Vayigash 5773

Joseph’s is a story of clothing.  In each episode, a key piece of clothing indicates a change in identity—the multicolored coat, the tunic ripped off his back, the linen trappings and gold chain of office Pharaoh bestows upon him.  Step by step, outfit by outfit, he sheds the identity of the lonely shepherd boy and becomes the grandee of Egypt.
Parashat Vayigash contains the climax of the Joseph story.  This week, he reveals himself to his brothers and they are reunited.  They had not recognized him, presumably because of the finery, ceremonial wig and beard, and jewelry he wore.  From underneath it all comes the simple, clear voice:  “I am Joseph” (Genesis 45:3).  Despite all the changes life brought him, he is the same essential self.

Human beings wear clothes to signal our identity and status—the police officer’s uniform, the judge’s robe, the waitress’ apron, the king’s crown.   These signal what we do, but they do not signal who we are.  They cloak our inner beings even as they reveal our public selves.  We are God’s likeness, true and pure and good.

It is easy to see only the exterior of a person, as Joseph’s brothers did, that is, the personae he or she presents to the outside world.  Our more profound task is to see the full and unique person underneath the uniform, to recognize the image of God hiding behind the mask.

What are the uniforms and masks you wear?

Parashat Vayishlach 5773

What do you do when a friend does wrong?  Do you bring it up or let it slide?  And if you decide to speak up, how do you do it?  These are not easy questions.  Fortunately, we have guidance.

The rabbis point to Tamar as the paragon of tochechah—the loving rebuke.

When Tamar’s husband dies, Judah, her father-in-law, follows the patriarchal practice of the time and marries her to his second son, Onan.  When Onan, too, dies, Judah violates the law and withholds his third son from her, leaving her socially outcast and economically vulnerable.

Needing a baby but without other recourse, Tamar veils herself and pretends to be a harlot by the side of the road.  She seduces Judah.  As pledge of payment, she claims his signet, cord, and staff.  These are sufficiently personal so as to identify him.

When she starts to show, she is brought before her father-in-law so that he can mete out justice.  “Tamar your daughter-in-law has played the whore; and now she has even become pregnant by whoring.”  And Judah said, “Bring her out and let her be burned!”  (Genesis 38:24)

Although condemned to die, Tamar does not call Judah out on his hypocrisy.   Instead, she produces his items and says “the man to whom these belong made me pregnant.  Acknowledge whose signet seal, cords, and staff these are.”  (Genesis 38:25)  Judah does, and further acknowledges her righteousness.

Tamar corrected her father-in-law, and did so effectively.  She did not humiliate him publically.  She spoke gently and tenderly, and also clearly.  She was fair and forgiving.  These are key aspects of the loving rebuke.  Maimonides also includes performing tochechah for the wrongdoer’s own good, rather than for vengeance or one-ups-manship.  Ineffective rebukes, on the other hand, are public, angry, harsh, condescending, self-serving, shaming, or resentful.  (Mishneh Torah, Book One: Knowledge, Chapter 6:6,7)

Have you ever given a rebuke?  Was it effective or ineffective, and what made it so?  Have you ever been rebuked?  How did it feel?

Tol'dot 5773

Twins, one good and one bad, battle each other.  One will ultimately reign over the other.  It’s the story of Jacob and Esau, told in this week’s parsha, Tol’dot.  It’s also the story of other classic pairs of twins:  the Egyptian Osiris and Set, the Roman Remus and Romulus, the Zoroastrian Ahriman and Ahura Mazda—and Tweedledee and Tweedledum from Wonderland.  Just like Jacob and Esau, the Mesopotamian hero Gilgamesh was civilized, while his brother Enkidu was wild.  The good twin/evil twin construction symbolizes opposition and binary thinking.

With a set up that powerful, that mythic, it’s no surprise that the story of Jacob and Esau, struggling for supremacy from within the womb, has captured the imagination of Jews for millennia.  We read their story and see ourselves in it.  For the early rabbis who lived under Roman rule, Esau (also called “Edom/Red”) comes to stand for Rome.  The Jacob/Esau story gave Jews of that day hope for their ultimate triumph over earthly oppressors.

This week, Israel has once again joined the battle against Hamas in Gaza.  Sitting on its hands as wave after wave of rockets fell on civilian centers, Israel assassinated a leader of Hamas.  There can be no doubt but that Israel was within its right to force the shelling of its cities to stop.  No nation can be expected to endure the insult and injury that the Jewish state has endured.  Hamas’ persistent and ongoing bombing of Israel is categorically unacceptable.

In retaliation for the assassination, 300 rockets fell on Israel on Thursday (NPR).  Today, Friday, HaAretz reports that rockets have hit the Tel Aviv area and that a rocket has been fired at Jerusalem.  The shelling is ongoing and will continue.  I’m told that over a million Israelis are sleeping in bomb shelters. According to HaAretz, “The Israel Defense Forces struck some 150 targets (Thursday) night in Gaza.”  IDF reservists are being called up; Israeli ground forces may enter Gaza.  Israel, our beloved, is under siege.

Even as we pray for a cessation of violence, for Hamas to stop the bombing, let us remember that other paths exist.  Just as Isaac and Ishmael came together years after their animosity, Jacob and Esau, too, reconciled years later and crafted a truce.  In our own day, bitter enemies have reconciled in Ireland, South Africa, Nicaragua and elsewhere.  So may, someday, Israel and her neighbors lay down their weapons and get on with the business of living.

