Vayeishev 5772

Following decades of adventure, “Jacob now settled in the land of his father’s sojourning, in the land of Canaan.  This is the family history of Jacob… ” (Genesis 37:1-2).  From such an opening, we might have expected this week’s parashah, Vayeishev, to continue with Jacob’s story.  Instead, the drama shifts sharply to his sons, especially Joseph:  “This is the family history of Jacob: when Joseph was seventeen years old, he would tend the flock alongside his brothers.”  The focus is now squarely on the next generation.

Within the context of the Torah, it is good that Jacob has returned to Canaan, the land where his father and grandfather, Isaac and Abraham, lived, the land promised to him.  Can it have another meaning, too?  We could also imagine that Jacob is now settling into the life his father lived, the life his father wanted him to live, rather than his own?  That’s what Isaac did when he was young man--he re-opened his father’s water wells rather than create his own.  Perhaps this is why the narrative of Jacob’s life is now, largely, over:  he is no longer pursuing his own adventure.

When we live the lives our parents establish for us, we are not truly living our own lives.  Rather we are merely treading water, killing time until the next story can begin.  When we seek to determine the path of our children’s lives, we deny them the opportunity to create themselves, to figure out who they are in the world.

“’Be who you are, ‘ said the Duchess to Alice, ‘or, if you would like it put more simply, never try to be what you might have been or could have been other than what you should have been.’”

Vayishlach 5772

Jacob wronged his brother, and fled their home.  Many years later, he returns and they are reunited.  Although Jacob feared retribution, instead, “Esau ran to meet him, and embraced him, and fell on his neck and kissed him.  And they burst into tears” (Genesis 33:4).

Esau is impressed with Jacob’s sizeable family and worldly goods.  He invites his twin to return to the homestead, and offers to accompany him.  Despite the warm reception, Jacob won’t have it. 

Rather than decline the invitation, however, Jacob tells his brother that the young children can’t move as quickly as Esau’s retinue of men.  He insists that he’ll follow at his own, slower, pace and that the big, happy family will be one once again.  Esau offers to leave some of his men behind to guard the fledglings, but Jacob once again declines.  Instead of joining his brother, Jacob and his clan set off for another locale, Succoth.  He was merely feigning to follow.  We do not know whether Jacob remains afraid of his brother, or if he just wants to go his own way.  He never says.

What would this world be like if we could each say what we meant?  What would happen if we expressed our needs to one other, rather than pretending?

Some new Jacob

Vayeitzei 5772

Jacob, fresh from his encounter with the Divine, comes across three flocks of sheep in a field by a watering hole.  A “good sized rock lay on the mouth of the well” (Genesis 29:2).  The rock is too big for any one shepherd to move it; the shepherds must work together to move the stone and access the water beneath.  When Jacob arrives, the shepherds are waiting for enough hands to gather so that they can get the job done.

Jacob lays eyes on Rachel, a young shepherdess (and his cousin) with whom he is instantly enamored.  He moves the stone all by himself, allowing the flocks to drink.

Rashi, the medieval commentator, thinks that Jacob is eager to show off his great strength.  Or, perhaps, he was impatient to spend some quality time with the young woman.  In either case, Jacob’s actions, while in service of the community, serve his own interests more.  A more gracious tact would have been to work with the shepherds to roll the stone, as was their custom.  I wonder what happened the next day, and the days after that?  Did Jacob, now resident, join the team, or did he always move the stone by himself?  Did the others come to rely on him?  How did they feel towards him?  What local balance was thrown off by Jacob’s bravado?

Sometimes, in helping others, we are in fact more interested in helping ourselves.  Sometimes, the way we help others creates immediate benefit but long term harm.  The best help is help that is both egoless and that also fosters no dependence.  It’s a delicate, but important balance to strike.

Tol'dot 5772

We met Rebekah at the well last week:  gracious, open, hospitable.  She’s a young woman who takes charge of her destiny, seizing the opportunity to leave her brother’s house and marry Isaac, her cousin in a far-off land.

