ways to heal the brokenness, reach out to others, affect change. Noah focused inward.

Alshekh continues:

He was commanded by God to build an ark—he built it board by board and nail by nail, for a hundred and twenty consecutive years, and it never crossed his mind that there might be a way to avert God’s decree and save the world from destruction.

Noah was so focused on hammering and nailing (and how productive must he have felt in his toils!) that he never once looked up. No cries throughout the city, like the unwilling Jonah or the suffering Jeremiah. No speeches to move a nation like Martin Luther King, Jr. No attempts to turn prayer into action like Stephen S. Wise or Abraham Joshua Heschel.

Alshekh reminds us that we are the children of Abraham. Abraham and Sarah started their life journey as two individuals. The Torah doesn’t teach us that they were perfect. On the contrary, they were individuals who piled up a lifetime of flaws and hurts and mistakes. Much like all of us, if we’re being honest. But, Abraham and Sarah did something remarkable. They turned their two into hundreds and then thousands. They built relationships and sought to change their world.

I think back to the Dorot Tzedek meeting. And, I understand that we today are given a choice. Will we be the descendants of Noah or the descendants of Abraham? Will we build up the walls of an ark, nail by nail, surrounding us so thoroughly that we are no longer burdened by the sight of this world? Or will we build bridges that link us, inextricably, to the fate of humanity, and invite them along for the ride?

My deepest gratitude to Lila Foldes, from URJ's Just Congregations, for introducing me to this Alshekh interpretation.

Parashat B'reisheet 5770--The Infinite Within Us

2009-10-16T15:26:00.000-07:00

This week, we begin Torah anew. We read the first words of creation, Genesis 1:1, “In the beginning...” and our tradition hands us, once again, an invitation. The scroll is rerolled and our opportunity to start learning and connecting to Torah anew is granted. This Shabbat, I want to offer you a few suggestions of books that might give you a new doorway in to Torah, as well as share with you a spiritual gift. If you have been looking for a way to reconnect to sacred text, have always wanted to read the Torah from beginning to end, and/or are interested in exploring a new avenue of study, might I suggest a few gems, which have brought greater meaning to my own study. As always, if something grabs you, I welcome the opportunity to study together.

A few suggestions:

Genesis, by Stephen Mitchell, provides “a new translation of the classic biblical stories.” This book opens up Genesis in ways that are unique, provocative, and gripping. Mitchell resets the biblical text according to different accounts and reorders certain passages. If you are looking to have old assumptions about Genesis challenged, this is a wonderful place to start.

The Five Books of Moses by Everett Fox provides a fresh translation and wonderful commentary on the Torah.

The Torah: A Women’s Commentary by Tamara Eskenazi and Andrea Weiss is a publication with which many of you are already familiar. If you have not yet picked up a copy, I urge you to do so. I spent a number of years while in rabbinical school serving as Dr. Eskenazi’s assistant, working on the Voices section of this commentary, and co-writing the central commentary on one parasha. This truly was some of the most interesting work on text I have done as of yet.

And finally...

The Language of Truth, by Arthur Green, provides a translation and interpretation of a great Chasidic Text, “The Torah Commentary of the Sefat Emet, by Rabbi Yehuda Leib Alter of Ger.” Green’s commentary provides a key to understanding this marvelously spiritual (and sometimes esoteric!) work.

And now, my spiritual gift to you for the week, a look at a gem from the Sefat Emet's commentary on this week's Torah portion (using Green’s translation and commentary).

This week’s Torah portion, Parashat B’reisheet, includes the following words in its description of creation: “Heaven and earth were finished...” (Genesis 2:1). The Sefat Emet explains that a midrash (rabbinic commentary) on this verse cites the following line from the Psalms, “I have seen an end to every purpose, but Your commandment is very broad” (Psalm 119:96). The midrash suggests, “Everything has a fixed measure, but Torah has no measure” (Green 6).

Yes, teach the ancients rabbis, there are limits to all of life. But, Torah has no limit.

The Sefat Emet takes this assertion a step further. It teaches:

Torah gives life to all of Creation, measuring it out to each creature. But that life-point which garbs itself within a particular place to give it life—it has no measure of its own, for it is beyond both time and nature. ...The same is true within everything: The inward point has neither measure nor limit (Green 6).

Jewish mystics teach that there is a Torah both of this (revealed, limited) world, and a Torah of the other (hidden, infinite) world. While the Torah of this world has, like all of creation, its own limits, the Torah of the hidden world has no limits. Jewish mystics teach that, like Torah, all of creation exists in two worlds. One: The revealed world of limits. Two: The hidden world of infinity. There is a link between this (revealed, limited) world and the other (hidden, infinite) world. This link between the two worlds takes the form of an essential point of limitlessness which is inside each of us.

The Sefat Emet continues:

This is true of the human soul as well; it, too, has no measure. ...The same is true of the world’s soul, because the person is a microcosm. The Sabbath is a revelation of this inwardness, and it is called ‘the day of the soul, not the body’ (Green 7).

The Sefat Emet understands the Torah, the human soul, the world’s soul, and Shabbat to all share the same fundamental link: We all have a core of the infinite inside of us.

Green, commenting on this passage from the Sefat Emet explains:

As each creature knows its deepest self, it knows Torah. Only when Torah enters into this-worldly human discourse, does it take on tsimtsum, the contraction that makes it take on limits. So, too, the soul; its root is boundless. Only as it lives in this world does it have to exist within limits. This is why the soul loves Torah; it recognizes within it a secret partner from the world of infinity (Green 7).

Yes, the Sefat Emet teaches, our souls are called to Torah because deep down our souls know Torah to be made of the same stuff we are, that which is infinite.

On this Shabbat, I pray that all of our souls come to Torah anew. May we find within it purpose and meaning. May we feel a renewed call to study and experience a fresh take on text. “In the beginning…”

Simchat Torah 5770--Cycling Again

2009-10-09T11:39:00.001-07:00

During Sukkot, we read from the biblical book of Kohelet or Ecclesiastes. Kohelet teaches us, “Enjoy yourself while you are young…make the most of your early days; let your heart and eyes show you the way” (Ecclesiastes 11:9). These are fitting words to hold close as Sukkot comes to a close and we begin our celebration of Simchat Torah tonight. Tonight, along with joyful Torah dancing, Torah reading, and words shared from TIOH congregants, we will offer a special blessing for all students in our schools who are new to Jewish learning.

On Simchat Torah, we read the last verses of the Torah, focusing on the end of Moses’ life, as well as the first words of the Torah, focusing on creation.

Often, in our daily lives, we experience time as linear (e.g. timelines and timetables). Our secular society likes to draw time in boxes and lines. Jewish time is deeply different. We experience Jewish time in cycles. Each day beginning anew, each week beginning anew, each month beginning anew, and most recently, a year beginning anew. Tonight Torah begins anew.

Why separate experiences at all, our tradition implicitly asks? On Simchat Torah, endings and beginnings are not two points on opposite ends of a line, but closely linked moments, touching in a circle. No neat boxes separating death from birth. But rather, we read in one fluid motion Moses’ death and the first word-acts of creation. Just like that, to life again.

Tonight, when we bless our newest students, they become like Torah itself. They are both beginning anew and inextricably linked to the young people they have already become. This is a blessing to mark who they have been, who they are, and who they will be. Within our community. Within their own lives. Tonight we consecrate them, that is to say we mark their lives and their learning as sacred, and in turn, they bless us by becoming the newest learners in our community.

“Enjoy yourself while you are young…make the most of your early days; let your heart and eyes show you the way.” Tonight, with joyful dancing and words of Torah, we all become young again. In our turning cycles, anything seems possible. New beginnings are the order of the day. On Simchat Torah, we let our hearts and our eyes lead us to a new cycle of living and learning. We celebrate those in our community who keep us young with their youthful joy and new ways of seeing. We commit ourselves to them as they commit themselves to us and our people.

Around and around, we dance. Flags and Torahs in hand. Life celebrated anew.

Sukkot 5770 -- Take your lulav & etrog

2009-10-02T12:37:00.000-07:00

Dr. Rachel Adler teaches that Judaism should be made more sensual. By this, she means that we should experience Jewish life using all of our senses. She talks of the importance of a multi-sensory Jewish experience and explains that a sensual Judaism is an embodied Judaism. Educators know that lessons taught with an emphasis on taste, touch, and smell are lessons well remembered. And this is why Sukkot is my kind of holiday. Sitting outside. Meals shared with friends and family. Fruit. Leaves. Trees. Decorations. It’s like camping. But Jewish. It smells good. It tastes good. It feels good.

This is the most sensual holiday of the year. Yes, tonight we enter into Z’man Simchateinu, the Season of our Joy. On Sukkot, we are commanded to be joyful and to embrace nature. The Torah tells us:

On the first day, you shall take the product of beautiful trees (citron), branches of palm trees, boughs of leafy trees (myrtle), and willows of the brook, and you shall rejoice before your God Adonai for seven days. ...You shall live in booths seven days, all citizens of Israel shall live in booths (Leviticus 23:40, 42).

In Hebrew, we call the fruit of the citron an etrog and we put the myrtle, palm, and willow branches together to make a lulav. Part of the great fun of Sukkot is taking these elements together and shaking them. For blessings and instructions of how to take the lulav and etrog click here.

For Sukkot, I would like to offer you a spiritual gift of three different understandings of what the lulav and etrog symbolize. I invite you to share these at your Sukkot meals. This is the week for family picnics and lots of time outside. Enjoy!

PARTS OF THE BODY
The palm branch is like the spine.
The myrtle is like the eye.
The willow is like the mouth.
And the etrog is like the heart.
“With all your limbs praise God.”–Vayikra Rabbah 30:14

AGRICULTURAL AREAS OF ISRAEL
The palm branch represents the lowland.
The willow represents the river.
The myrtle represents the mountains.
The etrog represents the irrigated areas.–Encyclopedia Judaica

THE JEWISH PEOPLE
The willow has neither taste nor aroma, symbolic of those people who neither study Torah nor perform good deeds.
The myrtle has a wonderful aroma but no taste, symbolic of those people who perform good deeds but do not study Torah.
The palm has no aroma, but has a delicious taste, symbolic of those who spend their time studying Torah but do not perform good deeds.
The etrog has a delightful aroma and a delicious taste, symbolic of those who both study Torah and perform good deeds!
“God says: ‘Let all four be held together so that they may protect and complement one another.’”–Vayikra Rabbah 30:12

QUESTIONS FOR YOUR FAMILY TO CONSIDER:

Which of these explanations resonates most with you? Why?
Can you think of your own interpretation of what the lulav and etrog might symbolize?
Each of the three different explanations talk about bringing different things together. What are ways you can make Sukkot a holiday for celebrating differences?

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

2009-09-25T12:35:00.000-07:00

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.”

Rosh HaShanah 5770

2009-09-17T14:01:00.000-07:00

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!

Parashat Nitzavim-Yayeilekh 5769--Writing your own Torah

2009-09-11T14:00:00.000-07:00

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!

Parashat Ki Tavo 5769--Elul Reflections

2009-09-04T13:11:00.000-07:00

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.

Rosh Chodesh Elul 5769--Counting and Accounting

2009-08-21T15:17:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-14T14:03:00.001-07:00

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

2009-08-07T15:00:00.001-07:00

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).

Parashat Va-Etchanan 5769--Jewish Knowing

2009-07-31T14:01:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-30T13:55:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-17T14:18:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-10T10:13:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-06T07:03:00.000-07:00

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.

---

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.”

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

“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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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

Parashat B'haalotcha 5769--Saying Goodbye

2009-06-12T13:58:00.000-07:00

It has been a true honor to write a weekly D’var Torah for the Temple Beth Sholom community these past years. Each week, I look forward to diving into Torah anew and to engaging in conversation about sacred text with you. This has been both a spiritual and learning practice for me. While I will be moving on from TBS on June 15, Torah will remain very much central to this community.

In the weeks to come, April Akiva, the incoming Director of Education, will begin writing a weekly D’var Torah for TBS. April’s keen mind and love of study is sure to enrich this community.

If you would like to continue following my weekly D’vrei Torah, you can always find me online at my Torah Blog.

If you have not already done so, I encourage you to sign up for the following insightful and meaningful D’vrei Torah:

The Union for Reform Judaism distributes a weekly Torah commentary, featuring the words of a variety of prominent scholars and rabbis from our community.

American Jewish World Service sends out a weekly Torah commentary, which highlights the connections between the weekly parashah and our own commitments to justice.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, the Chief Rabbi of England, writes an insightful weekly Torah commentary called “Covenant and Conversation.” You can sign up to receive it.

In this week’s Torah Portion, Parashat B’haaltocha, the Israelites take down their tents and travel on from their encampment at Mount Sinai. The Israelites camped at Mount Sinai from Exodus 19:1-Numbers 10:11. The Israelites were taught to watch the Divine Pillar of Cloud and Fire that rested over the Tabernacle or the mishkan. If the pillar stayed, they stayed. If the pillar lifted, they traveled. When the pillar lifted in Numbers 10:11, the Israelites knew it was time to travel onward.

I read these words anew this week. I think of our ancestors and the profound experiences they had while camped at Mount Sinai. Life changing experiences. Even though they journeyed onward, their hearts and souls were always inextricably connected to the community they created and all that they lived through at the base of the mountain.

And so I think of my own life. My time at TBS has rooted me in this community forever. Temple Beth Sholom will always be a home to me. And while I may journey onward, I remain forever connected with and grateful to this all of you. I leave deeply blessed from knowing you and honored for having had the opportunity to serve you.

Thank you for all you have given me. May your lives forever be blessed with the light of Torah and the joy of learning.

Parashat Nasso 5769--Adult B'nei Mitzvah

2009-06-08T16:42:00.001-07:00

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Nasso, we read the ancient words of blessing, the Priestly Benediction, creatively translated as:

The Eternal One spoke to Moses, “Speak to Aaron and his sons, ‘Thus shall you bless the people of Israel. Say to them,

May God bless you and keep you!

May God’s countenance shine up you and be gracious with you!

May God’s light shine upon you and grant you peace!'

Thus they shall link My name with the people of Israel, and I will bless them" (Numbers 6:22-27).

These words, which we utter at moments of celebration and on special holy days, provide us with a deep mystery of meaning. And while ancient commentators, like Rashi, read into this blessing promise of material wealth, spiritual fulfillment, and Divine favor, I see no such grand promises in the words. In my humble estimation, these ancient words of blessing do not speak of great rewards, enlightenment, or grandiose plans. They speak of something much more foundational, that of presence.

