Did I Mensch On That?

Learning to Swim

2018-09-19T12:00:00.000-05:00

Yom Kippur 5779

If we aren’t careful. If we aren’t intentional. We lose the chance to frame the conversation about fatherhood, the conversation about being a parent. If we don’t have those conversations on purpose, we let the next generation learn by accident. And given the state of masculinity in 21st Century America, that’s not a risk I’m willing to take.

And this comes at a time when we need to be asking new questions about masculinity. Well, overdue questions finally breaking through in today’s America. The public face of what it means to be a man, the public face of masculinity at this moment, is one of aggression, of violence, of abdication of moral responsibility, of the minimizing women’s voices, of concern for perpetrators of degradation while ignoring the impact on those who suffer…this is not the masculinity I want to raise my son into.

This year, I became a parent. Which has been amazing, confusing, soul-filling, tank-emptying, joyful, awe inspiring, scary, and sacred. Trying to figure out my responsibilities to this sweet little human; how to celebrate him, how to support him…how to make sure I don’t mess him up too badly. And throughout the nine months that he has been in our lives, I’ve been working hard to figure out my role, who I am supposed to be to him, to my partner, to my friends, my community?

And today is the day when we peer into our souls, evaluate who we’ve been, and consider if we have met the mark. I have a new challenge, to evaluate this brand new identity as a father. And I wonder how to do my chesbon nefesh, an accounting of my soul, as a parent and a partner , as I enter into this new stage in life? I’ve never had to do this before. What is my assessment tool?

The rabbis teach that a parent has five obligations to a child. To welcome them into covenant with the Jewish people, to redeem or to give gifts of gratitude for a new life, to teach Torah, to guide the child toward sacred relationships, and to teach a trade (Kiddushin 29a).

And then, our tradition adds one more obligation, one that I find to be distinct and particularly relevant to this moment and this season. Our tradition says that we have to teach our kids to swim.

On the one hand, it’s practical. If you are on a boat, and it tips over, knowing how to swim could potentially save your life and the lives of the people around you. There’s a Goldfish Swim School, a JCC, and a YMCA in close proximity to us. Once it’s time, we’ll sign him up for swim lessons. Check. But, also, teaching our kids to swim is not just about swimming.

Benjamin hasn’t figured it out yet, someday soon, we hope, he will learn how to walk. It’s natural. It’s built into our physiology. Swimming is something else. It requires putting ourselves outside of our comfort zones, seeing the way the world works and challenging ourselves to do something different.

At times, parenting has felt a lot like getting tossed into the deep end. Of course, there are those early days (and many days since) where we are treading water, just trying to stay above the surface until the sea settles. Sometimes we float along, adjusting as the current moves us. Noticing how he changes and changing our routine as we go. Sometimes we pull and propel through the water, offering the new toy, the new experience so he can grow and be strengthened. And sometimes, sometimes we have to fight against the current. To see what is happening and adjust course. To look at our world and strive in the other direction.

If we work at it, if we are brave enough to take the plunge, we can train ourselves and we can help other do things that are hard. We can enter into moments where we might not be ready, swim against the current.

I’ve never been a particularly adept swimmer. More than doggie paddle, less than swimming laps. I was more of a “hang out in the shallow end and throw a ball back and forth” type of pool-goer. But as I’ve entered into fatherhood, I’ve been dissatisfied with the current I see flowing around what it means to be a father. I need to learn to swim.

While on paternity leave, I took Benjamin to CostCo to get two of the most important staples in our house: baby wipes and hummus. While strolling over to get a sample of a cracker, or pasta, or some new fiber bar…too much food talk for Yom Kippur?...Anyway, the person handing out my would-be CostCo lunch said: “Oh, how nice to see a dad babysitting!” My skin crawled. I wanted to shout, “I’m not babysitting. I’m parenting! I am taking care of my child. I am not engaged in some revolutionary, boundary breaking deed by being a person in a male body walking through CostCo with a baby.” Instead, I mumbled some unintelligible pleasantries through the paper cup of my snack.

In all of the baby books and new parent books we read (yes, we’re first time parents and read the books. I know the veterans among you scoff at our new-parent neurosis), but in the books and classes it seems that there is an expectation that dads are at best, aloof and uninformed, or, at worst, actively chauvinist, unhelpful, unkind, and emotionally unavailable. There are moments were I get celebrated for changing a diaper or for doing the basics of parenting.

On the one hand, I am disappointed that this is the embarrassingly low standard we set for fathers. And on the other hand, it accentuates the problematics we have around motherhood. The astronomical expectations placed on women.

In talking with friends who are in a similar life-stage, it feels like no matter what, women are judged harshly for their choices. If they choose to work (or if family finances necessitate that they work), they feel like they are neglecting motherly responsibility for caregiving. And if they choose to stay at home with the baby, they feel judged for not working. Let alone those who choose to wait to have children, not have children at all, are not partnered, are in same-sex relationships, or are single-parents. And all the while, male partners get soaring accolades for the time they spend with their children.

How do we step back, see the way this current flows, and swim in the other direction? How do we reframe the conversation about fatherhood? About parenting?

I ask these questions as I wade into the waters of a new identity. I’m a cis-gendered, straight, male, new-father. And I can only speak in an honest and authentic way from my lived experience. And I know that I need a different conversation about what it means to be a parent. For my family. For my friends. What we have now does not set us up for success, and instead diminishes our aspirations. It seems to me that moms are set us up to feel like they are failing, even while they strive to meet a host of expectations and obligations. And on the other hand, so little is asked of dads. And, for those dads who choose a different path, there are not societal models or structures to offer support and encouragement.

And I know that I am person who, by no merit of my own, by the accident of birth and gender, am in a position of privilege. I believe that those privileges necessitate responsibility. If men are open and forthright about the blessings and difficulties of being parents and about their needs, that we might be more effective in destigmatizing pregnancy, parenthood, and family leave in the workplace.

If we aren’t careful. If we aren’t intentional. We lose the chance to frame the conversation about fatherhood, the conversation about being a parent. If we don’t have those conversations on purpose, we let the next generation learn by accident. And given the state of masculinity in 21st Century America, that’s not a risk I’m willing to take.

And this comes at a time when we need to be asking new questions about masculinity. Well, overdue questions finally breaking through in today’s America. The public face of what it means to be a man, the public face of masculinity at this moment, is one of aggression, of violence, of abdication of moral responsibility, of the minimizing women’s voices, of concern for perpetrators of degradation while ignoring the impact on those who suffer…this is not the masculinity I want to raise my son into.

For sure, neither he nor I are the primary victims of a regressive, patriarchal social structure. And, to a different degree, we are also affected by it. And, we have a responsibility to swim against that current.

And then I look at this sweet little boy. I look at him and I see innocence and potential. He doesn’t know…anything. He isn’t responsible for the violence and pain that exist in the world. He doesn’t know how our society constructs gender. He doesn’t know about toxic masculinity or #metoo. But by virtue of the fact that he was born into a male body, there will be an assumption that he will like sports, that he will be aggressive, that he will not be in touch with his emotions. He will expected to be strong and stoic. He will expected not to cry.

Without a reevaluation, if he doesn’t learn how to swim, the current will take him away.

I want to teach him to swim. I want to teach him that he is not better or more deserving than anyone else just because he was born with an X and a Y chromosome. I want to teach him that his masculinity is not a weapon. I want to teach him that true strength, as our sages teach, is controlling the power you have and redirecting it for purposes beneficial to the community. That he can create without having to destroy. That he can try something and fail. That he can express doubt and that he can compromise. I want him to use his voice to lift up the voices of those who would otherwise be unheard. I want him to know that he only wins when everyone around him wins too. I want him to teach him that identity is more than the body he is born into, it is the content of soul and the spirit of the Divine that lives inside of him, as the rabbis say: אַל תִּסְתַּכֵּל בַּקַּנְקַן, אֶלָּא בְמַה שֶּׁיֶּשׁ בּוֹ (Pirkei Avot 4:20), don’t look to the container, rather to what exists within.

This past June there was an article in the Atlantic that I haven’t stopped thinking about. The author, Sarah Rich, writes, “While society is chipping away at giving girls broader access to life’s possibilities, it isn’t presenting boys with a full continuum of how they can be in the world. To carve out a masculine identity requires whittling away everything that falls outside the norms of boyhood.” We have started doing a better job of telling girls that they should be strong and that they should explore science and math. Girls should stride strongly into the world with confidence. But, have we offered the same to boys? Are boys safe to emote? To be creative? To love art, music, dance? To wear a dress? To reshape masculinity, to reshape gender in general, is to be “non-conformative,” to be outside the pale. Why? Why can’t our language normalize, for boys and for girls, their right, their opportunity, and their sacred responsibility to find their own path.

At the dawn of creation, as God creates the first human beings. The Torah says: זָכָר וּנְקֵבָה בָּרָא אֹתָם (Genesis 1:27), male and female God created them. Male and female contained in one. A spectrum, not a dichotomy.

I don’t know who he will be. But I want him to feel safe and confident to swim. I don’t want him to be pulled by destructive, uncompassionate currents. I want him to do whatever is right for him.

I don’t want that experience to be hard, and I know that it will be. It breaks my heart that we accept as a given that children will be ridiculed for finding their own way. So, I will teach him to swim. I will teach him to strive against the current, and all while I will try to change the direction of the flow.

That flow, wherever we find ourselves in life, it can overwhelm us. You don’t have to be a parent to know this. We all have to learn how to swim. It’s human. We learn to walk, and then we get tossed into the river with the current jostling us this way and that. Each time we go to a new school, start a new job, move to a new city, start a new hobby, join a new community, experience a new lifecycle moment. Each time we do something new, we bravely step forward into that moment knowing that before we have even had a chance to dip in a toe, the current is already there to pull us away.

Other people decide who we are before we have had a chance to say hello. Decisions are made about what we can or cannot do before we get a chance to prove ourselves. And so, we hope that when we were young, someone taught us to swim. Someone taught us to be brave. Someone taught us to sidestep other people’s expectations and assumptions. Someone taught us that we get to define our own future.

This year, let’s go swimming together. Let’s bravely step outside of our comforts zones. Let’s listen, even when listening can be hard. Let’s start long overdue conversations. Let’s reject narratives and assumptions that diminish and destroy. Let’s open doors that have been closed. From narrow places, let us call out to God and find openness, opportunity, and expanse.

יהי רצין מלפניך יי, may it be your will Adonai that we hold ourselves to lofty sacred standards. That we use our power to lift up voices that need to be heard. That we tell all our people, young and old that they can be confident. That they can flourish. That they are loved. And, please, Dear God, may we through word and deed merit a year of goodness and a year of blessing.

A Story Demands

2018-09-10T12:00:00.000-05:00

Rosh HaShanah 5779

בכל דור ודור (b'chol dor vador), in every generation, we tell our stories. And in each generation, we listen to the stories of those who came before. The stories of our family, so we might find empathy with past generations, and extend that empathy to the present. We learn who we are and where we come from.

...

A story is not an unchiseled stone. A story is a set of tablets, etched with sacred words of commandment, commitment, and obligation. A story is not ambivalent about its circumstances and it is not ambivalent toward those who receive it. A story demands.

What you’re looking at right now, is a photo taken in the Verdun Synagogue in France on September 26th, 1957, or, put another way, Rosh Hashanah 5718. The soldier on the far left is an interpreter, Specialist 3rd Class, Pierre Fenster.

And there is a long story that leads up to this picture being taken. A story that I am only recently piecing together. A story that still has, and likely will continue to have, many gaps. A story that is compelling. But I don’t just mean compelling as interesting, it is a story that compels, that has a commanding power on my life and the life I hope to live.

I came across this photo in the summer of 2016. My grandfather, who had passed away three years prior, had been living in Fort Lauderdale and I went to collect a few boxes of papers, photos, and artifacts from his house. In my mind’s eye, he had always looked like…a grandpa. This was the first time I saw a young photo of him, looking dapper in his army uniform. And as my family started going through all of these artifacts, we started learning new things about him.

Most shocking to everyone in my family is that his name wasn’t Pierre at all. It was Klaus. Klaus Peter. The story I was always told was that his name was Pierre at birth, because, as a Jew born in Berlin in 1933, his parents didn’t want him to seem German, so they gave a French first name to throw off the authorities. Thinking back on it, that story doesn’t make much sense, but I accepted it, because, what else did I have?

But, when we came across all of these papers: immigration documents, journals, government papers written in German and French, I was both in awe and wracked with guilt. I knew bits and pieces of my grandfather’s story of surviving the Holocaust, but I knew that I only held a sliver of that story. I had asked questions as a child, but the answers I received and the way I could comprehend those answers, was at the level of a 10 year old.

But there was more than that. While I was celebrating all of these new bits of family history, I knew that back home, a DVD had been sitting on a shelf for two years. It’s an interview of my grandfather from 1996, as part of Steven Spielberg and The Institute for Visual History and Education’s effort to record interviews with survivors of and witnesses to the Holocaust.

I wanted to know his story, I had the materials needed to learn that story, but, for some reason I resisted. For sure, in part, who would choose to cozy up on the couch on a Saturday night to watch a Holocaust testimony? There was more, and, having taken the time to reflect on it, I think I have a better sense of why.

I was afraid. Afraid of the story. Afraid to know, beyond the platitudes and broad sweeping arcs of the narrative, the terror and pain my grandfather went through. Afraid how hearing it would make me feel. Afraid of the responsibility I would incur by hearing that story. And, having identified the fear, I told myself that Elul was a time to be brave. So, this summer, we loaded up the video. Took a deep breath, and hit play.

I felt a tug on my heart as my grandfather talked about people in the family who, like my brother, my dad, and me, loved singing. I noticed mannerisms he shares with my dad. Mannerisms he and I share. I felt connected when he spoke about the importance of relationships and community. I noticed the generational commitment to service. And a legacy of adapting and hustling to make sure that the family is taken care of.

Birth Certificate with official German seal

I learned that, yes, my grandfather was born Klaus Peter, on June 7, 1933. At just a few months old, his parents fled Berlin for France. They left behind a successful business in the fashion industry. They left aunts, uncles, grandparents many of whom said that Germany was their home and they couldn’t leave. My grandfather and his parents bounced from refugee camp to refugee camp. He talked about living in makeshift quarters, thrown together to hold scores of families, with inadequate facilities and with mattresses on the floor.

Eventually, they were able to get forged papers and went to Troyes, France. There they lived a life pretending to be Christians. They said they were from Alsace-Lorraine, a border region, explaining their German accents, and the combination of French and German names.

My grandfather said that his first memory was going to the synagogue in Troyes with his father before they had to hide their Judaism. Troyes, in the 11th Century, a thousand years ago, was home to the great sage of our tradition, Rashi. A thriving, intellectual Jewish community. And in the 1930s, Troyes was home, in part, to the Fenster family. Stateless, afraid, and on the verge of concealing their Judaism in order to survive.

Eventually, they decided that Troyes was no longer safe, so they ventured south, toward Lyon, traveling by any means available.

They survived bombings and shellings, and on multiple occasions, friends, righteous gentiles, warned them that the Gestapo was sweeping the neighborhood, and they were able to sneak out the back of their apartment just in the nick of time to avoid being caught.

I found myself waiting to hear the stories that I recalled from conversations with my grandfather. But those stories never came. I only knew the cliff notes, and, now, I got the whole story.

I had no real sense of his childhood. I had a vague recollection that he had been hidden in a monastery, but, in truth my grandfather lived as a local, pretending to be Christian. He went to catechism with the rest of the children in the town as if it was a natural part of family life. He even got roped into being a choir boy. And as battles were waged near Lyon, his parents, multiple times, had to choose between keeping the family together and making choices to keep him safe. So they sent him to children’s homes in the country so he would be further from the gunfire. Impossible choices that I can barely even begin to understand.

I waited to hear the story about the Nazi bullet that flew by his head; a story that, when I heard it as a child, I thought was noble and heroic. But, in truth, I learned that in France, when he was seven, a Nazi soldier offered him chocolate, and my grandfather had the presence of mind to pretend he did not speak German so he would not be discovered. At just seven years old. To have that presence, that awareness, that fear. I learned that while on a train, German bombers attacked, knowing the train carried French soldier in retreat. They fled the train and his mother rushed him to a field. They hid under a blanket as bombs fell and bullets flew overhead while he cried and said, "Shema Yisrael, I won’t see my father again."

These were the stories I was afraid to hear. I watch the news, I read histories, I am aware of pain and suffering in the world, but that pain and suffering has always been at an arm’s length. And now, here they are, right in front of me. My family. Trauma that I knew existed, but I had shielded myself from.

I felt regret for not knowing this already, for having not asked enough questions. And as I was overcome by the pressure and the anxiety of this story, at the closing stages of the interview, I heard him say that he, too, struggled with how to share this story. I heard him say that and I was transported back to a Sunday at Applebee’s or Pizza Hut. I could see me and my brother sitting in our grass-stained soccer uniforms, across the booth from my grandparents as they struggled to tell us…something. He didn’t know how to find the right words to make this relatable and meaningful for people who grew up in the comfort of the United States. And I didn’t know how to ask the right questions or how to listen to the answers.

Because telling our stories is hard. Finding the words to convey not just the facts, but the feeling. What happened, what it meant. To us as individuals. To our family. To the world. And the pressure to tell the story correctly can be overwhelming, and was to him. And as I reminisced about that conversation with my grandparents, I heard him answer the question, “if you could tell your grandchildren one thing, what would it be? ...

This was some of the root of my fear. We share the same regret and the same responsibility. Having heard this story, having received this charge, I gain a new sense of obligation.

I cannot help but heed my grandfather’s words. I cannot help but hear my grandfather’s story and see his experiences playing out in the world around us. I cannot help but hear my grandfather’s cries of Shema Yisrael, I won’t see my father again, in the cries of immigrant children torn from their parents’ arms. I cannot help but compare the impossible choices his parents made to keep their family safe to families in Central America and Syria and Yemen and Myanmar... struggling with the same questions. I cannot help but empathize with the fear of people knocking on your door, looking to take you and your family away because your status as a human being is deemed illegitimate.

My grandfather eventually made his way to America because his uncle secured a visa for the family. Family reunification laws allowed my family to come to America. And I cannot help but wonder what would have happened to my family amidst the current debate about so-called chain migration.

And as my grandfather stood in the synagogue in Verdun, wearing an American army uniform, he was not yet a citizen. But through his service to this great nation, this land of freedom and opportunity, a land built and sustained by people of different nationalities, races, religions, and cultures, he was eligible to apply for expedited naturalization. Through tears, he said that at the end of the war, the American soldiers, they were our heroes. And he felt tremendous pride in wearing that uniform. And I cannot help but feel dismay and sadness that the very policies that welcomed my family to the United States are now under threat.

Thank God, we are not living in Europe in the 1930s, but I can’t honor my grandfather’s story and memory if I don’t see him and his experiences in what is happening in the world today.

On Passover, the holiday that celebrates our freedom from oppression and degradation, of being set free from bondage, persecution, and attempted genocide, a holiday where my grandfather loved sitting at the head of the table to lead us through a night of ritual, we say, והגדת לבנך (v'higadta l'vincha), and you shall tell your child on that day, it is because of what God did for me, that I stand here today. And your offerings of gratitude and praise are made manifest when you ensure that this does not happen again.

בכל דור ודור (b'chol dor vador), in every generation, we tell our stories. And in each generation, we listen to the stories of those who came before. The stories of our family, so we might find empathy with past generations, and extend that empathy to the present. We learn who we are and where we come from.

This is my story, the story of my family, and the truths it demands that I face and the obligations that I incur. As we sit here, meditating on the new year that lies before us, we are challenged to consider our merit and our obligations.