I love Rebekah.  She’s vibrant, determined, perhaps even feisty.  In Collin Burgheimer’s words, she’s “spunky.”

But this week’s portion, Tol’dot, shows us Rebekah twenty years later, and then several decades older still.  She’s manipulative, controlling, even deceitful.  And I have to wonder:  What changed?  How did that caring young woman become that cold?  Is this an inevitable transformation of age?  Is it a result of the life she led?  Or was the woman she became always within her?

Rebekah’s lived with the pain of childlessness.  She’s lived with the pain of her husband.  She’s lived with pains unseen by the text.  We don’t hear her cry out until the feels the pain of the twins struggling inside her.  Then she asks that existential question:  “Why do I (even) exist?”  (Genesis 25:2)

This is one of adulthood’s essential tasks:  to retain the openness, freshness and suppleness of youth even as we mature.  What can we, as adults, do to fight off the slow creep of time, of resentment, of bitterness, of cold?  How do you keep the flame of your younger self flickering, laughing, growing, learning, dancing?

Chayei Sarah 5772

We meet Rebekah—like so many matriarchs—at the local well.  Young in years, she’s come to draw water for her flock.  When she meets a traveler, she readily agrees to fetch water for him and his many camels as well—in addition to her own animals.  What a lot of work!  What a kind-hearted young woman!

When I think of Rebekah at the well, I think of the nearly one billion people in our world without access to clean water.  I think of the 1.5 million children under 5 who die from diarrhea each year because their water sources are contaminated.  I think of the countless girls who walk miles each day to fetch water for their families rather than go to school.

If you’d like to know more about the world’s water crisis, visit http://water.org/.  You’ll find statistics, (including the numbers cited here), stories, photos and—most importantly—solutions.  We can emulate our mother Rebekah in providing clean water to those in need.

Vayeira 5772

For my birthday, Haim gave my gift away.  Instead of buying me something I didn’t need, he made a loan to Sohir, an Israeli Bedouin woman going into business as a seamstress.  I was one of 100 funders.  In total, we loaned her $2750 for a sewing machine, paint for the shop, materials and supplies.  Sohir works with an Israeli non-profit organization and will repay the loan, with interest, over 26 months.  The loan is organized by Kiva.org, an organization that creates the opportunity for Sohir, and thousands like her around the world, to access capital and create self-sustaining lives for themselves and their families.

What can it matter that one impoverished Bedouin, Guatemalan, Armenian or Tanzanian person finds a dignified way to support his or her family?  After all, the need is overwhelming.

When God sought to destroy the twin cities of S’dom and G’morrah, Abraham argued that individual human lives matter, that God should not “sweep away the innocent along with the wicked”  (Genesis 18:23).  God agreed.

Individual loans may seem pointless--to the lender, at least, if not the borrower.  But when each life, each family is added up, the transformation is extraordinary.  Since 2005, Kiva.org has lent $255 million to over 660,000 borrowers, working with 145 field partners in 61 countries, making housing, agricultural, educational, business and group loans.  Their repayment rate is 98.90%.  That’s nothing short of magnificent.

Each and every human life matters.  “Must not the Judge of all the earth do justly?” Abraham asks (Genesis 18:25).  Must not we, made in God’s image, do the same?  Through Abraham, God says, “all the nations of the world will be blessed!  For I have selected him so that he may teach his children and those who come after him to keep the way of the Eternal, doing what is right and just” (Genesis 18:18-19).  Ken Yihi Ratzon—so may it be.

Lech Lcha 5772

Night in the Sinai:  a sky brimming with stars, positively pulsing with light and energy.  A spectacular sensation of vastness and interconnectedness, of being at once miniscule and at the same time part of the endless Universe.

Not far away but lifetimes before, our patriarch Abraham buried his feet in that sand and looked up at a similar sky.  “Turn your gaze toward the heavens and count the stars, if you can count them!  And [God] promised him:  So shall your seed be (Genesis 15:5).”  We are the seed of that seed; there was a star for each one of us up in that sky, shining down on him.

