7 is a good Jewish number.
Seven days of creation
Seven days of the week
Seven days of Passover
Seven weeks between Passover and Shavuot
Seven years of the shmita agricultural cycle
Seven seven-year shmita rotations until the Jubilee Year
Seven days of priestly ordination
This week's Torah Portion Shmini (meaning eighth) begins in a radical place: It is the post-seven. It is the what happens next. It is the "what can I possibly do now"...
I love Judaism not for the seven, but for the eighth. What do I mean by this?
Our tradition tells us a lot about what happens during the sevens. We know about the seven days of creation, the seven days of the week, the seven days of Passover, or, in this week's Torah portion, the seven days of priestly ordination. Seven is chartered territory. But, what do we know about the eighth?
After all that build up, after all that ritual, after all that celebrating and creating, well...what happens next?
Shmini reminds us that life goes on after the established times of our lives. The "eighth day" is a metaphor for all those "after days" we live. The day after a promotion, a birth, a birthday, a graduation, a celebration, a death, a diagnosis, a setback.
This week's Torah portion doesn't walk the established path. Instead, it recognizes the first step we take afterwards.
As the Eitz Chayim Torah Commentary explains, "The seven-day week symbolizes a complete unit, and an eighth day represents starting over at a new level" (630).
I can remember some of my own recent eighth days. The day after I began at TBS. The day after my grandmother died. The day after I was ordained as a rabbi. September 12, 2001.
Reflect on some of your eighth days.
In this week's Torah portion, our ancestors mark the eighth day by making offerings to the Divine on the newly constructed mishkan, the newly constructed tabernacle.
How do we mark our own eighth days? How might we bring a sense of holiness to them?
On this Shabbat, let us remember that our tradition not only deals in the established sevens, but also follows us, in all the messiness of our lives, into the liminal eighths. May God grant us the insight to recognize these eighths and may we be comforted by the Divine Presence on them.
March 28, 2008
March 14, 2008
Parashat Vayikra 5768
This Shabbat, we begin reading from a new book of Torah, Leviticus or Vayikra. While I tend to meet these chapters with excitement, I know others have a different reaction. Yes, I believe Leviticus is the most "looked down upon" book in our Five Books of Torah. Leviticus focuses almost solely on law: laws of sacrifice, laws of ritual purity and impurity, and laws of holiness (the exceptions to this rule are two short passages of narrative). Because of its focus on these squirmy details, Leviticus is commonly described as foreign, irrelevant, and legalistic. And yet, many of us who know and love her feel that she is simply misunderstood!
This week's Torah portion Vayikra focuses on laws concerning different sacrifices. Let's just be clear here: Rules regarding animal sacrifice do not exactly fit into our modern understanding of the universe. And, I will be honest: As a vegetarian, my initial encounters with this book were quite tense. With time, though, I have come to see the potential hurdles between Leviticus and me as welcome invitations to reconsider the true meaning of the text (if it's only blood and guts, we are all in trouble!).
Let me share with you one example of this deeper searching: A central root word found in this week's Torah portion, this week's parasha, is k-r-v (koof-reish-vav). The root "k-r-v" is usually translated as "to sacrifice." As my grandmother used to say, "this is a shanda!" This inexact translation obscures the true meaning of the word, which is "to bring near." While on the surface this chapter may seem to be about a holy barbeque, a closer reading suggests that all these laws and sacrifices are really about drawing near.
The obvious question is, "Drawing near to whom?"
One answer is drawing near to God (i.e. humans "make sacrifices" to God and therefore "draw near" to God). But, this is only part of the story. In addition to the parts of the offerings that are burned on the altar for God, there are other parts that are often shared by the priests and the people (most notably, in the wellbeing offering). In this sense, then, the offering of animals, grains, and incense on the altar can be read as metaphors for our own attempts to share together with God and with our community.
Biblical scholar and anthropologist Mary Douglas offers another layer to our exploration. She asserts that, according to the book of Leviticus, the only time meat could be eaten was during a sacrifice (that is to say that, according to Leviticus, the rest of the Israelites' diet was vegetarian). She also suggests that all of Leviticus' sacrifices were to be made completely in silence. From Douglas, we learn that the sacrifices were attempts to elevate seemingly mundane parts of our lives to a level of intense holiness, intention, and community.