Who are you? How did you get here? What sacrifices were made so you can live the life that you live? What happened in your story that compels you?

A story is not an unchiseled stone. A story is a set of tablets, etched with sacred words of commandment, commitment, and obligation. A story is not ambivalent about its circumstances and it is not ambivalent toward those who receive it. A story demands.

At the end of this story, there is a photo of a family. And the young boy sitting in the front, on the right, is wearing a necklace. A necklace his grandparents bought him in the Land of Israel, a nation that, at its best, celebrates the survival, the strength, and the solidarity of the Jewish people. The necklace has two Hebrew letters on it, ח (chet) and י (yud) -- חי (chai), life. And that young boy, 22 year later, still wears that necklace. And each morning when he says ברוך אתה יי (Baruch atah Adonai), blessed are you Adonai our God, master of time and space who made me a Jew, he kisses that necklace. And now, having learned the story that allowed his grandparents to give this gift, he will imagine the responsibility he has to that legacy.

It is hard to speak, and it is a fearful thing to listen, but l’dor vador from generation to generation, we tell our stories so that we can secure a future worthy of the legacy we inherit. This year, may we be worthy of that legacy.

The videos of my grandfather's testimony can be found on the Jewish Federation of Greater Rochester's website.

Shalu Shalom Yerushalayim - Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem

2017-12-08T19:30:00.000-06:00

Shalu shalom Yerushalayim. Ask about peace for Jerusalem. Ask leaders in America, ask leaders in Israel, ask leaders across the world. How can we make a Jerusalem of peace? Shalu shalom Yerushalayim. Demand peace for Jerusalem. Demand it from governments, from individuals, from communities. Shalu shalom Yerushalayim. Pray. Pray for the peace of Jerusalem. That those who love her will live in tranquility. That she will know no violence or war. That she will be a city of light and a beacon of peace.

So…my plan was to deliver a nice, light, joyful sermon about Chanukkah. Something a little fluffy, about bringing light during a time of darkness and our opportunity to be messengers of light, just like the flames of the Chanukkah menorah. And…now you’ve heard that sermon. Moving on.

Instead, as is wont to happen in our world, important decisions were made this week that demand our attention. Demand our attention from the bimah, demand our attention during our conversations around the Shabbat table, and at oneg. As you likely heard, on Tuesday news reports began swirling that the President was planning a major announcement about Jerusalem. And then, midday on Wednesday, he gave a measured, scripted speech announcing a major policy change from the administration. He said that the United States would be moving its embassy from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem.

Now, we are still getting to know each other. Before we dive in, there are two things I want you to know about me and about the way I look at and think about Israel.

First, when it comes to Israel, I believe in the necessity of nuance. Very little is black and white, and when I see arguments without a sufficient recognition of complexity, it raises red flags.

Also, while living in Israel, I learned that rules are just suggestions for further discussion. So, while my rule is that when it comes to Israel I seek out nuance and complexity...here are the exceptions. Here are the values and ideas that are true without nuance or question.

I believe in the right of Jewish self-determination in our ancestral homeland.
I believe that every human life is sacred.
I believe that we must always pray for and works towards peace.

Outside of those principles: nuance and complexity.

Second, as a rabbi my trade is questions. I trade in a discursive tradition that focuses on questions, conversation, debate, and ideas. I do not trade in answers. So, tonight, I hope to lay out for you some of the questions I am asking, some of my curiosities, to share some of the ideas I have come across in the days following the announcement as I read, studied, watched, listened, and discussed.

So let’s dive into the complexity, knowing full well that we will only scratch the surface of the manifold issues at play in this moment.

We talk a great deal about Jerusalem. Jerusalem is the eternal capital of Israel, the home of the holiest places in our tradition. A city that we yearn to just step foot into. Jerusalem, Yerushalayim¸ is the city of gold. A city that is meant to be a beacon of light and peace to the rest of the world. A city that embodies our hopes and dreams. A city that we pray about and pray for each and every time we come together as a community.

And the fact that the United States made a formal decision, a formal declaration from the highest seat of government to recognize the legitimate Jewish claim to that city is a moment worthy of celebration. And while the rabbis of old never prayed for the nation-states of the world to place their embassies within the extended borders of Jerusalem…we have surely prayed for this moment for centuries. We have prayed, hoped, and dreamed of even just the simplest recognition. Of our humanity. And of our right to autonomy and self-determination. L’hiyot am chofshi b’artzeinu, to be a free people in our land. And this declaration is an important symbol of that moment.

And we also know Jerusalem to be a city of conflict. A city that is holy to Jews, Christians, and Muslims. A city that is divided. A city that is part of the “final status negotiations” for a peace deal that we so desperately hope will come to fruition in our lifetimes. Jerusalem is the Old City and the holy sites. Jerusalem is where we wonder and debate who will ultimately hold responsibility and ownership over those spaces in a final peace deal.

And, Jerusalem is much more than that. It is also west Jerusalem, the mainly Jewish neighborhoods many of you have visited. Rehavia, Machane Yehuda, Talpiyot, Nachlaot, Ben Yehuda Street, the Jerusalem campus of HUC-JIR where Rabbi Kedar, Cantor Frost, Cantor Green, Missy Bell, and I all studied…these Jewish neighborhoods are not up for debate.

Only the most extreme foes of Israel, who deny Israel’s very existence, would suggest that West Jerusalem should not be a Jewish area. West Jerusalem is the home of the Knesset, the Israeli Supreme Court, Yad Vashem, the Israel Museum…West Jerusalem holds the major locations and symbols of Israeli statehood. Jerusalem is the capital of the State of Israel.

And we know this to be true. To suggest that Jerusalem is not the capital would elicit confused stares and skeptically raised eyebrows. And, nonetheless, because Jerusalem is a city of conflict, and, in large part because of Israel’s reclaiming of the Old City and parts of East Jerusalem during the Six-Day War, the nations of the world do not have their embassies in Jerusalem. Instead, embassies are in Tel Aviv. Which comes with a measure of absurdity. The Russian Embassy in the United States is not in Chicago. Brazil does not spurn DC to have an embassy in New York. Italy did not set up shop in Des Moines. Embassies are in capital cities. But not in Israel.

And while we celebrate the decision to recognize Jerusalem, we wonder and ask in which part of the city will we build that embassy?

I am about to get a little wonky. I recognize that in the history and politics I am about to share, we may get a little lost. And I share that with you intentionally. These aren’t just interesting facts and tidbits of information. Conversations on Israel are complicated. And we must be aware of and root ourselves in history in order to truly understand our present and our future.

Critical to this conversation is a law passed by Congress in 1995 called the Jerusalem Embassy Act. It was bipartisan legislation that retains bipartisan support to this day, requiring the administration to move the US embassy from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. Included within that law is a waiver that says that the President can delay the move for six months based on an assessment of the United States’ national security interests. Since the passage of that law, Presidents Clinton, Bush, and Obama have all signed that waiver. And, President Trump has also signed that waiver…and signed it again to delay the move while preparations are made. So, as much as this is the moment…it is a moment. The decision is a critically important symbol, and the conversation is not over yet.

There are many who are upset about this decision because they believe that it will cause violence. And I want to make a critically important distinction. A point made to me by Rabbi Kedar. The Jewish people asserting a claim to a national homeland and to Jerusalem does not cause violence. The United States recognizing Jerusalem as Israel’s capital and the eternal capital of the Jewish people does not cause violence. People who choose to share violent ideologies and who make calls for violence cause violence. Faith leaders and community leaders from Hamas who are calling for “Three Days of Rage” have the ability to cause violence.

And make sure that you hear me clearly: I do not believe that all Palestinians are violent. Or that all leaders of the Palestinian people desire violence. That is not how people of faith respond. But there are those who call for violence. Who use their pulpit or their position to call for bloodshed.

And, while there have been some skirmishes and clashes with at least one rocket fired from Gaza toward the Israeli town of Sderot and some injuries and one death sustained by Palestinians, according to the last reports I saw before coming to the bimah, the response, though vociferous, has not resulted in the significant uptick in violence that many predicted. We will of course have to continue to keep a watchful eye on those accounts in the days and weeks to come.

And I find it heartbreaking that “just one rocket” and “some injuries” is seen “not too much violence” according to the news reports. Any rockets are too many rockets and any violence, any death is too much violence and too much death. Yet we are all aware that violence is a trope in the Middle East. And we share in the worry of violence. And we pray for violence to cease. And we know that when we peacefully declare our rights and our faith we do not cause violence. Those who react violently cause violence.

And, I worry. I will be honest…I see a bad news cycle about sexual misconduct, investigations into the Administration’s contacts, and an unpopular tax bill, and now this declaration. As much as I am an optimist and as much as I want to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, I worry that this decision was made knowing the potential for violence and that that violence would serve as a distraction. I worry that the President is playing fast and loose with the lives of our brothers and sisters, our family and friends who live in Israel. I don’t like the way that inkling feels, and nonetheless, I find myself curious about the timing. It turns out that geopolitics and international relations are also complex and require careful consideration and nuance.

And while this was a bold announcement, we are curious about the plans that come with the public statement. Not just about the location, but about the timeline for construction and moving. With this as the stated policy of the United States Government, we remain curious about follow through.

Many of the news reports claim that this will make it harder for the Palestinians to come to the negotiating table. And those reports rarely also explain that no one has been at the negotiating table for the last few years. Maybe a back channel message gets leaked about what either side wants or demands, but we have not seen formal negotiations for some time. So we wonder, what will it take to get all sides to sit together to discuss peace?

How do we ensure that the threat of violence or an unwillingness to talk and to negotiate does not prevent an assertion of the political and spiritual truths we hold dear? And how do uphold our responsibility to be rodfei shalom, pursuers of peace. Unyielding in our insistence that our world can be a world of peace. Unwavering in the belief that peoples who have a history of conflict can live side by side as sisters and brothers.

And we ask: given a significant change to the status quo, what are the legitimate plans of the American administration to bring both sides to the table to find a peaceable solution?

Where will it be? Why make this decision now? How will those who support and those who oppose the decision respond? What are the plans and procedures that will frame and buttress this decision?

And as we discuss, we will follow Rabbi Kedar’s House Rules. We will consider all opinions. We will speak respectfully. We will share our truth and know when to listen. We will see disagreement as an opportunity to learn and always maintain relationships in service of community.

And how…appropriate and how ironic that this decision happens right on the precipice of Chanukkah. Our holiday that celebrates Jewish sovereignty in Israel. That celebrates the Maccabees as symbols of liberty and religious freedom. That celebrates Jerusalem as a city of light. We are both celebrating the recognition of Jerusalem’s eternal significance to the Jewish people and our celebration is also incomplete. We are hesitant about the impact and timing of the decision.

Our tradition teaches that if you are in the midst of planting a tree, and someone tells you that the Messiah has come…finish planting the tree and then go see what the excitement is about. For sure, we celebrate this as a miraculous moment of Jewish sovereignty and community. And we continue in our work to sustain and strengthen future generations. Keep planting the tree. We celebrate Jerusalem and we work for peace.

The Psalmist writes:
Shalu shalom Yerushalayim. Ask about peace for Jerusalem. Ask leaders in America, ask leaders in Israel, ask leaders across the world. How can we make a Jerusalem of peace? Shalu shalom Yerushalayim. Demand peace for Jerusalem. Demand it from governments, from individuals, from communities. Shalu shalom Yerushalayim. Pray. Pray for the peace of Jerusalem. That those who love her will live in tranquility. That she will know no violence or war. That she will be a city of light and a beacon of peace. Kein yehi ratzon. May this be God’s will.

Installation Remarks: Let's Get to Work

2017-11-03T19:30:00.000-05:00

As your rabbi, I promise to work with you. I promise to be your partner in changing the world. Whether the world is the internal world of the soul and of personal healing. Or if it is the world of our daily interactions. Or if it is the world of the systems and structures that undergird our society. I promise that I will be here to work. And I pray that you will come to work with me.

Isn’t that what the synagogue is for? Isn’t that why we are here? The rabbinate I hope to build is rooted in the relationships that we will form. And through our relationships with each other and with the immortal words of our tradition and with the incredible power that comes from study, prayer, and community, that we will set about making a world worthy of our highest ideals.

I’m so glad you all got to meet Rabbi Billy. This is a remarkable guy. Let me tell you something about him. I spent three years as the intern at Woodlands Community Temple. If you were to look at the budget sheets or the workload or the size of the community, you would realize that Woodlands does not need an intern. But, Billy has built a community that, because of who they are, needs an intern. They need to invest and dedicate time, money, and energy to be teachers and mentors. It’s a community of compassion and wisdom and creativity. Without an intern, services would go on, all of the classes would run, the young people would find enrichment…but something would be missing, because they weren’t sharing and teaching their Torah. Billy, I will continue to say this throughout my career. Thank you. I am so lucky to have learned from you, Rabbi Mara, Cantor Jonathan, and the wonderful people who fill up 50 Worthington Road.

Wooldands truly is makom sh’libi oheiv, a place that my heart holds dear. Makom, plainly translated, means place, a physical location. And, our tradition also uses Makom as a word for God. As if to say that the spirit that suffuses the place is just as important as the bricks and mortar. God is Makom, the spirit that fills up the universe, the place we live.

Let’s think back to that beautiful anthem we just heard: Makom shlibi oheiv, the Makom that my heart holds dear, sham raglai molikhot oti. My feet will surely lead me there.

As if without any cognitive process, it’s pure intuition, it’s pure spirit, my feet just lead me to the Makom. My feet bring me to places of compassion, of thoughtfulness, of creative, of innovation, of meaning, and of purpose. And now I’m here. In this new physical space. But with the same makom, filled with the same spirit. And I’m here to be your rabbi.

I’ll be honest with you. For a long time I didn’t want to be a rabbi. Not because I didn’t want to be a rabbi, but because I knew so many impressive, warm, and wise rabbis. How could I be a rabbi? And yet…here I am. I stand here as a rabbi knowing that I am a product of and, God-willing, an amalgamation of the best parts of my many rabbis.

The wisdom and concern for social conscience of Rabbi Alan Katz
The warmth and creativity of Rabbi Lisa Izes
The joy and sincerity of ritual from Rabbi Allan Lehmann
The ability to build bridges within Jewish communities of Rabbi Elyse Winnick
The moral clarity of Rabbi David Saperstein
The accessibility and relational mindset of Rabbi Jonathan Roos
The unencumbered kindness and innovation of Rabbi Aaron Miller
The enthusiasm and joy of Rabbi Yaron Kapitulnik
The camaraderie, friendship, and commitment to justice of Rabbis Seth Limmer, Shoshanah Conover, Neil Hirsch, Adam Miller, Joel Simonds, and the rest of the rabbis of the Commission on Social Action
The commitment to mentorship, partnership, and Torah of Rabbi Billy Dreskin
The friendship and love of Jewish learning of Rabbi Mara Young

And, I had the privilege of growing with and learning from an incredible cadre of rabbis while in rabbinical school:
Rabbi Sarah DePaolo
Rabbi Josh Fixler
Rabbi Chase Foster
Rabbi Scott Gellman
Rabbi Lisa Grant
Rabbi Rachel Heaps
Rabbi Gidon Isaacs
Rabbi Emily Langowitz
Rabbi Danny Moss
Rabbi Lisa Vinikoor

I should say, I take time to name these rabbis as a matter of theological principle. I believe, to the core of my being, that we increase holiness when we explicitly name and express gratitude for the goodness we see in this world. If not for these rabbis, and many others I do not have time to enumerate now (but would be happy to enumerate later!), I would not be standing here today.

And what a remarkable place to be standing. On the bimah of Congregation B’nai Jehoshua Beth Elohim. In my few months, I have experienced what I know to be just a sliver of the grace and wisdom of Rabbi Mark Shapiro. Thank you, Rabbi Shapiro, for your tireless efforts to build this congregation into what it can be today.

And to be a rabbi alongside Rabbi Karyn Kedar is a blessing that I can barely begin to describe. To witness the vision, sincerity, and soul-piercing wisdom of Rabbi Kedar is…it’s just stunning.

Can I tell you the moment I knew I would come here? Over drinks at a college bar next to HUC-JIR’s campus in Los Angeles, Rabbi Kedar said this to me, and in that moment, I just knew. She told me that our job is what we get paid for, but our work? Our work comes from God.

I have always known my work. I learned it from my parents who took me to pro-choice rallies and to serve in the soup kitchen and who took me to the synagogue and told me that these actions go hand in hand. I have always known that my work is to change the world. To build the world that we all dream about on our most optimistic days.

As your rabbi, I promise to work with you. I promise to be your partner in changing the world. Whether the world is the internal world of the soul and of personal healing. Or if it is the world of our daily interactions. Or if it is the world of the systems and structures that undergird our society. I promise that I will be here to work. And I pray that you will come to work with me.

Isn’t that what the synagogue is for? Isn’t that why we are here? The rabbinate I hope to build is rooted in the relationships that we will form. And through our relationships with each other and with the immortal words of our tradition and with the incredible power that comes from study, prayer, and community, that we will set about making a world worthy of our highest ideals.

These past few months have been exhilarating. I am immensely grateful for the way you have welcomed Gavi and me into your community. Thank you. I am so glad to be here. And I am ready for us to get to work.

Rosh Chodesh Cheshvan: Getting Back to Normal

2017-10-13T20:30:00.000-05:00

Cheshvan is…Tuesday. It’s just any day. Nothing remarkable, nothing special. Except that it’s a day when we wake up to the sun and can marvel at God’s creation. A day when we have to make choices about who we are and who we hope to be in the world. And a critical time when we wonder, did the High Holy Days have an impact on us? After having been written into and sealed in the book of life, emerging from the day of Judgment to life, emerging with a clean slate…are we new people? There is nothing special there to goad us to righteousness. No soul-shaking reminders to stay on the path we swore to walk on during Yom Kippur. Cheshvan is the normal, everyday, real world, and Cheshvan asks us: truly, what are your commitments? No gimmicks, honestly, who do you want to be? With the pomp and circumstance of the Days of Awe in the rearview mirror, who are you?

Do you remember being a kid at the very beginning of the school year? I have this vivid memory of sitting at my little cluster in 4th grade. And the first major task of the year, now that we were big, responsible 9- and 10-year-olds, was to organize our planners. Mine had a blue cover and green pages, with spacious columns and wide lines to help me organize my homework, plan out my schedule, and write in due dates for major assignments. But, whatever you do, do not lose your planner!

This planner, this calendar, starts totally empty, and then, it’s a race to fill it in.

Isn't that the way with our calendars? They come empty and we spend our time trying to cram as many things into each little box as we can. With meetings, coffee dates, appointments, practices, playdates, to-do lists, and reminders. It is as if our calendars were some type of reality show competition. By the end of the week, add it all up. Whomever had the most meetings is the winner!

Not so with our Jewish calendar. If you buy a luach, a Hebrew calendar, it comes already filled in. The boxes are filled with holidays, festivals, fast days, the stages of the moon, counting the days between Passover and Shavuot, counting the days of the high holy day season, sunrise and sunset, times for morning, afternoon, and evening prayers... Our Jewish calendar comes with all of the days already full. And we spend all week waiting for one day. For Shabbat. A day with no appointments, no meetings. A day for Torah, for song, for family, and for peace. Our secular calendars are a race to fill up the week. Our Jewish calendars are a race to the day that is empty, open, and complete.

And we need that day of rest! Our calendars, whether we filled them up or if they came ore-filled, our American and Jewish calendars, are so jam packed. When I was in rabbinical school there was a website that made the rounds on Facebook: “IsItAJewishHolidayToday.Com.” “Yes.” Or “No.” Simple as that. Very little HTML expertise required. Quite the useful resource, especially during this part of the year when it seems like we are in a constant state of festival.

