World's Most Beautiful Mikveh

Since Auckland has ocean in all directions and many stunning beaches and coves, we head to one of them for mikveh.  The views of city and nature are magnificent!  What a place to be re-born! 

The only downside is the water temperature...

I feel so extraordinarily privleged to accompany New Jews to mikveh, into the living waters.

They are so incredibly, so beautifully committed to Judaism--to the Jewish people and our shared values.  I am humbled by their dedication, and bouyed by their passion.

I thank all those New Jews who have honoured me by calling me 'teacher' and allowing me to accompany them on their journey.

I am in awe of you.

A Place I Love

I have loved standing at Beth Shalom's ark, in front of the magnificent curtains by Gail Haffern z"l, and under the sky light.  The light shifts even as you offer a prayer, and the tree shifts over the year--blossoms and song birds (tui) coming and going.

Farewell -- Parashat Nasso 5771

          The Nazir is a holy man or woman—temporarily.

Unlike the Priest or Levite, the nazir takes a voluntary vow, and dedicates himself to God for a certain period.  Through that vow the nazir is set apart.  He or she takes no drink or intoxicant, no razor touches their head; they have no contact whatsoever with the dead.  “Throughout their term as Nazirite they are consecrated to YHVH.”  (Numbers 6:8)

Anyone can become a nazir or n’zirah—and he or she sets the time period, from thirty days, to several years, to a lifetime.  Someone might do so if God fulfills his prayer, for example returning a son safely from war.  Or one might seek a period of consecration, of dedication in her life.  The nazir sets the period of time, but then must fulfill the vow.

          In the section of Parashat Nasso that I read this morning, the Nazir’s time of dedication has ended.  He is brought to the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, an offering is made, and the consecrated hair is shaved off.  He may then resume his previous life.

          What’s missing from this account is any description of the nazir’s internal experience of consecration, of dedication.  What did the nazir learn?  How is he changed?

          As I conclude my time here at Beth Shalom, these are the questions I ask myself.  What have I learned from this experience?  How am I changed?

          I have learned the meaning of community.  In the US, it seems, Jews often attend the closest synagogue that’s not distasteful to them—if they go at all.  Community is an accident of proximity, and while you might look to a synagogue for friendship, you don’t look to it for substantial support, close bonds, commitment--that’s what friends are for.  Before arriving in New Zealand, I thought “community” meant merely a group of people.  Here, by contrast, community is deep, real, palpable.  You are people who are bound together by ties strong enough to last generations, and flexible enough to include recent arrivals.  You are people devoted to each other, who stand with and by each other.  You are present for each other in ways that have continually touched me, and have shown me what a community can really be—alive, supportive, caring, nurturing, deep and true.  Thank you for this vision.  It’s one I will bring with me wherever I go.  And thank you for including me and my family in this loving community.

          In three years here, I have also learned how to listen.  Winston Churchill said that Americans and English are “two people divided by a common language.”  The same is certainly true for Californians and Kiwis.  I will never forget the phone call I got when I was here as a rabbinic student:

Living here, speaking a language so nearly but so clearly not my own, I have never been able to take what you’ve said for granted.  I have tried never to assume I know what you mean.  I’ve tried instead to ask questions, to clarify, to listen hard, to consider the question behind the question.  I might have learned this at an American synagogue, but I doubt it.  I would simply have assumed that I knew what the other person was talking about, and that’s a shame.  Here, especially in the intimate conversations many of us have shared, you taught me not to jump to conclusions, to withhold judgment, to clarify until I was absolutely sure I understood.  I’m certain I failed often, but I’ve tried and I think I’ve gotten better.  Thank you for teaching me to listen—it is the very heart of a rabbi’s work and, I hope, has helped me become a better man.

          When I worked in business, I carried a lofty title:  Senior Vice President, International Sales and Marketing.  My territory was literally the entire world, and the deals I closed were for countries, or regions, or the globe.  I dealt with people, but these individuals were representing their countries--Mexico, say, or Japan, or Benelux (Belgium, the Netherlands and Luxembourg), or Australia + New Zealand.  One person stood for millions, and sales figures were in the tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions and, once, even hundreds of millions.  It was heady. 

          But I have learned that there is something even more powerful than dealing with tens of thousands of people.  And that’s dealing with one person.  One person—you, with one person—me, sharing ourselves with each other:  our questions, our worries, our hopes and dreams, our stories.  Teaching each other, finding the light in each other’s eyes.  There’s nothing more powerful, more beautiful, more important than that.