Any parent, pet owner, friend, child, gardener, employee, or spouse knows that presence is one of the most important and foundational gifts we can give to another person, and one of the most important gifts we can receive. Individuals thrive when they are given the blessing of another’s care, compassion, and availability. We know this to be true: No matter what life brings us what we need most is someone there with us. We need companions on our journeys.

In this week’s parashah, we are promised nothing more and nothing less than Divine Presence. Come what may, we are told, Adonai will be with us. In moments of joy and celebration, we can’t make false promises—promises of wealth, enlightenment, contentment, or good luck. Life hands us unexpected and unwelcome presents sometimes. What we can promise is presence. As God’s partners in the ongoing work of creation, we can understand that this Divine Promise is manifest in our own ability to be present for one another.

This coming Shabbat, sixteen extraordinary TBS congregants will be called to the Torah for the first time as adult b’nei mitzvah. This group and I have been studying together for the past two years. Beyond their growing competency in Hebrew and their joys of Jewish learning, they have come to understand the gift of being present. They have, in the past two years, formed a learning community, they have celebrated with one another, and they have supported one another. How fitting that they will read these words aloud to our community this Shabbat. I invite you to join us for this sacred occasion.

Beyond that, I invite you hear Torah anew this Shabbat. I invite you to consider where your presence is needed in this world, and then to offer it up. May you be blessed with divine light shining in your life, and may you bless others with your light in their.

Shavuot 5769--Standing at Mount Sinai

2009-06-01T17:23:00.001-07:00

On Shavuot, which this year begins on Thursday night, May 28, we read the book of Ruth. The book orbits around the stories of two women, Naomi and Ruth, mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, and the relationship they create. Ruth, a Moabite, marries Naomi’s son, an Israelite. After the untimely death of her husband, Ruth pledges her loyalty to Naomi and chooses to journey with her away from Moab and back to the land of Naomi’s people.

The story of Ruth is an ancient story and the soul bearing line she delivers to her mother-in-law is one that has been remembered for generations. Ruth says, “Wherever you go, I will go; wherever you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God” (Ruth 1:16). With these famous words, Ruth pledges herself to her mother-in-law and to Naomi’s people. Ruth, we are taught, is the first convert to Judaism.

What is most striking about Ruth’s pledge of loyalty is the order of the verse:

I am with you
I will journey with you
I will live with you
Your people will become my own
Your God will become my own

There are many roads into Jewish life. Our Jewish identities are often based on the choices we make along the way: The families and places from which we come, the schools and camps we attend, the places we travel to and settle in, the people we know, and the beliefs we hold central. The story of Ruth emphasizes what we all know to be true: At different stages in our lives these components hold different weight. Being Jewish does not always center around belief, ideology, or location. But, sometimes it does. Being Jewish does not always center around community, family, and friends. But sometimes it does.

Ruth understands the complexity of creating a Jewish life She understands that sometimes a close relationship with another person allows us to open our hearts to those things that person holds dear. Sometimes a move to a place brings us unexpectedly into a new Jewish community. Sometimes an existential yearning develops into a course of study, or a search for meaning leads us to a prayer practice. Life is full of doors. It is up to us which doors we choose to see, to open, and to walk through.

On this Shavuot, I invite you to consider Ruth’s pledge to Naomi anew. Ruth speaks of deep relationships, personal growth, created community, articulated meaning, and spiritual curiosity.

Which aspects of this pledge resonate closest to your current life experiences? What fills your life?

Which aspects of this pledge feel far from where you are right now? What is missing from your life?

On Shavuot, we stand again at Mount Sinai and receive Torah anew. We have the ability to articulate the Torah of our lives. We have the ability to choose what we will value and what will shape our existence. On this Shavuot, as you stand at Sinai once again, open your heart to choosing your life anew. Who knows where it might take you!

Parashat Bamidbar 5769--the roots of existence

2009-05-22T08:53:00.000-07:00

This week we begin a new Book of Torah, the book of Bamidbar or Numbers. Bamidbar begins with a census taking. All of the Israelites are counted and the number comes to 600,000. There are many famous commentaries on this counting. One of my favorites comes from the Sefat Emet, a collection of hasidic teachings written on the weekly Torah portions. The Sefat Emet was written by Rabbi Yehudah Leib Alter, and was published in Poland in the first years of the twentieth century.

The Sefat Emet explains:

The midrash refers to this counting of the children of Israel as being ‘like the scribe’s count.’ Just as the Torah has words and letters that are subject to counting but its root is high above, beyond all count, so, too, are the souls of Israel countable in this world, while in their root they are beyond number. Thus the holy books say that the 600,000 Jews [who came out of Egypt] are parallel to the 600,000 letters in the Torah.

The Sefat Emet cites here a well known mystical teaching, one which equates the number of souls that came out of Egypt with the number of letters in the Torah. While the Torah actually has just over 300,000 letters in it, the spiritual lesson here is worth reflecting upon.

Two questions to consider:

1. Why would Jewish mystics make this link between people and letters?
2. Why would Jewish mystics assert that the roots of both letters and people were beyond their counting?

The answers to both questions lie within the Sefat Emet itself:

The Torah that lies before us is in the garb of Torah. It is by means of study that we arouse the force that lies within it. That is the real power of Israel: to awaken the root of Torah. For the same is true of the human soul; the nefesh is but the garb of the neshamah that lies within it. And that neshamah, or deeper soul, is part of God above.

Mystical Jewish teachers believe that the Torah as we know it (the Torah of letters and words) is actually only a garb, a cloak covering the real essence (the roots) of Torah. It is by study and deeper reflection that we are able to unlock the true Torah from its shell. The same is true of human beings. The true essence of who we are (our roots) is covered by our shell. Underneath that shell is our truest form, our neshamah, our deeper soul, the divine spark within us. That divine spark is only unleashed when we attend to our own spiritual work and contemplation.

According to the mystics, what we see around us, including Torah and ourselves, is only the outer layer of true existence. If we take the time to peel back that which is apparent, we will uncover the true deeper unity that defines existence.

Our spiritual work this Shabbat is clear: Let us take moments to search beyond the obvious, to peer into the core of what we know, and open ourselves up to the deeper reality that pulsates all around us.

Parashat Behar-B'hukkotai 5769--Gardening

2009-05-17T09:26:00.000-07:00

I am growing a vegetable garden for the first time. Words cannot describe to you the deep delight I feel each morning as I walk out to my garden patch, coffee cup in hand, ready to see what happened over night. I feel the wonder of a small child. I examine each and every new bud, watch small peppers and strawberries beginning to form, help pea vines cling to their trellis, carefully water delicate leaves, and smell the fragrant herb leaves. It is like a mini Eden. And it is one of the most “Jewish” things I am doing these days.

A recent article in LA Times reported:

With Sabbath candles burning and 14 guests seated around her dinner table, Joanna Arch held up a cup of kosher red wine and chanted the kiddish prayer in Hebrew:

"God blessed the seventh day and made it holy because on it he rested from all his creative work."

As is the custom, the guests observed the holy day of rest with a meal, but with a twist: They were sharing a "sustainable" Sabbath dinner on this Friday evening, with food that was locally grown, mostly organic and intended to elevate their practice of Judaism.

Click here to read the rest of the article.

There is a current flowing through our world right now, one which links the renewed (organic victory) gardening movement with spiritual traditions.

Since Torah times, our tradition has expressed a deep connection between Jewish life and the land we live on. In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Behar-Bechukotai, we read of this connection. “Adonai spoke to Moses on Mount Sinai: Speak to the Israelite people and say to them: When you enter the land that I assign to you, the land shall observe a Shabbat of Adonai. Six years you may sow your field and six years you may prune your vineyard and gather in the yield” (Leviticus 25:1-3)

Our Torah makes the assumption that the Israelites were a people who tilled the land. In fact, the Israelites work the land to such an extent that the land needed its own a Shabbat, a year-long rest. (I wrote of this relationship in my D’var Torah last year http://rabbihudson.blogspot.com/2008/05/parashat-behar-5768.html) And I wonder: Might we need to take a reverse approach? Is it time for our community to make a commitment to a year of planting?

In a recent edition of National Public Radio’s Speaking of Faith, Krista Tippett interviewed theologian Vigen Guroian in a segment called, “Restoring the Senses,” which explored the relationship between Greek Orthodox Easter and gardening. Some of Guroian’s writings, as well as a downloadable podcast, can be found here. And, while it is clear that Guroian is speaking from a faith tradition different from our own, his message is clear: one encounters creation when one grows new life.

In times of uncertainty and change, planting a few seeds or starters and watching them grow can be deeply centering and fulfilling. It can also be a reminder of our tradition’s deeper commitments to food, ethical eating, and creating a sustainable world (check out Hazon for more on this). On this Shabbat, let us re-explore our relationship with ourselves and our world by re-connecting with the land.

Inch by inch, row by row.

Parashat Emor 5769--Rally for Darfur

2009-05-08T13:46:00.001-07:00

On Sunday, May 17, at 2:30 p.m. the Orange County Jewish community will join together at Mile Square Park for an unprecedented action. Together, we will stand side by side and march in a Rally for Darfur. Together as one community, we will protest the ongoing slaughter taking place in Darfur, Sudan.

Many of you gathered last Sunday to hear Holocaust Survivor Leon Leyson speak at Temple Beth Sholom. Still others joined two weeks ago with Hadassah to hear TBS Congregant and Holocaust Survivor Sarah Schweitz’s story, and still others joined with our TBS Teens to hear Jenny Unterman’s story. Yes, we have been deeply honored to have many in our Orange County community come together to hear first-hand accounts of the horrors of the Shoah, the Holocaust, in commemoration of Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Memorial Day, which took place on Tuesday, April 21.

We say “Never Again” and we gather to hear the sacred memories of those in our community who suffered at the hands of the Nazis. We say “Never Again,” and yet violence continues in our world. What is our moral responsibility as a Jewish people when we witness acts of violence and genocide in our own times?

This week’s Torah portion, Parashat Emor, continues to explore that which makes life holy and ritually pure. Like the rest of Leviticus, Parashat Emor goes to great lengths to describe details of ritual purity, including the ways in which Israelite priests must remain ritually pure, as well as the rhythm of the Jewish holy days. And, while the ancient particulars of the Levitical Authors may seem removed from our own sensibilities, I believe their deepest intentions are well in-line with our own.

The Levitical Authors intended to construct a world, a world of order and holiness, a world that mirrored the Divine and the Divine’s intention. A world which, illustrated through ancient sacrifices and rituals, breathed out messages of wholeness, holiness, and life. We too aim to create a world of wholeness, holiness, and life. And, we at times succeed. And, we at times fail.

We know in our hearts that what takes place in Darfur each and every day is a crime. We know that the crisis in Darfur is the antithesis to all that our Torah and we hold dear: wholeness, holiness, and life. We know and yet we feel overwhelmed by the scope of the task.

On May 17, we have an opportunity to take another important step against the outrage in Darfur. Let us gather as one community. Take one hour out of your life to spread a message of wholeness, holiness, and life. Our brothers and sisters in Darfur cry out for our help. Never Again. May it yet be so.

Please check out details regarding the May 17 Rally for Darfur in Mile Square Park at www.jewishworldwatch.com.

Parashat Achrei Mot-K'doshim 5769--Loving Ourselves, Loving Others

2009-05-01T16:23:00.000-07:00

This week’s parashah, Parashat Achrei Mot-Kedoshim, is centered around holiness. It includes the central message of Leviticus: “You shall be holy, for I, Adonai your God, am holy” (Leviticus 19:1-2). Dr. Tamara Eskenazi, who blessed TBS by serving as our scholar-in-residence this past Shabbat, teaches that the Bible’s concept of holiness is often described as one of separation. However, in Leviticus 19, this is far from true. In Parashat Kedoshim, “holiness comes from cultivating relationships. Connections…” (The Torah: A Women’s Commentary, 716).

Yes, this week’s Torah portion is about the holiness we bring to our lives through our connections with others. Dr. Eskenazi explains that the Torah tells us to “love” three different times (The Torah: A Women’s Commentary, 716). Once, immediately following the Sh’ma, in what we refer to as the V’ahavta, “You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart” (Deuteronomy 6:5). The other two instances of commanded love are in this parashah:

Love your fellow [Israelite] as yourself (Leviticus 19:18)
Love the stranger as yourself (Leviticus 19:34)

Yes, we are commanded to love others (both those who are like us and those who are not like us) as we love ourselves. And I wonder: What is the more challenging part of this mitzvah? Is it loving others or loving ourselves?

In a telling scene from the novel Joe Jones, by Annie Lamott, the book’s main character, Louise is sitting at her kitchen table, doing her bills, and drinking coffee. In the process, she accidentally knocks over her cup of coffee, ruining all the bills and papers she had laid out on the table before her. “You stupid jerk” she says to herself immediately, “You saw this coming…You’ve done this so many times before.” As Louise storms out of the house, fuming at herself and her own carelessness, the narrator muses, “She’s barely speaking to herself.” I think: There is Torah in this description. Part of loving others is loving ourselves. This character, Louise, was kind to everyone in her life, except herself.

Louise reminds me of a basic lesson that feels very difficult to learn: We should talk to ourselves like we want others to talk to us. We should talk to ourselves like we want to talk to others. Think about this for a moment. How does your inner voice speak to you?

The psychologist Judith Jordan presents a concept called “self-empathy” that mirrors the Torah’s commandment to love others as we love ourselves. Jordan explains that one way for us to better connect with others is to develop deeper empathy for our own experiences. Jordan explains that one way for us to work at being more empathic toward our own selves is to seek out connections with people who are empathic toward us and our experiences. That is, by connecting with people who show us empathy, we may come to understand ourselves “more fully and truthfully and compassionately” (Miller and Striver 134). When others see us in a gentle light, we can learn to see ourselves in a gentle light. The compassion we feel from these connections can help us to better connect with others and help others to connect with us. Extending love to others helps us to love ourselves, and extending love to ourselves helps us to love others.

And, what about the commandment to love God in the V’ahavta? Is this somehow related to loving others and ourselves? I believe this is, indeed, what the Torah is teaching us. When we accept ourselves with love and compassion, and when we accept others with love and compassion, we learn to accept and love the Ultimate Other—the Divine (see Martin Buber, I and Thou). Our relationships with others and with ourselves teach us how to relate to God.