Our calendar is a luni-solar calendar. 12 months, each following the cycle of the moon. New moon? New month. And because that does not measure out to 365 days, the exact equivalents on the Gregorian calendar fluctuate. It’s why we say that Passover or the High Holy Days are “early” or “late” each year, and it’s why 7 out of every 19 years we have a leap month. And, no matter the year, our months are filled with holidays.

Kislev has Chanukkah
Tevet has a fast day commemorating a stage in the siege and destruction of Jerusalem
Shvat has…Tu B’shvat, the holiday of the trees
Adar has Purim
Nisan has Passover
Iyyar has Yom Ha’atzmaut and Lag Ba’omer
Sivan has Shavuot commemorating revelation of Torah at Sinai
Tammuz has another fast related to destruction
Av has Tisha B’Av, the 9th of Av mourning the destruction of the Temple and the various catastrophes that befell the Jewish people
Elul is our month of preparation for the High Holidays
And Tishrei, the month we are in right now, is quite the full month. It has Rosh HaShanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, and Simchat Torah.

But…what about Cheshvan? The lonely month of Cheshvan is the only month in our calendar without the honor of a holiday.

The rabbis of old called this month MarCheshvan, which means bitter Cheshvan, for its distinction as the only holiday-less month. The rabbis and cantors of now are known to anxiously await Cheshvan, for its distinction as the marked end of the High Holy Day season. But nonetheless, we note that something unique, something different is happening at that moment in time.

Eleven of our twelve months have at least one distinct moment of celebration, of commemoration, of coming together for special and sacred purpose, and Cheshvan is…it’s just Cheshvan.

And it turns out, that Rosh Hodesh Cheshvan, the first day of the month of Cheshvan is next week. And in our tradition, we announce the beginning of a new month the Shabbat beforehand. And we bless the month. And we share our hopes and dreams for the month to come. And we wonder…what is there to bless and celebrate in a month with no special blessings or celebrations?

Despite our traditions reluctance to hold up and glorify Cheshvan, I actually believe that it is kind of beautiful. And not just as a clerical deep breath after the High Holy Days.

We spend Elul preparing. We spend Tishrei cracking open our hearts and souls. And Cheshvan, the month without a single celebration, is when we go back to normal. It’s as if the calendar says, “Nu? You just went through this intense experience…how will you let it affect you?”

Cheshvan is…Tuesday. It’s just any day. Nothing remarkable, nothing special. Except that it’s a day when we wake up to the sun and can marvel at God’s creation. A day when we have to make choices about who we are and who we hope to be in the world. And a critical time when we wonder, did the High Holy Days have an impact on us? After having been written into and sealed in the book of life, emerging from the day of Judgment to life, emerging with a clean slate…are we new people? There is nothing special there to goad us to righteousness. No soul-shaking reminders to stay on the path we swore to walk on during Yom Kippur. Cheshvan is the normal, everyday, real world, and Cheshvan asks us: truly, what are your commitments? No gimmicks, honestly, who do you want to be? With the pomp and circumstance of the Days of Awe in the rearview mirror, who are you?

Cheshvan is stunningly normal and ordinary, and that very fact is extraordinary.

It is our cosmic return to normalcy. And so we ask: what do we want normal to look like?

Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m young. Or maybe I’m naïve. But I feel like it’s been a long run of abnormal. We haven’t had normal in quite a while. It has been a really difficult few months. We have spent plenty of time on the bimah listing the various catastrophes, crises, debates, and disappointments of our world. And necessarily so. For the synagogue and for Judaism to remain relevant, it has to speak to the realities of our world. And I find myself desperate for some normalcy. In the midst of natural disasters and political turmoil, I am yearning for a little bit of Cheshvan.

And while our cosmic, Jewish calendar gives us this month, the rest of the world might not follow suit. So we look to our month as a metaphor, a chance to wonder about the normal we want to create. Something is going to set the path forward. And we, we who have emerged from the Day of Judgment, we have choices to make. Will normal be set by the flow of events that are beyond our control? We will abdicate normal to outside forces that we say we have no control over? Will we wait another month until the shock of the most recent disaster or attack has subsided and allow our malaise and exhaustion to reign until the next moment arises?

How can we be agents of a new normal? How can we, who spent a month steeped in the ideas Teshuva, Tefillah, and Tzedakah, return, prayer, and acts of sacred giving, move into Cheshvan buoyed by those same ideas? How can we allow the commitment to reflection and righteousness of Yom Kippur, to the gratitude of Sukkot, and to the joy of Simchat Torah to become the operative attitude of MarCheshvan. The holiday-less month of Cheshvan. Of any given Tuesday?

Please Rise.

When we greet Cheshvan, we wave goodbye to a busy, exhausting, and invigorating month of holidays. And we enter into a month where we commit to being the agents of a new normal.

מִי שֶׁעָשָׂה נִסִּים לַאֲבוֹתֵֽינוּ וְאִמּוֹתֵינוּ, וְגָאַל אוֹתָם מֵעַבְדוּת לְחֵרוּת, הוּא יִגְאַל אוֹתָֽנוּ בְּקָרוֹב, וִיקַבֵּץ נִדָּחֵינוּ מֵאַרְבַּע כַּנְפוֹת הָאָֽרֶץ, חֲבֵרִים כָּל יִשְׂרָאֵל, וְנֹאמַר אָמֵן.

May the One who performed miracles for our ancestors and redeemed them from servitude to freedom, continue to redeem us, and speedily unite our diverse community that spans the four corners of the earth. Let all Israel be committed to one another. Amen.

Our God and God of our ancestors,

may the new month bring us goodness and blessing.

May we have long life, peace, prosperity,

a life exalted by love of Torah and reverence for the divine;

a life in which the longings of our hearts are fulfilled for good.

רֹאשׁ חוֹדֶשׁ חֶשְׁוַן יִהְיֶה בְּיוֹם שִׁישִׁי.

The new month of Cheshvan will begin on Friday.
(Mishkan T'filah, p. 379)

And may this month of Cheshvan allow the experience of this holiday season settle in our hearts, in our souls, and in our hands. And may we be merited with the opportunity to march forward to create a world worthy of your blessing.

America's Mezuzah

2017-09-21T12:00:00.000-05:00

Rosh HaShanah 5778

The mezuzah is affixed to our doorposts, at the threshold of our house, so that we might see it and be reminded of our ongoing responsibility to care for the stranger and the oppressed. To care for all those who might pass through that very threshold. It’s there to remind us to be active agents of freedom and redemption.

And it strikes me that America also has a doorpost. We also have a symbol that sits at the threshold of our nation. A sign we often think delivers a message to the outside world, but, maybe, it is more important as a sign lachem, to you, to us. Of our heritage, of who we claim to be, and of who we might yet become.

I believe that the Statue of Liberty is America’s mezuzah.

I know we’re still in September…but walk into Jewel or Walgreens it’s already October 31. As a kid, Rosh Hashanah was when I first started planning out my Halloween costume (usually during the rabbi’s sermon). In my hometown of Rochester, NY, it starts snowing in October and we’re lucky if it stops by April. In fact, as a kid, you had to be very strategic about how you planned your Halloween. We always marked off houses where we could take a break from trick or treating to warm up with some hot cocoa. And, we had the tricky task of finding a costume that could fit over a snow suit. Needless to say, Rochester’s Halloween had a lot of puffy power rangers, pirates, and goblins.

And my favorite part of this whole rigmarole was that along our route, I would spot the houses with a mezuzah. I always felt this special pride and connection when I saw a mezuzah before ringing the doorbell to demand free candy. It was like I had a secret kinship with the home owner.

I had the same experience apartment and house hunting in DC, New York, and on the Northshore. Walk into an empty apartment, and see the boxy silhouette on the doorframe where a mezuzah once lived.

But! I rarely, if ever noticed my own mezuzah. I could barely describe to you the one on my childhood home where my parents have lived for over 30 years. Sure, it’s there. But I never thought about it as something for me. Its function was for the passing trick or treater who may get that same feeling of kinship upon ringing our doorbell. My mezuzah was a sign to someone outside the house saying: here lives a Jewish family!

And the more I think about it, the less satisfied I feel with that as the only reason for putting a box and scroll on my doorframe. My mezuzah shouldn’t just speak to people outside the house; what claim does it have on me? Our job as modern Jews, and all the more so as Reform Jews, is to approach our rituals and symbols with intention. We turn to our texts to find values and meaning. So, what does our text have to say about the mezuzah?

The first time the word “mezuzah” appears in the Torah is during the Exodus narrative. God commands the Israelites to take the blood from the paschal sacrifice and put it on the “mezuzot” and on the lintel.

God isn’t describing the ritual object. The Hebrew word mezuzah, when translated literally, simply means doorpost. I usually think of the blood on the doorposts as a sign to the Angel of death during the 10th plague to pass over the houses of the Israelites. But when I came to the line specifically explaining the blood, I had to read it a few times for the words to actually sink in:

וְהָיָה הַדָּם לָכֶם לְאֹת
The blood shall be a sign לכם…to YOU.

Neither the Angel of Death nor God need a sign. God knows where the Hebrews live. Rather, the blood is a sign “LACHEM” – to YOU, to the children of Israel, to us. Rashi, one of the great commentators of the Middle Ages, even goes so far as to say that because the blood is a sign לכם, to you, that it was painted on the inside of the house to be seen by and to affect the hearts of the Israelites.

And while the first nine plagues required no action, now, at the dawn of freedom, God tells Moses to instruct the people to put the blood on their mezuzot, their doorposts. The Israelites will not be saved simply because they are Israelites; they have to do something. They have to be active participants in the process of freedom in order to be worthy of being redeemed.

The blood then isn’t just there to mark the Israelites’ houses; it is an “ot lachem” a sign to the Israelites inextricably tied to the active role they must play in being freed from Egypt. And once actually freed, 36 times the Torah demands that we remember being strangers in the Land of Egypt and, because of that experience, we receive the ethical command not to wrong or oppress the stranger.

The mezuzah is affixed to our doorposts, at the threshold of our house, so that we might see it and be reminded of our ongoing responsibility to care for the stranger and the oppressed. To care for all those who might pass through that very threshold. It’s there to remind us to be active agents of freedom and redemption.

And it strikes me that America also has a doorpost. We also have a symbol that sits at the threshold of our nation. A sign we often think delivers a message to the outside world, but, maybe, it is more important as a sign lachem, to you, to us. Of our heritage, of who we claim to be, and of who we might yet become.

I believe that the Statue of Liberty is America’s mezuzah.

It is iconic. It is easily identifiable. And it is core to the narrative of our people.

First, a brief history lesson: As you may recall from 5th grade social studies class, the statue was a gift to the American people from the French. The idea was originally proposed in 1865 to commemorate French support during the Revolutionary War, to celebrate the late Abraham Lincoln, and to try and reinvigorate the cause of liberty and democracy in France. The renowned French sculptor August Bartholdi was selected to create the monument. He titled the statue: Liberty Enlightening the World. The vision was of a universal message. One that would transcend particular ideologies, would stand above liberalism and conservatism, and would soar beyond burgeoning revolution and turmoil.

However, the statue was not completed until 1886, more than twenty years after the inception of the idea. In addition to wars in Europe and political tensions in the United States and abroad, fundraising was the sticking point, as it often is. France would provide the statue, the United States would provide the pedestal upon which Liberty would stand.

Joseph Pulitzer suggested an auction to raise money to build the pedestal. Emma Lazarus originally declined the offer to participate. Lazarus, a poet, powerful progressive voice, activist, and Jew of Sefardi descent, said she was too busy to craft an original piece. She was spending her time supporting Jewish refugees fleeing anti-Semitic Europe. Eventually, she acceded and wrote a poem that was emblazoned in bronze at the statue’s base.

The poem is titled, “The New Colossus” has become part of the American canon and a critical identifying marker for our nation’s values and identity.

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Emma Lazarus is a critical figure for us to turn to in this moment as American Jews. She was deeply rooted in her Americanism, and she was committed to her Jewish heritage. If we turn to the opening of her poem I cannot help but notice biblical allusions to Deborah, a champion of the Israelites in the book of Judges. Lazarus writes:

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles.

Deborah, the judge and prophetess, is called “eshet Lapidot” literally, wife of Lapidot, but poetically understood to be “the torch-bearing woman.” She opposes tyranny and judges her people in fairness, bringing light to the land. This is the character that Lazarus calls on. The woman who’s flame is imprisoned lightning and whose name is Mother of Exiles. Deeply American and deeply Jewish. Calling on American values of freedom and liberty, and calling on the Jewish story of immigration, oppression, and opportunity.

Yet it is the last few lines that have become iconic in American culture:

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

These words are an ot lachem. These words are the inward facing sign. They remind us of what America is when it is at its best: a nation that welcomes in and cares for the downtrodden and dejected. Surely, vulnerable populations ought to know this country could be a safe haven, but I think we need that message more than they do.

How easy it can be for us to turn internally, to ignore those who have come here seeking refuge from persecution and degradation. How much simpler would our lives be if we were to reject America’s legacy of care and support for oppressed peoples. Our American mezuzah is there to remind us of who we are called to be.

What an incredible opportunity for a synthesis of our American and Jewish values. And, by my estimation, no one was more attuned to the need to unify Americanism and Judaism than Rabbi Emil G. Hirsch. Hirsch was a rabbi in Chicago from 1880-1920. For those students of the history of Reform Judaism, he is a, if not the, foundational figure for putting social justice at the core of the Reform rabbinate and the American Jewish experience.

Of his hundreds and hundreds of pages of sermons, there is one that has been sticking with me since I came across it last fall. In 1899, Hirsch delivered a sermon titled “Organization and Division of Labor—How far are we the chosen people?” It is by far my favorite of his sermons. He wanted to understand God’s stirring declaration in the book of Exodus that the Israelites, the Jewish people, are to be a mamlekhet kohanim, a kingdom of priests. “Priests of what?” Hirsch wonders. What is the particular vocation of the Jewish people?

Hirsch believes that all nations have a special job, tied to the greatest heroes of that nation. So, the Greeks are priests of beauty, and the Romans, priests of law. And here’s where it comes back to us. Hirsch says that Americans are called to be priests of democracy. That’s our job, to bring agency, peace, equality, and fairness to the world. That is what the Statue of Liberty, our American mezuzah, is there to remind us of.

And the Jews? How are the Jews to be a mamlekhet kohanim, a kingdom of priests? Hirsch says that Jews, in the mold of Moses and Amos and Isaiah, are to be priests of Justice and Righteousness. I still feel my skin tingle each time I think about that idea. How amazing! Priests of Justice and Righteousness! Our work in the world is to be ever attuned to the needs of the oppressed and to lift up their voices. Our mezuzah symbolizes the story of our redemption, and we, in turn, have the ethical obligation to be agents of redemption throughout the world. This is our heritage! And we have the responsibility to make it our ever-lasting legacy.

Our nation is at a difficult crossroads. Rhetoric about immigration is reaching a fever pitch, with aggressive policies from the White House and inaction in Congress met with widespread protests in the streets. The livelihood and dreams of young and old hang in the balance. The worldwide refugee population is still growing and humanitarian crises across the world abound. So what are American Jews to do? How do we honor both our American and Jewish obligations?

Whether it is working to build a community that accepts newcomers or helping those who sojourn among us to connect to the services and supports they need to succeed, we can fulfill an American promise, and a moral, religious promise to welcome the stranger.

And, in truth, we need a reminder to act. It can be easy to get distracted by the realities of daily living, so we have symbol. Symbols that call our attention back to our core truths. And I wonder, what if the Statue of Liberty was as ubiquitous as the mezuzah? What if we didn’t just leave the Statute of Liberty in New York Harbor, but thoughtfully brought her into our homes, our houses of worship, our places of work, our public spaces? How might we be affected if we saw the symbol and were reminded of Emma Lazarus’s words throughout the day? Maybe then it might better serve as an ot lachem a sign to each and every one of us of the active role we must take to ensure freedom, justice, and righteousness.

A mezuzah does not just adorn a threshold. A mezuzah makes a claim on us. A mezuzah reminds us that once we too were strangers, oppressed in a foreign land, and now, we must act on behalf of the oppressed who sojourn among us.

Mi shebeirach avoteinu v’imoteinu, may the one who blessed our ancestors, bless us too with the ongoing opportunity and obligation to be a kingdom of priests. In this year of 5778, may we fulfil the promise to become Priests of democracy and equality, priests of Justice and Righteousness, priests who carry the torch to light the way forward for all peoples and all nations.

Tell Me Your Names

2017-09-20T20:00:00.000-05:00

Erev Rosh Hashanah 5778

Our names aren’t just our names. Our names tell a story about our past, our present, and our future. Our names are full of hope, passion, and promise. When I tell you that I want to know your names, I tell you that I want to know you. Truly. Who are you? Where do you come from? What do you care about? Who do you want to be in the world? When we know each other’s names, that is to say, when we really know each other…that is when we enter into sacred relationship. That is when we build a spiritual community of meaning and purpose. That is what seals us for blessing in the Book of Life.

Hello!

…I’m Rabbi Jason Fenster. Who are all of you? Will you share your names with me? Ready…one, two, three. Nice to meet you.

So, now that we’ve met…can I be honest with you for a moment? This, this right here. This is kind of weird. Not the rabbi part. Not the High Holy Days. Not giving a sermon. It’s this (directional arms). I’ve been at BJBE for about 43 seconds (well…82 days to be exact, but who’s counting). We don’t really know each other yet. And all of a sudden, here I am, standing on the bimah, speaking to you for 15-20 minutes at one of the most sacred moments of our year.

It’s weird for me, because my Judaism, my theology, my politics, my worldview, my spiritual practice, my belief in God, are rooted in relationships. Rooted in the connections that we will form with each other in the coming weeks and months of 5778. And the first moment of connection with the vast majority of you is this directional moment where I will talk and you will listen. Unless you take a nap.

Sure, we may have spoken at an oneg. Or you may have swung by the office. Or maybe we even had a few minutes of kibitzing in the Village Center. But I want you to know that it weighs on me that I don’t yet know you.

And, whether you nap or not, I need you to know that I want to know your names. And I want to you to know my names.

I don’t just mean “Rabbi Jason Eli Fenster.” For sure, it would be nice if we knew that, but our tradition believes that our names are more than what is on a driver’s license, credit card, or electrical bill. Our names are who we are.

One of my favorite rabbinic texts talks about the three names that each person has. And you can actually find this text in the Memorial Alcove across the way.
It goes like this:

Each of us has three names:

The name our parents give us.
The name our friends call us.
And the name we earn ourselves.

Our names aren’t just our names. Our names tell a story about our past, our present, and our future. Our names are full of hope, passion, and promise. When I tell you that I want to know your names, I tell you that I want to know you. Truly. Who are you? Where do you come from? What do you care about? Who do you want to be in the world? When we know each other’s names, that is to say, when we really know each other…that is when we enter into sacred relationship. That is when we build a spiritual community of meaning and purpose. That is what seals us for blessing in the Book of Life.

That’s the foundation of a sacred community. Sacred community is where we know each other. Where we see each other and see into each other’s souls. And, knowing who we are, we make God manifest in our world so we can set about creating a world worthy of our prayers this High Holy Day season.

For sure, it is not an easy process. It will take time. And it is time critically worth spending. So, let me tell you my names. And your assignment, during this holiday season, or in the weeks, months, and years to come, is to return the favor. Deal? And this isn’t the kind of vow that gets wiped away at Kol Nidre! I expect follow up!

Our first name is the name our parents give us. My Hebrew name is הרב יעקב אליהו בן ראובן יוסף ומשאה רחל. I am Rabbi Jason Eli, the son of Remy Jean and Marilyn Rochelle Fain Fenster.