          So now I carry an even loftier title:  Moreinu HaRav--Our teacher, the rabbi.  Smicha—rabbinic ordination—was bestowed upon me by Rabbi David Ellenson, head of Hebrew Union College and acting on behalf of the institution.  But the title Moreinu HaRav can only be bestowed by the ones who say “our—our teacher”—and that is the People Israel.   You have honoured me by making me yours, by making me your rabbi and by making me a rabbi, and so I am very grateful.

Farewell to Beth Shalom

             Three years ago, on a Friday night, I stood on Beth Shalom’s bimah and spoke to you for the first time as your rabbi.  I had three things to say, that night, but I only mentioned two of them.  I forgot the third one.

            The first thing, one of the two I remembered to say, was to explain why I wasn’t leading services that night, and why I sat in the kahal for the first several weeks I was here.  It was so that I would get to know how Beth Shalom does things, so that I could match you rather than requiring you to match me.

            In those first weeks, and in the years that have followed, I have learned how Beth Shalom does things:  beautifully.  Like no other congregation I’ve been part of or even heard about, the Jews of this community take responsibility for their own Judaism.  You cherish it.  You live it.  You do not take it for granted.  You do not cede it away to others.  You wrestle with communal matters like Jacob grappling with that angel-- until you get the proper outcome.  I admire you.

            In my first newsletter article, I mentioned my favourite verse in Torah.  Joseph, wandering the Judean hills in search of his brothers, comes across a nameless man.  “What do you seek?” he asks, pointing the youth in the right direction.  As a Jew, I see myself as Joseph, wandering, searching.  As a rabbi, I see myself as that man, guiding others on their journeys.  Now, at Beth Shalom, you get to become that unnamed man as well.  You get to accompany each other on your journeys—preparing services together, teaching each other, crafting the policies and destinies of this community together, performing Toharah side by side, all with the best interest of the Other at heart, always helping him--not to reach your goal, but his own.  Perhaps this is why the man in the hills has no name:  because he bears all our names.  How can you best guide your fellows?

            My teacher, Rabbi Larry Kushner, wrote:  “Rabbis should treat Jewish more like rabbis.  Jews should treat rabbis more like Jews.”  (“The Tent-Peg Business,” in Judaism, Spring 1988)

            I have endeavored to treat you, the members of this community, like rabbis—engaged, thoughtful Jews responsible for your own Judaism.  You get to do the same for each other.

            The second thing I remembered to say three years ago was that part of the reason I wanted to become a rabbi was to say Shehechiyanu more.  That is, I wanted to experience more important, joyful moments and to mark them not with a signature or handshake, but with a prayer, planting a flag in a moment of time.  In this, my cup has truly “runnedth” over here at Beth Shalom.  What an honour it has been to stand on this bimah and recite shehechiyanu as members of this community—adult and child—became bar and bat mitzvah.  What a pleasure to recite shehechiyanu at weddings—all four of them!—and at the start of the school year.  But more than these times, when we’ve actually stood up and said the words of the blessing, have been the countless times you’ve invited me as your rabbi, into your lives—the laughs, the late nights, the fist-fulls of challah, the sweaty brows, the glee of a small blond boy exploring the synagogue.  These have been shehechiyanu moments, too, and I’ve made the blessing to myself at some of them.  We’ve shared pinnacle moments—glad ones and sad ones—and also mundane moments.  These are how we’ve grown together, how we’ve come to share our lives with each other.  I treasure them all and for each of them, I say “Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech HaOlam—Shehechiyanu, v’kiy’manu, v’higiyanu lazman hazeh--Blessed are You, our God, Source of the Universe, who has given us life, sustained us, and allowed us to reach this moment.”

            There was the third point I forgot to make that night, and know I know why.

            I meant to tell you that it was it was here in Auckland, five years previous, that I became a rabbi.  What I mean is that Haim and I were visiting New Zealand in April, 2003, staying at the Quest Apartment at 62 Queen Street, where I checked my email to see that I had been accepted into Rabbinical School.  It felt so right to begin my rabbinic career in this place, where I had gotten that news.

            But I forgot to mention it that first service—not just because I hadn’t written it down, but also because it turns out it wasn’t true.  I did become a rabbi here in Auckland, but not when I was admitted to Hebrew Union College.  I became a rabbi here day by day, chat by chat, prayer by prayer, meeting by meeting, class by class, visit by visit, El Male Rachamim by El Male Rachamim, tear by tear, sip by sip, hug by hug, blessing by blessing, with each of you.

            Thank you for teaching me how to be a rabbi, and thank you for letting me be your rabbi.  I will treasure you always.