If you can get beyond the "ick" factor of livers protuberances, suet, and entrails, and open yourself to the deeper meanings of this oft-misunderstood book, you can connect with an important lesson: Potential moments of holiness are often masked and sometimes difficult to realize. But, if we are willing to search deeper and stretch ourselves a bit, we may find that the sacred was around us and in us all along, simply waiting to be unearthed and named.
This week's Torah portion Vayikra focuses on laws concerning different sacrifices. Let's just be clear here: Rules regarding animal sacrifice do not exactly fit into our modern understanding of the universe. And, I will be honest: As a vegetarian, my initial encounters with this book were quite tense. With time, though, I have come to see the potential hurdles between Leviticus and me as welcome invitations to reconsider the true meaning of the text (if it's only blood and guts, we are all in trouble!).
Let me share with you one example of this deeper searching: A central root word found in this week's Torah portion, this week's parasha, is k-r-v (koof-reish-vav). The root "k-r-v" is usually translated as "to sacrifice." As my grandmother used to say, "this is a shanda!" This inexact translation obscures the true meaning of the word, which is "to bring near." While on the surface this chapter may seem to be about a holy barbeque, a closer reading suggests that all these laws and sacrifices are really about drawing near.
The obvious question is, "Drawing near to whom?"
One answer is drawing near to God (i.e. humans "make sacrifices" to God and therefore "draw near" to God). But, this is only part of the story. In addition to the parts of the offerings that are burned on the altar for God, there are other parts that are often shared by the priests and the people (most notably, in the wellbeing offering). In this sense, then, the offering of animals, grains, and incense on the altar can be read as metaphors for our own attempts to share together with God and with our community.
Biblical scholar and anthropologist Mary Douglas offers another layer to our exploration. She asserts that, according to the book of Leviticus, the only time meat could be eaten was during a sacrifice (that is to say that, according to Leviticus, the rest of the Israelites' diet was vegetarian). She also suggests that all of Leviticus' sacrifices were to be made completely in silence. From Douglas, we learn that the sacrifices were attempts to elevate seemingly mundane parts of our lives to a level of intense holiness, intention, and community.
If you can get beyond the "ick" factor of livers protuberances, suet, and entrails, and open yourself to the deeper meanings of this oft-misunderstood book, you can connect with an important lesson: Potential moments of holiness are often masked and sometimes difficult to realize. But, if we are willing to search deeper and stretch ourselves a bit, we may find that the sacred was around us and in us all along, simply waiting to be unearthed and named.
March 7, 2008
Parashat P'kudei 5768
When God finished creating the world, God stopped. In this moment of pause, the divine offered a blessing. Our Torah tells us, "And God blessed the seventh day and declared it holy, because on it God ceased from all the work of creation that God had done" (Genesis 2:3).
In this week's Torah Portion, P'kudei, the people finally complete the difficult work of building the mishkan, the holy tabernacle in which God dwells. When the Israelites finished their task, our Torah teaches us that Moses offered words of blessing, "And when Moses saw that they had performed all the tasks - as Adonai had commanded, so they had done - Moses blessed them" (Exodus 39:43).
There are obvious parallels in these holy texts. In moments of completion, our tradition teaches us, it is fitting to stop and offer words of blessing. These purposeful moments of focused prayer are not only about praising the divine, but also are about personal reflection.
This week's parasha speaks to me personally. In my line of work, as I am sure is true in yours, I have the privilege of working on a number of large projects. These projects are often long-term, complicated, deeply fulfilling, and time consuming. Often, the build-up to a project's completion can feel all encompassing. Do you know what I am describing here? Waking up in the middle of the night with project details on the brain, making and re-making lists, circling conversations about deadlines and schedules...
When major projects in our lives come to an end, we can often experience what I affectionately call "Post Production Blues." The work is over and we are left...wanting. The ensuing quiet can feel unsettling. (Parents may often recognize this in their children as they complete major school projects, finish tests, or return home from camp). In moments like this, when I recognize feelings of loss, I look to my tradition for guidance on how to navigate.