As a Bar Mitzvah student recently asserted to me…"our Hebrew names are really long. Can’t we just shorten it at the service?" No! Our given names, the names our parents choose for us tell us where we come from. It’s why I gave that student (and every other student I’ve met on the bimah for a Bar or Bat Mitzvah) a homework assignment: find out who you are named for and why. Your name isn’t just your name. Your name is your family. Your name is the history that you inherit.

When we share name number one, we share where we come from. The past that informs our present and that dreamt of our future.

I’m named for my maternal grandfather, Jerome Fain. I never met Jerome—he died when my mother was 20. Jerome was a man of principle. Jerome’s eldest child was his daughter Marilyn, my mom. She was a bright student and committed to her community. But, at the synagogue where they belonged, women were not permitted to read from the Torah. So, Jerome and few of his friends founded a new synagogue. And my mother was the first woman to read from the Torah at Temple Emanuel of Rochester, New York. Through my name, I inherit a legacy of strong morals that lead to sacred action.

My middle name is Eli. It comes from my paternal great grandfather, my dad’s Opa, Erwin Fenster. Erwin had one son, Pierre who was born in Berlin in 1933. Pierre, Erwin, and Elsa, survived the Holocaust and because of their perseverance and luck, I stand here today. I am a third generation Holocaust survivor. Through my name, I inherit a legacy of memory and commitment to the Jewish people.

Who are you named for? What did your parents hope for you when they named you? What legacy did you inherit and how do you live it out? If you have children, do they know who they are named for? Do they know why? When we know name number one, we know where we come from, so we can dream about where we might go.

So, what of name number two? The name our friends call us. Our second name is who we are in the world today. It’s what we do and what we love. How are we are known to the people around us.

Usually, the way we try to find this out at cocktail parties, oneg, and bagel brunches is we ask “What do you do?” It’s a simple, well-meaning question. It’s an attempt to connect. I, for one, find that I ask it all the time. And, sometimes, that question is right on point. If we were to meet at a party, and you were to ask me “what do you do?” I would say, “I’m a rabbi.” And after you got over the initial shock of the reality that rabbis do, in fact, go to parties, you would learn that I am a rabbi because I believe in the power of conversation around shared values that inspire us, bring us together, and call us to action. And I’m a rabbi because I love asking questions and I love being a part of joyous community. And I am a rabbi because I believe that, as a Jew, I am obligated to insist on a world of peace, justice, and compassion. And then, you would have a pretty good idea of who I am.

But, if you were to ask me that question in late 2009, I would have said that I was a part-time telemarketer for the National Symphony Orchestra, and that I was temping. And I would have been embarrassed. And you wouldn't really know all that much about me.

I sense a growing cultural pushback against this question. On the one hand, there are a host of articles on business and click-bait websites that talk about better ways to answer. They recognize that we are more than titles. So they recommend ways to twist your response to market yourself in a way that is more interesting and helps you avoid getting pigeon holed into society’s assumptions about a given profession.

And, on the other hand, there are those who say that this question, in and of itself, is flawed, and that we ought to extricate it from polite conversation all together. To ask “what do you do?,” the argument goes, is to actually ask, “what do you do for a living?” or “how do you earn a paycheck?” As if to say that we are only interesting based on the bullet points of our resumes. And, for sure, there are many who are quite proud of the work they do and the passion they bring to it. But what about people who are looking for work, but unable to find something. What about someone whose job is unsatisfying. What about those who are underemployed? How does the full-time caregiver who does not go to work, but spends time supporting generations young and old in the family, answer?

Instead, to know our second name, we need to learn something different. When I was peddling classical music to residents of the nation’s capital, I would have shirked away if you asked me, “what do you do?” But, if you had asked me what I love, I would have loved to share that with you.

Instead of a reluctant retelling of my job hunt process, I would tell you how I love musical theater, board games, and singing around the Shabbat table. I would have told you that I was thinking about what it means to build a world of justice and equality and that I was trying to explore the best avenue for fulfillment and having a positive impact.

To know each other’s second names, we need to learn not just what we spend the most hours of our day doing, but rather what we love to do, what we are thinking about, what we are building. To know the name our friends call us, we need to know more than each other’s resumes, we need to learn about each other’s passions.

So…what are your passions? What do you love? What makes you feel fulfilled? What big ideas are you thinking about?

Our first name is our history. Our second name is our present. And now we come to our third name. The name we earn for ourselves. The name that our tradition tells us is the best of our three names. Our third name is our legacy. Our third name is our future.

What could be a more critical question for this season? Who do you want to be? How do you wish you could be known by the world?

I am fascinated by Clayton Christensen’s answer to this question. Clayton Chirstensen is a Harvard Business School professor. He is an author and the thinker who coined the term “disruptive innovation” to consider the paradigm shifts that are the structures of our modern world. And, Clayton Christensen is a father. Of five. And one day, one of his children got into trouble in school for pushing a classmate. He and his wife held a family meeting. And they announced a new family motto: ‘The Christensens are known for kindness.” And from there, they could measure the family’s actions against their newfound creed. In the decisions they made, from the most important to the most mundane, they could ask does this support our family brand? Is this in line with the family mission statement? Are our actions consistent with the name we want the Christens to earn in the world?

Over the last few weeks and months I’ve been talking a lot with my wife, Gavi, about this question. You can’t see all this from where you’re sitting, but Gavi is the kind, thoughtful, wise, tall, beautiful, curly, brown-haired woman sitting in the tenor section. We have been trying to figure out; what is our family motto? What is the legacy that we want this iteration of the Fenster clan to leave? What is the name that we hope the Fensters will earn in this world, so that we might merit blessing in the years to come?

We have a few ideas that we have put together, and this name is still in progress. I am sure that as the years go on, and as our life and family change, more will come into focus. For the time being, we have been playing with a few key words. Words like love, positivity, compassion, friendship.

And through this process, I’ve come up with a theory. As much as we can pen our own motto, the legacy we leave the world is not up to us. It’s up to the world. So, I polled a few friends from our lives in NFTY, camp, and Hillel—the people who know us best. I asked them, what do you think is the brand of the Fensters?

And I was delighted to find the same themes appear. They said things like: “doing the right thing the right way;” “warmth and comfort;” “open-heartedness.”

And I am so grateful to these friends. Those friends from relationships forged over Shabbat dinners, song sessions, text studies, and late nights talking about what we believe and know about the world. Our third name is clearest when we surround ourselves with people who know us, who love us, and who want us to help us make manifest the world we dream about. The people who see us as if we stand in a spotlight worthy of celebration for nothing more than being ourselves.

And this is why we need community. This is why we need the synagogue. We need people who know us. People with whom we can talk about our dreams. Who can reflect to us what they see in our words and deeds. Who can lovingly hold us accountable to our highest ideals.

Isn’t that why we are here? We come to synagogue to know each other and to be known. The synagogue is where we know each other’s names. Without a doubt, nametags are great. Especially for the new rabbi struggling to tie together names of the driver’s license variety. And, the synagogue is where we strive to know each other’s many names. The names that tell our past, present, and future. That names that dig to the core of who we are. The names that allow us to stand and be seen for the gifts, skills, and talents we bring, and for the dreams that we might build together.

So, now you have learned some about my names. And don’t forget, I want to learn yours as well. And, while we are here, getting ready for 5778, let’s add a few more commitments for the year to come. On your way out of and into the building. When you come for a class. When bring the young people you love to the JLC or a celebration at the synagogue. When you come for Shabbat services. When you volunteer. When you meet up with the people you’ve known for years over a meal. Share your names. Know each other more deeply. See each other in a new and more brilliant light so we can know each other’s history. So we can know what each of us loves. So that together, may we build a legacy worthy of our future.

As we stand on the precipice of 5778, I pray that we are blessed with a year of joy. A year of sweetness. And a year of names learned and names well earned. Shanah Tovah.

The Shofar: Our Call to Battle

2017-08-25T19:30:00.000-05:00

When we hear the shofar, we prepare ourselves for a desperate and critical battle. And our tools for that moment, are love, truth, presence, and compassion. We gird ourselves in teshuva, tefillah, and tzedakah: sacred returning, prayer, acts of righteousness to create the world we will so desperately pray for during our season of introspection and renewal.

The month of Elul is our month to get ready. To clothe ourselves in love, truth, presence. and compassion as we prepare to quench the fires of fear, to extinguish the flames of hate, and to stamp out indifference.

Do you see that? Just over the hill? It’s the High Holy days. They’re coming. Here’s a short parable for the season.

Shmuli lived his whole life in a small village. On his first visit to the big city, he was awakened in the middle of the night by the loud beating of drums. He ran outside to see what the commotion was and ask a young child, “What’s this all about?” She told him that a fire had broken out and the drum beating was the city’s fire alarm.

When he got home Shmuli reported to the village elders. “They have a wonderful system in the big city; when a fire breaks out the people beat their drums and before long the fire burns out.”

The town ordered a supply of drums and distributed them to the population. A few weeks later, unfortunately, a fire broke out. But the people were ready. They all ran into the street and furiously beat their drums. And while they drummed and drummed, the house burned down to the ground, as they waited for the flames to die out.

A visitor to the village asked them what they were doing. “People are beating the drums to put out the fire!” Shmuli responded.

Are you crazy?! The visitor said. You can’t put out a fire by beating drums. You beat the drums to wake people up so they will put out the fire with water, hoses, blankets, and whatever else they can find.

So too, the shofar.

The Shofar: Our Call to Arms - 8.25.17 from B'nai Jehoshua Beth Elohim on Vimeo.

The shofar is an alarm. If we just hear the shofar, but it doesn’t wake us up, then it hasn’t done its job.

And, we started blowing shofar just a few days ago. This past week, we celebrated Rosh Chodesh Elul, the start of the month that immediately precedes the High Holy Day season. (Side note: The beginnings of Hebrew months occur at the New Moon…the same new moon necessary for the eclipse. Ok, back to our regularly scheduled sermon).

So, Elul is our month of getting ready. And, according to tradition, we spend each day this month blowing the shofar—a sound that makes us quake and makes our bones rattle. We blow the shofar to call us to attention. To wake us up.

But really, what a goofy looking instrument. In the Reform Movement generally and here at BJBE in particular, we have modernized so many parts of our Jewish experience. We live stream our services (hi, Mom!), we include egalitarianism and modern notions of science in our prayer, we have an electric ner tamid, we play acoustic guitars that plug-in to a sound system…but we still use a ram’s horn. Wouldn’t a trumpet or bugle provide a cleaner, crisper sound? Why do we use this awkward, rough, imperfect piece instead of a modern instrument?

For sure, the ram’s horn has biblical significance, in particular its tie to a moment of salvation in the story of the binding of Isaac, and I think it’s more than that. We come to expect a rough and imperfect sound out of the shofar. It is jarring and awakens us. We appreciate and are in awe of any sound that someone is able to make, but how powerful the symbolism when someone makes a stunning, melodic sound ring out from such a twisty, rough, and unexpected place.

Just like the shofar, we have our own rough, unpolished edges. We can seem out of place and awkward, but we have the potential. When we prepare and execute in just the right way, we can make music.

The shofar is us. The shofar is rough, twisty, and perfectly imperfect, and we use it to call ourselves to attention in this most critical time of preparation and readiness—the month of Elul.

And, still I wonder, what are we calling attention to?

This past Wednesday in our morning Talmud study class, we studied together some of the reasons for blowing the shofar during this month of Elul, this month of preparation.

We started with the classics: this is a month to ward off sin, do teshuva, and try to clean your slate for the coming new year. The shofar is a loud, stark, soul-shaking call to get to work. To get to the critical, sacred work of teshuva, repentance. And, with its prescient warning, it is a reminder that there is yet time to do the work. Yes, the shofar blasts, and yes you still have time before the big moment arrives.

And then, during our conversation, one of the people around the table asked about the Shofar as a call to battle. At times in our tradition, our heroes sound the shofar as a call to war, a call to arms. And as we spoke, I had a bit of a vision. The words sound strange to say, but I literally stopped the conversation, closed my eyes, and painted a picture.

What if, what if the shofar is a call to battle? In biblical times, a blast of this rough instrument was a call to rise up, gather your sword, your spear, your shield, and head out to defend and protect your people. And today. When we hear the shofar, we too rise. And what is in our hands? This! Our prayerbook. Before and after the call, we need it to speak words of blessing. Our sword and our shield are the words printed in this book. This is how we set about defending our people. This is how we will start a revolution.

The 20th century sage Abraham Joshua Heschel said what I think are some of the most moving and impactful words about prayer. He wrote:

Prayer is meaningless unless it is subversive, unless it seeks to overthrow and to ruin the pyramids of callousness, hatred, opportunism, and falsehood. The liturgical movement must become a revolutionary movement, seeking to overthrow the forces that continue to destroy the promise, the hope, the vision.

When we hear the shofar, we prepare ourselves for a desperate and critical battle. And our tools for that moment, are love, truth, presence, and compassion. We gird ourselves in teshuva, tefillah, and tzedakah: sacred returning, prayer, acts of righteousness to create the world we will so desperately pray for during our season of introspection and renewal.

The month of Elul is our month to get ready. To clothe ourselves in love, truth, presence. and compassion as we prepare to quench the fires of fear, to extinguish the flames of hate, and to stamp out indifference.

Our rabbis teach that the word “Elul” is itself an acronym. But, being rabbis, they have many ideas and cannot seem to agree exactly what it stands for.

First, the quote a line from the book of Esther: איש לרעהו ומתנות לאביונים (eesh l'rei-ei-hu u'matanot l'evyonim)—Elul. Each person shall send presents to their neighbors and gifts to the poor. Elul is a time of doing Tzedakah.

And they cite a verse from Song of Songs, the biblical love poem: אני לדודי ודודי לי (Ani l'dodi v'dodi li)—Elul. I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine. Elul is a month of love. Of affirming humanity’s love for God through the love we show our fellow.

We are each a shofar. With our unsmooth edges and our broken notes. Perfectly imperfect. And we are deserving of love. Of love from God and of love from the people around us.

And each of us is called to hear the shofar. To wake up, stand up, and gird ourselves with truth, presence, compassion, and love.

Making Sense in a World of Nonsense

2017-08-11T18:00:00.000-05:00

Unfortunately, even though we yearn for the logic of “If A, then B” reality doesn’t always turn out so neat and tidy. We know that. We’ve seen that in the news. We’ve seen that in our lives. We’ve seen that good things happen to bad people and bad things happen to good people.

...And still, we pray. And still, we yearn. And still, we hope for a world that will make sense. A world where our good deeds will be appropriately rewarded. Where the leaders of all nations work for the best interest of their citizens. Where we see the senselessness of devastation and destruction and work for the safety and security of all peoples.

The best class I took in college was “Causes and Prevention of War.” The premise was that 40 students would be assigned to be the leaders of 10 different countries (four students per country, for those doing the math at home). We studied up, came into class, and we were told…you’re the world: Go!

The professor played the rest of the nations of the world and, eventually, our universe diverted from the news of the real world as he added different scenarios and crises for our microcosm of the global stage to deal with.

I, for one, was the foreign minister of Iran. Quite the interesting experience, I can assure you. The class was incredible fun. I had a friend who was the finance minister of Kenya, and we had to set a no-shop-talk policy outside of class because I was sure that she was a spy. During our three-hour class sessions, my team and I engaged in the classic diplomatic tactic of bringing Hint of Lime Tostitos and medium salsa to each class. It helped make a lot of friends and ease international tensions.

But then, one week, even our chips and salsa strategy was powerless to stop the freight train of global politics.

It turns out that the president of my Iranian delegation and the head of the French government did not get along. It had nothing to do with the global community we made in the classroom. It was not the result of back channel negotiations or strategic deception. They just didn’t like each other. So, one day, after a particularly heated exchanged, the French president called for a press conference (which meant we all stopped conversations and listened up to the front of the class). In a slightly bizarre, angry, and wandering speech, the French president declared Iran a “rogue state” and that he was cutting off diplomatic relations. None of us were sure what he meant by rogue state, but it resulted in a precipitous increase in tensions.

And, frankly, it’s good the semester ended when it did, because we were all pretty sure that the next week would have resulted in the start of World War III.

The idea for the class was that you read the assigned international relations theory before coming to class each week and then use the skills and ideas in your negotiations and relationships. I…did not do that. For sure, I read everything assigned. I just happened to read it during Reading Week as I prepared to write my “memoir” final assignment.

As I approached that project, I was worried. The world we had created flipped upside down and backwards. There was very little that occurred that seemed rational or according to any predictable pattern. How was I going to shoehorn reasonable political theory into the nonsensical world I had just witnessed and been a part of? And then I started reading. And I read about the role of irrational actors on the global, political stage. I learned that the only rational way to look at the world is to know that irrational things happen. Surely, there are some predictable patterns, but, more often than not, we need to build the unpredictable into our models of what we expect out of the world.

Unfortunately, even though we yearn for the logic of “If A, then B” reality doesn’t always turn out so neat and tidy. We know that. We’ve seen that in the news. We’ve seen that in our lives. We’ve seen that good things happen to bad people and bad things happen to good people.

And still we say in this week’s Torah reading: עֵקֶב תִּשְׁמְעוּן, אֵת הַמִּשְׁפָּטִים הָאֵלֶּה (eikev tish’m’un et hamishpatim ha-eileh), if you obey these rules…(Deut. 7:12) and וְהָיָה, אִם-שָׁמֹעַ תִּשְׁמְעוּ אֶל-מִצְו‍ֹתַי (v’haya im shamoa tish’m’u el mitzvotai), surely if you obey my commandments (Deut. 11:13)...then rain will come in its season and you will defeat your enemies and you will have health, happiness, and success.

And still, we know that this is not how the world works. And still, we say it.

So much so, that a set of verses from this parsha make their way into the traditional recitation of Shema. In our Reform prayerbook, we removed this section from the liturgy. And reasonably so. Our modern sensibilities make us hesitant to profess the belief that observance of particular commandments will make the rain come down and the grass grow. We know that this is not how the world works.

Now, I don’t think we should add it back into our liturgy, but I can’t help but wonder why the rabbis of old wanted it there. I don’t think they were stupid. I don’t think they were naïve. I think they yearned for a world that makes sense. They, like us, yearned for a logical set of actions that could affect the cosmic reality of the world around them.

Of course, we should do all that we can to create a world that uses logic and reason to dictate the future. But, sometimes, you accidentally bump into the president of France in the dining hall, and his reaction is not one that you can predict. And then the fake world you created in Professor Seyom Brown’s “Causes and Prevention of War” class turns upside down and backwards.

And still, we pray. And still, we yearn. And still, we hope for a world that will make sense. A world where our good deeds will be appropriately rewarded. Where the leaders of all nations work for the best interest of their citizens. Where we see the senselessness of devastation and destruction and work for the safety and security of all peoples.

I think it matters that this idea is present in the sanctuary. Not that we necessarily believe it to be true, but that it is part of our hope. It is part of what we yearn for when we enter the sanctuary.

A sanctuary is a place of refuge and safety. It’s where we go to escape the irrational world. To try and find solace and center ourselves. To feel protected amidst the storms and trials of the unpredictable world we live in. To feel the sheltering presence of God.

And, a sanctuary is more than that. We aren’t meant to stay in the sanctuary. We come here to shore ourselves up. To remind ourselves of our values. To hope and pray together for a world that makes sense. And then we go back into our erratic, ever-changing world ready to do our part to create the predictable outcomes we wish were natural. We pray for rain to fall in its season, and then we leave here to care for our environment. We pray for peace to descend, and, knowing that peace does not naturally rain down from heaven, we set about the work of beating swords into plowshares and spears into pruning hooks.