So too are we like the specks of dust at his feet.  “I will make your descendants like the dust of the earth.  Only if one can count the dust of the earth will it be possible to count your descendants (Genesis 13:16).”

God shares two visions of the Jewish people:  that we, descendants of Abraham, will be as numerous as the stars in the sky and also as the dust of the earth.  We human beings are grand and, at the same time, nothing.  We partake of infinity but our lives are brief candles.  Somehow, we bridge the gap between the two extremes.

What is it to be human?  To be poised between the speck and the spectacular.  We are dust that dreams of the stars.

Noach 5772

Noah was a righteous man, but his quality is qualified.  “In his generation, he was above reproach.”  (Genesis 6:9)  This is to say that Noah was not absolutely righteous, but rather only within his time—that is, relatively righteous.  Something was missing in his character.

Many have noticed that when Noah hears the news of earth’s impending destruction, he does not try to dissuade God.  Unlike Abraham, who bargains on behalf of the good, Noah sets about making plans for his own salvation.  This seems to be Noah’s fault:  he is blind to the suffering of others. 

David Jaffe, who becomes bar mitzvah this Shabbat, studied the construction plans for the ark and noticed that it had no windows.  Content with the rescue of his own family and the (sizeable!) tasks at hand, Noah was unable to see the pain around him.  When each of us sees only our own needs, then, surely, society is doomed.  When we reach out to each other with compassion, then we are saved.

Matir Asurim--Who Frees the Captive

After five years in captivity, Gilad Shalit has been freed from captivity, returned to his country and his family.  The Jewish people rejoice as one.

His is a story of one person’s triumph against every possible odd, and of a family’s unwavering devotion.  It is also an expression of Jewish values, of who we are as a people: valuing every single life, believing in redemption, and knowing hope without end.

This week, we celebrate Yizkor (a night of memory, on Wednesday), Simchat Torah (a night of endings and beginnings, Thursday) and Erev Shabbat (a night of joy, Friday).  Throughout this doubly-blessed week, we’ll offer special prayers and songs for his homecoming.

Baruch Ata Adonai, Matir Asurim—Blessed are You, God, who frees the captive.

A Day at the Botanical Gardens

Recent pictures of Jake!

Days of Awe 5772

These Days of Awe are the time to ask the big questions, the ones we never get around to the rest of the year.  While some people make the effort to ponder and pursue, others find the exercise extremely difficult.

There’s a great way to engage in the self-reflection of tshuvah:  10 Q.  10 Q uses today’s technology in service of Judaism’s best traditions.  For ten days, this brilliant website will send you an intriguing, substantial, open-ended question to consider.  You write your answers and submit them confidentially.  Next year, as the Days of Awe approach, the electronic vault is opened and your own answers are returned to you.  You’ll re-visit them from a year’s perspective. 

No one else sees what you write, but you get to see yourself.  And isn’t that the whole point?

www.doyou10q.com

Netzavim 5771

“I make this covenant, with its sanctions, not with you alone, but with both those who are standing here with us this day before the Eternal our God and with those who are not with us here this day.”  (Deuteronomy 29:13-14)

Tonight, I will be installed as rabbi of Temple Emanuel of Tempe.  It is a deep honor to serve this vibrant, varied, and caring community.  It is a true privilege to be invited into your lives in such profound ways.  It is a profound responsibility to shepherd the congregation into the future.

As Temple Emanuel’s rabbi, I am always aware of our past—the noble traditions of the Jewish people and the exceptional accomplishments of Temple Emanuel’s history.  I am engaged with the present:  the people immediately in front of my eyes—in the sanctuary, in a classroom, in my office, in the hallway, in a hospital room.  And I am ever mindful of our future:  ensuring that Temple Emanuel will continue to thrive so that it will serve Jews in the East Valley for many years to come.

It is truly an awesome responsibility.  But, as this week’s Torah portion further instructs, “the thing is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to do it.”  (30:14)

The task is great and the hour is late.  Come—let us begin.