Are destined to dance this dance forever?  Surely there is a better way than this pattern of strike and retaliation, retribution and grief.  Surely we can move beyond the false binary opposition of Jacob/Esau, Civilized/Wild, Good/Bad, Yes/No.  Peace and prosperity do not lie down that path. 

For the sake of all, we pray for a quick end to this fighting, and a return to negotiations leading to meaningful, sustainable peace.

Chayei Sarah

It’s been an intense week, culminating an intense year.

Tuesday saw our president re-elected after a long and expensive slog-fest.  Passions and opinions have run sky-high.  “Red” and “Blue,” it felt like we were living in parallel universes, speaking entirely different languages.  Friends and family with different politics found they couldn’t speak with one another civilly.  One person’s social policy stance felt like a personal attack on another.  Those with wealth and power sought to manipulate the rest of us.  Thank goodness that’s over, at least for a while.

In this week’s portion, Chayei Sarah, Isaac and Ishmael, both sons of Abraham, reunite to bury their father.  You may recall that they had played together as boys, but then their lives diverged:  Ishmael banished (twice!) to the desert, Isaac offered up as sacrifice by his father.  The Torah never recounts their speaking to each other after boyhood; in fact, they go to live in different places.  But they reunite when time and task demands it.

It mustn’t have been easy for the brothers.  What emotions did they have upon seeing each other?  Jealousy?  Bitterness?  Anger?  Guilt?  Regret?  What memories were stirred up in the burial cave?  And yet, to honor their father, the man who had exiled and brutalized them, they were able to look each other in the eyes and do what had to be done.

I pray that our country can do the same.  I pray that we can put partisan passion and brutal bickering behind us, and get on with the sacred task of building a more perfect union.

Va-yera 5773

A tale of contrasts:  Abraham welcomes guests with milk, bread, and beef while “a certain woman,” widowed and in debt, has nothing in her home but a jug of oil. 

We tell both stories this week.  In the Torah portion Va-yera, Genesis 18:1-21:7, there is plenty.  In the Haftarah for Va-yera, 2 Kings 4:1-37, there is want.  And so it is in our society:  bounty and need exist side by side.

Some families eat nutritious food, while others consume chemicals and empty calories.

Some neighborhoods have access to grocery stores and fresh produce is readily available.  Others are served by mini-marts and alcohol is readily available.

Some families have enough all month long; others only eat until the pay check runs out. 

Some families chose to eat out; others chose between food and medication.

Some farmers are paid to grow nothing; some farmers can’t afford to buy seed.

This Friday night, November 2, Temple Emanuel joins over 200 synagogues and Jewish groups across the country in marking Global Hunger Shabbat.  A table will provide information on food and hunger related issues during the nosh.  It’s a great opportunity to learn about food insecurity, US Food Aid, the Farm Bill and the 1 billion people who go hungry every day.

This is the third Global Hunger Shabbat, sponsored by American Jewish World Service (www.ajws.org).  We are the only site in Arizona—thank you to Arnold Maltz for organizing!

This special Shabbat, we are asked to consider and act:  “How does our tradition inspire us? How do we use our power as American Jews to make a difference in the lives of people facing hunger in the developing world? How can we be more effective in our role as advocates and catalysts for change?”

Noach 5773

With a booming ‘thud,’ the massive door swung closed and the ark was sealed tight.  Whatever was inside would survive; whatever was outside would perish.  The rain began to fall.

The Noah story lays out the blueprint of the ark, including the vessel’s dimensions.  But it never mentions windows.  I imagine that the ark had none, that it was both sound proof and pitch black.  Sound proof, so that the inhabitants couldn’t hear the screams of people drowning around them. Pitch black, so that the survivors wouldn’t have to look each other in the face, couldn’t see each other react to the sounds of horror around them, didn’t share their relief when the cries for mercy finally stopped.  (“Whatever on dry land had the breath of life in its nostrils, died.  God wiped out all that existed on the face of the earth—human, beast, reptile, birds of the sky—they were wiped off the earth; there remained only Noah and those with him in the ark” [Genesis 7:22-23].)  Only when the last sob petered out, only when the last finger stopped scraping at the door, only then, I imagine, did Noah’s fireflies start to glow so that the survivors could get to work.

It is so easy to shut our eyes to the pain and suffering around us.  We work and go to school with people whose bellies aren’t full.  We drive past homeless people.  We look past the bruises hidden behind sunglasses.  We ignore the overwhelming suffering of those in the developing world. 

Will you be like Noah, sealed inside a bubble, eyes closed to the need around you?  Or will you be like the dove, who travels out into the world, searching for opportunity, returning  and returning to offer help and hope?

B'reshit 5773

We lead chaotic lives.

From the minute the alarm clock shrieks, we race from demand to demand, deadline to deadline.  Our kid yells that he won’t get dressed; we’re out of milk and have to schlep to get it.  The email piles up and the phone won’t stop ringing.  Heaven forbid a kid gets sick or the car needs new struts—then, life is simply overwhelming.  When does the “to do” list ever get done?  When does it get easy?

The world was turbulent like that once, says the Torah.  “When God was about to create heaven and earth, the earth was a chaos, unformed, and on the chaotic waters’ face there was darkness” (Genesis 1:1-2, The Torah:  A Women’s Commentary, URJ Press).  The world was “tohu vavohu,” words impossible to translate but evoking a proto-world that is unformed, stormy, writhing.  The word “t’hom,” translated here as “chaotic waters” and often as “the deep,” evokes the Mesopotamian goddess Tiamat, primordial and violent goddess of the sea.
But our God, Elohim, brings order to the madness, creating the world in a thoughtful, organized, highly structured way.  God tames the turbulence and brings it under control.  How does God first appear in the Torah?  “Then the ruach/wind of God glided over the face of the waters.”  God’s presence is a soothing breeze, a cosmic breath, the spirit of order.  God exhales across the madness and settles everything down.