This is a Shabbat of holiness, a Shabbat of connecting. This is a time for working on relationships, in all their wondrous variations. This is a time for talking about and thinking about love. This is a time for remembering that all is indeed interrelated. “You shall be holy, for I, Adonai, your God, am holy” (Leviticus 19:1-2). You shall see yourself as holy, for Adonai your God sees you as holy. You shall see others as holy, for Adonai your God sees them as holy. You shall see others as holy, for Adonai your God sees you as holy.

Parashat Tazria Metzora 5769--Mikveh as Modern Ritual

2009-04-25T21:06:00.000-07:00

In the days leading up to my rabbinic ordination, I stepped into a mikveh, a Jewish ritual bath, for the first time. There should have been nothing surprising about the experience. I had visited the mikveh many times before and studied the laws of immersion. I knew what to expect. I knew what would happen. I was ready.

How surprising it was for me, then, when I entered the mikveh and had what I can only call a transformational experience. The mikveh lady lovingly intoned, “The mikveh is the womb of the Jewish people.” She said, “God hears your prayers from the mikveh.” In those moments, I felt an uncontrollable urge to cry. I felt all of the hopes, disappointments, prayers, accomplishments, wounds, and healings from years past creep up to the surface. I felt cleansed. This is not what I would call a miracle, but it is what I would call an experience.

The laws of mikveh and ritual immersion are laid out in the chapters of Leviticus, particularly in this week’s double Torah portion, Parashat Tazria-Metzora. In her essay in the Women’s Torah Commentary“Contemporary Reflection,” Pauline Bebe writes:

The rabbis derived their laws that require an immersion in the mikveh in large measure from Leviticus (see at 12:1-8, 15:16, and 11:36). They rooted the laws in a need to purify oneself ritually after certain conditions such as menstruation, male seminal emission, certain skin diseases, or contact with the dead. Removing impurities was a precondition for coming into contact with the holy, such as in approaching the sanctuary. With the destruction of the Temple, these laws remained mandatory for women and optional for men. …While traditional Jews continue to use the mikveh for “family purity,” most liberal Jews rarely enter the mikveh.

I recently had the honor of speaking at a local Hadassah event. During the event, one woman asked a question regarding Jewish thoughts on the beginning of life. I spoke of the rabbis’ technical definitions before stopping myself. A flood of thoughts overtook me. As I was answering this delicate question, recent conversations with many women who are dear to me sprung to mind. This might be a function of my age, but I am at a time in life when many people close to me, family and friends, are starting families. In the tales of pregnancy and joys of birth, one factor has stood out. Surprised me even. A number of women dear to me have miscarried early in their pregnancies. I shared this fact with the Hadassah attendees and spoke of my desire to consider new rituals to help women who miscarry. After the conversation was over, I was surrounded by women, many of whom had their own tales of miscarriages. The losses these women experienced, for many of them decades ago, were still very much real.

We don’t talk about miscarriage much in public discourse. Yet, it has become overwhelmingly clear to me that this is a common and deeply painful rite of passage in many women’s lives. In Leviticus, we read of the need for “ritual purification” at times of menstruation and birth, but neither the rabbis nor the Torah ever mention miscarriage rituals. How do we respond Jewishly to miscarriage? Might there be an answer in our mikveh rituals?

I accompanied a TBS congregant, who was completing the final ritual of her conversion, to the mikveh recently. It was a homecoming of sorts for me, to stand on the other side of the curtain, to hear another person’s immersion, to see how much the ritual meant for this woman.

It is true what Pauline Bebe writes, liberal Jews do not often access the mikveh. But, that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t. Feminist ritual creators and theologians have created new rituals around mikveh. And, while some thinkers feel that the mikveh is beyond re-interpretation, many understand that the mikveh’s healing waters have much to hold for Jewish men and women at all different points of transition, from menopause to miscarriage, from marriage to divorce, from loss to promotion (read “Rising from the Ritual Bath” for more on this).

In that Hadassah gathering and in talking with other women, I have come to see that there is a powerful need for rituals in the wake of miscarriage. It is time that our community begins talking about these. If you are interested in learning more about this, check out ritualwell.org’s extensive listing of new resources.

What I am reminded by in this week’s Torah portion is that it is in our power to reclaim Jewish traditions and symbols to reflect our own life experiences and truths. This has been the practice of the Jewish people for centuries. The way we keep Torah relevant is by continuing to rediscover who we are and what we need from our people and our faith.

Parashat Sh'mini 5769 -- Alien Fire

2009-04-21T11:29:00.000-07:00

This week’s Torah portion brings us unexpected tragedy. It brings us a tale of unexpected death and loss. The book of Leviticus, so sparse with its narrative, interrupts its ritual and legal descriptions to deliver us three verses of pain in Parashat Sh’mini. The text reads:

Now Aaron's sons Nadab and Abihu each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it; and they offered before Adonai alien fire, which God had not enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from Adonai and consumed them; thus they died at the instance of Adonai. Then Moses said to Aaron, "This is what Adonai meant by saying: Through those near to Me I show Myself holy, And gain glory before all the people." And Aaron was silent. (Leviticus 10:1-3)

The Torah cries out for explanation. What was this alien fire? Why is such a harsh punishment inflicted on the sons? What do we make of a God who consumes people with fire? If Adonai is our God of Salvation, why would God kill Aaron’s sons?

Question after question, but the text answers none. The Torah remains as silent as Aaron.

Throughout the generations, interpreters have sought to shed light on these and other mysteries of the Torah. This is why we, as a Jewish community, rely so heavily on our sages. We use their interpretations to help us articulate our own understandings of Torah. This is the great chain of Jewish tradition. And, for generation after generation, the interpreters of our Torah have been solely men. The fact that men, exclusively, were the commentators on Torah has affected the way that we read and understand our holiest of texts. Indeed, we have come to realize that women’s voices and women’s experiences were kept out of the realm of Torah scholarship for generations. (This does not even address the belief of many that the Torah itself was written by different men—and not women—over many generations)

Why, you might ask, do I raise this question skewed Torah interpretation now? For two reasons:

In just a little over a week, on April 25, our congregation will be blessed to welcome our 2009 Scholar-in-Residence, Dr. Tamara Eskenazi, into our community. Dr. Eskenazi, co-editor of the newly published, award-winning "The Torah: A Women's Commentary,” is one of the most sought after Jewish scholars today. During her Shabbat with us, Dr. Eskenazi will teach us Torah in unique and exciting ways. Dr. Eskenazi lends an important voice to the Jewish community today. She and others declare that Torah can only be made fully relevant in our lives when both men and women’s voices join together to interpret and uncover the meanings of our holiest of texts. No longer can we solely rely on the voices of men of generations past, we must add new voices to the chorus. This Torah portion provides the perfect backdrop for my personal invitation to you to join us on April 25 for our scholar in residence. Check out details and RSVP by clicking here! In the “The Torah: A Women's Commentary,” Dr. Eskenazi and others help shed new light on ancient texts.

In reading through selections of this week’s parashah in the Women's Torah Commentary, I read Sh’mini anew. I focused on the implied pain of the final line “And Aaron was silent.” How did Aaron, devoted father and priest, feel seeing his sons die before his eyes? How helpless he must have felt. How devastated. How alone. In the Women’s Torah Commentary’s “Voices” section, the editors present a series of poems exploring issues of loss and mourning. These poems are meant to draw out the reader’s experience of these verses. I believe they help us link our own experiences to the emotions of the text. I want to share one of these poems with you this week.

A Pure Whole Memory

Only when the face is erased

can anything here be remembered whole,

only when the face is erased.

Then the light go wild,

the colors start from their frames.

Stars plunge from their height like epileptics.

Grasses groan up out of the earth

(their growing pains greater than wilting pangs).

All those things that blind our eyes

draw back to the shadows.

So too the face.

Somthing begins to stir in the depths.

How many days,

how many years of wind and weather,

have we waited for it to erupt

from the depths of the earth,

one pure whole memory,

like a lily,

pale red.

by Dahlia Ravikovich, translated by Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld

I invite you to reflect on the following questions. I also, again, invite you to join us in our studies with Dr. Eskenazi on April 25.

What does this poem suggest about the nature of loss?
How might this poem relate to Aaron and his experiences in the text?
How might this poem reflect (or not reflect) your own experiences of loss?

Birkat HaHammah -- Blessing of the Sun

2009-04-06T14:12:00.001-07:00

On February 9, 1986, when I was seven years old, my parents woke my younger sister, Emily, and me up in the middle of the night. They had prepared a thermos of hot chocolate, borrowed a telescope from a friend, and packed blankets and jackets. They led us out into the cold night air. Emily and I were in our pajamas, and my parents bundled us up in the back seat of the car. As we drove, my parents explained to us that we were about to see Halley’s Comet, a comet that appears in the night sky once every 75-76 years. They set up the telescope and we held our breath, waiting for a flashing light to appear in the sky. As we waited, I clearly remember my mom saying to Emily and me, “Remember this night forever. And, in 75 years, the two of you should meet one another again, at night, with a telescope, and see this comet again.”

We remember the milestones our parents create for us.

This year, at dawn on Wednesday, April 8 (not to be confused with sundown on April 8, which is the first night of Passover), Jews around the world will gather together to commemorate another such heavenly event. Jewish tradition teaches us that every 28 years the sun returns to its original place in the heavens; the place it rested at the exact moment of creation. On April 8, the sun will reach this exact point. On this day, Jews gather at dawn, gaze toward the sun, and recite a blessing called Birkat HaHammah.

The Talmud and other sources of rabbinic literature have complicated explanations for why Birkat HaHammah only occurs every 28 years, and wonderfully complex mathematical explanations for how their computations are found. Check out the Orthodox website for great explanations of this! The possibilities for this day, though, only begin with halachic computations.

This year, many Jewish groups are looking to highlight and celebrate the environmental implications of blessing the sun. If we can understand the seven-day creation story not as a literal description of the world’s inception, but as a metaphor for its birth, I believe this celebration is enriched even further. The seven days of creation symbolize a world in perfect harmony. In this world, animals and humans, plants and birds, sky and sea, air and earth exist in their intended balance. In past generations, we have disrupted this harmony. The threats of climate change, we are told, are very much real. The effects of pollution are real. The alarming rate of landfill growth is real. We need a sun blessing this year, more than ever!

And so, as Jews, we have a unique opportunity this April 8. We have an opportunity to open our eyes and the eyes of our children to a new way of looking our planet. Are you looking for ways to celebrate? Check out these ideas below:

Support TBS’s New Solar Ner Tamid. In honor of Birkat HaHammah, Temple Beth Sholom will be installing a new solar power grid on top of our sanctuary. From this point forward, our Temple’s eternal light, our Ner Tamid, will not be fueled by electricity, but directly by the sun. This new power source will serve as an ongoing symbol of our sustainable relationship with both God and our planet. This new solar power grid will be funded by a grant from the Los Angeles Board of Rabbis, a generous donation from the TBS Torah Study group, and funds from the TBS Religious School tzedakah collections. If you would like to contribute to this fund, please send a check to Temple Beth Sholom with the words “Solar Ner Tamid Project” in the subject. On a future Sunday morning, the TBS Religious School will be unveiling and celebrating our new solar ner tamid. We invite you to join us for the celebration!

Create a ceremony. I recall hot chocolate and blankets, and a special blessing by my mother, as I watched Halley’s Comet fly by. If you are interested in creating memories by celebrating Birkat HaHammah, I invite you to choose a place to go at dawn on April 8 (some ideas are the beach, on a mountain, in a park, on your front porch, or in your backyard). Check out the printable ceremonial materials for blessings to say at home at and create your own ritual.

Get involved. This year’s Birkat HaHammah has inspired a host of new Jewish environmental advocacy resources. If you are interested in learning more, Click here.

If you plan on celebrating Birkat HaHammah this year, please let me know. If you have pictures to share, please send them along! In our world today, we must embrace opportunities to celebrate. I invite you to seize this moment. It only comes every 28 years!

This week’s Torah Portion is Parashat Tzav. Please check out the URJ Torah Commentary by Dr. Rachel Adler to learn more.

Parashat Vayikra -- Levitical Intent

2009-03-28T14:07:00.000-07:00

This week, we begin a new book of Torah, Vayikra, or Leviticus. As I shared with you at this time last year, I look forward to Leviticus, and its listings of sacrificial laws and gory details of blood and suet, with a secret joy. First of all, when we begin reading Leviticus anew each year it means that spring is here. It means Pesach is coming. It means that the smell of jasmine is ripe in the air, that trees are budding again, and that springtime allergies are in full bloom. Yes, beginning Leviticus each year means longer days, warmer afternoons, and more opportunities for picnics. It also means that we are stepping away from Torah narrative and into a whole new world of textual exploration.

By far, my favorite author to write about Leviticus is Mary Douglas. And so, I was overjoyed to see that Rachel Adler, a professor of mine from rabbinical school and my thesis advisor, sited Douglas so extensively in her URJ Torah commentary this week. Check out her words at http://urj.org/torah/.

This week, I will expand on Dr. Adler’s d’var torah and share with you another assertion of Mary Douglas’. Douglas explains that it is no surprise that contemporary readers have difficulty reading and connecting with the descriptions and laws of Leviticus. This difficulty stems from a basic place: we don’t think like the Levitical authors. Douglas asserts (and this notion may be quite challenging to you) that Leviticus was written by human authors during the 5th century BCE, following the destruction of the First Temple and the exile in Babylon). This discrepancy, this huge gap between the world-view of the Levitical authors and the world-view of Levitical readers, leads to confusion and alienation. It becomes our task as readers, then, to bridge this gap and learn to think “Levitically.”

There is something poetic in the gap between Levitical authors and today’s readers, for, it seems, such a gulf between the text and reality has always existed. Douglas suggests that when the authors of Leviticus set about writing the laws and practices of their community, they also set out to purge their religion of its (previously central) magical elements. Leviticus, then, is at its heart a “resynthesis.” The book reflects the authors’ attempts to meld an imperfect present with an imperfect past, and, through a careful excising of “immoral” elements, create a new future.

The writers of Leviticus, having witnessed the dangers of monarchic rule, attempted to return back to the “roots” of their community through the creation of Leviticus. Having lived through the pains of kingship, they set out to record their past, a time before kings ruled and succumbed to the temptations of power. As they traveled “backward,” though, the authors came into contact with what they understood to be an imperfect past. You see, the Ancient Israelite religion was marked with what had become in the 5th century to be out-of-mode practices, like magic, ancestor worship, oracles, and polytheism. Therefore, they had to “recreate” the past in the lens of an already altered present.