In this sanctuary, may we feel sheltered and safe from the irrational and unpredictable reality we see each day. And may we leave this sanctuary ready to create the world we so fervently hope and pray for.

Shabbat Shalom.

Whenever a Jew prays, a Jew always prays for Peace

2017-07-21T18:30:00.000-05:00

Parashat Matot-Masei

I think this is a universal experience, so you’ll have to let me know if this has happened to you too.

There’s something you know. Maybe it’s a quote, a famous saying, a philosophical idea, or even a line from a movie…but, for the life of you, you have no idea where it comes from.

You’ve searched for it. You’ve googled it. You’ve opened up random books hoping you flip to the right page. You’ve googled it again. You changed a few words…and you google it again. Perhaps, you have even driven friends and loved ones crazy with your incessant googling.

Well, I have a phrase like that. I’ve shared it and taught it multiple times in many settings. And every time, I try to say it with conviction, mostly so no one will question me on it. I’m always secretly terrified that some well-meaning or moved person will ask where it comes from…and I’ll have no idea!

But! No more! Last night, while G-chatting with a classmate about this week’s Torah portion (because that’s what rabbis do), I decided to give it another shot…and, wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, I found it!

And! I put it on the back of your service handout. And it will promptly go right onto my bookshelf so I will never lose it again!

Here it is:

חביב הוא השלום, שכל חותמיהם של ברכות אי
נן אלא בשלום.

Ḥaviv hu ha’shalom sh’kol ḥotmeihem shel b’rachot einan eileh b’shalom.
Beloved is peace, for the blessings never end unless they end with peace (D'varim Rabbah 5:15)

So that is a quasi-direct translation, bouncing around some of the goofy Hebrew grammar. The gist is: whenever a Jew prays, a Jew always prays for peace. The significant liturgical units, the building blocks of our service, all close with a prayer for peace. The Shema blessings end with “haporeis sukkat shalom” in the Hashkiveinu. The Amidah? Oseh shalom bimromav. Even the priestly blessing ends with “v’yasem lecha shalom.”

This may come as a surprise from the rabbi…but I really like Jewish prayer. I think it is marvelous, beautiful, and poetic. And this idea is one of the key reasons I show up to Temple every Shabbat (and, for the last 21 days, every weekday too!).

I believe that prayer is affirmation and aspiration. We come together to remind ourselves and each other of what it is we believe. And amidst all of the complicated, challenging, and at times confounding theological ideas in our liturgy, amidst the ancient Hebrew and the modern poetry, we always come back to a key message:

כל חותמיהם של ברכות אינן אלא בשלום.

Ḥaviv hu ha’shalom sh’kol ḥotmeihem shel b’rachot einan eileh b’shalom.
We always close with peace. We pray to affirm that we believe in the supremacy of peace. Peace on high, peace for all Israel, and for all the world.

Knowing that, we dream together about the world we want to create. We speak aloud what we believe and we dream together about what the world might look like should our values come to fruition.

We affirm that Jews are a people who believes in peace. And we take a moment together to aspire toward that ultimate vision.

And, our prayer is more than that. As it often seems to work out, the Torah this week offers some teachings that help frame what prayer is about for me.

This week, we have a double parsha. The first, Matot, begins with an explanation of vows. Vows that come up in “kol nidre….” The words we fear will haunt us on the ultimate day of judgment. Those vows. The text suggests the radical idea that our words matter. It offers that we are meant to be held accountable and expected to make the ideas we utter manifest in the world. To ignore that responsibility, to speak without intention, to waste our incredible gifts of thought, speech, and communication is an affront to our creator, to the force that binds together humanity and the earth. The Torah teaches us that the stakes are high and what we say matters.

While in rabbinical school, I had the opportunity to study with the coolest nun you could ever meet. Janet Walton is a Roman Catholic nun committed social justice, feminist perspectives on worship, and the aesthetics of ritual—a significant underrepresentation of her biography and manifold accomplishments. She taught our collection of eager rabbinical and cantorial students that worship is practice for the real world.

Who we are in here. What we say in here. What we feel in here. Is who we are called to be out there. We are called to act as if the words we say in here matter.

Our prayers are our values, and they are more than our values. Prayer is hope and it is more than hope. Prayers are our dreams, and they are more than dreams. Prayers are words that matter. Prayers are high-stakes words. Prayers are our training ground for our sacred ideas so we can clad ourselves in truth, justice, and in shalom, in peace, as we head out to face each day.

Surely, we pray with our heads and with our hearts. And we are called to pray with our hands and with our feet. We are called, as the Israelites are commanded in Masei, to build cities of refuge, cities of safety, and cities of support. We are called, every time we pray, to affirm, to aspire, and to work toward peace.

We come here for many reasons. For community, for meditation, for memory, for healing, for celebration, but no matter why we come, the end is always peace.

To imagine together the world of peace we so desperately yearn for, and to leave services, go to oneg, and start to plan how we can make that dream a reality.

חביב הוא השלום,

Ḥaviv hu ha’shalom
Beloved in peace

שכל חותמיהם של ברכות אינן אלא בשלום

sh’kol ḥotmeihem shel b’rachot einan eileh b’shalom.
For every blessing ends with the blessing of peace.

The Misogyny of Omission

2017-07-14T17:00:00.000-05:00

Parashat Pinchas

Let me begin this Shabbat by sharing some of the insider trade secrets of the Reform Rabbinate. There are a lot of exciting things that happen when you are ordained a rabbi. There is the ceremony itself. The big, fancy piece of paper you get. The days and weeks of celebrations and congratulations. The feeling of accomplishment and awe. The opportunity to head out to serve the Jewish people.

But, the most prized in this remarkable period of transition, the most anticipated status change, the most coveted opportunity…is joining the Central Conference of American Rabbis’ members-only Facebook group.

Seriously, you would be shocked by the number of colleagues you mentioned this to me as I approached ordination.

Let me peel back the curtain further and bring you into this hidden world of rabbinic facebooking. This week, the talk of the e-town was the Israeli Chief rabbinate’s so-called blacklist of diaspora rabbis.

To get married in Israel, immigrants must prove they are Jewish to the Chief Rabbinate, often via a letter by a congregational rabbi attesting to the immigrant’s Jewish identity. This list comprises rabbis whose letters were rejected during 2016.

Rabbis exclaimed their pride in being listed. Others lamented that they had not been deemed subversive enough to earn a spot on the blacklist. (I spoke to Rabbi Kedar right before she got on her plane and she lamented that she hadn’t been able to make the list…we’ll see what trouble she can cause while she’s there.)

And, then, another thread emerged. On the list of 165…there were zero women. And I know what you’re thinking. In a stunning turn of events. the ultra-orthodox chief rabbinate of Israel decided that all of the rabbis in the diaspora who are female are totally acceptable and legitimate to them. Sadly, the more likely reality is that the women were not listed because they were not deemed legitimate enough even to be named for exclusion.

Thankfully, the Torah provides a moment of respite from the misogyny of omission.

Let me set the scene. As the Israelites are strolling through the desert, they are starting to plan for life in the Land of Israel. Of major concern is how the land will ultimately be divided according to the patrilineal line of each ancestral clan. And then, we posthumously meet Tzelophchad. He died in the wilderness, but had no son to whom he could pass on his allotted portion. He did, however, have five daughters. And these daughters, according to the law, were ineligible to inherit his land.

And then, in a Torah that is scarce with details and that often leaves female characters unnamed, and in a story that last just 11 verses, we get the names of all 5 women. Maḥlah, Noah, Ḥoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah stand up before Moses, the elders, and the entire community of Israel to speak truth and to decry injustice. And, they are quite the effective team of lobbyists. Moses brings their claim before God and the laws of inheritance are rewritten to reflect their rightful protest (there’s a whole separate sermon in there about effective advocacy, but you’ll have to come back next year to hear that one).

Surely, more women in the Bible ought to be named, but it is striking that b’not Tzelophcad, the daughters of Tzelophechad, Maḥlah, Noah, Ḥoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah, stand up for what they know to be right and true and we record and we know their names.

The text is careful about this too. In each of the three episodes where they appear, Maḥlah, Noah, Ḥoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah are all named.

Just by hearing their names, we draw our attention to the story. By hearing their names we recall how they stood together to assert their rightful place in society. After completing the census of hundreds and hundreds of thousands of Israelites, these are not nameless faces, they are individual characters. They are Maḥlah, Noah, Ḥoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah. And, how powerful to simply say their names. To name these women makes them real. It makes them exist for us and for the story on a different plane. We can identify them. We can name children after them. We can Google them!

Our names mean a lot. Think about how annoyed we get when a telemarketer, a person we have never and likely will never meet in person, pronounces our names incorrectly. And, think of how nice it feels when someone remembers your name (and how forgiving we are when the new rabbi needs a few reminders…because we know how sincerely he wants to know our names). Our names tell the story of our heritage. They tell stories about our journeys. They are full of hopes and dreams. They mark significant changes in our lives. Our names are more than words we write on “Hello my name is…” stickers, our names are who we are.

And, to say someone’s name is to see them. To recognize them for who they are. To note their accomplishments and to identify them for their potential and opportunity. The Israeli chief rabbinate opted to ignore women as a class. They chose not to see our remarkable female rabbis and to only name the male rabbis (even though it was for only for a moment scorn). And in contrast, in this biblical story of pride and power, Maḥlah, Noah, Ḥoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah, are named for standing up and for naming the injustice they see in society.

As we enter this Shabbat, may we see each other. See each other when we stand up. See what is true and enduring about our work in the world. And through that vision, come to know the names of each individual as we work to build a community worthy of Maḥlah, Noah, Ḥoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah: a community of justice, a community of recognition, and a community where each of us is known, recognized, and loved for our names.

What's in a Name

2016-12-16T18:00:00.000-06:00

Sermon for Parashat Vayishlach at a "Mispacha Shabbat," a service designed to be engaging to all members of the family, young and old.

Let me tell you a story. It’s a story about my great-great-great grandmother and my great-great-great grandfather, and their son, my great-great grandfather. My great-great-great grandfather, Shlomo, was a farmer. And his wife, my great-great-great grandmother Rayzel, ran the family store and managed all of the finances.

One day, Rayzel to Shlomo: “We’re going to have a baby!” They were so excited! They moved the goats outside so there could be space for a crib, they made sure to put their various sharp, pointy farming equipment in carefully locked cabinets. They pulled out boxes of their favorite toys from when they were children.

Rayzel went to the shtetl’s Lamaze class. And Shlomo, he just did a lot of pacing.

Eventually, the big day came and they had a beautiful baby boy. Shlomo handed out chewing gum to everyone in the town. He was a wise man and knew the dangers of smoking.

Then, Rayzel and Shlomo realized they hadn’t picked a name yet! They had a big argument about it. Rayzel wanted to name the baby after her father, and Shlomo wanted to name the baby after his father.

So, they went to their rabbi to solve the problem. Lucky for them, they lived in Kotzk and the Kotzker Rebbe was known for being very wise.

Rayzel and Shlomo told him the whole story. About the goats and the pointy things and the pacing and the gum. The rabbi asked, Rayzel, “Rayzel, what was your father’s name?” “Nachum,” she replied. And then the rabbi asked Shlomo, “Shlomo, what was your father’s name.” “Nachum!” He replied.

The rabbi jumped up out of chair and cried, “Why have you two been arguing!?”

Rayzel said, “My father was a scholar and a religious man. His father was a horse-thief! How can I name my baby after such a creature?”

“Ahhhh,” the rabbi said. He paused, and thought for a moment. Rayzel had a point, but he didn’t wish to hurt Shlomo’s feelings. And after all…Nachum is Nachum, isn’t it?

So he said, “Rayzel, you want your baby named after your father?” “Yes.” “And Shlomo, you want this baby named after your father?” “Yes.”

“Then here is my advice. The baby shall be named Nachum. If, after time, he grows to be a scholar, he is named after Rayzel’s father. If, however, he grows to be a horse-thief, then he is named after Shlomo’s father!”

Whether it’s in Jewish tradition or in American culture, our names matter. It’s how we invoke the past and dream about our futures. Our names are a chance to say something about who we are and who we hope to become.

I learned this great teaching about names from one of my classmates in Jerusalem. It goes like this:

Every time a person does more mitzvot, they earn themselves a new name. There are three names by which a person is called: one which their parents call them, one which people call them, and one which they earn for themselves. The last is the best one of all (Midrash Tanhuma, Vayakhel, Siman 1)

The last one, the name that we earn for ourselves, that is the name that matters most.

Take Jacob for example. In Hebrew, his name is Ya'akov, which comes from the word that means “heel” because he was holding onto his twin brother’s heel when they were born. Jacob faces some challenges in his youth. He gets a reputation for deception and trickery as he tries to find his way in the world. But, now, our patriarch has grown up. And now we arrive at this week’s story.

Jacob is anxiously waiting for his reunion with his twin brother. And then, the night before, he wrestles with this mysterious being, an eesh. And by the end of that struggle, Jacob demands a blessing. The eesh, many commentators call it an angel, tells him that he shall no longer be called Jacob. Instead his name will be Yisrael, a wordplay on wrestling with God.

This is the name that Jacob earns. Israel. The one who struggles and engages and strives with God. This new name is like a trophy; it’s way to describe the man so we know who he is and who he can be. It’s the name he earned and the name that the world will know him by.

Not only that, but it is the name of the Jewish people. His descendants are the Israelites and we are all b’nai yisrael, the children of Israel.

At this point, for us, Israel is our given name. It’s the one we inherit from our parents and grandparents. It’s about the kind of people and community we have come from and the hope of whom we might be. A community that wrestles with God and with the mysteries of the universe. Not a bad given name.

But, what is the name we want to earn? How, by our deeds, will the world know what it means to be b’nai yisrael? Who do we aspire to be?

I wonder, what are we going to wrestle with and how we will wrestle? Is this an opportunity for us to act and to behave in a way that allows us to earn a new name?

Here’s the name I hope we earn.

Well, before that, let me give you a little background. I’m working on my thesis. For the kids who don’t know what a thesis is…it’s like a book report for grownups. But instead of one book, it’s like a whole bookshelf. And, at the moment, thesis is pretty much the only thing on my mind. You’re lucky it took me this long to talk about it! Anyway, there’s this rabbi from Chicago. And in a sermon he gave in 1899 (!) he talked about a name that I hope we can earn. He said that the Jewish people are called to be priests of justice and righteousness.

Most importantly, it’s not a name that we just get. It’s a name that we have to earn. A name that we only achieve when we act and behave that way. Just like Nachum, we won’t really know who we are until we start to act. And, this Shabbat, I pray, that we can start to be worthy not just of the name Israel, those who struggle with God, and maybe even earn the name Yisra-tzedek, those who struggle who strive who demand a world of justice, righteousness, and compassion.

Kein yehi razton. Shabbat shalom.

Concert Across America

2016-09-23T19:00:00.000-05:00

Shabbat Shalom! I missed you all! It was nice getting to check in and catch up with a few of you last Shabbat. Gavi and I were away for most of the summer in Florida for an internship I had down there. It was a lot of really hard work. Slaving away day after day without a moment’s rest. And it is really nice to be back home.

You know…I’m starting my 5th and final (God willing!) year of rabbinical school. I’m trying to soak in all of the academics I can before I have to go out into the real world. And the good (or maybe bad) news for all of you, is that you are going to have to listen to me ramble about all of the stuff I’m learning in class!

The topic right now that’s grabbed the strongest hold of my attention is a course in “ritual studies.” That’s right. I go to school to talk about the theory and creation of sacred rituals. I’m not sure why there’s anyone who doesn’t want to be a rabbi. We’ve been talking about what defines a ritual. What rituals are for. Sociological, psychological, political, and anthropological critiques of rituals. And what makes for good (or bad) ritual.

And, wouldn’t you know it…this week’s parsha kicks off with a really important biblical ritual moment. Moses describes to the Israelites not just what they will do once they enter the land of Israel, but what they will do once they have their first harvest in the Promised Land. They will collect their choicest first fruits, place them in a basket, present them to the priest at the altar and recite a specific phrase: “...ארמי אבד אבי” (Arami oved avi.)

Now…before, I translate this, does this sound familiar to anyone? Does anyone know what which holiday we say this at?

Passover! It lies in the heart of the telling of the Passover story. ארמי אבד אבי. A wandering Aramean was my father. He went down to Egypt and sojourned there, few in number; and he became there a nation, great, mighty, and populous.

This ritual, whether situated in Temple times or in our modern day tellings of the Passover story have an incredibly important purpose. The ritual recitations for us to take intentional time to recall our past and to tell important stories we might otherwise forget or neglect.

But, slow your roll rabbinic intern. Let’s get through the High Holy Days before we start interpreting the Passover Seder.

So, instead, let’s talk for a moment about a key ritual moment that we’ll experience in the next few weeks. The vidui. The confession. We recite our alphabet of woe. אשמנו בגדנו גזלנו (Ashamnu, Bagadnu, Gazalnu). And then we say על חטא שחטאנו לפניך (Al cheit sh'chatanu l'fanecha), the sins we have committed before you. And tradition teaches us to beat our chest, over our heart, for each sin with list. But. Did each of us necessarily commit each of the sins we recite? אשמנו בגדנו גזלנו. Are we guilty, betraying thieves? Maybe. But, the whole list? I’ll venture to say that no one here qualifies for every single one. You can come on Selichot on Saturday night to confirm for me.

Rather, when we say על חטא שחטאנו, the sins we have committed, we claim collective responsibility. Even if we are not directly responsible, this recitation requires us to consider the role we play in the preponderance of violence and suffering that we see in our community and in our world.

And, this Shabbat in particular, I am thinking about the nearly 33,000 people who die each year in this country as a result of gun violence. Now. I know that I’m not directly responsible. I didn’t shoot anyone this year. I’ve never even touched a gun. But I believe that, especially in this season, we are called to consider what causes the ills of our society and how we might be complicit in their continued ability to afflict our communities.

I don’t want to bog down your Shabbat with too many facts, but here are some of the more compelling statistics from the Brady Campaign website.

According to a study by Harvard’s David Hemenway, the U.S. firearm homicide rate is 20 times higher than the combined rates of 22 countries that are our peers in wealth and population.

Everyday in the United States, 306 people are shot and 90 are killed by firearms.

And, despite the information that we hear on the news after mass shooting upon mass shooting, 40% of gun sales, that’s nearly 6 million guns, still happen without a background check.

We may not be responsible, but if we know the problem exists and we permit it to persist…what responsibility do we incur? The sin we have committed against You by our indifference and our inaction.

And this realization. These feelings. They are why we need ritual.

Earlier in the service I mentioned the congressional sit in from the summer. It was incredible to watch it all unfold. I was glued to MSNBC…from my couch. It was surely exciting to watch, but that’s what I did. Watch. Sure, there were people who “joined” the sit in, posting photos on social media. But, rituals, the most successful rituals, are those that bring the community together for a shared experience. For a shared recitation of words that speak to the values we hold most dear. And for a call to action.

This weekend there will be over 350 (!) concerts across America in the aptly named Concert Across America. Musicians will raise their voices to bring awareness and attention to the scourge of gun violence in this country.

This series of concerts…this is ritual at its best. Like the recitation at the beginning of our parsha, like the vidui, this ritual is a moment for people to come together to make a communal declaration. To proclaim shared responsibility and shared commitments.

And what incredible resonance with the Jewish calendar. The music is like a shofar blast. Teruah, nine staccato notes symbolizing brokenness. Shevarim, three cries of anguish from loss and suffering. Tekiah, a single, loud call awakening us and calling us to action. This weekend, the music we hear at Woodlands and that others will hear across the country can do just that. It can give voice to our sorrow and give us the courage to stand up for our values. It can tell stories that we need to hear. Stories we need to remember. It can motivate in the face of intransigence. It can give us hope in the face of tragedy.