When life is too chaotic, when it all becomes too much, remember what God did in the very beginning:  breathe.

Sukkot -- 5773

Any child can tell you about the three little pigs and the big bad wolf who huffs and puffs and blows their flimsy houses down.

As scholar Bruno Bettelheim interprets, the story, “The littlest pig built his house with the least care out of straw; the second used sticks; both throw their shelters together as quickly and effortlessly as they can, so they can play for the rest of the day.  Living in accordance with the pleasure principle, the younger pigs seek immediate gratification, without a thought for the future and the dangers of reality, although the middle pig shows some growth in trying to build a somewhat more substantial house than the youngest.”   The oldest pig, building with brick, understands the realities and dangers of the world.  Only he invests his time wisely.  By using solid materials, he protects his life from the ravenous wolf.

Judaism sees things differently from The Three Little Pigs, not surprisingly. 

On Sukkot, we live for a week in a flimsy booth.  Starlight and rain can pour through the roof, wind can blow through the walls, and bugs can bite our ankles.  All of these are physical realities and symbolic experiences of the vagaries of life.   We remind ourselves that the dangers of the world come in a variety of forms and that that bricks and concrete can’t really protect us.  No matter what kind of home we build, no matter how much stuff we accumulate, life can huff and puff and blow us down.  The world of matter is fleeting; the worlds of spirit and relationships endure.

For Jews, the flimsy house is not a sign of the pursuit of fleeting pleasure.  It is instead a reminder of the fleeting nature of our lives.

 

Bettelheim, Bruno, The Uses of Enchantment:  The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales, Vintage Books, NY, 1975, as reprinted at www.shol.com/agita/pigpsych.htm.

Vayelech 5773

Here stands Moses, on the border—the desert behind him, the river before him.  Here we stand, on the border—the past behind us, the future before us.  We are all always poised on the narrow strip known as ‘now.’  “You shall not go across yonder Jordan,” God told Moses (Deuteronomy 31:2).  There is only this moment, the eternal ‘now’.

Moses anticipates his death in this week’s parashah, Vayeilech.  We do the same at Yom Kippur.  We are further told that “Moses wrote down this Teaching/Torah,” the national story that is also his personal story (Deuteronomy 31:9).  Is it coincidence that this week, at Yom Kippur, we, too, become aware that we are writing the stories of our lives?  There is something shared about contemplating mortality and writing one’s memoir.  It is an attempt to make sense of who were are, and also a plea to be remembered.

During this week of Vayeilech and the Yamim Noraim/Days of Awe, let’s take a page out of Moses’ book, and write the stories of our lives.  This is the time to remember and consider:  What were the big events this past year?  Who were the major characters?  What were the turning points so subtle we only became aware of them in hindsight?  Who taught us?  Where did we go wrong?

“You open the book of our days, and what is written there proclaims itself, for it bears the signature of every human being” (Gates of Repentance, page 176).

Nitzavim 5772

A thousand choices a day:  Accelerate through the intersection or apply the break?  Climb the stairs or take the elevator?  Fries or a salad?   Each one adds up to a life lived either more healthfully or harmfully.  “I have set before you this day life and death, the blessing and the curse.  You shall choose life, so that you and your offspring will live” (Deuteronomy 30:19).

It ain’t easy to make the healthy choice.  Fries are delicious and the elevator is faster.   But we all know that it’s better to slow down and eat thoughtfully.  We all know that our diet is too high in fats, sodium, chemicals, and processed food.  If only it were easier to take care of ourselves.

That’s why Temple Emanuel is becoming a home for Community Supported Agriculture.  Farm-fresh, pesticide-free, organically-grown produce will be delivered to the synagogue each week.  Those that have subscribed will be entitled to a share of the goodies—whole, nutritious food, the kind you know you should be eating.  The offerings change each week as the farm yields different crops.

Learn more about Community Supported Agriculture by visiting www.tempecsa.org.  Enroll in the upcoming season (September 18 – December 11, 2012) before this Sunday, September 13, 2012 by emailing Mateo at Tempe.CSA@gmail.com for the discounted payment link of $225/12 weeks directly. Put “Temple Emanuel" in the subject line.   Or you can always join us in January.

We are commanded to steward the land and take care of our bodies.  I hope you will join me in supporting this exciting new venture for the synagogue and for our families.  The choice is yours.

Ki Tavo 5772

Moses enacts the ritual:  the people are divided into two groups by tribe, and each of them assembles at the foot of a mountain.  The priests read out a litany of blessings and curses, to which the people respond “amen.”

Blessings and curses—our lives are full of both.  From the expansive to the mundane, our days are comprised of triumph and torment, joy and frustration.  Both swirl around us, tap us on the shoulder, and change us.

With Rosh Hashanah a mere week and a bit away, now is the time to take stock of our lives.  In what ways are we blessed, and in what ways cursed?  More specifically, who has been a blessing to you in the year that will soon end?  How have you acknowledged them?  How have you been a blessing to others?  What curses do you live with?  How have you been a curse to others?  How have you cursed yourself?  And, perhaps most important of all—how can you turn your blessings into curses, so that next year will be a better year for you, your family, and your people?

Re'eh 5772

“See, this day I set before you blessing and curse” (Deuteronomy 11:26).