Ki Tavo 5771

Parashat Ki Tavo describes a powerful communal ritual:  six of the tribes will stand on Mt. Gerizim, and six others on Mt. Ebal.  The Priests would then proclaim a series of blessings and curses.  “Cursed is the one who misdirects a blind person underway.”   “Blessed shall be your basket and your kneading bowl.”  And all the people would respond “Amen.”

Certainly, the blessings were not meant to fall exclusively on only half the tribes, and the curses on the other.  So why were all the people assembled?  For two reasons:  They stood as witnesses for each other.  And they represented the entirety.

We will do something similar when we gather for the High Holy Days.  We will speak many words, some of which will fit us and others of which will not.  We will “confess” to a litany of sins that we didn’t commit.  Why do such a thing?  Indeed, why gather together all?

Although no one person committed all the sins listed in the confessional “Al Cheyt,” as a collective we committed many of them.  By reciting them as one, we give each other cover for making the confessions we need to.  By standing together, we become an audience for each other, so that each person can come clean publically.  By gathering in numbers, we give each other the gift of anonymity—no one knows what’s in his neighbor’s heart.

This yontif, why not go alone to a mountain top (as some Jews do)?  So that we can offer each other support, audience, and privacy.  Those are blessings indeed.

Ki Tetze 5771

Since few—if any—readers own donkeys or oxen, why bother to consider one of the verses in Parashat Ki Tetze:  “You shall not plow with an ox and a donkey together” (Deuteronomy 22:10)?  Since we’ll never have occasion to do such a thing, perhaps the verse is meaningless to us.

But before we dismiss it, let’s consider the verse more closely—particularly since, as non-farmers, we might not understand it fully.  Why not yoke the ox and the donkey together?  Not because of diminished productivity (that is, the farmer’s lost earnings), but rather out of concern for the animals’ welfare.  An ox and a donkey are of substantially unequal strengths.  If they are yoked together, they will draw at different paces.  They will be able to work for different amounts of time.  One might be dragged along, exhausted.  The unbalanced yoke might cut them.  It isn’t humane to form a partnership of two such mismatched animals.

For which creature should we be primarily concerned?  Is it the brawny ox, who can’t accomplish as much if tethered to the smaller donkey?  Or for the donkey, who works extra hard just to keep up, who has to rush so as not to be strangled?  The Jewish concern is primarily for the donkey, that is, the underdog.

The central narrative of the Jewish people is the Exodus:  our slavery in Egypt, and our release into freedom and covenant.  It is this story that makes us who we are.  We re-tell it when we pray, between conclusion of V’ahavta (“I am Adonai your God, who led you out of Egypt to be your God…”) and Michamocha, our song of redemption.  At Passover, we don’t just re-tell it—we experience it anew through culinary reenactment (“in every generation, each person is obligated to regard him or herself as though s/he had actually gone forth out of Egypt”).  We do this not only so that we will value our freedom, but also to remember our slavery.  We want the taste of maror, of bitterness, in our mouths so that we will know what misery feels like.  Why?  So that we will perpetually be on the side of the underdog, the powerless, the voiceless, the downtrodden … the donkey.  That is what it means to be a Jew. 

From an “irrelevant” statement about mismatched farm animals, we can discern the central principle of Judaism.

Shoftim 5771

I hear it regularly:  “I have lots of questions about my life, rabbi, but Judaism doesn’t have the answers.”  How very sad.

In synagogue as in secular school, we teach children what children are able to learn.  Although some stop their Jewish learning with Bar or Bat Mitzvah, they do not stop their growing—so that when, as adults, they ask adult-sized question, their Jewish learning can’t keep up.  Many Jewish adults conclude that Judaism has nothing to offer them.  When Jewish education ends at thirteen, Judaism is permanently adolescent.

“When [the Hebrew king] is seated on his royal throne, he shall have a copy of this Teaching written for him on a scroll by the Levitical priests.  Let it remain with him and let him read it all his life …" (Deuteronomy 17:18-19).

The Torah is a magnificent compendium, layering law and story in subtle and delicious ways.  It has something to offer us all the days of our lives.  When we feel our questions have outgrown its answers, it’s time to look again.