And, it’s more than that. We act in ritual moments, at services or sit ins or concerts, as if it matters. Ritual speaks with a language that adds meaning and power. We perform rituals as practice for the real world. We can declare our values and affirm our principles in here…but only so that we can leave and manifest them in the world around us.

I pray that this Shabbat, whether at Selichot or the Concert Across America, that we heed to call to wake up. That we raise awareness of the gun violence epidemic in this country, that we see ourselves as powerful to enact change, and that we recommit ourselves to affirming life, hope, and sweetness in the year to come.

כן יהי רצון.

Learning to Disagree

2016-07-08T17:00:00.000-05:00

This past Wednesday, my wife and I were out for dinner to celebrate her birthday. We spent the whole time talking. And then, toward the end of our meal, this random stranger came over and said, “Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt you. But, I just wanted to say, it was so lovely to see the two of you sitting here talking all night. You never took out your phones. You just talked. You never see that anymore. It was really nice. Anyway. Thanks. Have a good night.”

I think that was the sweetest chutzpah I’ve ever experienced!

This guy had a point. In our day-to-day experiences we are replacing a lot of face-to-face communication with emails, text messages, and Facebook comments. Now, I don’t want to be a luddite and say that we should throw our phones and computers out the window. Technological advances have allowed us to connect more quickly with more people in more places around the world. And that is a great thing. But, at least as far as our technology has taken us so far, we still miss out on some of the crucial human elements of conversing.

You can’t hear intonation in an email. And you can’t read someone’s expression in a text message. The internet replaces emotions with emojis. And it makes it easier for us to dehumanize people with whom we disagree. When other people are just a screen name and a profile photo, it’s easier to slip into vitriol and unfair argumentation tactics.

We may see more of it there, but logical and moral fallacies are not limited to the internet. We see plenty of it in face-to-face interactions as well. In fact, we get a few examples in this week’s parsha.

In the midst of the Israelites’ desert wanderings, Dathan and Aviram join up with Korach in his rebellion against the leadership of Moses and Aaron. Dathan and Aviram say:

...הַמְעַט, כִּי הֶעֱלִיתָנוּ מֵאֶרֶץ זָבַת חָלָב וּדְבַשׁ

Is it a small thing that you brought us out of a land flowing with milk and honey so we could die in the wilderness…And moreover, you haven’t even brought us to a land flowing with milk and honey.

(Numbers 16:13-14)

Now…wait a minute. Did you hear what they did there?

Suffice it to say, it’s usually a bad move for characters in the Torah to refer to Egypt as a “flowing with milk and honey.” Dathan and Aviram at best misunderstand and at worst maliciously distort the history of Egyptian slavery. And then, when it comes to the journey to the Land of Israel…they deliver an exaggerated, even dangerous “are we there yet?” They break the rules of fair argumentation, upset that along the journey to the Promised Land that they are not already in the Promised Land.

As Dathan and Aviram argue with Moses, they don’t argue on the merits and instead break norms and rules of conversation. And Pirke Avot, wisdom from our sages, has something to say about that. They say that there are two types of arguments: arguments לשם שמים, for the sake of Heaven, and arguments שאינה לשם שמים, not for the sake of Heaven. Arguments for the sake of Heaven seek truth and greater understanding. The parties maintain a relationship. Arguments not for the sake of Heaven, according to Pirke Avot, are like Korach and his gang of Dathan and Aviram. They are about lifting themselves above others. They are not about truth but are about self-aggrandizement and defeating the other rather than finding shared values.

And, as I think my new friend from the Vietnamese restaurant brought up, we are not spending enough time flexing our conversation muscles. We are getting worse at having arguments לשם שמים, for the sake of Heaven. How much easier to put down others, lift ourselves up, and ignore basic rules of etiquette and social convention when we don’t have to actually look face-to-face at our conversation partner?

When we don’t speak, when we don’t meet face-to-face, we can forget the humanity of the people with whom we disagree. We can forget that their lives matter. If only we could find a way to talk and to know each other…think of how we could start to replace fear and anger with love and hope.

And I think I know of a solution: Shabbat. A chance to put our phones on airplane mode or silent, or maybe even to turn them off all together. To sit around a table. And to talk to each other. To hold ourselves accountable to fair and moral rules of conversation. To consider the other people around us when we speak.

Around our Shabbat tables, we still have important, difficult, and maybe even contentious conversations. I mean…it’s inevitable! Who has never argued around a Shabbat or holiday meal table with family? We can argue! We can disagree! But when we do so, we should do it לשם שמים, for the sake of Heaven and not fall into the trap of Dathan and Aviram. They lost their ability to air what may have been legitimate grievances because of the way they chose to go about making their claim.

And this Shabbat, I pray we can learn from their example. May we be blessed with Shabbat tables full of lively conversation. May we sharpen each other with our wit and dig deeper through lively, loving conversation. And may we always join in a search for deeper truth and deeper commitment to the people, families, and communities around us, so that, together we can march to the Promised Land.

This sermon was delivered at my summer internship at Temple Judea in Palm Beach Gardens, FL.

HUC Purim Spiel! Every Senior Sermon

2016-03-24T21:43:00.000-05:00

Delivered as part of the HUC-JIR class of 2017 (and friends) Purim Spiel. See a video of the sermon after the jump!

I open with a joke. It's not a very funny joke. But you have to laugh out of obligation. Then I transition into a personal story. The personal story starts off cute and accessible. And it starts to take a turn. A serious turn. But it ends with a message. An important message. And now. We have started the sermon.

In this week’s parsha we learn a valuable lesson. I'm going to tell you the lesson. It's a valuable lesson. In the time of Torah and in our day today.

Here is a line of Torah. אקרא בעברית ואתם תדעו שאני תלמיד חכם (translation: I will read in Hebrew and you will know that I am a good student). In the Midrash it talks about this line of Torah. It is a profound statement. I'll read it in a way that you should know that your mind should be blown.

But. Don't worry. I know more than Midrash. I'll quote a medieval interpretation and an obscure Rebbe from the 18th century. And these texts also speak to us today. But also. Feminism. The patriarchy is everywhere. But! ברוך השם. We have our people's most important commentary: the Torah a women's commentary. And it really wraps everything up. Feminism.

You see. Every text and every parsha speaks to how we can build intentional community. Because community organizing and meaningful one-to-one relationships. And then we can live out our Jewish values. Values...which no one defines, but they are our core values. You see, we must build a meaningful community, centered on appreciative inquiry, and meaning, and rooted in Jewish journeys, which inform our meaning making process.

The first meaningful experience I had with meaning making in community was during my time in NFTY. It was reinforced at URJ summer camp and Hillel at Brandeis. And then I went straight to HUC. So I have learned all the life lessons I need.

Since then I've been using my knowledge to make choices through knowledge and I have practiced saying sov when I recite kaddish. Wow. I'm holy.

In this liminal moment, it’s time for me to say something controversial, but I’ll say it with a pastoral tone so you won’t be angry at me. But, let’s talk tachlis for a minute. We think we are doing it all right, but really, as our Torah says: אדבר עוד פעם בעברית (translation: I will speak again in Hebrew). You see. It all fits together.

Now it's time for me to give a nechemta. Remember when I told you my personal story. Well. My personal story is actually about all of these ideas. Nechemta! Nechemta nechemta...nechemta.

Therefore: tikkun olam and btzelem Elohim. Women of the wall. Pluralism. Transdenomenational. POST-denominational. Tzedek tzedek tirdof.

Mi sh’beirach IMOTEINU Sarah, Rivka, Rachel, Leah, Bilha, Zilpa, Hanna, Hulda, v’Sally Preisand, v’avoteinu Isaac Meyer Wise, Stephen S. Wise, Hermann Cohen, v’Abraham Joshua Heschel. May we be blessed by all the stuff I just said.

And that's why we should admit intermarried students to HUC-JIR.

Kein yehi ratzon.

#MaccaBEtheLight

2015-12-11T18:00:00.000-06:00

Sermon for Misphakha Shabbat at Woodlands Community Temple. Lots of music, lots of families, and, this time around, LOTS of hanukkiot! It's a "visual worship" service, which means there are large screens with these (and other) images projected during the sermon. Chag Urim Sameach!

If you have a message that’s really important to you, that you think everyone needs to hear, what’s the way you get it out? I think some our students might be best equipped to answer. Twitter.

140 characters. You have to be succinct, you have to be snappy, you have to catch the eye in an instant. Other people see it, are inspired by it, and pass it along to their friends.

And I think that Hanukkah is the original Twitter.*

And I’ve still got 16 characters to spare!

Twitter has been on my mind a lot this week actually. There’s a story that captured the news cycle for a few days that, to me, spoke to the true meaning of Hanukkah.

Last Saturday, a man stabbed three people in an East London subway station. Thank God, no one was killed and the injuries were non-life threatening. A video was taken on a cellphone when the suspect was being arrested by police. Off camera, a man says: “You ain’t no Muslim, Bruv.” Setting off a globally trending hashtag with the phrase.

For those who may be confused…Bruv is British for “bro” which is the modern American slang or “buddy” for “pal.” Kind of like how they call French fries “chips” and pants “trousers.”

Okay, let’s get back to the matter at hand.

Here’s why this event stuck out to me. In the past few weeks a lot has been happening in name of religion, or by people claiming to be “religious.” They insist that their religiousness compels them to commit hurtful, violent acts. And it’s scary to me. It’s scary because of the pain and terror it causes. And it’s scary because I worry people will think that I support those acts when I call myself religious.
And then, this guy comes along. We don’t see his face, we just hear his voice.

He says: No. This is not my religion. My religion is not one that condones or promotes violence. You cannot commit acts of hate and murder and call yourself religious.

What an amazing call. How perfect for the moment. How inspiring for the rest of us.

I want to talk to this guy. I want to know what being a Muslim means to him. I want to know what he thinks it means to be a person of faith. To be a religious person.

Thankfully, I have someone who told me recently what a religious person is. You might know her. She’s about yay tall. Brown hair. Spends a lot of time doing rabbi things…Rabbi Mara!

Think back allll the way to Yom Kippur. Rabbi Mara gave a sermon that’s been really sticking with me, and I think it’s worth revisiting. She called on all of us to reclaim the word “religious” and that we ought to be confident in calling ourselves by that title.

Here’s one of the many things she said that bears repeating:

“The most religious person can also be the most kind-hearted. A religious person can feel compelled by their own convictions and respect those of others. And by being a religious person, they have a protocol, a set of rules, a way of life, that demands putting more good out into the world.”

Pretty smart, huh?

Rabbi Mara told us that we can both stay true to our values and be people who call ourselves religious. And that when we are kind and when we show love and compassion to ourselves and the people around us, that we ought to call ourselves religious.

And I believe that right now, more than ever, we need to take her advice.

We can only be upset that horrible things are done in the name of religion if we are offering an alternative for what it means to be religious. And, when we perform acts of loving kindness and call them religious acts, we insist on our own definition of what it means to be religious.

And that is exactly what Hanukkah is for. Remember, way back when I started talking, how I said that Hanukkah was the original twitter? Well, here’s why.

When the rabbis start listing off the rules for Hanukkah, they tell us to put our Hannukah menorah in the window. Why? Because if it’s in the window, everyone can see it. פירסום הנס they call it. “Publicizing the miracle.” It’s an ancient attempt at building a viral social media campaign.

See a menorah in a window, remember the miracle of the holiday. The miracle of tolerance. The miracle of hope. The miracle of light.

When someone walks by your window, by our windows here, so full of light, we hope that they will see what we, as religious people, stand for. Inspired by our actions as proud, religious people, they will have a renewed confidence to light their own lights and share their own message of what it means to be religious. And their light might inspire others. And on and on and on.

On Hanukkah, we can start a viral campaign. We light our candles to proudly declare that we are religious. To make public the message that to be religious is not to hurt, but rather to bring comfort and healing. To publicize the miracles of love, warmth, and respect we get from being in a religious community. To share our light with others, not force it upon them, so that their light might, in turn, glow brighter.

The Maccabees had to struggle for their religious rights and for the ability to proudly call themselves religious, without fear of repercussion or violence.

Today, our task is different. Our job is to ensure that ours is not a religion that causes hurt and pain. We ensure that ours is a religion that lifts people up. All people. And when we do that work, our job is to proudly call it religious. To carry on the responsibility of פירסום הנס, publicizing our miracles, to insist that to be religious is to be a person who embodies tolerance, warmth, and light.

I pray that during this holiday, whether we are inspired by our mystery Londoner, Rabbi Mara, the Maccabees, or the rabbis of the Talmud, that we proudly provide a positive vision of what it means to be religious. And that each of us finds a way to #MaccaBEtheLight.

Chag Sameach and Shabbat Shalom.

*Thanks to Rabbi Dennis Ross for this great, inspiring idea!

Tzaddikim in Training

2015-10-15T10:00:00.000-05:00

The text and video below are my "Senior Sermon" at HUC-JIR. The Senior Sermon is delivered in the 4th year of rabbinical studies and is the one opportunity to preach in this capacity to the students, faculty, and administration of the New York campus. Video and the rest of the sermon text are after the jump. Hope you enjoy!

When I was six or so, my mother said me, “being a good Jew means being a good person.” I was a dutiful son, so I believed her. And I still am, so I still do. Since that moment, I’ve been trying to figure out how to be good.

Of course, I think she meant something more grand than good, but you know, she said it to a six-year-old, so “good” will have to suffice. I’ll have to check with her after services, but I am pretty sure she meant something like working to save the world!

I won’t give you a laundry list of the world’s problems, however – not now, anyway. It’s 11am and you’ve checked the Times, Ha’aretz, or Facebook at least once. It’s enough to say that for me – and probably for you – being “good” requires becoming a part of resolving these problems.

But I need help learning how. I want an example. I want a person I can follow around, learn from, and emulate. I want someone who exemplifies the goodness I aspire to. I want what I think my mother really wanted me to be: not just “good” but a tzaddik.

Oy. A tzaddik. Sounds impossible, but maybe it isn’t.

Our sacred text names one person and one person only as a tzaddik.
נֹחַ אִישׁ צַדִּיק \\ תָּמִים הָיָה בְּדֹֽרֹתָיו (Gen 6:9)
Noah was a tzaddik, blameless in his generation.

We tend to read this as two separate ideas. He was tzaddik, AND tamim in his generation. But tamim can mean “whole” or perfect” so perhaps, following Ibn Ezra, we should attach tamim to tzaddik and read it not as two separate claims, but rather: “Noah was the perfect tzaddik for his generation.”

Every generation has its own perfect form of being a tzaddik. Yes, the Rabbis compare Noah unfavorably to Abraham dismissing him as only righteous for his generation. But I’ll take it. What else can we ask for? You can only be complete in your own time, and I’ll settle for finding a tzaddik who is as complete as possible for now.

Thankfully, we don’t get just one tzaddik. Crack open a Talmud and there Abaye asserts that every generation gets 36 of them, the so-called lamed-vavniks, who merit the redemption of the world (Sanhedrin 97b, Sukkah 45b).

But 36 is still so few. My tzaddik search might as well be a hunt for the abominable snowman. However, the Talmud follows with Rava, who contends: “The actual number is 18,000.” Move over lamed vavniks, the shmonah-asar-elef-niks are coming to town. My chances of meeting a tzaddik just increased 500-fold! And with so many tzaddikim running around the planet, isn’t there a chance that I can find some right here in this room? To say that among us is one of the 36 would be hubris. But, one of the 18,000? Maybe. Maybe we have a few of them. Maybe even more.

Who are these 18,000? How might we notice them?

Art Green helps here with his concept of the “momentary tzaddik;” the tzaddik who shines forth in those “moments of giving, caring, or somehow showing a generosity of spirit” and who “brightens the light that glows within” others (Seek My Face, pp. 152-3).

In a time like Noah’s – in a time like our own – even complete tzaddikim need not be tzaddik-like all the time. Some of the time will do. Only some of the time do we expect flashes of goodness, sure signs of compassion; moments when God’s presence shines through in the deeds of those around us.

So, what if? What if those moments happen here, but we don’t notice them? What if we are among the 18,000? What if we are a community of momentary tzaddikim? What if HUC-JIR wasn’t a rabbinical, cantorial, education, and masters-in-Jewish-stuff institution? What if it was a tzaddik training school? And on the application, prospective students, like our guests sitting right here, had to affirm: I *insert name here* am a tzaddik in the making. And your essay was about how you are becoming a tzaddik? How would it feel to learn in that place? How could our College-Institute become that trains each of us, like Noah, to be צדיק תמים ברורותיו?

It’s not so much about finding tzaddikim; it's about making them. And here’s how: When we treat each other as if we are the 18,000, we are more likely to become them. When we hold ourselves to the highest standards, those standards are more likely to be realized. We actually CAN become tzaddikim – if we actively acknowledge each other as tzaddikim in the making.

Let’s be honest. I’m exhausted from the holidays. And now, at the end of our first full week back, I’m totally wiped. I trade in High Holy day sermons, cue sheets, and iyyunim, for Shulchan Aruch, reflection papers, and Sperling. I’m ready for December.

At this point, I expect you’re thinking: It’s hard to turn every corner with a smile or to exit the elevator with pep in every step. And now this crazy darshan wants me to see myself and the people in the building as potential tzaddikim? I can imagine how a tzaddik might act or feel and it most definitely is not the way I felt coming back after the holiday break.

But it doesn’t have to be that difficult. We choose how we look at ourselves and how we look at each other.

Let’s start with how we look at ourselves. During the 2008 presidential campaign, I bought an Obama t-shirt, and found that every time I wore it, I became a much kinder person. I held the door open at Chipotle. I didn’t scowl at poor subway etiquette. I offered directions to tourists. I wanted people to see my shirt, see a nice person, and translate those positive feelings to the candidate. Am I a crazy person? Maybe. Call it “self-imposed symbolic exemplarhood”…I am positive that the label I wore changed the way I felt and the way I acted.

But what about how we see each other? Harvard researchers in 1964 studied teacher interactions with elementary school students. They found that the higher the expectations of a teacher, the higher the performance of the students. The way the teacher sees the students impacts how the students act and the success they can achieve.

Similarly, our expectations of our biblical characters determine the lessons we might draw from their stories. We have a choice about how we see Noah. We can see Noah skeptically: Sure, he was righteous in that generation, but who wouldn’t be? Or, we can say, as other commentators do, that if Noah was righteous then, how much more so would he be now.

So we choose to judge Noah לכף זכות, from the perspective of his merit, and, from there, learn to emulate his righteousness. And we can do the same for each other. See one another as if we are among the 18,000, and we are more likely to meet that expectation.

The best way to get visibility for a new idea is swag. All those great tchotchkies they give you at parties and conferences. Take the HUC-JIR kallah, for example. I use my kallah notebook and our go-green cutlery all the time. And… what if next year’s Kallah giveaway were a t-shirt that says, “Tzaddik in Training.” I would look in the mirror and remind myself that I can be a tzaddik. And I would look at my colleagues and reflect on what I can learn from them as they become tzaddikim themselves. We aren’t going to become the 18,000 unless we start seeing ourselves as potentially among them.

But this is only the first step to our 18,000-nik movement. Much as I love a good t-shirt, a comfy poly-cotton blend is only going to take us so far. We need something much deeper than that.

I’m talking about our superpower that we rarely appreciate: the power to name. Names really matter. In Jewish tradition names do not describe what already is so much as they determine what still might be. As Midrash Tanchuma says, a person’s name can influence its bearer for good or for bad (Ha'azinu 7). Just look at First Samuel, for example, where we meet the character Nabal, whose name means something to the effect of “doofus.” And, in describing him, his wife says: כִּשְׁמוֹ כֶּן-הוּא (I Sam 25:25), as is his name, so is he. In other words, his name means doofus…and he’s a doofus.