Human beings stand perpetually at a crossroad, deciding which path to take.  We have free will, and are afforded choice each and every day, each and every moment.  We chose between blessing and curse at all times.

The choices are usually miniscule, but small choices add up.  According to Sfat Emet, the Hasidic master from the early Twentieth Century, each choice is but a hairbreadth, that is, so minor as to be insignificant.  “The righteous, as they overcome each hairbreadth, go on to encounter another.  They keep doing so forever, until they accumulate so many as to seem like a mountain” (Arthur Green, The Language of Truth, JPS, 1998).  This is how we craft our way in this world, and it is entirely up to us whether we arrive at the summit of righteousness or the valley of wickedness.  Both journeys are made one step at a time.

Eikev 5772

Moses, approaching the end of his days, remembers what happened after he destroyed the first set of Commandments.  God tells him to “hew … two stone tablets like the first ones and come up to Me onto the mountain, and make for yourself a wooden ark”  (Deuteronomy 10:1).  Moses, however, “made an ark of acacia wood, and [then] hewed two stone tablets like the first ones” (10:3). 

Rashi notices that Moses goes out of order, directly disobeying God.  He was supposed to make the tablets first.  The great commentator explains Moses’ thinking by putting words in his mouth:  “I, however, made the ark first, because when I could come with the tablets in my hand, where would I put them?”

There are dreamers in this world, people who have bold visions and inspire others to join in.  And there are systems people, capable of determining the proper order so that processes are smooth, efficient, and effective.  Some are content to launch out into the unknown.  Others prefer having a map in hand.  When taking on a project, following instructions is often beneficial.  And sometimes improvisation is what’s needed.  Success usually requires a mixture of vision AND research, planning AND adaptation.  The trick is to know your strength, and when to employ each technique.

How do you work best?  Do you seek out partners to compliment you, or do you find it upsetting to work with people who have styles different from yours?

Parashat Vayetchanan 5772

“Hear, O Israel!  YHVH is our God, YHVH is One!”  The Shema, “watchword of our faith,” is Deuteronomy 6:4 and is found in Parashat V’Etchanan.  These six little words contain so much richness, so much complexity, and so much ambiguity.  No wonder they have resonated through the millennia.
Once, when I worked at a Jewish summer camp, I accompanied a group of youngsters on an evening hike.  We climbed onto a fire lookout, breathed in the fresh-born air, and listened to the silence.  I asked the students to look around them and tell me what they saw.  Predictably, they told me that they saw trees.  When I asked them to look further off, they suddenly saw the forest.  Notice the details, and see the trees.  Take in the big picture, and see the forest. 
The Shema reminds us of this fact.  Viewed separately, the pieces of this world are disconnected, separate.  The wall and the window and the ceiling are all disparate parts of my office.  Viewed holistically, they fuse together and form a single entity.  And so it is with everything that fills the Universe.
We can choose to see the world as a jumble of disparate pieces, each one separate from the others.  Or we can peel back the illusion within which we live to see the Unity behind it, the Oneness that transcends all division.

Matot/Ma'asei

The Bible can be boring. 

“These are the marches of the Israelites who started out from the Land of Egypt, troop by troop, in the charge of Moses and Aaron.  Moses recorded the starting points of their various marches as directed by God.  Their marches, by starting point, were as follows…”  (Numbers 33:1-2).  I will spare you the long list of place names.  Like the interminable “begats,” this is a list that feels empty, purposeless.  Why are they included in the Torah?  What is sacred about them?  Who cares?

Answering this question, the midrash tells the story of a king whose son became sick.  Since medical care in his kingdom was insufficient, the ruler takes his boy to a distant land for treatment.  On the way back, the father recounts tenderly what happened at each place where they stopped:  “Here you had to rest.”  “Here you had a headache.”  “Here you could not sleep.”  To an outsider, the places mean nothing.  To one who loves, they mean everything.

I have lived in Los Angeles, Madrid, Los Angeles, Boston, Cairo, New York, Key West, Los Angeles, Mallorca, Los Angeles, Jerusalem, Los Angeles, Auckland, and Tempe.  And in each one of them, I have learned, encountered, suffered, and evolved.  To anyone else, this list is merely a sequence of place names.  To me, it is my life.

What are the places of your life?  What makes them special?

Balaak 5772

When messengers ask the prophet Balaam to curse the Israelites, he tells them “spend the night here, and I shall reply to you as God may instruct me” (Numbers 22:8).  In other words, “I’ll sleep on it.”

It makes good sense to sleep on a big decision.  So often, we rush into things because someone else expects an answer, not because we’re ready to choose.  We seek to please others and, in our haste, might not make the best choice for ourselves.  The pressure is exacerbated in our microwaveable, text-messaging, “buy-now-limited-time,” drive-thru culture.

While quick decisions can often be insightful (see Malcolm Gladwell’s Blink), I find that “sleeping on it” gives my unconscious the chance to mull a choice, to play with possibilities, and imagine outcomes.  I may go to bed unclear, but I often know exactly what to do or say upon waking.  I wonder whether the voice we attribute to the unconscious is the same one the ancients heard as God.

This is a lesson taught by Shabbat, revolutionary in our time:  things can wait.  Tomorrow will come.  So slow down, allow your mind to refresh itself.  Sleep on it.

Chukat 5772

Miriam, prophetess and celebrant, dies in the desert this week (Numbers 20:1).  The nation loses a leader.