Re'eh 5771

Since human beings have free will, our lives are full of choices—where to live, whom (or whether) to marry, what’s for dinner.  Minute by minute, year after year, the choices we make impact us.  We become who we are thanks in substantial part to the choices we’ve made.

Someone very wise (I no longer remember whom) once taught me the difference between a choice and a decision.  The word “decision” is derived from the Latin “dēcīdere,” literally “to cut off.”  When we decide, we cut off a possibility—“this and never that.”  When we chose, on the other hand, we leave the possibility open—“this and maybe that.”  When we chose, we can return to an option and explore it later.  When at a crossroads, it’s helpful to know whether you are making a choice or a decision.

In this week’s parshah, Re’eh, God tells us that we’re perpetually at a crossroads:

See, this day I set before you blessing and curse:  blessing, if you obey the commandments of the Eternal your God that I enjoin upon you this day; and curse, if you do not obey the commandments of the Eternal your God but turn away from the path that I enjoin upon you this day and follow other gods whom you have not experienced.  (Deuteronomy 11:26-28)

The High Holy Days are approaching.  They offer us the opportunity and obligation for t’shuvah/repentance.  How do we know whether our t’shuvah is real?  When we have another chance to engage in the same hurtful activity and decline to do so—that is, when a choice becomes a decision.

Ekev 5771

The Torah teaches a counter-intuitive truth:  victory can come too quickly.  When we struggle, all we want is immediate success.  But this might not in fact be the healthiest result.

“YHVH your God will dislodge those peoples before you little by little; you will not be able to put an end to them at once, else the wild beasts would multiply to your hurt” (Deuteronomy 7:22).

On the surface, the Torah is talking about the land’s carrying capacity—without sufficient people and industry, it will grow wild and inhospitable.  But the Hassidic masters understood the Hebrews’ biblical battle to attain the Promised Land to be a metaphor.  It stood for any personal, spiritual battle—against an “evil inclination,” like addiction, laziness, or greed, for example. The un-dislodged enemies are remnants of negative aspects we haven’t yet banished from ourselves.  The “little by little” represents personal failures, errors, or set-backs that stand between us and ultimate victory.  While these are often painful, disappointing or upsetting, might there be any way to understand them as beneficial to the process? 

Perhaps set-backs can become opportunities.  Perhaps they can remind us of our fragility, that we are not invincible, and encourage us to invite and value help.  Perhaps they can encourage us to refresh our skills, or acquire new ones.   Perhaps set-backs can remind us of where we don’t want to be, and thereby help us rededicate ourselves to the victory.

For personal progress to be sustained, we need time to adjust to the new realities in our lives.  New, unexpected threats can emerge.  In a culture of quick fixes and instant gratification, patience can be infuriating—even if it builds better, longer lasting results. 

Friar Laurence advised Romeo:  “Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.”

Temple Emanuel's beautiful building, at sunset

Jake!

V'etchanan 5771

We human beings lead limited lives, bounded by our birth and our death.  Our mortality is one of the ultimate laws of our existences.  I suspect that this is the truth represented by God’s adamant insistence that Moses not cross the Jordan westward into the Promised Land (Deuteronomy 3:26)—the west represents the future, and no human being (not even the great Moses) can arrive alive at the future.  Despite all our desire, all our protestation, we can only live right now.

We cannot reach the future, but we can influence it.  In the first paragraph of the V’ahavta, sourced as well from this week’s parshah, the Hebrews are commanded to “impress (these words of instruction) upon your children” (Deuteronomy 6:7).  A few verses later, we are coached how to answer our children when they ask us “What mean the decrees, laws, and rules that the Eternal our God has enjoyed upon you?” (9:20).

Raising healthy children (our family’s and the community’s), imbuing them with good values, teaching them how to function properly in the world—this is how we cross westward, into the future.  This week, when the Syndi Scheck Yad b’Yad Preschool opened its doors for another boisterous, joyous year, I am reminded of the words of educator Christa McAuliffe:  “I touch the future.  I teach.”