We can take a clear lesson from this week's parasha (as I mentioned a couple weeks ago, sometimes Torah can be wonderfully simple). When we finish something--complete a project, finalize a report, or reach the end of a significant period in our lives, we can offer a blessing. We, like God and Moses in God's image, can stop and recognize our accomplishments, give thanks for those who supported us, and recognize that our acts, each of them, parallel the original acts of creation.
My blessing for us this Shabbat is that each of us remembers that we are created b'tzelem Elohim, in the image of God, and, therefore, are imbued with holiness. Let us remember that, in God's image, our lives are filled with many acts of creation, and we too have the power to mark those acts with words of blessing, praise, and gratitude.
In this week's Torah Portion, P'kudei, the people finally complete the difficult work of building the mishkan, the holy tabernacle in which God dwells. When the Israelites finished their task, our Torah teaches us that Moses offered words of blessing, "And when Moses saw that they had performed all the tasks - as Adonai had commanded, so they had done - Moses blessed them" (Exodus 39:43).
There are obvious parallels in these holy texts. In moments of completion, our tradition teaches us, it is fitting to stop and offer words of blessing. These purposeful moments of focused prayer are not only about praising the divine, but also are about personal reflection.
This week's parasha speaks to me personally. In my line of work, as I am sure is true in yours, I have the privilege of working on a number of large projects. These projects are often long-term, complicated, deeply fulfilling, and time consuming. Often, the build-up to a project's completion can feel all encompassing. Do you know what I am describing here? Waking up in the middle of the night with project details on the brain, making and re-making lists, circling conversations about deadlines and schedules...
When major projects in our lives come to an end, we can often experience what I affectionately call "Post Production Blues." The work is over and we are left...wanting. The ensuing quiet can feel unsettling. (Parents may often recognize this in their children as they complete major school projects, finish tests, or return home from camp). In moments like this, when I recognize feelings of loss, I look to my tradition for guidance on how to navigate.
We can take a clear lesson from this week's parasha (as I mentioned a couple weeks ago, sometimes Torah can be wonderfully simple). When we finish something--complete a project, finalize a report, or reach the end of a significant period in our lives, we can offer a blessing. We, like God and Moses in God's image, can stop and recognize our accomplishments, give thanks for those who supported us, and recognize that our acts, each of them, parallel the original acts of creation.
My blessing for us this Shabbat is that each of us remembers that we are created b'tzelem Elohim, in the image of God, and, therefore, are imbued with holiness. Let us remember that, in God's image, our lives are filled with many acts of creation, and we too have the power to mark those acts with words of blessing, praise, and gratitude.
February 29, 2008
Parashat Vayakel 5768
In this week's Torah portion, Vayakel, the Israelites are commanded to help build the mishkan, Adonai's Tabernacle. Amidst the harsh, bleak desert backdrop, our ancestors are called upon to create beauty.
In past weeks, we have read the details of how the Tabernacle is to be constructed. It is to be ornate, intricate, and opulent. The Torah spins out the materials like an indulgent design show (Divine Design, anyone?):
Take from among you gifts to Adonai; everyone whose heart so moves him shall bring them - gifts for Adonai (Exodus 35:5).
This week, the people are challenged: don't just create trouble, don't just come along for the ride, don't just stand back and let others take charge. Give from your heart, freely. There is potential for great holiness amongst you, but you must create it. (Or, "If you build it, God will come")
The text is clear here: Adonai will need both men and women to share their finest goods and to share their best skills. It will take the community, not through coercion, but through honest heart-felt giving, to build the mishkan.
Today, we are taught that God does not only dwell in a mishkan, a centralized holy place (although, it is still often in our holy places that we feel closest to God). Rather, our tradition teaches: God is in each of us and is in every thing. So, what, then, does it mean for us to give "freely from our hearts" today? How can we be a part of building a place for the divine to dwell?
I believe we can do so by extending our concept of holy space to a notion of holy time (an idea articulated by Abraham Joshua Heschel in his book The Sabbath). One of our most precious possessions is our time. Each of our minutes is sacred. Our tradition calls us this week to give of them freely. We are told: Give to the degree that your heart moves you and you will create a dwelling place in your life for the divine.