Kishmo kein hu…a person lives up to, or down to, his or her name.

And here’s the thing. Whenever we talk, we name the things we talk about. Consider the average conversation about HUC-JIR. I worry we might leave 1 West 4th street with a spiritual practice of the kvetch. We kvetch because of the natural temptation to name negatively: our classes, our classmates, our schedule. It’s a self-fulfilling prophesy. How we name is what we get. Kishmo kein hu.

But what if each day we arrived intent on naming goodness righteousness? We can name the inspiration in a professor’s lecture; the persistence of administrators negotiating a complex system of four disparate campuses; the patience of librarians who help us find book “HN 49 V6.4 F5.9 2008;” the dedication of a custodial staff who arrive before we do and stay long after we are gone; the devotion of a soup kitchen team who feeds the hungry; the passion and work of classmates striving to cure the world’s ills, to make Israel the place we can be proud of, to build synagogues that matter.

Aren’t these all instances of being, at least, momentary tzaddikim? As tamim b’doroteinu, complete for our time as Noah was for his? Absolutely, we strive for greater goodness, but naming how far we have come is the best way to go further still in our efforts.

And it is not just here that positive naming makes a difference. We can go out into the world with this spiritual practice of finding light, not darkness, righteousness, not frustration. By naming each other as tzaddikim in training in here, we put ourselves on a path to joining the 18,000 out there. Kishmo kein hu.

That path necessarily takes us out into the world, because even with Noah, God had the broader world in mind. Noah, our first tzaddik, was not even a Jew; he was “everyone,” humanity as a whole. When it comes to the tzaddikim, God has all along insisted on the universal.

So too is the sign of Noah’s covenant. Our אוֹת-הַבְּרִית (Gen 9:12), the rainbow, is distinct from every other ot habrit we see in Torah. Circumcision and Shabbat are particular to the Jewish people. The rainbow symbolizes a universal promise.

With the rainbow, Noah trusted God not to bring destruction -- while God entrusted Noah with the very same task. Noah, the first tzaddik, emerges as the progenitor of a global citizenry of potential tzaddikim charged with upholding the promise to protect and preserve the world.

To be tzaddik tamim b’doroteinu demands we take what we learn here and universalize it. By setting the example of naming the good and insisting on the better, we become an ot ha’brit ourselves – a model of what righteous people can bring about. Like a rainbow, the light from the tzaddik – from you and from me – can illuminate brokenness and darkness with the Technicolor brilliance of hope and goodness.

We most likely didn’t walk into HUC-JIR on day one as one of the 18,000 tzaddikim, but our task is nothing less than that.

How are we going to do it? Just follow the instructions from the Department of Homeland Security: If you see something, say something.

When you see momentary tzaddikim, notice them, find the words for what you saw and tell them. Whether it is a fellow student, a staff member, a professor, or the president himself, speak up and name the moments of goodness you see.

That goodness. The goodness my mother asked of me. The goodness we expect of and see in our community is how we uphold our part of the covenant. Each of us can be an ot habrit, one of 18,000 rainbows, brightening the light of those around us.

When we see a rainbow, we say: בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יי אֶלוֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם זוֹכֵר הַבְּרִית וְנֶאֱמָן בִּבְרִיתוֹ וְקַיָם בְּמַאֲמָרוֹ Blessed are you God who remembers the covenant, is faithful to the covenant, and holds fast to promises. Let us, like God, remember the covenant, be faithful to it, and become examples of the 18,000 right here, and then, someday, out there. And may we be God’s partners and Noah’s heirs in sustaining and saving the world.

Shabbat Shuva: Asking Questions with Eyes Wide Open

2015-09-18T14:01:00.000-05:00

Something felt different this year. Tragedy after tragedy opened our eyes to injustice in new, heartbreaking ways. It became more difficult for our communities to hide from the realities of social and economic inequality.

In the coming year, what changes will we seek?

I wonder: How can I be a part of bringing the sacred Presence of the Divine into situations that are sorely in need of holiness, justice, mercy, and love? Facing the myriad problems that plague our society can be overwhelming, exhausting, and paralyzing. The distance between opening my eyes and taking action seems vast. What should my first step be? Rabbi Abraham Ibn Ezra says: questions.
In Parashat Vayeilech, Moses tells the leaders to gather all of the people "that they may hear and so learn to revere the Eternal your God . . ." (Deuteronomy 31:12). Ibn Ezra, curious about the transition from hearing to learning, comments: "When they hear, they will ask questions."1 The Children of Israel will not come to understand the word of God just by hearing it; rather, they will receive the primary evidence, and then, through curiosity and inquisitiveness, they will truly be able to make God's teaching manifest in their world.

Based on the evidence, I see that in the United States, we spend $80 billion each year on incarceration. I ask, why are we investing in prisons and jails when there are better ways to support families and keep them safe? I see that a Hispanic or Latina woman is paid 54% of what a non-Hispanic, white man would make. I ask, how can I better understand the systems of oppression that create this reality? During these Days of Awe, I pray that we take time to notice the problems in our communities. I pray that we ask challenging questions to understand those problems. And I pray that we affect changes that can make God's love of all of humankind manifest in our world. Shanah Tovah! Ibn Ezra on Deuteronomy 31:12, cited in Michael Carasik, ed., trans., annot., The Commentators' Bible, the Rubin JPS Miqra'ot Gedolot: Deuteronomy. (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society), p. 209

*This post was originally written for and posted on ReformJudaism.org for the URJ's Ten Minutes of Torah. To read more, click here.

Our Goofy Looking Instrument

2015-09-15T09:00:00.000-05:00

Photo from ReformJudaism.org

What a goofy looking instrument. In the Reform Movement generally and at Woodlands specifically, we have modernized so many parts of our Jewish experience. We have projector screens in our sanctuary, we include egalitarianism and modern notions of science in our prayers, we have an electric ner tamid, we play acoustic guitars with plug-ins to a sound system…but we still use a ram’s horn to announce the beginning of the year. Wouldn’t a trumpet or bugle provide a cleaner, crisper sound? Why do we use this awkward, rough, imperfect piece instead of a modern instrument?

Sure, there’s the biblical tie in to the ram Abraham sacrificed in Isaac’s stead on Mount Moriah, but I think it’s more than that. We come to expect a rough and imperfect sound out of the shofar. It is jarring, and it awakens us. We appreciate and are in awe of any sound that someone gets out of that thing, but how powerful the symbolism when someone makes a stunning, melodic sound ring out from such a twisty, rough, and unexpected place?

Just like the shofar, we have our own rough, unpolished edges. We can seem out of place and awkward, but we have the potential. When we prepare and execute in just the right, we can make music.

This was the introduction to the Shofar service for the second day of Rosh HaShanah.

Rosh HaShanah 5776: The Fruit from Our Tree

2015-09-13T19:00:00.000-05:00

Who better to start a celebration of the 50th anniversary than the person who has been here for the shortest amount of time? (Anyone here for the first time or join in the last year? Don’t worry, we can get through this together.)

I’m reminded at this moment of an iconic Jewish story, but I am going to tell it a little differently than you may have heard it before. I call it “Back to the Future: starring Honi haMa’agel.” Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. But…actually...don’t stop me. I’m going to tell it anyway.

There once was a man named Honi HaMa’agel. One day, as he was strolling through the countryside, he saw a family eating apples from a tree. Next to their tree there was a big house with a beautiful, window-filled extension built on it. And a giant tent sat on the lawn packed with aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, great grandparents, and guests. Honi wondered about that tree. Who planted it? What did the planter expect the fruit would taste like? Who did the planter think would play under its branches?

Honi joined with them to celebrate. After dancing, singing, and eating too many desserts from the family cookbook, he laid down for a much-needed nap.

When he woke up, he looked around and the scene looked different, yet still familiar. It was 50 years earlier. The tent full of scores of people was gone. The house looked much smaller. And instead of the large tree with ample branches and fruit, Honi saw a small family planting a sapling. He heard them talk about the tree they hoped it would grow into and the future generations that would eat its fruit.

And, as Honi listened, he realized that in some ways the tree grew just as they had hoped. But, in other ways, the tree and all that surrounded it surpassed what they could have possibly imagined. They didn’t know how the fruit would taste, or what it would look like, but they planted knowing that future generations would pick the fruit and enjoy its sweetness.

Honi got to see what was planted and what has been harvested. And he celebrated both.

I feel a bit like Honi. I get to walk in at this most recent moment in Woodlands’ history, and reflect back to you on the sweetness of the fruit of our tree. I get to ask you about what you envisioned when you planted the tree. I get to ask you what you hoped for when you watered it. I get to ask you what you are going to do with the seeds that come from the tree. I get to learn what this community planted and enjoy the bounty of its harvests.

And together we will do that this year. We will celebrate our 50th anniversary. For our jubilee year, we will consider what we planted and celebrate what we harvested.

וְקִדַּשְׁתֶּ֗ם אֵ֣ת שְׁנַ֤ת הַחֲמִשִּׁים֙ שָׁנָ֔ה וּקְרָאתֶ֥ם דְּר֛וֹר בָּאָ֖רֶץ לְכָל־יֹשְׁבֶ֑יהָ יוֹבֵ֥ל הִוא֙ תִּהְיֶ֣ה לָכֶ֔ם

And you shall hallow the 50th year and proclaim liberty throughout the land for all its inhabitants. It shall be a jubilee for you. (Leviticus 25:10)

But what should that mean to us?

The agricultural people of the Land of Israel intended the jubilee to be a year when they neither planted nor harvested. They would live off what the land gave them in previous years (which God promises will be a bumper crop). It was a year to celebrate, mark time, reset, and take stock.

But, even by the time of the 2nd Temple and the Maccabees, the laws for the jubilee were explicitly not in practice. In fact, scholars believe that it is unlikely that the laws were ever enacted. [1] Why have it then? What values can we draw from the laws of the jubilee even as we don’t practice them fully?

The idea of a jubilee gives us a small glimpse into the idealistic worldview of the Torah and the biblical writers. The jubilee is a time when slaves are freed, debts remitted, and property returned to its ancestral holders. The idea of a jubilee argues: Our stuff isn’t our stuff. It belongs to something greater. At least once in every generation, we need a reminder. We need to be reminded of the “something bigger” so we can ground ourselves and refocus on the community over the individual. The very notion of a jubilee argues for a world where we pause to let go of the self and take stock as a community.

And it’s not like the Jewish calendar is devoid of opportunities for reflection. On Shabbat, we reflect on the week; on Rosh Hashanah, we look back on the year. We have cycles of seven years to do some more reminiscing, but this is the big kahuna. After seven cycles of seven years, the Torah demands a whole extra year to do a deep, serious, and meaningful dive into what we as a people have done together, and to imagine and vision our hopes for the future. We look at what we planted, we take joy in the harvest, and look at our soil to see what we will sow for each coming Shabbat and each coming Rosh HaShanah until the next jubilee.

I realize that I enter at just this latest chapter of Woodlands’ story. But, I am also fortunate to join an impressive legacy of Woodlands interns who, together, have seen a great deal of Woodlands’ over the last 50 years. We eat the fruit, taste its sweetness, and go off to prune and tend to other trees (except for Billy and Mara who seem to be caught up in these branches in perpetuity).

So, this summer, I contacted the last 50 years of Woodlands interns. I asked them about memories from their time here, for some reflections on what they learned, and how that learning has impacted their career.

Here is some of the fruit picked from the Woodlands tree. Notice how for many of these interns, their experience at Woodlands continues to shape their work as rabbis (I’ll share with you chronologically from the founding up until now):

“Every person should be treated as an individual and no one should ever be treated as a generic ‘congregant.’ The Woodlands experience always felt so personal--personal and never institutional. That was always a key.”

Danny Zemel, Woodlands’ first intern is now the senior rabbi at Temple Micah in Washington, DC, and, as a former member of that synagogue, I can tell you firsthand that he has carried on that legacy.

Next, from the Editor of the Mishkan Tefilah, the Reform Movement’s prayer book companion to our new makhzor, Rabbi Elyse Frishman: “worship is owned by the worshipper not the clergy — passive experience is not nearly as powerful as full engagement.”

Rabbi Elka Abrahamson, now the President of the Wexner Foundation and a renowned speaker on a number of topics, including change management and dynamic leadership, had this to say about her time here during a rabbinic transition:

“I learned about…the unique spirit that can be created within a community of Jewish families that were invested in the congregation’s success and most of all its character.”

She added: “I also learned about expensive cheeses, how to prepare healthy bulgar, that it was okay not to wear a suit to conduct services and how to survive meaningful high holidays even in leaky tent.”

Here is one from a rabbi you might know. To this day, he thinks very intentionally about what it means to have holy space and how best to honor and sanctify community. Rabbi Billy recalled a Board of Trustees conversation about using the sanctuary to house homeless people in Westchester. He wrote: “Some said, "That's our holy space. Not appropriate." While others, "That's precisely what makes that space holy!"”

Rabbi Fred Greene, who just helped his congregation in Boulder, CO celebrate their 50th anniversary, wrote to me about learning to journey with congregants as they grow instead of try to proscribe a path for them.

Rabbi Leora Kaye, who is now Director of Programs for the Union for Reform Judaism, spoke to me about learning to honor the history and commitments of the people she met and always leaving space for other people in the room, whether there is one other person or two hundred.

Rabbi Erin Glazer, who is the Senior Engagement Officer for Mazon, told me about inspired by Woodlands teens’ passion for social justice and Judaism and the acceptance of innovation as a communal practice.

And then, the most recent intern-turned-full-time-Woodlands-rabbi, Rabbi Mara Young reflected that, even when we are in the deepest depths as individuals and a community, the synagogue is a place for honestly, tenderness, and “is an essential touchstone of our lives where life is dealt with frankly and meaningfully.”

This is just a small taste of what they shared. They spoke about Academy, worship, and wanting to invest in this community, because the community gives so much back.

These amazing lessons about building Jewish community and sanctifying each individual, this is what has come from 50 years of love, hard work, mistakes, experiments, prayer, teaching, learning, and, of course, more love. We get to learn and grow because you share your gifts and share your selves.

Think about what you sowed, and look and what this chain of interns has reaped.

We are just at the beginning of our jubilee year, and we get to celebrate those gifts and that legacy. But we don’t stop there. We aren’t just going to slap a 50 on all of our brochures and call it a day. We aren’t going to rest during this jubilee. Surely, we will pause to take stock of what we planted and what we harvested. AND, we will think together on how, during the next 50 years, we hope to grow, to deepen relationships, to enhance worship, to ever-renew commitments to learning and tikkun olam.

And, Woodlands will continue to be a place where every individual matters.

So, I’ll close the way I began. Who better to start off the jubilee than the person who has been here for the least amount of time? An individual who feels embraced by the community, who can look at our tree and tell you how sweet its fruit tastes.

Shanah Tovah.

Closing words:

I am a bit of a sentimental romantic. Each time an anniversary for Gavi and me rolls around, I make my way to hallmark.com to learn about traditional and modern anniversary gifts. For year one, traditionally the paper anniversary, we got a subscription to the NYT. For year three, the modern gift is glass, so we bought tumblers with etchings of the cities we have lived in together.

As for Woodlands, traditionalists and modernists agree: the 50th anniversary is the gold anniversary. But during this 50th year, it is not just about bringing gifts of gold. There are times that call for specific gifts and moments where you can bring whatever gifts you have: time, skills, expertise, energy, love. Each moment calls for its own anniversary gift.

This community is as vibrant as it is because of the immeasurable gifts brought by each individual in the Woodlands family.

Eloheinu v’elohei imoteinu v’avoteinu. Our God and God of our foremothers and forefathers: As we begin our gold anniversary, our jubilee year, I pray that we continue to recognize the gifts that each of us has to bring and that we find a way to offer and use them here. If we plant together, just imagine what we will harvest.

Shanah Tovah.

[1] The Torah: A Modern Commentary, Revised Edition, p. 856.

Peace in our Rampart

2015-05-24T13:32:00.001-05:00

This year I have had the honor of interning at Woodlands Community Temple. For our Friday night Kabbalat Shabbat services we write "iyyunim," introductions to set an intention for a given prayer. Each week we have a theme that all of the iyyunim tie back to. This past Friday, we spoke about Memorial Day. My Senior Rabbi, Billy Dreskin, really liked the iyyun I gave before the Silent Prayer, so I thought I would publish it here. I hope you have a meaningful Memorial Day and have the time to reflect on lives lost in conflict and hope for a world where we no longer know the violence and pain of war.

Here's the iyyun:

Just yesterday, there was an article in the Times talking about US servicemen and women returning from doing relief work in Nepal. They delivered over 110 tons of supplies, evacuated and transported almost 600 people.

This is not something new. In recent years our military has responded to crises in the Philippines, Japan, Haiti…

I find it inspiring that the military apparatus built for war and fighting can also be used in these crucial life-saving ways.

You know…I finished up my finals last week. The biggest project I had was to do an in-depth analysis of Psalm 122. I will save you from the intricacies of the biblical grammar, but I want to share one piece of learning that I will carry with me for a long time.

There is a line, popularized by a melody from Shlomo Carlebach:

יְהִי שָׁלוֹם בְּחֵילֵךְ שַׁלְוָה בְּאַרְמְנוֹתָיִךְ
May there be peace in your rampart, tranquility in your citadels.

Just like the potential of the American military, the psalmist prays that the citadel and rampart, parts of the city built for war and defense will know peace. The prayer for peace is not general, but specifically located in the parts of the city that could be seen as the engines and machines of war.

As I reflect on Memorial Day, I think of my immense gratitude for the servicemen and women who gave their lives in the name of our nation and our ideals. And I pray that the systems that they defended might someday only know peace.

Questioning Our Way to Freedom

2015-04-01T13:00:00.000-05:00

As a kid, I asked a lot of questions. I would follow my mother around saying: “What’s that? How does this work? Why do we do this? When did you do that?” I’ve been told that I had an adorable blend of inquisitiveness and pestering.

It will come as no surprise, then, that Passover is my favorite holiday. The Four Questions are an iconic moment in the seder. I am an oldest child and the eldest of my cousins, so it was never my job to ask, but I would still spend the night peppering my family seder with other requests for explanations and information.

Likewise, when the rabbis of the Talmud lay out their expectations for the seder, they imagine that the whole night will be spurred by questions. With the Four Questions, the rest of the rituals cannot continue. And, in true rabbinic fashion, the rabbis have plenty of their own questions about what questions to ask, when they should be asked, the motivation for asking, and who asks the questions.

Let’s take a look at who they say should ask. In the Talmud (Pesakhim 116b), the rabbis teach that the first person who should ask is a child. If there are no children, then the seder leader’s wife asks (yes…we are working from a gendered text with a patriarchal bias). If he is alone, he should ask himself. And, if there are only two scholars at the seder and they both know all of the laws and teachings about Passover, even they should ask questions, one to the other.

Here, finding an answer is not the goal. The questions are not necessarily asked because the asker is uninformed. Even the most knowledgeable rabbis have to ask each other! The act of asking questions takes center stage here.

What is so special about asking questions? My teacher, Professor Michael Chernick, says that the rabbis of the Talmud are trying to tell us that the act of asking questions is the opening stage of human freedom. Passover, our holiday of freedom and redemption, is the perfect time to live out that principle.

If you are in a place where asking questions leads to being attacked or shut down, you know where you stand and you learn what that society is like. If you are not free to ask questions, you are completely subject to someone else’s will. In some sense, you are a slave. Getting to ask questions is an important way to show that we are free.