Her community, we are told, pauses in its travels to mourn.  The rabbis understand this as observance of shiva—taking a week out of life’s flow to stop, gather, grieve, and remember.  This pause is a powerful acknowledgement of the reality of death—a reality that will not be suspended, that cannot be put on hold or avoided.  It must be acknowledged.  In our day, many people shrink shiva to a day or two, or ignore it all together.  Are our jobs—the ones we thrill to leave behind for the weekend, or to go on vacation—really so important that they cannot wait for the psyche to come to grips with its loss, sooth itself, and relax into the new reality?

In the verse immediately after Miriam’s death, the Torah reports that “there was no water for the congregation” (20:2).  Connecting these two episodes, the rabbis report that “from here [we learn that] all forty years they had the well in Miriam’s merit” (Rashi, citing Ta’anit 9a).  A spectacular well bubbled with water and life as they traveled, quenching the people’s thirst, due to Miriam’s virtue.

The life force is bountiful like a well—coursing, bubbling, giving.  It is constant, but ever-changing.  When someone dies, I imagine, the Well of Life pauses just slightly in its flow, then resumes.  When someone we love passes away, we are asked to do the same.

Have you observed shiva?  What was that experience like?  What did it teach you?

Parshat Sh'lachlcha 5772

Dusty from the road, the tribes of Israel arrive at the Promised Land.  They’ve crossed the sea, walked long and hard, known hunger, built the mishkan, and heard God’s own voice.  Having reached the border, their destination is in sight and they suppose their exodus is over.  They are mistaken.

The Promised Land is the Land of Promise—that is, the future:  limitless and bountiful.  It is that ideal tomorrow in which we each live up to our fullest potentials.  Flowing with milk and honey, laden with fruit, the Promised Land is a metaphor for abundance.  There, dreams are nourished and prayers are answered.  There, our best and highest selves find inspiration.

In Parashat Sh’lachlcha, the twelve scouts reconnoiter the Holy Land to ascertain “what kind of country it is” (Numbers 13:18).  In this way, the scouts are like all people.  Each one of us stands on the border of the future, perpetually on the brink of what’s-to-come.  We crane our necks to know what the future holds.  “What will happen?”  “Who will I meet?” “What should I do?” “Will I have enough?” each of us wonders.  “What kind of country is it?” Moses asks.  “Are the people who dwell in it strong or weak, few or many?  Is the country in which they dwell good or bad?  Are the towns they live in open or fortified?  Is the soil rich or poor?  Is it wooded or not?”  (Numbers 13:18-20).  It is very human to want to peer beyond the curtain of time, to know what tomorrow will bring.

When faced with the unknown, human beings react in different ways.  Some, like the ten, fear the enormity of the task.  Others, like the two, thrill to the possibility.

The ten fearful spies are like many of us.  Notice their report: “The country that we traversed and scouted is one that devours its settlers.  All the people that we saw in it are of great size … we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them” (13:32-33).  They are overwhelmed by what might befall them and so shrink back, threatened.  They do not prepare themselves.  They turn away.  The future happens to them—or worse, devours them.

Others, like Joshua and Caleb, see opportunity ahead.  They are excited to discover what the future holds, to take charge of their own lives.  “Let us by all means go up, and we shall gain possession of it, for we shall surely overcome it” (13:30).

The duo of spies in this week’s haftarah, Joshua 2:1-24, approach their task differently still.  They proceed with care, but still connect to the unknown.  They make the future an ally:  “we will deal kindly and truly with you,” they tell Rahab (2 Joshua 1:14).  They are cautious, but not afraid.

Whether we acknowledge it or not, each of us is hurtling into the future.  How will we face it?  It’s important that we know ourselves, understand how we behave when faced with the unknown.  Some people like to research to know what lies ahead.  Some make a plan to know what they are to do.  Some craft a model or a tool to help them visualize, to act.  Some improvise, believing in their ability to create to see them through.  No one system is better than others; each of us has our own style.  What’s important is to know how we anticipate best—what we need in order to be relaxed and enthused about moving forward.  If you know what you need to succeed, you are better equipped to do so.  And if you know what you lack, you are better able to find a partner who can help you process in a different way, to see what you are missing.

The future is only a breath away, and we are—each one of us—always arriving.  The Land of Promise beckons.  What would you like to accomplish?  Who would you like to become?  Those possibilities exist just across the river, if you would but cross and inhabit them.

In Our Grief

Where was God?  How did God allow this to happen?

In the wake of the deaths of the Butwin Family, lots of people are asking this question.  If God is good and God is all powerful, why didn’t God stop this from happening?  Why does God permit suffering?

Jews hold that God doesn’t work that way.  God does not interrupt the world to stop suffering.

This world of ours is, in fact, not fair.  Although we tell our children that it is (whether explicitly, through our words, or implicitly, by using reward and punishment to elicit the behavior we seek), this is not objective reality.  No adult can look at the world and honestly believe that only good happens to good people, and only bad happens to bad people—and always in proportion to their goodness and badness.  It is simply and patently not the case.  People do not always get what they deserve.

We use reward and punishment to teach our children, to encourage them to develop good behavior.  But that does not mean that God rewards for good behavior and punishes for bad behavior.  That’s what parents do, not what God does.

Human beings have free will.  We get to make choices in the world, some big, like where to live, and some small, like what to eat for breakfast.  This means that we sometimes make bad choices, and that accidents happen.  These are the prices we pay for our free will.

If God did not allow the mistakes—even out of goodness, out of benevolence—then our freedom would be false.  We would be like student drivers with an instructor at our side always ready to grab the wheel.  Our lives would not be our own; we would not be fully human.