When we create time for reflection, for learning, for quiet meditation, for joyful praise, for social action, and for real interactions, we re-create the mishkan of old. It remains true today what was true then: We must give of our finest goods in order to create a space for holiness.
In past weeks, we have read the details of how the Tabernacle is to be constructed. It is to be ornate, intricate, and opulent. The Torah spins out the materials like an indulgent design show (Divine Design, anyone?):
...gold, silver, and copper; blue, purple, and crimson yarns, fine linen, and goats' hair; tanned ram skins, dolphin skins, and acacia wood; oil for lighting, spices for the anointing oil and for the aromatic incense; lapis lazuli and other stones for setting, for the ephod and the breastpiece. (Exodus 35:5b-9).Our ancestors are called a stiff-necked people. They wrestle with faith (it was just last week they erected a golden calf, after all). They complain. They struggle. In this week's portion, though, they are called upon to do something very different. They are called upon to give freely from their hearts.
Take from among you gifts to Adonai; everyone whose heart so moves him shall bring them - gifts for Adonai (Exodus 35:5).
This week, the people are challenged: don't just create trouble, don't just come along for the ride, don't just stand back and let others take charge. Give from your heart, freely. There is potential for great holiness amongst you, but you must create it. (Or, "If you build it, God will come")
The text is clear here: Adonai will need both men and women to share their finest goods and to share their best skills. It will take the community, not through coercion, but through honest heart-felt giving, to build the mishkan.
Today, we are taught that God does not only dwell in a mishkan, a centralized holy place (although, it is still often in our holy places that we feel closest to God). Rather, our tradition teaches: God is in each of us and is in every thing. So, what, then, does it mean for us to give "freely from our hearts" today? How can we be a part of building a place for the divine to dwell?
I believe we can do so by extending our concept of holy space to a notion of holy time (an idea articulated by Abraham Joshua Heschel in his book The Sabbath). One of our most precious possessions is our time. Each of our minutes is sacred. Our tradition calls us this week to give of them freely. We are told: Give to the degree that your heart moves you and you will create a dwelling place in your life for the divine.
When we create time for reflection, for learning, for quiet meditation, for joyful praise, for social action, and for real interactions, we re-create the mishkan of old. It remains true today what was true then: We must give of our finest goods in order to create a space for holiness.
February 22, 2008
Parashat Ki Tisa 5768
There are inopportune moments when I find myself reaching for my Blackberry and instinctively rolling the trackwheel, reflexively scrolling through messages: times like family dinners, hikes in Griffith park, early mornings, to name a few. When I stop and realize what I am doing, I am instantly filled with regret. Why did I just do that?
This is not a new story (I know the Blackberry jokes!). But, I tell it anew this week as we read the Torah Portion, Ki Tissa. In this parashah, the Israelites, tired of waiting for Moses to return from Mount Sinai, construct a Golden Calf to worship.
This is a week for reflecting on idolatry.
One of the central mitzvot from our tradition is "You shall not bow down to idols." What is an idol in our contemporary context? At its core, an idol is a misused object. Most idols are not inherently sinful; they are inanimate, afterall. It is only when an object is misused by its creator/owner that it stops being a potentially sacred tool and becomes a destructive force.
There was nothing wrong with the calf until the Israelites started worshipping it. There was nothing wrong with my Blackberry until I became enslaved by it.
For me, each year, Ki Tissa is a check-in point. It is a time for me to reflect on my life and on my actions. This tends to be a relatively quick check-in. Not too deep or difficult to discern. I ask myself: "What am I 'worshipping' this year?"
In today's world, idols tend not to take the form of golden calves. They are much more illusive. They can look like computers or cell phones or even our work, or any other host of "shiny objects" that we find ourselves misusing. They are those things in our life that end up controlling us. They are those objects that instead of being means to good ends become destructive ends in and of themselves. It is not about the object, it is what we do with it.
Some weeks I experience Torah as a profound lesson. Some weeks the message is all too simple. This Shabbat, our tradition tells me: "Put the blackberry down and go back to living." What does it tell you?
This is not a new story (I know the Blackberry jokes!). But, I tell it anew this week as we read the Torah Portion, Ki Tissa. In this parashah, the Israelites, tired of waiting for Moses to return from Mount Sinai, construct a Golden Calf to worship.