And so, they wrote a book that had no mention of “polytheism, kingship, oracles, ancestors, demons, magic, diviners, healers, and images” (Douglas, Leviticus as Literature, 5). Leviticus, at its core, then, is a radical work: it is an assertion of what spirituality, community, and worship could be. It reflects the authors’ attempt to re-work their tradition in a more perfect form. Leviticus is reform.

Today, we have much to learn from Leviticus and from the Levitical authors. We too are in the process of creating a new future for ourselves. And, for us, as well, future making is a process that is steeped in both the realities of the present and the past (for good and bad). Future making is a challenging process. It forces us to look at open eyes at the world around us and the days that came before us. It forces us to ask difficult questions and dream forward. My blessing for us all this week is that we open ourselves to the treasures that Leviticus has in store for us. May we allow ourselves to delight in a world that is foreign to us. And maybe, we will even be inspired by this foreign book in our work of reforming our world.

Parashat Va-Yakhel-Pekudei 5769--Creating

2009-03-25T08:50:00.001-07:00

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Vayakhel-Pekudei, we are reminded that we, as human beings, have the power to create worlds. Each of us, every day, wakes up with the capacity to create our own reality. What will the world we create look like? How can we create our world with intention?

The Torah teaches us that acts of creation happen in four stages: Doing, finishing, admiring, and blessing.

When God created the word, God’s creation unfolded in the four stages we would expect:

Doing: God said “let there be light” and God began creating

(Genesis 1:3-31)

Finishing: “On the seventh day God was finished with the work which God had made,” (Genesis 2:2)

Admiring: “God saw everything that God had made, and indeed it was very good” (Genesis 1:31)

Blessing: “God gave the seventh day God’s blessing (Genesis 2:3).

In past weeks, we have followed the process by which the Israelites constructed the Tabernacle, or in Hebrew the Mishkan (literally, the Dwelling Place). In this week’s parashah, the Israelites finish their work. Many ancient rabbis, as well as modern thinkers, assert that the Mishkan was made to be a microcosm of the universe. God created the world and we created the Tabernacle. Our building process, as well as the language that the Torah uses to describe it, parallels God’s creation of the world.

The Israelites built the Tabernacle:

Doing: God says “let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them” (Exodus 25:8) and the Israelites made the Tabernacle (Exodus 25-39)

Finishing: “Thus was completed all the work of the Tabernacle of the Tent of Meeting” (Exodus 39:32)

Admiring: “Moses saw all the work, and- there it was!- they had done it! Exactly as Adonai had ordered, they had done it.” (Exodus 39:43)

Blessing: “Moses blessed them” (Exodus 39:43)

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks writes “Bereishith [Genesis] begins with G-d making the cosmos. Shemot [Exodus] ends with human beings making a micro-cosmos, a miniature and symbolic universe. Thus the entire narrative of Genesis-Exodus is a single vast span that begins and ends with the concept of G-d filled space, with this difference: that in the beginning the work is done by G-d-the-Creator. By the end it is done by man-and-woman-the-creators. The whole intricate history has been a story with one overarching theme: the transfer of the power and responsibility of creation from heaven to earth, from G-d to the image-of-G-d called mankind.”

Today, we exist in the image of God-the-Creator and inherit the legacy of Israelites-as-creators. God created the world, our ancestors created the Mishkan, and we create our own reality.

On this Shabbat, I invite you to imagine the reality you would like to bring into being. What resources do you have to help you? What obstacles stand in your way? What active steps do you need to take in order to see your reality realized? What is in your end goal, and how will you know when you’ve reached it? How will it feel to live in your consciously created world? Who will be blessed by your endeavors?

When God commanded the Israelites to create the Mishkan, God didn’t use the word “build,” but the word “make.” When God created the world, God didn’t use fire or force, but words. We can make and speak and imagine our world into being. It begins with intention, and ends in blessing.

Parashat Ki Tissa 5769 -- Encountering one another

2009-03-18T15:41:00.000-07:00

I was stuck in traffic again this week (an experience, which I know, is not unique to me).

So, I was stuck in traffic and this huge truck was blocking my entire line of visibility. I could see nothing except big wheels, mud flaps, and metal. No one was moving. At all. And, I was becoming very familiar with the intricacies of the back of the truck in front me. Slowly, my eyes came to focus on a sign posted on the truck’s rear: “If you can’t see my mirrors, I can’t see you.”

I must have read that sign a hundred times. “If you can’t see my mirrors, I can’t see you.”

The message was still echoing in my mind as I sat down to study this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Ki Tissa.

“If you can’t see my mirrors, I can’t see you.”

In this week’s Torah portion, the Israelites are stuck in a camp at the bottom of Mount Sinai. Moses, their leader, has disappeared up the mountain, and no one seems to know when he will return. The Israelites start to wonder: What has happened to Moses? And what has happened to Adonai, the One God who has declared the intention to lead us?

Up on the mountain, God is handing Moses the Torah. While down in the camp, “the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain, the people gathered against Aaron and said to him, ‘Come, make us a god who shall go before us, for that man Moses, who brought us from the land of Egypt — we do not know what has happened to him.’” (Exodus 32:1).

“If you can’t see my mirrors, I can’t see you.”

It seems that Moses forgot a primary rule of leadership this week. Moses may have been doing important work up on the mountain, but without direct, face-to-face communication with the people he was meant to lead, that work meant nothing. It was Moses’ job to articulate not only his vision before going up the mounting, but also to check in periodically about his ongoing reality. Cut off from their leader, the Israelites began to create their own alternate vision and reality.

When we look into the eyes of another, we see reflected back at us that person’s fears and hopes, intentions and reactions, worries and dreams. But, in today’s world, this kind of interaction—deep, meaningful, individualized, in-person—is becoming rarer and rarer. Despite the fact that we are easily connected by email, facebook, cell phones, and text messages, we miss something when we rely too heavily on these communications. This week our Torah reminds us that when we pass on opportunities to directly connect (in the “real” face-to-face fashion) with those in our personal and professional lives who are important to us, we risk isolating ourselves up on a mountain or down in a camp.

And I invite you to reflect on your own relationships: “If you can’t see my mirrors, I can’t see you.” If you remain in my blind spot, outside my radar, or disconnected from my life, I stop seeing you. If I remain in your blind spot, outside your radar, or disconnected from your life, you stop seeing me.

On this Shabbat, we are called upon to take action:

Who have you left down in the camp? Who has left you down in the camp? From whom are you isolating yourself, up on your mountain? Who has isolated themselves from you, up on their mountain? Who have you left in your blind spot? Whose blind spot are you left in?

The Israelites, faced with abandonment from the person on whom they relied, built a golden calf. On this Shabbat, we are reminded: The answer to our disconnection does not lie in gold or complicated constructions; all we must do is traverse a mountain! The solution to disconnection is simple—connect. Prioritize encounters. Understand them as central to your own health, wellness, and success. Remember: If you can see my mirrors, I can see you.

Purim 5769 -- Remembering and Forgetting

2009-03-06T14:08:00.001-08:00

We all deserve to escape reality once in awhile: To hide our face from the cruelties that go on around us, to become giddy, to laugh in the face of hard times, and to assume the carefree attitude of someone else. As Jews, we not only deserve this, it is a mitzvah to do it.

The holiday of Purim begins on Monday night, March 9. Our TBS Purim Family Day, featuring our Super Heroes Shpiel & the Persian Marketplace carnival, begins Sunday morning, March 8 at 10:00 a.m. This is a season to forget and to remember!

This Shabbat is Shabbat Zachor, a Shabbat with a special maftir Torah reading and Haftarah reading, on which we are commanded to remember the past evils that our ancient enemy Amalek inflicted on our people. We are supposed to remember Amalek and blot out the memory of the Amalekites. We are supposed to remember by forgetting. This troubling commandment has, since rabbinic times, been reinterpreted (a desire, always, to move away from our people’s early fantasies of power from a place of powerlessness). I believe, through my interpretation of Shabbat Zachor, that this is a time to focus on that which is “evil” in our midst—injustice, poverty, homelessness, and degradation—and focus ourselves on eradicating them from our midst. We must remember them to forget them.

It is fascinating that we are called upon to “remember” by “blotting out” the name of our enemy. How do we remember by forgetting?

Each society has its own version of our Purim celebration—Carnival, Mardis Gras, and Shrovetide. It is human nature to need a break. And, it is our people’s custom to take a break. And so, with the harsh realities of the world swirling around us, we let loose. We forget our proscribed roles and allow ourselves the decadence of fantasy.

But none of this is done for naught! It is our duty to awake from this reality-respite renewed. It is our duty to regroup, to make a difference. Our world needs our help. Today we may hide, but tomorrow we must act. Today we might let loose, but tomorrow we must stand firm. During this time, we forget in order to remember.

On Purim, there are three mitzvot, three commandments, of Purim (commandments that I believe help us to remember-forget) that I would like to invite you to fulfill this Purim: To hear the Megila, to give gifts to the poor (Matanot LaEvyonim), and to send out little gifts/plates of food (Mishloach Manot) to friends. By remembering others and our people’s story with joy, we forget (even for a few minutes) our own troubles, and re-center ourselves on that which is blessed in our lives.

So, I invite you all to take your groggers, secure your masks on tightly, and get ready to have fun!

Parashat Terumah 5769 -- Connect to Power

2009-02-26T11:28:00.000-08:00

For the past three days, I have been taking part in the Selah Leadership Conference, a training for Jewish leaders interested in exploring the intersection between Judaism, justice, and leadership. Last night, after an engaging day of learning, I returned to my room, put my earphones in my ears, and distractedly hit play on my iPod. I was ready to listen to the Idan Raichel Project and lose myself a little. I hit the button again, but still no sound came out. Disappointed, I shifted the tiny wonder box to see what the problem was. A message had flashed onto the screen: “No battery power remains. Please connect to power."

“Yes!” I said to my iPod.

No battery power remains. Please connect to power.

Please connect to power.

There is deep truth in this instruction.

In this week’s Torah Portion, Parashat Terumah, God says to Moses, “Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart so moves him.”

From Torah this week, God is affirming a number of significant truths. Each of us has gifts. Each of us has a heart that can move us. And, it is up to us to access our hearts and feel moved to share that which is inherently present in us.

In my recent learning, I heard an instructor address a room with a simple statement: “don’t hide your light under a bushel.” In Parashat Terumah, God shares these sentiments with us. Bring your gifts forward to your community. But…

No battery power remains. Please connect to power.

It is easy for us to feel our own “battery power” drained by our world. We need only open a newspaper, go online, or turn on the radio to be bombarded with messages of a world in turmoil. It is easy for our battery power to feel drained. It is easy for us to lose touch with our hearts and that which moves us. It is easy for us to forget that we are all connected to power. It is easy to slip into states governed by fear, worry, and despair.

I took my iPod, connected it to my computer through a USB cable, and instantaneously, it was ready to play again. Like the iPod, we need to connect periodically to that which energizes us. For me, my battery connection looks something like a daily walk, some study, meaningful conversation, prayer, and (if I’m being honest) a strong cup of coffee. It means recognizing that the power I gain from these practices of personal ecology is connected to the Power that animates all life.

On this Shabbat, I invite you to take stock of the power to which you need to connect. What gives you the power to access your gifts? What gives you the power for your heart to be moved? What gives you the power to live your life grounded in gratitude, generosity, and joy? This week God has asked us to bring forth our gifts. What might you bring to the meeting?

Parashat Mishpatim 5769 -- Journeying with Angels

2009-02-20T11:31:00.000-08:00

This week's Torah portion, Parashat Mishpatim, includes the Book of the Covenant, the first large grouping of Torah laws. These chapters immediately follow the giving and receiving of the Decalogue, or the Ten Commandments, which we read in last week's Torah portion.

At TBS Shabbat services this Friday night, I will speak about the ethical issues inherent in these commandments and the relevance I believe their message holds in our lives today. In this D'var Torah, however, I am drawn, not to the laws themselves, but to the Torah text that immediately follows the Book of the Covenant.

The Torah says:

I am sending an angel before you to guard you on the way and to bring you to the place that I have made ready. Pay heed to him and obey him. Do not defy him, for he will not pardon your offenses, since My Name is in him; but if you obey him and do all that I say, I will be an enemy to your enemies and a foe to your foes. (Exodus 23:20-22).

The commentators love these verses! What was this angel? Was it a supernatural creature? A reflection of the Divine? A messenger from on High? Or, as the Mekhilta de-Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai suggests, a human prophet? (Eitz Chayim 474-475)

While the essence of this malach, this angel may be nebulous, the angel's purpose is neatly defined. Pay heed to this angel, God said to our ancestors. Journey onward, knowing that you are guarded and led. Travel, knowing that this angel has your best interests at heart. Act, knowing that this angel wants you to live a moral life. Live, knowing that this angel knows you and reflects you.

And, I wonder: Is it too far a leap for me to read these lines of Torah and imagine that there is, today, an angel still leading us?

In the desert, our ancestors knew that their destiny was inextricably bound up with the fate of those traveling with them. They left Egypt together, wandered together, and would arrive at their Promised Land together. They were led by a malach, a messenger that protected them and unified them. Their path, while unknown to them, was guarded by a divine being, which held their best interests at heart.

We too are wanderers. And, at times, it is all too easy for us to feel that we are journeying alone. But, in this week's Torah portion, we are reminded this is not so. We are a part of a sacred community. The Jewish mystics teach us not only is God one, but all is one. Yes, the Kabbalists teach us, "I thought there were many, but really there was only one."

On this Shabbat, let us focus on the common direction and purpose that unites us all. Let us remember that we do not journey alone. Let us journey as a people who are led by an angel. Let us live our lives believing that, for good or bad, we are guarded and protected. Let us take in the ultimate truth that the interests of our neighbor are really our own. Let us imagine that our paths, wherever they may take us, are blessed by the Divine. Let us use these teachings to inspire us to live lives of deeper purpose and meaning.

Parashat Yitro 5769 -- Sharing Leadership & Visions of Justice

2009-02-13T12:23:00.001-08:00

We still have a long, long way to go before we reach the promised land of freedom. Yes, we have left the dusty soils of Egypt, and we have crossed a Red Sea that had for years been hardened by a long and piercing winter of massive resistance, but before we reach the majestic shores of the promised land, there will still be gigantic mountains of opposition ahead and prodigious hilltops of injustice (“Where Do We Go from Here,” by Martin Luther King, Jr.).

Yes, last week, we stood on the shores of the Sea of Reeds, stepped in and crossed (despite our fears), and arrived safely at the other side. We sang. We drank bitter waters made sweet. We camped. We learned to eat manna from heaven.