God would have to stop me from driving off a cliff and also from choosing the sugary breakfast cereal, for they both have negative consequences.  If God controlled every action and response, there would be no consequence for our behavior.  And then we would cease to be human.  We would be mere robots, following our programming, completing tasks with no thought to the repercussions.

“That means that people are free to do some terrible things.  When they do, God will not stop them.  Because if God stops one crime, God must stop all of them.  God cannot reach down and save the victims of one tragedy and let others die” (David Wolpe, Teaching Your Children About God, 1993, 180).

Suffering is the price we pay for our humanity.

I do not believe that Jim made this choice.  As has been widely reported and was well known to his circle of friends, Jim suffered from a brain tumor.  I believe that this changed him.  Jim did not decide to end his family’s lives — his illness did.

Belief in absolute fairness is an important and positive developmental stage for children. For adults, however, the obligation is to pursue fairness -- justice.  “Tzedek tzedek tirdof,” we are commanded.  “Justice Justice you shall pursue” (Deuteronomy 16:20).  We seek fairness because we know it does not currently exist.

Although the world is not fair, neither is it cold.  Chesed, the “milk of human kindness” matters.  I have received a great outpouring of love from community members, fellow rabbis around the world, and complete strangers.  Jim and Yafit’s extended families have felt it.  I’m sure many of you have, too.

Tragedy is a challenge, an invitation for us to reach beyond ourselves, to reach up and out to others in need.  In this way we can use our free will for the good.

Parashat Naso 5772

Being a rabbi holds many blessings:  you connect with folk of all ages, children throw themselves into your arms for hugs, people invite you into their homes, stories and lives.  And you are often called upon to give blessings—so speak special words to people on sacred occasions, to convey in language love, tenderness, holiness, protection. 

Parashat Naso includes the famous words of Birkat HaKohanim, the Priestly Benediction:

May the Eternal bless and protect you.

May the Eternal deal kindly and graciously with you.

May the Eternal bestow divine favor upon you and grant you peace (Numbers 6:24-26).    

I am especially privileged to offer this blessing to a Bar or Bat Mitzvah each week, as he or she stands before the open ark, ready to embark on the great journey of Adulthood.

But as the blessing itself says, I am not the one doing the blessing.  I am merely the conduit for the shefa/flow of Divine grace.  Shefa is the abundance that abounds constantly in the Universe, the love that overflows any cup.  It is far too vast for me to create it or even add to it.  All I can seek to do is direct it—even slightly—towards the recipients of the blessing, so that they will be showered with protection, kindness, grace, and peace.

People often ask me to bless them, and it is an honor to do so.  But I never forget that I am not the Source of the Blessing, but only the channel.  For so God says in the verse that follows the Priestly Blessing:  “Thus they shall link My name with the people of Israel, and I will bless them” (Numbers 6:27).

“Ken y’hi ratzon,” as we say in response.  “So may it be.”

Behar/B'hukotai 5772

In Biblical times, a person could be “promised” to the Temple—witness childless Hannah’s dedication of her unborn son Samuel for service.  In Parashat B’chukotai, we are offered a list of monetary equivalents of people’s service, delineated by age and gender.  Rather than work off a vow in the Temple, a person could contribute a cash equivalent:  50 shekels of silver for a male between twenty and sixty, 30 for a female of the same age; 20 shekels for a male aged five to twenty, ten for a female; fifteen shekels for a male over aged sixty, ten for a female. Despite this rigid hierarchy of worth, the passage ends with a softener:  “But if one cannot afford the equivalent, that person shall be presented before the priest, and the priest shall make an assessment; the priest shall make the assessment according to what the person can afford” (Leviticus 27:8).

The valuations exist within the patriarchal system, but it is still an affront to think that one person’s service is worth less than another’s.  We balk at the passage’s patently unequal view of human worth, even though we understand inherently that some people command more for their work than others.  Nonetheless, the passage offers a beautifully balancing coda, a sliding scale that acknowledges that all people have the yearning to serve, to be part of something holy and big and important.  This desire exists regardless of a person’s ability to spend time or treasure for a cause, and should not be denied.  Rather than fear that some will decrease their gift, Leviticus and the priest instead create a path for all to contribute.  Service is subjective, yet all are uplifted through it.

Emor 5772

Many of Judaism’s traditional mourning practices are based on verses found in Parshat Emor.  They derive from instructions to priests regarding death.

Kohanim were discouraged from having contact with a corpse, since such contact creates “ritual defilement.”  A ritually defiled priest is in a spiritual state that prohibits him from performing his duties.  (Such a state can be reversed by immersion at the mikveh so that the priest can return to his work.)   Nonetheless, a priest could knowingly become ritually defiled in order to accompany some for burial—but not all people, just those of close relations.  This suite of six relationships was the basis for the Shulchan Aruch’s determination that Kaddish Yatom (Mourner’s Kaddish) is recited only for one’s mother, father, son, daughter, brother, and unmarried sister (Leviticus 21:2-3).  Many uphold this practice today, declining to recite Kaddish for grandparents, aunts and uncles, for example, for whom they are not official mourners.  Some whose parents are living leave the room when Kaddish is recited.

Kaddish Yatom helps us channel our grief, pay tribute to our beloved dead, and acknowledge the existence of something larger than our own, bounded lives.  In our community, everyone is invited to stand for the recitation of the Mourner’s Kaddish, regardless of relationship to the deceased.  For us, the circle of concern has expanded beyond the six primary relationships.  Concern over ritual defilement has, at the same time, diminished.  When we stand for Kaddish, we stand to mourn all those we have loved and lost, whether or not that person was Jewish.  We stand to honor those lost in the Shoah who have us to recite Kaddish for them.  We stand to support those who are grieving.  We stand to praise God, and to remember.