This is a week for reflecting on idolatry.
One of the central mitzvot from our tradition is "You shall not bow down to idols." What is an idol in our contemporary context? At its core, an idol is a misused object. Most idols are not inherently sinful; they are inanimate, afterall. It is only when an object is misused by its creator/owner that it stops being a potentially sacred tool and becomes a destructive force.
There was nothing wrong with the calf until the Israelites started worshipping it. There was nothing wrong with my Blackberry until I became enslaved by it.
For me, each year, Ki Tissa is a check-in point. It is a time for me to reflect on my life and on my actions. This tends to be a relatively quick check-in. Not too deep or difficult to discern. I ask myself: "What am I 'worshipping' this year?"
In today's world, idols tend not to take the form of golden calves. They are much more illusive. They can look like computers or cell phones or even our work, or any other host of "shiny objects" that we find ourselves misusing. They are those things in our life that end up controlling us. They are those objects that instead of being means to good ends become destructive ends in and of themselves. It is not about the object, it is what we do with it.
Some weeks I experience Torah as a profound lesson. Some weeks the message is all too simple. This Shabbat, our tradition tells me: "Put the blackberry down and go back to living." What does it tell you?
February 15, 2008
Parashat Tetzaveh 5768
This week's Torah Portion, Tetzaveh, provides instructions on how the Israelite priests' clothing should be made. The text delights in its details, "On its hem make pomegranates of blue, purple, and crimson yarns, all around the hem, with bells of gold between them all around: golden bell and a pomegranate, a golden bell and a pomegranate, all around the hem of the robe" (Exodus 28:33-34). In this Torah portion, it seems, the clothes really do "make the man."
What are we to make of this?
I believe the priestly garments were meant to physically demonstrate the holiness and dignity of each individual priest. The priests, by vocation, were called to be the intermediaries between the people and the divine. The priests helped others worship and interact with God. Their clothes were intended to glorify their holy purpose and to beautify their sacred work.
I read these descriptions in a new light this week. This past Tuesday, during our TBS Tuesday night teen school, our 7th-12th graders learned about homelessness in Orange County firsthand. We listened to one woman's story of her (and her family's) experience of being homeless and her rise out of homelessness. We watched a DVD that featured homeless youth telling their own stories. We studied statistics about homelessness in Orange County. I cannot adequately express to you how moved I was by our teens' reflections and soulfulness during the program.
In today's world, with the Israelite priesthood long dismantled, each of us, in a way, has the potential to serve as priest. Each of us has the power to relate to God, to worship God, and to be equal members of a sacred community. And, in that vein, each of us should have the ability to wear clothes that illustrate our inherent holiness and that represent our own essential human dignity.
Sadly, too many people in our community cannot outfit themselves in ways that reflect their own inherent worth. During our teen program, I saw through new eyes just how prevalent poverty and homelessness are in our very own community. OC Partnership reports that there are between 27,732 and 35,065 homeless in Orange County. What can we do with these numbers?
This Shabbat, let us learn from Tetzaveh and act to bring dignity and holiness to those around us. A couple of hands-on ideas:
This week's parashah could easily be read as an outdated "Project Runway" episode. But, with an eye toward justice, we can elevate our text so that it might become a relevant call to action for each of us. My blessing for us is that we have the power to continue hearing Torah anew!
What are we to make of this?
I believe the priestly garments were meant to physically demonstrate the holiness and dignity of each individual priest. The priests, by vocation, were called to be the intermediaries between the people and the divine. The priests helped others worship and interact with God. Their clothes were intended to glorify their holy purpose and to beautify their sacred work.
I read these descriptions in a new light this week. This past Tuesday, during our TBS Tuesday night teen school, our 7th-12th graders learned about homelessness in Orange County firsthand. We listened to one woman's story of her (and her family's) experience of being homeless and her rise out of homelessness. We watched a DVD that featured homeless youth telling their own stories. We studied statistics about homelessness in Orange County. I cannot adequately express to you how moved I was by our teens' reflections and soulfulness during the program.
In today's world, with the Israelite priesthood long dismantled, each of us, in a way, has the potential to serve as priest. Each of us has the power to relate to God, to worship God, and to be equal members of a sacred community. And, in that vein, each of us should have the ability to wear clothes that illustrate our inherent holiness and that represent our own essential human dignity.