And, this week, in Parashat Yitro the Israelites once again complain bitterly. And they are dissatisfied with their lack of water. And they are attacked by Amalek. And they fight back. And as long as Moses can hold up his arms, they prevail in their defenses against Amalek. But Moses’ arms grow heavy. And, it seems that the people will be overcome, yet. And maybe at the root of all that complaining there was truth, maybe they would not see the Promised Land? But Aaron and Hur were determined. They would not return to slavery. And so, they moved to sit on each side of Moses and support his arms. And the people did prevail. Yes, the people prevailed when Aaron and Hur stepped up. And Moses was not left to lead alone.

And I figure Moses must have been very tired by this point. He must have been tired of the complaining and fearful that he would buckle under the pressure. He must have known that he could not continue to hold up his arms alone.

And one day, Moses’ father-in-law saw Moses sitting from morning until evening with people lined up all around him. “Why are these people here,” he asked? Moses explained that whenever people had a dispute, or were seeking justice, they came to him so that he could deliver the just message of God. Yes, Moses was once again holding up his arms alone.

Moses’ father-in-law Yitro saw that this was problematic. And, he suggested a new way of leading to Moses, delegation. Yitro would help Moses. And Moses would appoint chiefs to settle small disputes amongst the people.

And I wonder: Was this only about efficiency? Was this only about delegation? Or, was there a deeper message hidden in Yitro’s words? Maybe the truth is this: Moses alone could not support the affairs of justice in his community. Yitro seems to say, justice is only possible amongst a people when the entire community is invested in it. Justice is only possible when one person stands side by side with another and holds up their arms. Justice is only possible when everyone from leaders to chiefs to people believe in its virtues.

How often do we stand alone and hold up our arms until they shake and shudder with exertion? How often do we stand alone? And how often do we seek out others to stand by our sides and help us with our efforts?

Yes, on this Shabbat, let us learn to be like Yitro. Let us be dissatisfied with singular voices of justice. Let us seek out partners to help us. Let us be catalysts of change and sources of goodness in our community.

Parashat B'Shalach 5769 -- Rebirth

2009-02-06T08:15:00.000-08:00

This week’s Torah portion is Parashat B’Shalach, or in English, the Torah Portion in which we are “sent” or “let go” from Egypt. This is the week, after weeks of Moses declaring, “Let my people go!” that we are let go. This Shabbat is Shabbat Shira, the Shabbat on which we come to banks of the Sea of Reeds, Moses lifts his staff, and the Israelites pass through the split sea onto dry land.

Scholars and the rest of us read this magnificent story and often ask, “Yeah, but did that really split?” We like to know the details. There are documentaries that detail weather patterns and tide patterns—yes, it did take place. There are famous sermons—no, it didn’t take place. There are archaeologists—yes, it did; no it didn’t. There are careers at stake, passionate cries of historicity, and fists pounded with one word, “authenticity.” happen? Did the sea

In the middle of this debate, I shrug.

I think these are both the wrong questions and the wrong answers.

For me, the question is not, “Did the Exodus take place?” But rather, “What is the metaphor?”

You see, I don’t think our people can cross through a split Sea of Reeds and travel from slavery to freedom, without there being some intended deeper meaning. I believe this image cries out for interpretation.

And, I think this week, of my friend and colleague, Rabbi Riqi Kosovske, and others like her, who explain this Text through a radical new lens.

“This is a birth narrative,” they declare.

Yes, when the people of Israel step into the parted sea, the people who had suffered through slavery are now passing through nothing less than a birth canal. The split sea, which leads them from the confined space of Mitzraim, of Egypt or literally “the Narrow Place,” now leads them into the midbar, the desert, the wide expanse.

Then Moses held out his arm over the sea and Adonai drove back the sea with a strong east wind all that night, and turned the sea into dry ground. The waters were split, and the Israelites went into the sea on dry ground, the waters forming a wall for them on their right and on their left. (Exodus 14:21-22)

This is a birth narrative. The split sea is the birth canal. We, as a people, are reborn. From slavery to freedom. And so, the question is not “Did it happen?” But, “What does it mean?”

On this Shabbat, I invite you to ask yourself this very question. This is Shabbat Shira, a Shabbat on which any song is possible. This is Shabbat Shira, a Shabbat on which we are reborn. This is Shabbat Shira, a Shabbat on which we re-enter the world with new formed eyes and an appetite for new experiences.

In our tradition, we are born not once, but again and again through our Torah narrative. Seize this opportunity and find what you may.

Parashat Va-era 5769 -- The Power to Cry Out

2009-01-23T16:46:00.000-08:00

My most vivid memory of my first summer at a Jewish overnight camp is sitting during services and praying with my eyes closed for the first time. For someone who so likes to be in control, looking inward was a new experience.

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Va-era, God tells Moses:

“I have now heard the cries of the Israelites because the Egyptians are holding them in bondage, and I have remembered My covenant. Say, therefore, to the Israelite people: I am Adonai. I will free you from the labors of the Egyptians and deliver you from their bondage.” (Exodus 6:5-6).

For me, the miracle of Exodus is not that God answered the Israelites’ cries. God had been answering cries for generations. The miracle is that the Israelites had the self-awareness to realize that they were enslaved and the strength to believe they could do something about it.

Ironically, the most important lesson I have learned in recent years is discovering how to pray with my eyes open. I have learned that prayer is not only about self-reflection, but also about seeing the world, recognizing injustice, and coming to believe I can do something about it.

“I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and through extraordinary judgments. And I will take you to be My people, and I will be your God. And you shall know that I, Adonai, am your God who freed you from the labors of the Egyptians. I will bring you into the land which I swore to give to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and I will give it to you for a possession, I Adonai” (Exodus 6:7-8).

From Egypt, Mitzraim (literally, the “Narrow Place”), God promises the Israelites a new land, a Promised Land. Of course, there will be forty years of wandering, desert trials, and the passing of a generation before the Israelites ever touch foot on the soil of that promised inheritance. It is the awareness of the “in between,” the desert that often stands between slavery and freedom, which reminds me that nothing in life is as simple as spacious land and pledged blessings. Praying with open eyes means accepting the complexities of life. There will always be lands filled with sweetness and there will always be deserts along the way.

This week Torah reminds us that we are a people who cry out; who cry out at injustice, at oppression, at inequality, and unfairness. We are to be the people who pray with our eyes open.

Among God’s many names, we call the divine “Shomeah T’fillah,” “the One who hears prayers. Surely, we hear that name echoed in Torah this week.

Let us be reminded this week that ours is a God who cares about the suffering in our world. Let us be reminded that the path from injustice to freedom is often winding and filled with challenges, but neither of these facts excuses us from taking it. Let us be reminded that our inheritance is not only land, but also a willingness to cry out and wander.

Parashat Sh'mot 5769 -- Names and Journeys

2009-01-14T14:36:00.000-08:00

This week we begin the book of Exodus. “Exodus,” according to the esteemed www.dictionary.com, means “a going out; a departure or emigration.” And while this is the book of “The Exodus,” meaning “the departure of the Israelites from Egypt under Moses,” it is also the book of “Exodus,” which means that as we read it, we too should imagine our own journeys, the places we are leaving, ourour migrations, (maybe even, if we’re feeling a little chutzpadik, our arrivals). departures,

And yet, this book is known by a different name in Hebrew. In Hebrew, we call this second book of the Torah, “Sh’mot,” or “Names.” The meaning of the word “name,” reports www.dictionary.com, is “a word or a combination of words by which a person, place, or thing, a body or class, or any object of thought is designated.”

This is the Book of Names and the Book of Journeys.

Is it surprising, then, that in this week’s parashah, the first in this book, we hear of both journeys and names?

The generation of Joseph has died and a new Pharaoh now rules over Egypt. Fearing the size of the Israelite people, Pharaoh persecutes and enslaves them. A Hebrew boy is born. Despite the fact that his very existence, his journey into life, is illegal; he is saved and sent down the Nile on a tiny little ark, the second journey of his life. It is not until he is rescued by Pharaoh’s daughter that he receives his first name (a veteran of journeys, but nameless until then). The Torah tells us, “She called him Moshe [pull out], explaining, "Because I pulled him out of the water" (Exodus 2:9)

Moses is first raised by his mother, who calls herself his “wet nurse,” and then is raised by Pharaoh’s daughter, who called herself “his mother.” Moses comes of age in the Pharaoh’s palace, separated from his people, never called by the name of “slave,” the title by which he should have been known.

And so, knowing what we do about names and journeys, should we be surprised that one day, after seeing an Egyptian beat an Israelite slave, Moses seems to remember that his name should have been “Israelite” and “slave”? Should we be surprised that Moses looks left and right, and then strikes and kills the Egyptian taskmaster? Should we lift an eyebrow when Moses’ memory of his birth-name and all that it inspired in him causes him to flee Egypt and travel to Midian? Yes, we seem to know already, a remembered-name often inspires a journey of one kind or another, just as a journey often inspires a new name.

One day in Midian, while tending to his father-in-law’s flock, an angel of God appears to Moses in the form of a burning bush. God knows Moses’ name and knows just how to call to him from within the bush, “Moses, Moses” (Exodus 3:4)! From the bush, God tells Moses who God is and who God hopes Moses will become: not slave, not wanderer, not child of the Egyptian palace, but redeemer of the Israelite people.

Moses responds by asking God’s name.

Why is Moses so interested in the name of the divine? Because Moses has come to know about names and journeys. God answers, elusively, “Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh…this shall be My name forever.” (Exodus 3:14-15). God’s name does not have a single meaning. At once, it suggests “I Am That I Am,” and “I Am Who I Am,” and “I Will Be What I Will Be.” God is both a name and a journey.

Yes, I believe this is the message we are meant to hear this Shabbat. Created b’tzelem Elohim, we too are names and journey.

On this Shabbat, as we enter into this new book of Torah, let us reflect on the names others call us, on the names we whisper to our own selves, and on the names we choose for those around us. Let us reflect on where we are, where we have been, and where we are going. On this Shabbat, our God of Being, let us live up to the name by which You call us.

Parashat Va-Y'chi 5769 -- Fear & Blessings

2009-01-09T11:44:00.000-08:00

This week’s Torah portion, Parashat Va-Y’chi, tells of the last moments of Jacob’s life. On his deathbed, Jacob draws his son Joseph near to him and blesses Joseph’s sons. After Jacob’s passing, Joseph, the dutiful son, takes the lead in preparing his father’s body, arranging for his burial, and overseeing a mourning ceremony for him. Our Torah is touchingly articulate in its description of the care and concern Joseph shows for his father. Joseph’s honest and poignant expressions of mourning are directly contrasted by his brothers’ reactions to their father’s death. Instead of pointing to their grief and sadness, the Torah tells us “Joseph’s brothers, seeing that their father was dead, now said ‘Perhaps Joseph [still] bears us enmity and intends to repay us for all the harm that we inflicted upon him’” (Genesis 50:15). Joseph’s brothers respond to their father’s death with fear.

What prompted such a reaction?

Midrash Tanhuma suggests the following: "What did [the brothers] see that made them afraid? As they were returning from burying their father, they saw that Joseph turned off the road and went to look at the pit into which his brothers had cast him.Upon seeing this, they said, 'He still bears a grudge in his heart. Now that our father is dead, he will make his hatred of us felt.' But in fact Joseph's motive was a pious one — he wanted to utter a blessing for the miracle wrought for him in that place” (Va—Yehi 17).

This past week, I had the distinct pleasure of hearing a provocative d’var torah by Rachel Timoner, a fifth year rabbinical student at the Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion. In her d’var torah, Rachel cited this midrash and asked poignant questions about, based on her reading of this midrash, suggested that we must consider our own reactions to our world today. She asked us to consider what we might see while looking into “the pit.” Inspired by Rachel, I am thinking:

I, like each of you, have been reading the news these past weeks with my eyes open wide. We are all shaken by the situation in Gaza, the economic crisis, and the growing job loss.

Despite these realities, I believe each of us is still called to answer a critical question: Who will I be in this world?

Will I be like Joseph’s brothers? Will I be continually incited by fear and anxiety? Will I look out at the world and assume sinister motives? Will I become paralyzed by worry? Will I become stagnant? Will I remain mired in conflict? Will I give into my own feelings of jealousy or inadequacy?

Or, will I be like Joseph? Will I look out at the world and see blessings? Will I look at the most challenging parts of my life and find meaning? Will I search for the capacity to forgive? Will I find the strength to honor others? Will I dedicate myself to growth and healed relationships?

This week we read the final Torah portion in Genesis. Next week, a new story begins. Exodus. This is a story of slavery and redemption, of leadership and God’s presence, of pain and of joy. This is life. We cannot often affect what comes to us. But, we can affect how we react to what arrives.

Will we be Joseph or will we be his brothers?

The choice is up to each of us.

“I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life!" (Deuteronomy 30:19).

Parashat Va-Yeshev & Chanukah 2009 -- Our Inner Light

2008-12-19T10:59:00.000-08:00

Rabbi Abraham Isaac HaCohen Kook teaches:

Everyone must know and understand that within us burns a candle and no one’s candle is identical with the candle of another and there is no human being without a candle. So everyone must know and understand that one is obligated to work hard to reveal the light of one’s candle in the public realm for the benefit of the many. One needs to ignite one’s candle and make of it a great torch to enlighten the whole world.

During our TBS Religious School Family Chanukah Program, we talked at length about the importance of sharing one’s inner light, especially during Chanukah. As you know, Chanukah begins this year on the night of December 21, which also happens to be the longest night of the year. During Chanukah, which falls during the darkest time of the year, it is our responsibility to shed light! We are taught, “pirsum ha’nes,” we are taught to publicize or share the miracle of Chanukah by placing chanukiot in the windows of our homes. In this way, people who walk or drive by our windows will learn of the miracle of Chanukah.

Let us allow ourselves to be challenged this Chanukah. It is not enough for us only to display our chanukiot and believe that we have fulfilled the mitzvah of pirsum ha’nes in the fullest sense. I believe that, along with the flames of our chanukiot, we have a moral responsibility to share the light that each one of us has within us. HaRav Kook teaches, “One needs to ignite one’s candle and make of it a great torch to enlighten the whole world.” Our world certainly needs our light!

This week’s Torah portion is Va-Yeshev. In it, we learn of Joseph’s failed attempt to share his inner light with is brothers. Joseph, youthful and self-involved, tells his brothers about his dreams, in which he imagines himself as a binding sheaf in the field, standing upright, with his brothers’ sheaves bowing low to him. Joseph’s brothers are offended by this dream. They conspire to kill him and then, with so-called mercy, throw him into a pit and sell him as a slave to Midianite traders, instead.