D'varim

“You have stayed long enough at this mountain[i],” God tells Moses shortly after he received the Torah there.  How could that be?  On the mountain top, Moses was in extreme communion with God.  According to the Tradition, he ascended to the Heavenly throne room, all sapphire[ii] and smoke[iii], and saw the future in Rabbi Akiba’s own classroom[iv].  Too long in such a state?  Religious people might be forgiven for thinking that forever wouldn’t be long enough.

Moses had to descend to attend to his rebellious people, but the lesson is a good one for us, too.  All things, even the very best, have their moment.  A great business idea is worthless if there aren’t sufficient consumers.  Successful home buying doesn’t just rely on the market—the family must be ready, too.  Heart-to-heart conversations are vital, but can do more damage than good if not timed correctly.  Timing is an art; too early or too late can harm the results.

How do you know when the time is right?  Research helps, of course.  You’ve got to think an important move through fully.  But intuition matters, too.  I think our gut can help us decide not only whether to do something, but also when to do it.

“There is a time for all things under heaven,” Kohelet/Ecclesiastes[v] tells us.  In addition,

There is a time for the mountain above, and a time for the valley below.

There is a time for solitude and a time for community.

There is a time for serenity and a time for activity.

There is a time for review and a time for movement.

There is a time for rest and a time for action.

Knowing what to do is half the battle.  The other half is knowing when.

[i] Deuteronomy 1:6; Parashat D’varim

[ii] Exodus 24:10

[iii] Isaiah 6:4

[iv] Babylonian Talmud Menachot 29b

[v] Ecclesiates/Kohelet 3:1

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Ma'asei

The Book of Numbers ends with a list:  a recounting of the places the Israelites visited on their way from Mitzrayim to Canaan.  42 places in 40 years, each one an episode in the journey, each one described briefly:  “They set out from Marah and came to Elim.  There were twelve springs in Elim and seventy palm trees, so they encamped there (33:9).”  “They set out from Alush and encamped at Rephidim; it was there that the people had no water to drink (33:15).”  It’s a breezy, Cliff’s Notes version of the journey.

I am struck by what’s missing from the list:  the complaining, the golden calf, the angry pounding on the rock, the spies’ debacle.  The Torah, it seems, has white washed the story. 

Or perhaps the Torah is giving the Israelites a gift—helping them tell a different story.  This version allows them to see themselves not as rebellious whiners, but as travellers.  True, the Generation of the Desert was stiff-necked, but they were also adventurers who made the long trek from the Nile to the Jordan.   This new version allows the people not to see the failure, but rather the accomplishment.  It’s all in the telling.

The stories we tell have power over us.  They influence the way we see ourselves and the world around us.  When things aren’t working in your life, try changing way you tell your story.  Keep it truthful, but find a new emphasis—or re-discover a forgotten character.  Turn a drama into a comedy, or vise-versa.  A new narrative just might help you see things differently and shift your reality.  It’s all in the telling.

Matot

How many promises do you make in a week?  How many do you keep?

This week’s parashah opens with a discussion of the sacredness of vows.  They are to be inviolate:  “If a householder makes a pledge to YHVH or takes an oath imposing an obligation on himself, he shall not break his pledge; he must carry out all that has crossed his lips”  (Numbers 30:3).

And a woman, who had less power?  The Torah considers this case next and, importantly, gives her considerable ability to make oaths to God.  If she’s married or young (that is, under her husband’s or father’s custody), he may annul the vow but only on the day he finds out about it.  If he fails to do so, it’s binding.  If he never hears about it, it’s binding.  Vows of widows or divorced women, who are under no man’s custody, are binding.

So profound, so sacred are oaths that they are not to be violated at any price.  Recall the dreadful story of Jephtah in the Book of Judges: on his way to battle, the warrior Jephtah vows that, should he return home victorious, he’ll make a burnt offering of the first thing he sees coming out of his house.  To his horror, his own daughter comes out to greet him.    Jephtah’s response?  “He did as he had vowed,” Judges tells us, in language that cannot speak the unbearable truth.