Sadly, too many people in our community cannot outfit themselves in ways that reflect their own inherent worth. During our teen program, I saw through new eyes just how prevalent poverty and homelessness are in our very own community. OC Partnership reports that there are between 27,732 and 35,065 homeless in Orange County. What can we do with these numbers?
This Shabbat, let us learn from Tetzaveh and act to bring dignity and holiness to those around us. A couple of hands-on ideas:
- Take some time this long weekend to clean out your closets. Model for your children what it means to donate gently used clothing to those who go without. Talk to them about our priestly tradition of sacred dress. And, if you are planning a clothes shopping trip, consider purchasing an extra outfit and donating it locally (it can be fun for families to choose the clothes together).
- Throughout March, TBS will be engaging in a pajama drive for homeless youth in Orange County. Many youth who live in shelters lack pajamas and are forced to sleep in their clothes. Think of the difference TBS can make in our community if each of us purchases new pajamas (and encourages others to do the same).
This week's parashah could easily be read as an outdated "Project Runway" episode. But, with an eye toward justice, we can elevate our text so that it might become a relevant call to action for each of us. My blessing for us is that we have the power to continue hearing Torah anew!
February 8, 2008
Parashat Terumah 5768
This week I am very excited to share an exceptional Torah resource with you. Each week, the wise folks at American Jewish World Service (AJWS) send out a commentary on the parashah, the weekly Torah portion, called dvar tzedek, which focuses on issues of social justice. If you are interested, you can sign up for it on their website www.ajws.org or by clicking here.
This week's Torah portion, Terumah, describes God's detailed instructions to the people as to how they should build a mishkan, a dwelling place, for God. The mishkan is to be a portable sanctuary, which will carry the Law that was given to Moses at Mount Sinai and provide a place of meeting for the Israelites and the Divine. The Torah portion explains:
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 among them. ...And deposit in the Ark the tablets of the Pact which I will give you. (Ex 25:1-2, 8, 16)
In this week's AJWS dvar tzedek, Evan Wolkenstein, writes:
Taking a closer look at who or what resides in the mishkan, we find that God is not, in fact, the tent's primary resident. Rather, at the center of this sacred structure is the Law - the two stone tablets chiseled during Revelation at Sinai, when the human and heavenly worlds met.
Wolkenstein suggests that the mishkan was not only intended to be an abstract dwelling place for God, but also a physical home for the tablets. He suggests that this placement has profound meaning. He writes:
God dwells among us when we build relationships that are founded on morality and focused on the encounter.
Our Torah teaches us a fundamental lesson this week: We encounter God when we honor our tradition's central messages of justice and morality. We have a lot to learn from this ancient model. And I wonder:
What is our modern day mishkan? What do we place inside it?
What are ways that we can couple our commitments to spirituality with our commitments to justice?
This week's Torah portion, Terumah, describes God's detailed instructions to the people as to how they should build a mishkan, a dwelling place, for God. The mishkan is to be a portable sanctuary, which will carry the Law that was given to Moses at Mount Sinai and provide a place of meeting for the Israelites and the Divine. The Torah portion explains:
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 among them. ...And deposit in the Ark the tablets of the Pact which I will give you. (Ex 25:1-2, 8, 16)
In this week's AJWS dvar tzedek, Evan Wolkenstein, writes:
Taking a closer look at who or what resides in the mishkan, we find that God is not, in fact, the tent's primary resident. Rather, at the center of this sacred structure is the Law - the two stone tablets chiseled during Revelation at Sinai, when the human and heavenly worlds met.
Wolkenstein suggests that the mishkan was not only intended to be an abstract dwelling place for God, but also a physical home for the tablets. He suggests that this placement has profound meaning. He writes:
God dwells among us when we build relationships that are founded on morality and focused on the encounter.
Our Torah teaches us a fundamental lesson this week: We encounter God when we honor our tradition's central messages of justice and morality. We have a lot to learn from this ancient model. And I wonder:
What is our modern day mishkan? What do we place inside it?
What are ways that we can couple our commitments to spirituality with our commitments to justice?
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