What does the intersection of these ideas have to teach us? What does our imperative to share our Chanukah lights have in common with a Torah story about boastfulness and its bitter end? The link, I believe, comes with the intention. On Chanukah, we are not instructed to share our light for our own gain or betterment, as Joseph sought to share his light. No, we are asked to share our lights for the betterment of the world.

We share our lights for the betterment of our world when we engage in the three fundamental acts of Jewish life: Torah, Avodah, G’milut Chasadim, or study, prayer, and acts of loving kindness. On this Chanukah, I pray that we will all find time for each of these. May our own lights be made brighter and may our small flames merge together to create a great light over the entire world.

Parashat Va-Yetzei 5769--Einstein and Religion

2008-12-03T17:21:00.000-08:00

I am currently reading the book Einstein and Religion by Max Jammer. The book was a gift from my father-in-law, a mathematician, and I find myself searching within its pages for clues about how something so deeply essential to me, my Jewishness, affected one of the greatest minds of past generation. As an educator, I am drawn particularly to the experiences that inspired Einstein’s youthful “religious paradise” (as Einstein himself called it).

In this week’s Torah portion, Va-Yeitzei, we read of our ancestor Jacob’s own youthful encounter with God. After stealing his brother’s birthright and fleeing his home, Jacob finds himself on his own quest to define his life. In this week’s parashah, Jacob arrives at a place unknown to him. He stops for the night, rests his head, and dreams of a ladder stretching up to the heavens, with angels ascending and descending. The Torah tells us that Jacob sees God on a journey, with a stone placed underneath his head. We can easily imagine the piercing darkness of the ancient night sky, ablaze with billions of stars. Is it any coincidence that Jacob saw God lying on the very dirt of our planet?

I have come to learn that Einstein, as a young boy, was also deeply affected by the natural world. We learn, “The pure joy of Nature entered into the heart of the boy, a feeling that is usually foreign to the youthful inhabitants of cities of dead stone. Nature whispered song to him, and at the coming of the spring-tide infused his being with joy, to which he resigned himself in happy contemplation” (Jammer 17, quoting Moszkowski, Einstein the Searcher). Einstein, like Jacob, opened himself to the whispers of the natural world and from them tapped into the Divine breath that animates all.

The story of Einstein’s youthful religiosity, though, is not as simple as a boy loving nature. What inspired a religious awakening in Einstein was a series of encounters; encounters with music, with nature, and with religious studies (Jammer 18). As a young adult, Einstein refused to become bar mitzvah. While he owned a set of tefillin, he did not regularly use them. There is no record of him ever attending services or participating in synagogue life (Jammer 26-27). And yet, contrary to what many believe, Einstein believed that religion was, indeed, connected inextricably to his work in the world; as he explained, “Science without religion is lame, religion without science is blind” (Jammer 31, quoting Einstein “Science and Religion”).

As a young boy, Einstein never saw angels on a ladder, ascending and descending. Throughout his life, Einstein challenged normative Jewish beliefs and traditions, and yet, Einstein, through metaphor and allegory, did believe in God and expressed his own Jewishness (Jammer 48).

Some of us, like Jacob, can point to a single radical moment or series of events in our lives, through which we come to know God. Others of us, like Einstein, struggle our entire lives, weaving together disparate experiences, which help us to understand our own place in the universe. Both, I believe, are journeys worth celebrating.

This week I am reminded that the Jewish people are colorful and varied. There is room within our ranks for Jacobs, Einsteins, and the rest of us. On this Shabbat, I invite you to consider your own (ongoing) exploration of God and Judaism. It is, I believe, not only what we see and believe, but also that which we don’t see and reject, which comes to define our spiritual selves. Let us open ourselves up to the totality of experience. Who knows what we might yet discover?

P.S. - If you want to read Einstein and Religion too, let me know. I’d love to gather a small group together to discuss the book over lunch.

Parashat Chayei Sarah 5769 - Forgiving

2008-11-21T07:47:00.000-08:00

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Chayei Sarah, we mourn the deaths of both Sarah and Abraham, parents of the Jewish people. This week, I am drawn in particular to the scene of Abraham’s burial. The Torah explains:

This was the total span of Abraham's life: one hundred and seventy-five years. And Abraham breathed his last, dying at a good ripe age, old and contented; and he was gathered to his kin. His sons Isaac and Ishmael buried him in the cave of Machpelah, in the field of Ephron son of Zohar the Hittite, facing Mamrethe field that Abraham had bought from the Hittites; there Abraham was buried, and Sarah his wife (Genesis 25:7-9).

On the surface, this is a routine, if not touching, burial scene: Abraham’s sons Isaac and Ishmael bury their father. And yet, the depth of this passage is actually much greater. For, you see, this is the first time Ishmael is facing his family since he and his mother were banished from their camp (described in last week’s Torah portion Vayeira in Genesis 21).

The great Medieval Torah scholar, Rashi, suggests, “From this [scene] we gather that Ishmael repented of his evil ways and yielded the precedence to Isaac.” But, I cannot see this scene through Rashi’s eyes. I believe that Rashi, attempting to elevate Isaac’s status even further, fails to perceive an even greater lesson in Ishmael’s actions. Ishmael had no evil ways from which to repent, at least no evil ways described in the Torah. As far as the Torah presents it, Ishmael is a victim, parented by Abraham and Hagar, Abraham’s Egyptian slave.

What are we to make of Ishmael’s life? At the hands of our ancestors, he was a victim of jealousy and pain, of anger and pettiness. But, there is purpose to all in Torah. I believe that we are to see in Ishmael a model of unique proportions. Ishmael, in this week’s parashah, transcends the hurt and pain caused by his parents and his birth family. Ishmael, despite all that had happened in his life, returned to honor his father’s memory. Despite what was done to him. Despite the details of his origins.

Each one of us privately holds our own hurts. Each one of us has been wronged, offended, or mistreated by others. Just as much as life is defined by our joy, it is also defined by our pain. Forgiveness is a deeply difficult task. On Yom Kippur we are asked to focus ourselves on apologizing to those we have wronged. But, I believe, the real work of Yom Kippur, and of our daily lives, lies not only in asking for forgiveness, but also in forgiving those who have wronged us, even when they don’t ask for our forgiveness. Abraham never asks for Ishmael’s. Nor does Sarah. Nor does Isaac. And yet, Ishmael returns. He returns to pay honor to his father and to stand side by side with his brother. And, maybe, Ishmael returns, as well, to begin his own healing.

On this Shabbat, I pray that each of us may take a few moments to consider those hurts we still carry with us. May we explore our own capacities for forgiveness. May we be inspired by the image of Ishmael, standing by his brother, mourning his father. May we imagine in Ishmael’s silent prayers words of honor and blessing.

In Response to Proposition 8

2008-11-07T16:56:00.000-08:00

The Psalmist declares, “Those who sow in tears will reap in joy” (Psalm 126:5).

In May 2008, we knew joy. And, in November 2008, we once again knew tears.

But, our tradition reminds us that nothing is static.

Ecclesiastes tells us, “A season is set for everything, a time for every experience under the heaven,” (Ecclesiastes 3:1).

Those who supported Proposition 8 told us your time is never. But, there were millions of Californians who told us otherwise.

And, I say: The time for equality is now.

“One may lie down weeping at nightfall; but at dawn there are songs of joy” (Psalm 30:5).

Now, we must act. We must not lose hope. We must continue living.

“A time for silence and a time for speaking,” (Ecclesiastes 3:7)

Let us not lose voice. Let us join as one voice.

Martin Luther King, Jr. proclaimed, “The arc of history is long, but it bends toward justice...”

And so, we will continue to seek, continue to demand, continue to act for justice.

Parashat Lech L'cha 5769 -- The Land must support us all

2008-11-05T20:29:00.000-08:00

This week’s Torah portion, Parashat Lech L’cha, begins with God’s famous call to Abram, “Go forth from your land” (Genesis 12:1). God promises Abram that his name will be great and that he will father a great nation. With these promise-filled words, Abram sets off toward Canaan with his wife Sarai and his nephew Lot.

Let us imagine this ancient entourage, making its way through the desert toward their newly defined destiny. Let us listen in on their conversations, tinged with excitement, anxiety, and fear. Let us smell their animals, clobbering along, and envision their amassed possessions, folded smartly into canvases. This is the image of our people’s beginnings!

And yet, what is hard to imagine, or maybe not that hard to imagine, is the speed with which our pastoral image cracks. There is a famine in the land. There is a scarcity of resources. Our ancestors fear for their safety. They encounter strangers with new customs. There is strife between uncle and nephew. The Torah teaches, “Now Lot, who had gone with Abram, also had flocks and herds and tents, so that the land could not support them both” (Genesis 13:5-6).

This is a story as ancient as any. The land could not support them both. And so, Lot takes off in one direction and Abram in another. And God tries again. “And Adonai said to Abram, after Lot had parted from him, ‘Raise your eyes and look out from where you are, to the north and south, to the east and west, for I give all the land that you see to you and your offspring forever” (Genesis 13:14-15).

Our Torah is trying to teach us something, here. Conflicts are not solved by mere separation, by simply turning our backs to the problem, by simply sending it away. As hard as God tries, as hard as Abram tries, sending the problem away does not make it disappear. The land could not support them both. These are dangerous words; the Torah seems to warn us. Lot and Abram separate, but the story won’t end.

Just one chapter later, Lot and his family are taken prisoner and Abram rescues them. And in next week’s Torah portion, Lot and his family find themselves embroiled in a dangerous, terrible moral drama. Abram is once again face to face with his nephew.

No! Our Torah seems to cry. The land must support us all. We cannot solve the difficult, especially the most fundamental of differences, by ignoring them, turning our backs on them, or banishing them. Today’s Torah portion reminds us that healing is needed in the face of conflict. Healing comes when we seek to understand, when we seek to solve.

On this Shabbat, each of is called upon to consider the ways in which we simply turn our backs on that which feels too much for us to confront. Torah tells us, we are all made from dust of the same earth and we are all destined to live upon it together. The land must support us all. And, we must learn to live on it.

Parashat Noah 5769 -- Vote!

2008-10-30T18:38:00.000-07:00

It is fitting that, this year, we will read Parashat Noah on the Shabbat before Election Day, November 4. I say “fitting” because this week’s Torah portion provides us with a lesson in civic involvement. We can imagine that Noah, whose name means “pleasantness,” must have looked out at his world and seen something quite the opposite. In his age, Noah was surrounded by corruption and lawlessness. God, as the text tells us, witnessed this corruption and told Noah “‘I have decided to put an end to all flesh, for the earth is filled with lawlessness because of them: I am about to destroy them with the earth” (Genesis 6:13). Noah was spared this end. As the Torah tells us, “Noah was a righteous man; he was blameless in his age; Noah walked with God” (Genesis 6:9).

Let us imagine Noah’s reaction to God’s dire pronouncement. Surely, even before God spoke to him, Noah must have feared that the troubles of his time were so great that the very fabric of society might rip apart around him. Surely, Noah had been expecting something terrible to happen. Surely, Noah knew that the created world was headed on a course to disaster. But this course? And, at the hands of God? Was Noah, this man of pleasantness, expecting God to destroy the world?

It is hard to say.

Noah, the blameless man, never gives us any indication of his feelings. God tells Noah, “Make yourself an ark,” and Noah sets about doing so (Genesis 6:14). He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t mourn. He doesn’t try to change his society for the better. He doesn’t say anything to forestall the destruction. He doesn’t do anything to stop God’s plan. He simply builds an ark.

In today’s world, we too are surrounded by global issues that threaten our society’s destruction. At home, we are concerned with financial crisis and healthcare, with war and unemployment. Globally, we are faced with poverty and climate change. Just to name a few concerns…

Yes, we might say, every generation faces destruction. But, age after age, we avoid that destruction. Destruction is avoided only by the actions of strong willed individuals, burning with a sense of moral outrage. Destruction is avoided when people care not only for themselves, but for the present and future of their society.

Destruction is avoided when people stop building their own arks and start changing the world around them.

Noah is an appropriate parasha for Election Day because it shakes us with this fundamental truth: It is not enough to be blameless. It is not enough to build our own arks. It is our responsibility to care for the entire world. Would Noah have gone to the voting booth on Election Day, or would he have busied himself with gopher wood?

On Election Day, it is not enough for us to build our own arks. We must add our voices to the multitude who are trying to stop the flood. We stop the flood when we exercise our civic duty by being agents of our own destiny. This is what being a contributing citizen is all about.

Parashat B'reishit 5769

2008-10-22T16:38:00.000-07:00

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat B’reishit, we encounter the beginnings of our world. We are called upon to envision the process of turning chaos and void into earth and life. This week’s parasha, though, speaks not only of creation, but also of the fundamental definitions of what it means to be human. Being human means struggling and learning; it means falling and forgiving. Humans, we learn from the first stories of Torah, are creatures capable of violence and compassion, of good and evil.

In Parashat B’reishit, we read “God created the human beings in [the divine] image, creating [them] in the image of God” (Genesis 1:27). In this oft-cited verse, we learn that all human beings are considered equally close to the divine, regardless of our particular attributes or differences. We are taught that the first human being, adam, was created out of the dust of the earth, adamah, teaching us that we have a fundamental connection not only to all of humanity, but also to all of creation.

The question of what makes us essentially human has been on my mind since this past Sunday, after I listened to the National Public Radio program Speaking of Faith with Krista Tippett. The program, which airs locally on 89.3 KPCC at 4:00 pm on Sundays, explores issues of faith in meaningful and provocative ways. Speaking of Faith is my weekly post-religious school treat and I listen to it (pardon the pun) religiously!

This past week, the show was entitled “Being Autistic, Being Human.” (you can download the mp3 if you are interested). During the broadcast, Tippett’s guest, Paul Collins explains, “...Autism is an ability and a disability: it is as much about what is abundant as what is missing, an over-expression of the very traits that make our species unique. Other animals are social, but only humans are capable of abstract logic. The autistic out-human the humans and we can scarcely recognize the result.”

And I wonder again: What are the traits that make us essentially human? At the World Science Festival, held this past June in New York City, a panel of scientists gathered to discuss this very question. According to the Wired Science Blog, one participant, Marvin Minsky, an artificial intelligence pioneer, suggested that “We do something other species can’t: We remember. We have cultures, ways of transmitting information.”