But wait, there’s more! Looking back at our text; what’s the deal with the list of people? Why start with the kid, then the wife, then lonesome seder-goer asking himself? This list starts with the person who is lowest in the hierarchy of the household. The person who is first called on to ask a question, to carry out the essential freedom action, is the one who is least likely to speak out. The rabbis insist, specifically those who might be reticent to speak out in public are invited to be free enough to ask questions at seder.

How will you exercise your freedom to ask this Passover? And, how might you empower others to share in the redemptive potential of asking questions?

This originally appeared as the JudaiConnection article on the back page of the Woodland's Community Temple bulletin: Makom.

Shabbat HaGadol: Ekhad Ani Yodea!

2015-03-27T19:00:00.000-05:00

I come from a family of talkers. We talk loud, and we talk fast. Somehow, we manage to understand each other. But, the / effort / to / pace / our / speech/ to / speak / in / public for humans, who speak and listen at non-Fenster speeds, is a regular family goal.

That being said, when the songs at the end of the seder come around, all bets are off. A lightning fast Chad Gadya is a badge of honor, and Ekhad Mi Yodea, who knows one?, a year’s worth of bragging rights.

So, as I have been loosening my tongue and stretching out my jaw for a yearly speed-singing battle with my brother,I took another look at my favorite song: Ekhad Mi Yodea, who knows one.

Who knows 13?

I know 13.

13 are the ways that Godis Good

12 are the tribes of Yis-ra-el

11 are the stars in Joseph’s dream

10 are theeeee commandments

9 are the months before a baby’s born

8 are the days before a bris

7 are the days of the week (clap clap)…

6 are the books of the (clap) Mishnah

5 are the books of the (clap) Torah

And 4 are the mothers

And 3 are the fathers

And 2 are the tablets that Moses brought

And 1 is HaShem, one is HaShem, one is HaShem

In the heaven and the earth

La di da di da di da

Whether you sing it in Hebrew, English, Yiddish, or Pig Latin, Ekhad Mi Yodea is a fun song that goes on a little journey through Jewish learning and tradition.

It is surely an excellent list of 13. And I wonder, if you were to create your own list of 13, what would be on it? Tonight, I want to share the list I made.

But! Before we get started, you all have a job. When you see a screen that looks like: THIS (Who Knows ONE?), I humbly request that you all read it aloud together. Let’s practice…ready?

Who knows 1?

I know 1!

One is the Jewish People.

כָּלּ יְִשְׂרָאֵל עֲרֵבִים זֶה בָּזֶה

All of Israel is responsible for one another. Whether in Hartsdale, Hamburg, or Haifa, we are one people.

Who knows 2?

I know 2!

Two are the mentions of Moses in the Haggadah.

There is a myth that Moses’s name is completely absent from the Haggadah. But, he actually shows up twice!

Still, the message behind the myth rings through. Moses was indeed great, but he was משה עבדו “God’s servant, Moses.” Moses’ role is downplayed, lest we idolize our leaders.

Who knows 3?

I know 3!

Three are the priorities of the URJ.

The Union for Reform Judaism, in thinking about its plan for the next 5 years, identified three areas of focus:

strong, networked congregations,
commitment to tikkun olam,
and audacious hospitality.

Who knows 4?

I know 4!

Four are the millions of immigrants who received deportation relief.

Back in November President Obama issued an Executive Action that grants 4 million undocumented immigrants protection from deportation. The vast majority of those included are parents of US citizens.

Who knows 5?

I know 5!

Five are the women of the Exodus.

There are five women who play pivotal roles in the Exodus narrative:

Yocheved, Moses’ mother

Miriam the prophet,

Shifra and Puah, the Hebrew midwives,

and Batya, Pharoah’s daughter.

Who knows 6?

I know 6!

Six are the items on the seder plate.

Our ceremonial centerpiece has spaces marked for the maror and chazeret, the charoset, shankbone, karpas, and egg. Each carries a symbolic meaning and tells a piece of the Passover narrative.

And, in the tradition of adding extra symbolic items to our seder plates, here is my alternative group of six:

An Orange for egalitarianism
Olives for peace
Cocoa beans for Fair Trade and environmentalism
A tomato for labor rights
A padlock for criminal justice reform
A potato for Ethiopian Jews

Who knows seven?

I know seven!

Seven is the day of rest.

What a gift! A day set aside for relaxation to eat, sing, and celebrate with family and community.

Who knows eight?

I know eight!

Eight are the daily victims of gun violence.

Alas, eight young people under the age of 20 are killed each day by gun violence in our country.

Who knows nine?

I know nine!

Nine are the players on a baseball field.

I know they say it’s Spring already, but when they start swinging bats in Queens and the Bronx, and when I can smell the grass and hear the pop of a fastball in the catcher’s mitt, THAT is when I’ll know Spring has arrived.

Who knows 10?

I know 10!

Ten are the parties in the Knesset.

In the Israeli elections from this past month, 10 different parties gained representation in the Israeli Knesset. They will have the opportunity to set priorities and policies for Israel’s economy and civil society and the future of the peace process.

Who knows 11?

I know 11!

Eleven are the years of marriage equality!

Eleven years ago Massachusetts became the first state to recognize same sex marriage. Today there are 37 states And counting!

Who knows 12?

I know 12!

Twelve are the moonwalkers.

On July 21, 1969 Neil Armstrong became the first person to walk on the moon. And, after him, 11 more people have made that incredible journey.

And each time I see a picture of a human being on the moon, I just have to say: WOW! It fills me with wonder and amazement and inspires me to explore.

Who knows 13?

I know 13!

Thirteen is the amendment that ended slavery!

150 years ago, the United States formally ended the “peculiar institution” of slavery. Abolitionist Rabbi David Einhorn wrote:

"It is the duty of Jews to fight bigotry since, for thousands of years, Jews have consciously or unconsciously fought for freedom of conscience."

Quite the reminder as we get ready to tell our own story of redemption. Our seders are meant to be both meaningful and also full of merriment. These nights, we get to be both silly and serious.

And, I hope, we get to do that other nights as well.

Shabbat Shalom.

Shabbat Parah: It's Time to Get Ready

2015-03-13T19:00:00.000-05:00

Well, Passover is just around the corner, so it’s time to head to the store to pick up your brisket, 5-pound box of matza, some macaroons, those jelly rings that uncle Chayyim likes. Oh! And did you get some Parah Adumah?

What’s a Parah Adumah? Parah Adumah is Hebrew for: Red Heifer.

And this week is Shabbat Parah, the Shabbat of the Red Heifer. One in a cycle of pre-Passover Shabbatot to help us get ready for the holiday.

This week, we focus on the ritual of the Red Heifer. The Red Heifer is a creature that does not exist today. During Temple times, in preparing to receive the Passover sacrifices of the Israelite nation, the priests would sacrifice a red heifer as a means of purification.

An archaic ritual? Maybe. But, the way I see it, the idea behind it is simple: before the priests can perform the Passover ceremonies, they have to get ready. They have to engage in an intensive process of preparation and purification. Then, once in that state of purity, they can be ready for the sacred rites they will perform in the Temple.

And this Shabbat, let’s consider: what are we doing to get ourselves ready for Passover? Our Passover looks different from the Passover of the priests. So what do we do to ritually prepare?

For many, I would imagine that the impending Passover holiday is a great opportunity for spring cleaning.

Maybe you switch over dishes or give the oven its once-a-year scrub down. Maybe you get rid of your leavened products. My family always stashed our shelf-stable bread products into giant Rubbermaid bins and put heavy things on top of them to make sure the chametz cooties didn’t get out (and so bread-crazed children didn’t get in).

Maybe you go on a Manischewitz-brand product shopping spree, or maybe you start prepping your matzo ball soup. Maybe you are busy organizing travel plans for family or deciding which seders you’ll attend. Or maybe you’re deliberating which flourless chocolate cake recipe you’ll make for dessert.

This is usually what my pre-Passover weeks are filled with. But, if this is our holiday prep, what does it say to us that the holiday is about? The priests got ritually pure to present sacrifices. I often feel like the essence of my preparation is to determine in advance how many times during the week am I going to eat matza pizza.

I don’t think that our preparation always rises to the occasion of the holiday. Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoy getting ready for Passover. There is something special about the care we take to get ready for this holiday. But Passover is not just about avoiding leaven. The ritual symbols are just that: symbols.

Passover is not about eating matzah. Rather, eating matza is part of what we do to access the meaning of the holiday. Our ritual symbols and ritual actions are meant to affect us and to encourage us to think differently about our world. So, let’s make sure we do this in order. We need to know what we are preparing for before we decide how to prepare.

And, since I’m the one giving the sermon, I’ll tell you what I think we are preparing for.

The Passover narrative is the story that sits at the center[1] of the Jewish community. It is our foundational myth and gives national purpose to the Jewish people.

My favorite line in the Haggadah is:

בכל דור ודור חייב אדם לראות את אצמו כאילו הוא יצא ממצרים

In every generation, each person is obligated to see themselves as if they came out of Egypt.

Awesome!

During the Passover seder, we are called to internalize the experience of moving from oppression to freedom. And, because of that experience, our tradition argues, we are obligated to relieve the suffering we see in the world around us.

That’s the point. We spend all of this energy to locate ourselves in our history and to use that experience and our newfound freedom to be agents of freedom in the world.

It’s no surprise, then, that we have so many different kinds of seders. We have labor seders, women’s seders, Black-Jewish relations seders. In the 80s you would find Soviet Jewry seders.

I imagine this year you will find Immigrant rights seders and Ferguson seders. Our story has lasted because it has something to say, and we are privileged to be among the people who get to say it.

So, we return to our question. How do we prepare for this holiday? What do we do to ritually prep ourselves to tell our compelling story and to try and live it in our lives?

Here’s how our high school students have been preparing. Over the last three weeks The 8^th & 9^th graders in Academy have been in a “Social Justice Intensive.” We tried to answer these three questions:

1. Where does our empathy lie?

2. What power do we have?

3. And what do we want to do about it?

Where does our empathy lie?

We started with Jewish texts and explored how they ask us to consider the needs of and care for the other. Particularly from our Passover narrative, the Torah tries to teach us empathy.

The students also talked about what matters to them. They shared stories about their Tzedakah statements from when they became B’nai Mitzvah. And we discussed how the issues that matter to them were issues that they felt personally, topics that held a familial connection, or organizations they had done some first-hand work with.

The students blew me away. All of the teachers left that day impressed by the students’ passion and commitment. The students still cared earnestly about their chosen organizations, AND, they were still engaged in their work. I think there must be something in the water in this place. Our community is doing something right with our kids.

What power do we have?

Through the Purim story, we talked about who has power, where that power comes from, and how they use it. The students closed out the night talking about where their power comes from, a

nd what power they have to make change.

And, what do we want to do about it?

We tried to understand the problems that matter to us. They dove into the intricacies of the minimum wage, expressed outrage at LGBT discrimination, beliberated anti-bullying policies…

And then, we talked about what they might do about it. They shared strategies for how, as teenagers, they could be agents for change. Watch out! We’ve got some firecrackers in that class!

So, after we spent three weeks

1. Developing our empathy,

2. Identifying what power we have

3. And how we can be agents for change,

The Academy students accepted a challenge:

To get ready for Passover, during the next three weeks, they are going to pick one issue they care about, a problem in society where oppression exists and freedom is needed, and learn about it. But not just learn. They are going to create a little packet. Maybe a newspaper article, or a factsheet from an organization, some of their own thoughts, a couple of prepared questions. And, this is the key: Before the seder, they are going to tell the leader that they have a few more questions to add to the seder.

When we read in the Hagaddah:

חייב אדם לראות את אצמו...

every person is obligated to see him or herself as coming out of Egypt

they will introduce their topic and spur a conversation around the table.

Think back to the best seders your can remember. Sure, there were the perfect matzah balls, the rambunctious afikomen hunts, t

But, for me, the best seders I’ve experienced are the ones where the holiday hit a chord. Where I felt like we had a great conversation; where I was challenge and excited; where we tried to identify where we see oppression and how we wanted to be agents of freedom. THAT is when I felt like I had performed the ritual of Passover.

But why talk about this today? Couldn’t it wait for a sermon at the end of the month closer to Passover? This matters now, because it takes time to get ready. It’s Shabbat Parah. Our Shabbat where we start to purify, where we start to prepare ourselves for our sacred rituals.

We start thinking about this now, because, frankly, we need these three weeks. The priests didn’t go through their purification ritual five minutes before the big sacrificing show. It wasn’t a rush job to get in under the wire. It takes time to get read; it takes time to prepare.

As we get ready for Passover, let’s ask ourselves the questions our 8^th and 9^th graders considered:

1. Where does our empathy lie?

2. What power do we have?

3. And what do we want to do about it?

The Passover seder is a remarkable ritual. It brings our families together. It ties us to our past.

And gives us an opportunity to build a bridge toward a better future.

We can go into this holiday ready for that challenge, but it’s going to take some preparation first.

Shabbat Shalom.

[1] The 2013 Pew Report found that 70% of Jews participated in a Seder the previous year, the most highly observed tradition considered in the study. http://www.pewforum.org/2013/10/01/chapter-4-religious-beliefs-and-practices/#jewish-practices

Brokenness at the Core

2015-02-20T19:00:00.000-06:00

We have had a busy few weeks. Two weeks ago, we found ourselves at the base of a mountain. Thunder, lightning, shofar blasts, smoke, and a voice that reverberated in each of our hearts. Moses imparted to us the 10 commandments, the word of God. Then, last week, we got more details. Holidays, foundational laws for structuring our community and instructions for living in fellowship and relationship with our neighbors We have had a busy few weeks.

And now, we get into what can seem like biblical technobabble. The instructions shift from “you shall not wrong or oppress a stranger” A moral enjoinder that easily speaks to our time. To “you shall make the planks for the tabernacle of acacia wood…each plank shall be 10 cubits and the width of each plank shall be a cubit and half” Intricate details for the design of the tabernacle, The movable dwelling place for God During the Israelites’ desert wandering. We move from the quality of our character To the quality of the wood, gold, silver, and bronze that we use to create and adorn this holy space in the Israelite camp. I, at least, need a moment when I reach parashat Terumah. I need a moment to recalibrate To move from the easier to access moral code of last week’s parashat Mishpatim. To find the core truths and values in parashat Terumah.

And, it is precisely the core of the Tabernacle where, I want to look with you today.

The things that matter most, we put at the center. A pitcher stands in the center of a baseball diamond. An actress walks downstage center to deliver a powerful monologue. My chai necklace, given to me by my grandparents Rests right above my heart, close to the center of my being. The most precious jewels are held deep in the central core of a bank. And, for the Israelites, in the center of the camp, At the center of the tabernacle, the most precious possessions of the Israelite people are held / in the ark.

The ark is covered with gold and adorned with cherubim. It is held up by poles that are never removed So the ark can be ever-mobile, Ever-able to travel with the Israelite people. Ever at the center.

God instructs Moses: וְנָתַתָּ, אֶל-הָאָרֹן--אֵת, הָעֵדֻת, אֲשֶׁר אֶתֵּן, אֵלֶיךָ (Exodus 25:16) And you shall place in the ark, the “edut” that I will give to you. The word edut means testimony. There is testimony going in the ark, but testimony to what? Let’s hold that question for now. The word edut is also used to describe the tablets Moses brings down form Sinai. So, now a quick bible quiz… how many tablets does Moses bring down from Sinai? (wait) There are 4! Two weeks from now, we will read the story of the golden calf. Here’s a brief review: While Moses is atop Mount Sinai, inscribing God’s words on the tablets, The people are at the base of the mountain…waiting.

Inspired by fear, frustration, or faithlessness They instruct Aaron to build an idol they can worship. Moses descends the mountain, sees the people worshipping the calf And, in rage, smashes the first set of tablets. Two tablets, with the word of God, broken and in shards. Eventually, Moses goes back up to the top of the mountain And returns with a fresh set of tablets. Two tablets, with the word of God, complete and whole. A total of four tablets.

So, which tablets will we keep? What belongs in ארון העדות—the ark of the testimony? Naturally, we will place the complete tablets in the ark. They are the testimony to the completed covenant between us and God.

But what about the shards? What about the broken pieces? They are rough and jagged You might cut your hand if you pick up a sharp edge, You may cringe just looking at them, a startling reminder of a moment we would rather soon forget. But these tablets are also testimony.

The brokenness we felt during our sin at Sinai is just as true as the joy we felt during the triumph of revelation at Sinai.

There is a line of teaching in the Talmud (BT Bava Batra 14b, BT Menahot 99a) that both the shards and the complete tablets were placed in the ark. I’ve spent a number of days struggling with this image. What might it mean for us to carry our own brokenness, and that which we have broken? Why would we sanctify it alongside our most precious and holy objects?

I think we carry the broken tablets, because we have to. Those tablets, too, carry the word of the living God. They may be rough or ugly or uncomfortable, But they are real. And they are holy. To experience brokenness is to be human. And the brokenness we experience stays with us. A muttered insult overheard by a friend, A hurtful deed un-atoned for… The hurtful deed we did atone for, but the scars still remain. Or what about the internal brokenness we might feel? The voices in our heads that drag us down That tell us we aren’t good enough That tell remind us of every imperfection Every mistake. They leave us feeling insufficient, incomplete. These things stay with us. We carry them and they are heavy. A good moment can be fleeting, but It’s those moments when I am not at my best that seem to linger. Even though I would rather soon forget, I carry them with me.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just leave the broken pieces of the tablet behind? Wouldn’t it be nice If the broken tablets disappeared under desert sands? Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just forget that rough patch of our relationship with God? It would be nice, But it would not be real.

We may imagine that we are the image of the complete tablets Smooth edges, elegant writing Blemish-free. But reality is messier than that. Reality has rough edges, smudges. And the ark is our reminder That our holiness isn’t compromised if we feel broken. We are still holy even when we are broken.

Seeing the broken pieces in the ark Can give us permission to name our brokenness. If it is holy enough to be held in the ark Surely it is holy enough to be held in the sanctuary And held by our community.

I’m reminded of an incident from this past summer. On Mt. Sinai Hospital’s 9th floor I met a patient who was recovering from a liver transplant. The transplant went well, but he was not getting stronger his recovery had slowed to a near halt and he was losing motivation. In theory, he should have been recovering fine But, he felt estranged from family Far from community, Tired and frustrated with himself. He felt broken. So I sat with him. I witnessed his feeling of brokenness And I held it with him. At the end of our visit we prayed together We said a prayer about his brokenness, (What else can we bless Other than what is real?) And, in doing so, sanctified it. And when I visited the next week He had started to gain strength. He still felt broken, He might have been a broken tablet, But he was still holy. He still had God’s words inscribed on him. And the reminder that he could hold And name his brokenness helped him start to move past it on a journey toward recognizing where he felt whole.

Now, a hospital story feels a bit like cheating The brokenness there is laid out for all to see. What about brokenness that is hidden? So often, the norms of our society tell us To keep our brokenness to ourselves. We only put out into the public sphere What is complementary and complete. And, if we only present our completeness We give the message That we don’t want to see the brokenness of others. Our culture maintains an unspoken agreement That we will hide our broken stuff.

So, where do we go with our broken stuff? What’s the place we go, regardless of where we land on the scale between broken and complete, to be reminded that we are holy? We go back to our ark. We come to our tabernacle, our sanctuary. Our holy space is built to hold that which is complete and that which is broken. It’s built for weddings, And it’s built for funerals. It is built to celebrate our successes, And it is built to support us when we falter. Like the ark, it is carefully crafted Before a single tablet is hewn To hold and treat with care both broken and complete. Ready to receive whatever is placed inside.

Our broken tablets come with us. We carry them and they are heavy. They live at the very center of our camp. And even those shards and jagged edges Contain the words of the living God. And we are reminded that even when we are broken, We are holy.