Parashat Kiddushim 5772

The “Holiness Code” is a guide for life of quality and meaning.  The list of rules includes some that are lofty (“You shall rise before the aged and show deference to the old; you shall fear your God:  I am the Eternal” [Leviticus 19:32]) and some that are lowly (“You shall not make gashes in your flesh for the dead, or incise any marks on yourselves:  I am the Eternal” [19:28].)  Some rules are rational and others impenetrable; all point the way to a life lived in holiness.

One rule intrigues me particularly.  “You shall not falsify measures of length, weight, or capacity.  You shall have an honest balance, honest weights, an honest eifah, and an honest hin,” where an eifah is a unit of dry measure, and a hin a unity of wet measure (19:35-36).  Why is this important, and why repeat the injunction—once in the general, and once in the specific?

Could it matter if a fishmonger puts her thumb on the scales from time to time, or a grocer pinches a bit of flour?  The buyer won’t even notice the difference, and the seller will have a meaningful benefit by the end of the day.

But an unscrupulous seller really does steal.  Even though each theft is slight, the loss becomes substantial over the buyer’s lifetime.  (Perhaps this is why the rule is repeated in our passage—because the dishonesty begins as something minor, but is repeated over and over until it becomes great.)  Buyers and sellers are, by necessity, adversaries.  One wants the price low; the other wants it high.  One wants to maximize quality and quantity; the other wants to reduce them.  But if even buyer and seller can agree to function with a framework of fairness, then the foundation has been lain for a just—and therefore holy—society.

Chol HaMoed Pesach 5772

The Torah is a sacred story that flows like a river through the year.  Week by week, the narrative is unbroken.  At key moments, however, it is put on pause.  Holy days, such as Passover, have a special reading associated with them in place of the weekly portion.  Instead of continuing with the master story, we pause and remind ourselves of the rules of observance of the festival at hand.  And so it is this week.

Human beings tell stories about ourselves, too.  Stories help us understand ourselves, and explain ourselves to others.  Many of us have a master narrative, a story that describes how we came to be and why we are the ways we are.  (“Well, you see, I grew up poor…”  “My father was a very demanding, and I’ve been rebelling ever since…”  “No matter how hard I try, I’m never lucky in love.”)  Personal master narratives help us understand ourselves in the world.

But a personal master narrative can also be confining.  It can stop us from seeing other options, experiencing other ways of being.  So it’s also important to be able to tell a different story about ourselves, too, at least from time to time.  (“I’m always very responsible, but every once in a while I throw caution to the wind…”  “I’m a vegetarian, but tonight I’m going to eat a steak.”  “I’m never lucky in love, but this time is going to be different.”)  It’s unburdening to have an alternative story to tell about yourself, to know that we are allowed more than one story.

The Torah is a story that lives within us and through us.  Ancient though it is, it is also surprising, because sometimes it has a new tale to tell.

Passover 5772

Horseradish is intense, bold, biting.  It shocks the mouth, overpowers the mind, and clears the sinuses.  It’s also the most important Jewish moment of the year.

Horseradish is maror, the bitter herb.  It takes its place on the seder plate along with the other foods, but it acts differently from them.  They remind us of our ancestors’ plight-and-flight; maror lets us experience it.

Maror allows us to experience suffering, dis-ease, and misery.  When we eat maror, we get direct, physical knowledge of discomfort--even those of us who like it!  We go one better than “walking a mile in the shoes” of those who suffer—we taste a bit of their pain.  We identify with the sufferer.

The challenge is to taste the bitterness all year long.  Why do this?  So that when, in the coming year, we cross paths with a homeless person, we will taste helplessness.  So that when we hear of disaster, we will taste despair.  When we learn of oppression, we will taste brutality.  When we taste these things, we identify with the victims.  We cannot look away.  Indeed, we are required to act on their behalf.

Maror is an exercise in radical empathy.  Take a big bite.

I wish you a sweet—and bitter—Passover.

Parashat Tzav

Leviticus is a complex book.  At its core, it is about holiness and communion with God, but it’s hard to see beyond the blood, gore, and ashes.

Week after week, we read about the sacrifices to be “turned to smoke” on the altar—a parade of bulls, rams, goats, lambs, and doves is sacrificed and burnt.  What happens with the char that’s left behind?

This week, we learn that “the priest shall dress in linen raiment, with linen breeches next to his body; and he shall take up the ashes to which the fire has reduced the burnt offering on the altar and place them beside the altar.  He shall then take off his vestments and put on other vestments, and carry the ashes outside the camp to a pure place.  The fire on the altar shall be kept burning” (Leviticus 6:3-5).

We are so quick to cast off the used up, burnt out and picked over.  Ours is a culture of productivity, of value.  Why is a bucket of ashes worthy of special treatment? 

Sometimes there is beauty—even holiness—in what’s left behind.  I can remember visiting the Watts Towers as a boy, and being astounded by the ethereal forms made of broken tile and cement.  And I know that when my college roommate died, my grief taught me to understand the human condition better.  The pain, the loss, the anguish—these undoubtedly made me a more caring person.  As the Kotzker Rebbe said, “There is nothing so human as a broken heart.”

Life hurts.  Life leaves scars.  Although our scars may seem like damage, they are in fact evidence of strength, resilience, repair, and survival.  Consider the scars on your body or soul, the ashes in your life.  What’s beautiful about them?  In what ways are they holy?