And I think: Remembering. Yes! Is this not the ultimate purpose of Torah? Torah is meant to remind us that we have common origins. We read Torah to remember that we are all created in the same divine image. We read Torah to remember that we are called upon to be a just and compassionate people. We read Torah to remember that even before we were Israel, we were humanity. We read Torah to remember that being human means more than just existing.

We become fully human when we recognize the humanity of others. And, this I believe was the purpose of Tippett’s recent reflections. When we look to those around us and see them not as “less human,” but “more human,” we are able to elevate all of existence.

What does it mean to be human? It means to remember. And to remember carefully. For how we remember shapes who we are and what we will become. My blessing for us all on this Shabbat is that we remember and we remember well. May our foundational memories, retold to us this week, shape our actions toward good in this world.

Sukkot 5769

2008-10-15T16:42:00.000-07:00

We find ourselves in the middle of the holiday of Sukkot. Sukkot is called Z’man Simchateinu, the Season of our Joy, for, on Sukkot, we are commanded to be joyful. Interestingly enough, on Sukkot we are also instructed to build sukkot, or temporary structures and to read the book of Ecclesiastes, a book filled with images of impermanence. And I wonder: What does our tradition want with us, leaving us with this odd mixture of joy and impermanence?

I believe that our tradition teaches us something profound this week: Our people have long recognized that moments of pure joy can be difficult to reach and recognize. We must treasure the moments of joy in our life and create space for them. Sukkot tells us: Once this elusive emotion is grasped, take pleasure in its coming and don’t worry about how long it will last.

In one of my favorite biblical passages, The Psalmist sings, “One may lie down weeping at nightfall; but at dawn there are songs of joy (Psalm 30:5). Life is full of moments of pain as surely as it is filled with moments of simcha. This is a time for seizing joy! As the poet Robert Graves explains, seizing it “despite and still.”

On this Sukkot, I pray that each of us takes time to reflect on the m’korot simcha, the sources of joy in our lives. May we draw these centers of joy close to us. As we take our lulav and etrog and eat our meals outside, let us remember that quiet skies follow even the windiest of days. As we gaze up through the roofs of our sukkot at the now waning moon in the sky, let us remember that everything that wanes will once again wax. “Those who sow in tears will reap in joy,” (Psalm 126:5). Let us all reap in joy in the days to come!

Exodus 33:12–34:26 is the special Torah portion this week. We read this portion on the Shabbat that falls during intermediary days of Sukkot.

Yom Kippur 5769 -- Love Your Neighbor as Yourself

2008-10-10T12:39:00.000-07:00

My Yom Kippur Sermon on Marriage Equality begins...

A month after I was ordained as a rabbi, I found myself walking into a country club, signature black leather briefcase in hand, ready to officiate at my first Jewish wedding. Moments later, I looked down at the first California Marriage License I would sign as a solo officiant. My hand shook as I tried to make sense of the official document before me. I took a deep breath and brought to mind the calming words of Rabbi Cohen: Whatever you do, just don’t mess up the marriage license!

Click here to read the rest of the sermon.

Parashat Haazinu 5769

2008-10-10T12:37:00.000-07:00

This week’s Torah Portion, Parashat Ha’azinu, provides us with both a touching and troubling look at Moses’ final days of life. The entire Torah portion is comprised of the Ha’azinu, or Give-Ear, poem, also called Moses’ Poem. In this final poem, Moses recites his understanding of God’s relationship with Israel. The masterful verses includes images of the divine, which are intended to both comfort and disturb the audience.

When I read this poem, I tend to focus not on its particular theologies, but on its intended purpose. This poem is Moses’ attempt to make meaning of his life. This poem is Moses’ attempt to communicate his beliefs and feelings with his community. Moses declares:

Give ear, O heavens, let me speak; Let the earth hear the words I utter! May my speech come down as the rain, My utterances distill as the dew, Like showers on young growth, Like droplets on the grass. For the name of Adonai I proclaim; Give glory to our God! (Deuteronomy 32:1-3)

Moses imagines that his words will have both immediate impact (like the falling of rain) and lasting impact (like the settling of dew). Moses sees his words as holy, being given in the name of Adonai. and with the purpose of glorifying the divine. What a model of speech for us all!

We are currently in the Ten Days of Awe between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. This is a time for us to consider our own words and actions carefully. Ha’azinu is a poignant reminder that holiness comes when we speak from our souls.

What words do you need to say aloud before Yom Kippur? To whom do you need to utter them?

During this time of year, we are expected not only to engage in holy speech, but also to engage in holy action. Each year at TBS, we provide our community with the opportunity to bring bags of food for the Second Harvest Food Drive. This food is needed now more than ever, as local food banks report decreased food stock and increased demand. We have a lot to learn from Moses’ proclamation.

We all know that it is quite easy to move through life without saying the difficult things we need to say or engaging in the important actions we need to complete. Torah’s lesson this week is clear: Speak and act wisely, and do so for the sake of heaven.

I pray that each one of us is moved in the days ahead to engage in both holy speech and holy action.

G’mar Chatimah Tovah!

Rosh Hashanah 5769 -- Searching for Meaning

2008-10-02T12:33:00.000-07:00

My second day Rosh Hashanah sermon on Meaning begins...

This summer, my seven year old nephew Callan, came from Denver to stay with my partner Tali and I for a week. For us two thirty-somethings who live alone, anticipating the visit of a first grader was a big deal. Yes, Callan’s arrival was marked with much fanfare. We created a little bedroom for him in our home office. We bought food we thought a growing boy would like: turkey slices, Gatorade, baby carrots, nacho lunchables. We planned activities, signed him up for Camp Sholom, coordinated schedules, and made extensive lists. We talked about house rules. And so, when we picked up Callan from the airport on June 21, we were ready.

Click here to read the rest of the sermon.

Parashat Nitzavim 5768

2008-09-26T12:31:00.000-07:00

In this week’s Torah portion Parshat Nitzavim, we are reminded of what it means to be Israel. Moses gathers the people together and says to them:

You stand this day, all of you, before Adonai your God -- your tribal heads, your elders and your officials, all the men of Israel, your children, your wives, even the stranger within your camp, from woodchopper to waterdrawer -- to enter into the covenant of Adonai your God, which Adonai your God is concluding with you this day, with its sanctions; to the end that God may establish you this day as God’s people and be your God, as God promised you and as God swore to your fathers, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. I make this covenant, with its sanctions, not with you alone, but both with those who are standing here with us this day before Adonai our God and with those who are not with us here this day. (Deuteronomy 29:9-14).

This week, Moses teaches us to understand ourselves both horizontally and vertically. Horizontally, because Israel includes everyone: men and women, powerful and powerless, children and strangers. And, vertically, because Israel spans generations: from those who came before to those who have yet to come.

As we continue our own process of Elul reflection in preparation for the High Holy Days, I believe we too have an opportunity to rethink our relationships with our community. How might we better connect or serve those around us? How might we better align ourselves with generations past and present?

Parashat Nitzavim provides one answer to this question. The Torah tells us:

Surely, this Instruction which I enjoin upon you this day is not too baffling for you, nor is it beyond reach. It is not in the heavens, that you should say, "Who among us can go up to the heavens and get it for us and impart it to us, that we may observe it?" Neither is it beyond the sea, that you should say, "Who among us can cross to the other side of the sea and get it for us and impart it to us, that we may observe it?" No, the thing is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to observe it (Deuteronomy 30:11-13).

This week we are reminded that Torah, in its totality, is not intended to be esoteric or removed from our lives. Rather, Torah is meant to be internalized. This week we are reminded that our tradition calls upon us to hold Torah close to us; to keep words of Torah on our lips and implanted in our hearts. When we keep Torah close to us, we bind ourselves to our community. We are reminded to live lives based on justice and compassion, and to seek a sense of purpose in all we do.

It is easy to stray away from this ideal. It is easy to live life separated from tradition, from community, and from our sacred texts. It is easy to do this because life is busy and filled with pleasant things to distract us. However, Torah teaches us that life is experienced more fully when we connect ourselves to things greater than ourselves. When we live life conscious of our place in our community (both horizontally and vertically) and when we live life with an inner mindfulness toward our spirit, Torah teaches that we live our lives to their whole potential.

On this Shabbat, I pray that we find moments to seek out the Torah in our lives. I pray that we take time to connect ourselves with those around us, those who came before us, and those of future generations. Elul is a time for drawing close to our best selves. I wish you blessings as you do so.

Parashat Ki Tavo 5768

2008-09-19T12:28:00.000-07:00

In this week’s Torah portion Ki Tavo, Moses asks the people to imagine the land they will soon occupy. Like any good leader, Moses instructs the Israelites to envision what life will be like once they enter the Land of Israel. He contextualizes this exercise by helping the people to reflect first on their past, then of their present, and finally to their future. Moses says:

The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried to Adonai, the God of our ancestors, and Adonai heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. Adonai freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and portents. God brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Therefore, as you see, I now bring the firstfruits of the land which you, Adonai, have given me. (Deuteronomy 26:6-10).

In this visioning exercise, notice how Moses quickly glosses over the particulars of how the people will come to possess and inhabit the Promised Land. Moses moves deftly from slavery to freedom (skipping much of the in between) and then delights in how the people will give thanks to God with their firstfruits, celebrating their deliverance. And, what of the forty years of wandering? And, what of the people that occupy the “Promised Land”?

Some argue that Moses’ omissions serve as good motivating tools. “Why dwell on the negative?” Moses seems to say. “Let’s just focus on all that we have.”

Others read Moses’ speech differently. The key to unlocking his omissions, they say, are the words “milk and honey.” These scholars point out that the phrase “milk and honey” is repeated 15 times in the Torah. These bible scholars suggest that “milk and honey” might not refer to the sweet future and rich land their simple meaning suggests. These scholars suggest that instead of referring to an abundance of agricultural products, “milk and honey” refers to an abundance of dangerous wild animals (N. Hareuveni). According to this reading, Moses does not gloss over the particulars of how the people will come to “possess and inhabit” the land, at all. Rather, by stating that the land will flow with “milk and honey,” Moses seeks to acknowledge that the Israelites will still have much to contend with once they enter the land.

This dual reading reminds me of one of the wonderful characteristics of Torah. Our Torah has no issue with contradictions! Both of these ways of understanding—positive and negative—may very well be intended in the meaning of the verse.

Today, we find ourselves in the month of Elul. This is a time for introspection. This is a time for reflection. I believe that, this week, Torah calls us to look upon our lives through “milk and honey” glasses. What of our lives is sweet and calls for gratitude? What of our lives is challenging and calls for further struggle? As we look backwards and forwards to what has passed and what is yet to come, let us remember that all of life is “milk and honey.” What changes is how we perceive it. What changes is how we grow from it. What changes is how we respond to it.

Parashat Ki Teitzei 5768

2008-09-12T12:27:00.000-07:00

When liberal Jews are asked to define why they believe some Torah laws must be rejected, while others, such as laws of justice and respect, remain piercingly relevant, we often site a verse from this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Ki Teitzei:

If a man has a wayward and defiant son, who does not heed his father or mother and does not obey them even after they discipline him, his father and mother shall take hold of him and bring him out to the elders of his town at the public place of his community. They shall say to the elders of his town, “This son of ours is disloyal and defiant; he does not heed us. He is a glutton and a drunkard.” Thereupon the men of his town shall stone him to death. Thus you will sweep out evil from your midst: all Israel will hear and be afraid.

“You see,” cries the triumphant Torah reader, “Obviously, this does not happen anymore. So, why should we keep ________________ [fill in the mitzvah].”

What may be surprising to us is that the ancient rabbis react to this verse quite similarly to the contemporary Torah reader. The rabbis of the Mishna went to great lengths to reinterpret these verses; explaining that the text refers only to a son and not a daughter, that it only refers to a three month period of time in the son’s life, that the son cannot be deaf, that the son cannot be mute, that the son must have both a mother and a father, and so on. The Babylonian Talmud goes on further to narrow the scope of possibility until the criteria for a “wayward son” are almost non-existent. At this point, the Talmudic Rabbis do not stop. Rather, they proclaim, unequivocally, “‘A stubborn and rebellious son,’ there never was and there never will be such. Then why is it written? To teach, ‘Study and receive the reward’” (BT Sanhedrin 71a).”

What are the ancient rabbis suggesting, here? The rabbis never outright reject a Torah verse with which they are uncomfortable. Rather, they reinterpret it and reinterpret it until it barely resembles its original character. They squeeze sweetness and goodness out of many of the most troubling verses. They wrestle blessings even out of violence and pain.

As the saying goes, “where there is a rabbinic will, there is a halakhic [Jewish legal] way.” When the ancient rabbis wanted to reform a verse, they stopped at nothing to do so. This text-wrestling was considered a sacred duty. And, I believe, it was never intended to end.

We, in liberal Jewish communities, should never cede our responsibility to continue wrestling new blessings out of ancient texts. For the rabbis (and for us), the law of the wayward son was deeply troubling. If we look into the heart of this week’s Torah portion, we see other such laws that bring us discomfort (e.g. captive women brought into an Israelite’s home, prohibitions against men and women wearing clothing of the opposite gender, etc.). Instead of shutting us off to Torah, these verses should be doorways in. For, when we encounter a verse that brings us pain, it becomes our duty to create comfort for others.

Let us return briefly to the final words of the Gemara text I cited earlier, “Study and receive the reward.” When we challenge existing assumptions and make Torah a living document in our lives, we remind ourselves that all around us in our world are established ways of doing and being that need overturning, as well. When we become menders of our text, we remind ourselves to be menders of our world.

On this Shabbat, I invite you to engage in a little text-wrestling of your own. Who knows what blessings you might find.

Parashat Shoftim 5768

2008-09-05T12:25:00.000-07:00

This week’s Torah portion, Parashat Shoftim, is concerned with issues of justice. In the opening verses of the parashah, the Torah boldly proclaims: Justice, justice shall you pursue (Deuteronomy 16:20). These famous words, which instruct us to be agents of righteousness in our community, fuel much of our work at TBS. I read these words anew this year, though. For, on Sunday, we will open the TBS Religious School for the 2008-2009 school year.

This week, as I studied the parashah, I found myself drawn to the instructions Moses gives to the Israelites concerning their future appointment of a king. The text foreshadows the problematic relationship Israel will have with their power-hungry kings once they occupy the land. Today, with the kingship abolished, I believe each of us can learn from these instructions and consider the ways we can manage our own power and influence.