In our day, we don’t make many oaths to God.  But we do make sacred promises.  Not the little ones, like “I’ll fill the tank” or “I’ll keep an eye on your house while you’re out of town,” but the big ones, the vows we make to ourselves:  “I’ll stop procrastinating.”  “I’ll look after my father better.”  “I’ll never take another drink.”  “I’ll be a better man.”

The moon is waning in the sky tonight.  Tamuz is almost done; it will shortly be Av, the month that leads us to Elul and the High Holy Day season.  It may be too soon to make vows for the coming year, but it is not too soon to consider the vows made for the year now fading.  What did you promise?  What did you keep?  What can you keep yet?

Pinchas & Aspirations

Through the desert, and the parchment, and the ages, Torah speaks to us clearly.  At once eternal and also precise, it blasts us with the voice of a shofar and whispers in our ear like a friend.  It is an ever-unfolding miracle, a rose revealing its mysteries to all who pause long enough to take a deep breath.

On my last Shabbat in Auckland, we read a description of the end of the Nazarite’s holy service in the portion Naso.  This week, as I take my place on Temple Emanuel’s bimah, we read Pinchas, including a description of new leadership.

Moses is reminded that he won’t enter The Land with the people, and he asks God to appoint a new leader for the community.  God names Joshua son of Nun, “an inspired leader,” to the role [Numbers 27:18].

What does it mean to be an inspired leader?  The Hebrew (“eish asher ruach bo”), just like the English, includes the idea of wind or spirit—a force that’s undeniable and yet intangible.  Moses has just called God “Source of the Breath/Ruach of All Flesh,” [Numbers 27:16] so it’s clear that the spirit isn’t generated within the leader, but rather by the Divine.  It’s something far greater than the leader, and that moves through him or her.  The inspired leader partakes of Inspiration well.

In my experience,

·         An inspired leader understands that she is not the source of all that’s worthy, but rather knows how to gather the ideas, energy, resources and contributions that can serve the community. 

·         An inspired leader makes sure everyone’s included.

·         An inspired leader stitches together a vision—or visions—for a community.  By sharing the vision and inviting others into it, he helps the community grow towards it.

·         An inspired leader asks good questions.

·         An inspired leader is able to see the macro and the micro, values the group’s needs and well as an individual’s, and holds them both at the same time. 

·         An inspired leader brings herself to the game, fulfilling the role and also being her fully-human self.

To be inspired, then, is to inspire:  to channel the flow of air and energy so that it catches the wings of others, helping them lift themselves to new heights.

Eloheinu v’elohei avoteinu v’imoteinu, Our God and God of our ancestors, Source of the Breath of All Flesh, be with me, please, as I become rabbi to this community.  Inspire me to become the rabbi I aspire to be.

10 THINGS I’M MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO ABOUT ARIZONA

1.    Meeting new people and sharing our lives with them.

2.    Jacob attending Temple Emanuel’s pre-school and my getting to work with a Jewish preschool!

3.    A MILD Winter.

4.    Owning a home.

5.    Reform Judaism being normative.

6.    Mexican Food.

7.    Professional colleagues and access to learning opportunities.

8.    Speaking Spanish again.

9.    Discovering a new region of my country.

10.  Living one hour from Los Angeles—getting to see family and friends regularly.

10 THINGS I’ll MISS MOST ABOUT NEW ZEALAND

1.    So many wonderful people.

2.    Our son’s babyhood.

3.    Beautiful bush walks (especially in the Waitakere Ranges!).

http://www.arc.govt.nz/parks/our-parks/parks-in-the-region/waitakere-ranges/

4.    Beth Shalom’s ark and sky light.

5.    Our home in Meadowbank—especially the spectacular view.

6.    Green parks and reserves everywhere.

7.    Ubiquitous birdsong—especially tui.

8.    Regular trips to Australia.

9.    Agapanthus sprouting like fireworks in Spring time; trees blossoming like cotton candy in Autumn.

10.  Flat Whites.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flat_white