Vayakel/Pikudei 5772

Some folk have a knack for drawing—they can see something, or even imagine it, pick up a pencil and render it on paper.  Others learn new languages easily.  Since we cannot fathom why this one was imbued with a particular skill and that one wasn’t, we call it “God-given,” which is to say, at once special and incomprehensible to the human mind.  It is beyond our capacity to understand why people have certain talents, and in what quantity.

Still, talent alone is seldom sufficient for greatness.  It must be matched with a disciplined practice that results in the acquisition of technique.  It also helps to have passion—that is, drive and joy in pursuit of a certain endeavor.  When talent combines with discipline and passion, genius may result.  Genius sees the world in new ways and shares that vision with the rest of us.

In the Jewish tradition, Bezalel is the paragon of talent.

Moses said to the children of Israel, “See, God has called by name Bezalel, the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah.  God has imbued him with the spirit of God, with wisdom, with insight, and with knowledge, and [the talent for] all manner of craftsmanship to do master weaving, to work with gold, silver, and copper, with the craft of stones for setting and with the craft of wood, to work with every [manner of] thoughtful work.”  (Exodus 35:30-33)

Why did it matter that the Mishkan be built beautifully, masterfully?  Because artistry makes things special.  Because creativity shows us new aspects the world.  Because beauty takes us out of the realm of the mundane, uplifts and inspires us.  Wouldn’t you have loved to see the work of Bezalel’s hand, heart and mind, the products of his talent and skill?

At this Friday's KabbalART Shabbat, members of our community are sharing their artistic talents with us.  The nosh takes place outdoors, in a (very!) temporary gallery presenting select pieces of art (some on Jewish themes, some not).  We hope the art will inspire conversation, connection and creativity, and put you in the mood for a beautiful Shabbat.  Tonight, let’s experiment together with fresh ways of seeing, feeling and being.  Isn’t that what Shabbat—and art—are all about?

A Day at the Park

As we made our way home, Jacob turned to me and said, "You're special to me, Dad." 

Say 'hello,' Jacob...

Yitro 5772

The 10 Commandments loom large—over Western Civilization and over the week’s parsha, Yitro, in which they are given.

The tenth:  “You shall not covet your neighbor’s house: you shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, nor male nor female slave, nor ox nor donkey, nor anything that is your neighbor’s” (Exodus 20:14).  What, exactly, is coveting?  It is an intense desire for something, one that might even lead to scheming to acquire it.

I am reminded of the difference between envy and jealousy.  Envy is when I admire something that someone else has and want one for myself.  Jealousy is when I desire something someone else has and what THAT ONE for myself.  It is jealousy, then, that leads to coveting.  Coveting can lead to taking away from another.  It therefore represents a breakdown of social order.

In our society, envy and jealousy are often confused; both are denigrated.  But there is something positive to envy—it can inspire us to achieve and acquire.  “It is the character of very few men to honor without envy a friend who has prospered,” Aeschylus wrote (Agamemnon i. 832).  Envy is the desire that propels us forward, into creating for ourselves rather than into taking away from others.  Envy can spark, while jealousy can burn.

B'shalach 5772

When the waters came crashing together, and the Egyptians drowned, and the Israelites were at last completely saved, Moses burst into song:

[Exodus 15:1]  I will sing to YHVH, for He has triumphed gloriously; horse and driver He has hurled into the sea.  [2]  YHVH is my strength and might/He is become my deliverance.  This is my God and I will enshrine Him; the God of my ancestors, and I will exalt Him.  [3]  YHVH, the Warrior—YHVH is His name!

God as a warrior?  Astounding!  We who “seek peace and pursue it” (Psalm 34:14) have trouble accepting such an aggressive image.  It seems completely at odds with our expectation for a loving, present God.

But there are times when it helps to think of God as a warrior:  focused, determined, targeted, powerful.  Sometimes, we need a warrior for Peace and Justice on our side—a God like the Freedom Riders, able to withstand the onslaught for what is right.  Sometimes, we need a warrior on our side to attack our illness, fighting the “bad guys” inside our bodies and cells—a God like a surgeon, able to cut in order to save.  Sometimes, even lovers of peace need a warrior.

Later in our parsha, God is called a “healer” (15:26).  Perhaps Healers and Warriors have something in common.

Vayeira 5772

It is one of the most upsetting verses in Torah:  “I have now heard the moaning and I have remembered my covenant” (Exodus 6:5).  Had God not heard the Israelites’ groaning previously?  Had God heard the groaning, but ignored it?  Or had God forgotten the covenant?  If any of these is true, then the God-idea is substantially diminished.

Perhaps God is like human beings in that direct experience of another’s suffering moves us, while mere information about it does not.  The raw statistics of child mortality—7.6 million children under 5 died in 2010 worldwide, the global under-five mortality rate has dropped 35 percent in the past twenty years, from 88 deaths per 1,000 live births in 1990 to 57 in 2010* —these dissolve away next to a picture of a suffering child.  Such pictures fade from mind when we are confronted with the immediate reality of a crying baby.

But since that so rarely happens (suffering being hidden from view) and statistics so cold, how are we to react to the moaning we don’t hear?  One answer might be what C. Wright Mills called the Sociological Imagination, the act of extrapolating from a pile of statistics to one single, exemplary story.  The details may be inaccurate, but they portray a greater Truth.  If we imagine a story hidden/embedded in the statistics, we might just be moved to empathy—and beyond:  to action. And perhaps our own action will prompt God’s.

*Source:  UNICEF, www.childinfo.org/mortality.html