The Torah explains:

When he is seated on his royal throne, he shall have a copy of this Torah written for him on a scroll by the levitical priests. Let it remain with him and let him read in it all his life, so that he may learn to revere Adonai his God, to observe faithfully every word of this Torah as well as these laws. Thus his heart will not be raised above his fellows and he will not turn aside from the Instruction (Mitzvah), to the right or to the left, in order that he and his descendants may reign long in the midst of Israel (Deuteronomy 17:18-20).

As I mentioned, these words are particularly poignant to me as we begin our final preparations to open the Religious School doors to our students of Torah, once again. This ancient royal instruction is, indeed, exactly what we want our students to learn at TBS. We hope our students will live a life surrounded by Torah. We wish that Torah will remain relevant and meaningful for them. We pray that our students will learn that, at its core, Torah teaches a message of justice. And so, we work to instill in our students these central values, so beautifully outline in this week’s parashah: Everyone is equal. Our behavior affects the quality of life for every living creature.

As a community, our most basic desire is to help raise up a new generation that is committed to a life of justice. This week’s Torah portion is a reminder of our role in this process. We must become the “levitical priests.” We must continue to bring our students to Torah. To teach them its most basic values. To model for them its just application. To share with them its essential sweetness.

I invite all of you who are available to join us for our Religious School Opening Day ceremony this Sunday at 10:00 a.m. in the Sanctuary. As we unveil our social justice focus for the year, introduce our new HUC interns, greet our TBS teachers, and welcome our students to learning with music and joy, I know that we will inspire not only our students, but also (maybe even) ourselves.

Parashat Re'eh 5768

2008-08-29T12:24:00.000-07:00

This week’s Torah portion, Parashat Re’eh, opens with these words:

See, I am setting before you today a blessing and a curse: The blessing, if you listen to the mitzvot of Adonai your God that I am giving you today; and the curse, if you don't listen to the mitzvot of Adonai your God, but turn aside from the way I am ordering you today and follow other gods that you have not known.

Blessings, Torah teaches, are available to us, if we only choose them. And, the curses? Well, we can keep them at bay if we only choose rightly. The question is: What is a “blessing,” and what is a “curse”?

The Sefat Emet, a nineteenth Century Hasidic master, teaches that a “blessing” is a living point, hidden deep within each of us. To sense or uncover our hidden blessing, we must listen for it. We must attune ourselves to the divine substance that exists within us. When we find ways to recognize this bit of the divine in each of our acts, we live a life of blessing.

In this sense, then, a blessing is not something extrinsic that we receive. But, rather, intrinsic. A blessing is something within us, a true core that each one of us possesses. And, the Sefat Emet teaches, when we live our lives with an awareness of our divine blessing, we experience life differently.

What, then, keeps us from living our lives centered around a divine blessing? The answer, I believe, is in the Torah portion itself. There are many distractions that catch our eye and divert us from seeing the inner blessings of our lives. These distractions, which our ancestors called “idols” or “other gods,” take new forms today. These distractions pull us from our divine centers. Instead of living life in tune
with our divine core, we find ourselves living in tune with other rhythms: busy-ness, stress, success, responsibilities, etc. And, while none of these is, in and of itself, problematic, they have the potential to become problematic when we live only for them. In the same way that a piece of wood only becomes and idol when you pray to it, success only becomes a diversion to the divine when you live by it.

On this Shabbat, I wish us all the power to choose our own blessing. May we each realize that we hold within us a hidden divine core, ready to be discovered, ready to be unleashed, ready to be embodied.

Parashat Eikev 5768

2008-08-22T12:21:00.000-07:00

This week’s Torah portion, Parashat Eikev, includes the theologically troubling second paragraph of one of our central Jewish prayers, the Sh’ma. In fact, these words are so challenging, the Reform movement long ago removed them from our liturgy. And, while the words are preserved in our TBS siddur, we often choose not to recite them. What are these words that cause us so much worry? Deuteronomy 11:13-21 reads:

If, then, you obey the commandments that I enjoin upon you this day, loving Adonai your God and serving Him with all your heart and soul, I will grant the rain for your land in season, the early rain and the late. You shall gather in your new grain and wine and oil — I will also provide grass in the fields for your cattle — and thus you shall eat your fill. Take care not to be lured away to serve other gods and bow to them. For Adonai’s anger will flare up against you, and He will shut up the skies so that there will be no rain and the ground will not yield its produce; and you will soon perish from the good land that Adonai is assigning to you. Therefore impress these My words upon your very heart: bind them as a sign on your hand and let them serve as a-symbol on your forehead, and teach them to your children — reciting them when you stay at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you get up; and inscribe them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates — to the end that you and your children may endure, in the land that Adonai swore to your fathers to assign to them, as long as there is a heaven over the earth.

What can we, as Reform Jews, do with such a firm theological statement of reward and punishment (a theology that our movement long ago rejected)?

I believe we must look past the simple (p’shat) meaning of these words and explore their relevance in our world today (d’rash). I believe that God, through the words of Torah, is speaking to us today.

God is saying to us: If you continue to burn fossil fuels for your benefit today, without exploring alternative technology, you will feel the ramifications of your actions, as your weather patterns change (droughts, hurricanes, floods, and mudslides). And, you will feel the consequences of worshipping the gods of “convenience” and “progress.”

God is saying to us: If you continue to produce “new seeds” and use dangerous, poisonous chemicals and fertilizers, planting without concern for native environments or the needs of local populations, you will experience hunger and create inarable land. And, you will feel the consequences of not researching the possibilities of locally grown produce, organic growing, subsistent farming, or alternative theories of agriculture.

God is saying to us: If you continue to strip the land bare of old growth trees and pay no heed to your efforts at deforestation, you will experience mudslides and climate change. The earth will rebel. It will have nothing more to give you. And, you will feel the consequences of not treating the land with respect.

I fear that we, as a world collective, have begun to believe that we are no longer subject to the Divine laws of the elements. We have begun to imagine that we are no longer intimately connected to the land and her rhythms. We have begun to believe that the intricate Divinely controlled relationship between human actions and needed rainfall no longer apply to us. We have begun to believe that we no longer need God’s commandments. Our lives, it seems, have been ruled by newly created laws of technology, science, and urbanization.

This year, as we read these timeless words of Deuteronomy, let us return to our God— to the cautions we were long ago commanded to impress upon our hearts. We learn in this week’s parashah that we cannot compartmentalize our actions. The way we treat our planet is the way we treat our God is the way we treat ourselves.

On this Shabbat, let us hear Torah anew. On this Shabbat, let us recommit ourselves to enduring—and even thriving—in our land.

Parashat Va'etchanan

2008-08-15T12:18:00.000-07:00

I believe this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Va’Etchanan, is best read through three different pairs of glasses. You decide which one enhances your sight best!

Dark Glasses:
This week, Moses learns, once and for all, that God will not allow him to cross over the River Jordan and enter into the Promised Land with the People. God tells Moses, “Go up to the top of the pisga (range) and lift up your eyes—toward the sea, toward the north, toward the south, and toward sunrise; see it with your eyes, for you will not cross this Jordan!” This verse may seem distressing to some of us: What a cruel story! Moses leads the people for 40 years through the desert, only to arrive at the edge of the Promised Land and to be denied entrance. What could he have possibly done to deserve this? We may feel that God is almost taunting Moses, like a guard might taunt a captive: “See that land of freedom over there, take a good look, because you won’t ever step foot on it.” The story gets even worse because Moses can’t even enjoy his last moments of his life in peace; rather, he has to keep teaching the people. Listen to the bitterness of Moses’ words when he says, “And now, O Israel, listen to the laws and the regulations that I am teaching you to observe, in order that you may live and enter and take-possession of the land that Adonai, the God of your fathers, is giving to you.” Moses has taken himself out of the equation—by repeating the word “you”—instead of the word “we”—again and again. These glasses show us a story of disappointment and loss.

Rose Colored Glasses:
Maybe, the image of Moses looking over the Promised Land isn’t depressing at all, maybe this is a message of hope. Maybe God offers Moses this concrete visual image in order to help Moses realize that he has succeeded in his journey. When Moses looks North and South, East and West, maybe he feels a sense of pride. And, of course, Moses has the joy, even in these last moments of his life, of teaching his people Torah, the laws they will need to succeed in the land. These glasses show us a story of satisfaction and hope.

Bifocals:
Maybe this passage isn’t about Moses’ disappointment or hope, at all. Maybe this entire parashah is delivering a message about the future of Judaism! Forget about what Moses is feeling for a second! Let’s ask this question instead: Why won’t God let Moses into the land in the first place? When the Torah describes Moses looking across the River Jordan, it paints a picture of a new future for Judaism—a future that will not be dependent on Moses’ leadership. When Moses turns to his people and says “And now, O Israel, listen to the laws and the regulations that I am teaching you to observe, in order that you may live and enter and take-possession of the land that Adonai, the God of your fathers, is giving to you,” Moses is letting the People know that they now hold the future of Judaism in their hands. Moses has set the People up to live and to behave correctly without his ongoing leadership. In fact, Moses instructs the People further; he tells the Israelites to “make the laws known to your children, and to your children’s children.” This parashah lets us know that, after Moses’ passing, Judaism will continue to exist independent of a single leader. Judaism will be dependent on the collective, on the people who practice it. These glasses show us a story about the survival of Judaism and its ability to endure from one generation to the next.

You choose the glasses. Is this a story of disappointment, of hope, or of continuity?

On this Shabbat let us remember that we have both the power and the responsibility to view Torah through many lenses. It is only when we widen our lens of viewing that we strengthen our tradition and enrich our own lives.

Parashat Masei 5768

2008-08-01T12:17:00.000-07:00

In this week’s Torah Portion, Parashat Ma’asei, we are treated to a recap of the Israelites’ experiences in the desert. The text details their journey, from exodus to the plains of Moab. Interestingly, though, the text includes few details of narrative; rather, it focuses on a long list of places at which the Israelites stopped and camped, before moving on. Ma’asei is the last portion in the Book of Numbers and, in reading it, one naturally wonders: Why would the Torah recap the Israelites’ journey at this point? For weeks and weeks, we have heard in detail the story of the Israelites’ journey. Why does it need to be reiterated here?

One answer is that the Torah is employing a tried and true pedagogic method. It is always helpful to review the main points of a lesson as it draws to an end. Doing so helps learners sort through the material presented and gives them an opportunity to internalize critical ideas. Which leads us to the question: Why, in this reiteration, are the details left out and only the locations listed?

In reading Numbers 33, I am struck by a concept that is often discussed in Gender Studies circles, the idea of taking up space in the world. There are some groups, women for example, who have not always been given equal access to certain space in the world. Because of this, individual women often have had to learn not only how to take up space in the world, but also discover what space in the world they would like to take up.

On an individual level, it can be interesting to consider your own experiences: What space in the world do you take up? (e.g. do you take up space as a parent, as a child, as a trouble maker, as a nurturer, as an artist, as an adventurer? etc.) What space in the world would you like to take up? Is it easy for you to occupy space? Is it a challenge? How have spaces you occupy changed with time?

I believe that this week’s Torah portion challenges future generations, the descendents of the Israelite wanderers, to consider the space we will take up in the world. The long list of places in this week’s parashah reminds us that individual Israelites did not experience the desert journey (like much of life) as a linear path from slavery to freedom. Rather, as we read Ma’asei, we can imagine the story of any one of our ancestors. We can imagine their struggle to learn how to take up space in the world, for only free people have this privilege. As they wandered, our ancestors learned to take up space as believers and as doubters, as rebels and as helpers, as nurtures and as fighters, as complainers and praisers. As they went from place to place, the space they took up shifted, as well.

On this Shabbat, we are reminded that we too are wanderers. Like our ancestors, our journey is never linear. As we go from place to place (physical, emotional, and spiritual), the space we take up shifts, as well. Before heading into the Promised Land, our ancestors needed to be reminded of the space they had taken up, the space they were taking up, and the space they still yet could take up in the world. On this Shabbat, let us remember that we too stand on the Plains of Moab, looking into the Promised Land. And, let us remember that it is only when we seek to become aware of who we are, how we are, and where we are that we will become true agents of our own journey into Israel.

Parashat Mattot 5768

2008-07-25T12:15:00.000-07:00

When I was a teenager, my family moved to a small town called Clever, outside of Springfield, Missouri. We lived, quite literally, in the “middle of nowhere.” My father, who grew up on a small farm in rural Kansas, delighted in exposing my family to the finer sides of country life. One of his favorite games was to stop his pickup truck directly over the well soiled cow path that ran across our country road, open the car windows, and as the cows milled about, eating hay, say, “Do you smell that country?” Of course, we would all obligingly shriek, lunge for the window controls, and scream, “Eww…that smells so bad!” Let’s just say I was not all that great at the finer points of country life.

This childhood memory comes to mind as I read this week’s Torah portion. In this week’s parashah, Mattot, the Israelites come to the lands of Jazer and Gilead. These lands are very near the banks of the Jordan River and, according to the Torah, “were a region suitable for cattle.” It is not surprising, then, that the Reubenties and Gadites, two of the Israelite tribes that possessed cattle, looked upon these recently conquered lands hungrily. They said to Moses, “‘the land that Adonai has conquered for the community of Israel is cattle country, and your servants have cattle. It would be a favor to us,’ they continued, ‘if this land were given to your servants as a holding; do not move us across the Jordan’” (Numbers 32:4-5). I can smell the cattle land now.

Moses is less than thrilled with this idea. The entire purpose of the Israelites’ journey for the past almost forty years was to reach the Promised Land. The slave generation had been denied access to the land because they were unable to lose their slave mentality. Now, this new generation, on the verge of crossing the Jordan River seemed to be losing sight of the end goal as well. Moses balks. He tells the Reubenites and the Gadites that they must first cross the Jordan, help conquer the land, and then they can return to dwell in Jazer and Gilead. The two tribes agree.

Rabbi Elliot Kukla suggests that the central issue with the Reubenites and Gadites’ initial proposal was that they were only interested in their own personal gain. They failed to realize that their community needed them in order to evolve, in order to reach their final destination.

In response to today’s secular society, in which the individual and the individual’s needs are often valued over all else, Jewish tradition teaches us a very different value. Al tifrosh min ha’tzibur: Do not separate yourself from the community. In order for our community (whether “our community” is Temple Beth Sholom, the city or county we live in, our country, our world, or the Jewish people etc.) to advance, we must remain in tune with communal needs. Sometimes, this week’s Torah portion teaches us, this means delaying or setting aside our own personal gains.

When my grandmother passed away a few years ago, I saw a different side of country life. As my family sat shiva, neighbors from the surrounding dairies, farms, and houses entered our home to grieve with us. From my life in Missouri I learned that cattle land may be important, but community is much more so.