Shemot -- 5776

The opening portion of the Book of Exodus is punctuated by conflict and response.  Moses encounters conflict five times.  As he matures, he responds in increasingly evolved ways.

At first, he hides.  Giving birth under Pharaoh’s genocidal decree, Moses’ mother “hid him for three months” (Exodus 2:2).  Second, he attacks.  “When Moses had grown up,” he witnessed an Egyptian beating a Hebrew and “struck down the Egyptian and hid him in the sand” (Ex. 1:12).  Third, he runs away.  When Pharaoh threatens to kill him, “Moses fled.”  (Ex. 1:15).  Fourth, he demurs.  When God demands he return to Egypt and speak with Pharaoh, he asserts his incapacity, insisting that he is “slow of speech and slow of tongue” (Ex. 4:10).  Eventually, he is able to confront his adversary peacefully, telling Pharaoh to “let My people go” (Ex. 5:1).

Hiding.  Fighting.  Fleeing.  Demurring.  Confronting peacefully.  These are five common ways to respond to conflict.

All of us have done each of these, I’m sure.  All of us have had them done to us.  Can you think of times when you hid, fought, fled, demurred, and confronted peacefully?  Do you understand why you did what you did?  What’s your default response to conflict?

Immature people react to what happens to them.  They are not in control of their responses.  Evolved people are more able to pause, determine the course of action that’s most true to their values and most likely to garner an ideal result.

Then, they move forward.  Success may not be immediate for them, but it is far more likely.

Vayechi -- 5776

Photo:  Wilsen Way.

The Book of Genesis concludes this week, and a family saga draws to a close.  With the death of Joseph, the Hebrew story branches out: from the travails of a single family to the travails of an entire nation.

“Joseph lived 110 years,” we are told in Genesis 50:22.  “Joseph died aged 110 years,” we are told again, four verses later.  Since no new information is revealed in the second line, we may either consider it redundant, or a powerful insight with which the Torah is enticing us by only revealing it partially.  Why say both “Joseph lived…” and “Joseph died…”?

When someone dies, their death overshadows all else.  Whether our loved ones are taken suddenly or after a prolonged illness, and whether their death is a tragedy, a blessing, or something in between, we who are left behind see only loss, the silhouette of a life.  When Jewish mourners pour dirt into the grave and rip the black kriyah ribbon, we ritualize these profound truths.  What’s missing in the world cannot be filled in. The tear in our lives cannot be mended.

We grieve and, in time, our lives find new shape.  We craft a new normal.  We come to remember the person we loved for who they were, and can think of more than the way they died.  Through memory, their life returns to our consciousness.  We fill in the fullness of their being, and we weave old fabric into something new.

Edyth Mencher, rabbi and psychotherapist, once told me that, paradoxically, “we need to remember in order to forget.  We need to forget in order to remember.”  How we live and how we die are not the same.  Our lives are far more than their end.



Vayigash -- 5776

It would be funny if it weren’t heart-breaking.

Judah, the ringleader of Jacob’s villainous sons, recounts his family’s story to the grand Vizier of Egypt.  He bemoans his long-lost brother Joseph who “was torn by a beast!  And I have not seen him since” (Genesis 44:28).  Unbeknownst to him, Judah is in fact speaking to that brother, unrecognizable thanks to his Egyptian finery and the passage of time.  Judah cannot see what’s right before his eyes.

So it is with Jacob, too.  Although “the famine in the land was severe” (Genesis 43:1) and Jacob feared starvation, he instructed his sons to “take some of the choice products of the land in [their] baggage, and carry them down as a gift for the man – some balm and some honey, gum, ladanum, pistachio nuts, and almonds” (34:11).  When they move to Egypt, the Torah recounts, “they took along their livestock and the wealth that they had amassed in the land of Canaan” (Genesis 46:6).  Was Jacob’s clan prosperous or was it starving?  Perhaps they were wealthy but believed themselves poor.

So it is with many of us.  We live in a bountiful world and a nation of opportunity.  But we focus so much on what we don’t have that we can’t see what we do.

This is especially true during the Holiday Season.  These days more than ever, the media pound us into believing we need what they want to sell us.  It’s hard to feel sufficient with so much energy focused on making us feel deficient.

So let us return to the message of Hanukkah, even though the Festival is past.  Recall the small jug of oil that was sufficient to meet all the needs.  Remember the single match that lights candle after candle.  We are enough – no, we are grand – just as we are.

Hanukkah -- 5776

The Hanukkah candles remind us of the Miracle, but they are not to do any other “work.”  We do not read by them, or cook by them, or clean by them.  Instead, we delight in them and enjoy them.

Rabbi Richard Levy, one of my mentors, recommended that we spend the 20 minutes or so of a candle’s life staring into it.  Observe the range of colors.  See how it flickers in the slightest draft.  How extraordinary that a flame is both there and not there!  How the smoke twists!  There is so much to see in a single candle.  When we allow ourselves to stop doing, we cannot help but be drawn to the flame.

The Jewish holidays are outward manifestations of our inner lives.  By this I mean that the actions we take and the symbols we contemplate are prompts to feel and think about our lives.  They are opportunities to enhance our spiritual, emotional, and ethical existences as human beings and as Jews.  The candles of Hanukkah give us the chance to pause and consider what’s holy in our lives.

This week, a member of our community was struck by a truck and killed.  It can all be over in an instant – no more celebration, no more laughter, no more candles.  It can all go dark. 

So this year – no, tonight:  light the Hanukkiah and stare into the candles.  Do not clean.  Do not check messages.  Just look.  Soak the glow into your soul, relishing each drop of melted wax.  As we look closely, we cannot help but ponder our own lives.  We contemplate the passion, the beauty, the fragility and the brevity of life.  And we treasure it, for it is so quickly gone.

Life itself is the miracle.  Out, out, brief candle.

Vayeishev -- 5776

Jacob is tricked by ten of his sons, who present him with their brother’s torn coat as evidence of his demise.  Brother Joseph, you may recall, was sold into slavery by those sons; his precious coat ripped and dipped in goat’s blood to cover up their villainy.  Jacob wails in grief: “My son’s coat!  A wild animal has devoured him!  Joseph has been ripped to shreds!” (Genesis 37:33).  Like Othello before him, Jacob is presented with “ocular proof” which actually proves nothing.  The boy is alive.

All around us, “news” sources present propaganda as truth, shaping opinion in a populace that hasn’t been trained to distinguish fact from opinion, ask probing questions, identify specious reasoning, consider the source, confirm the story, or change its mind.  As a result, we’ve become shallow, uninformed, and susceptible.  Big corporations and politicians count on our gullibility to enact their own agendas.


In my small way, I try push back against this.  In Temple Emanuel’s Confirmation Class (10^th and 11^th Grades), we read primary texts and ask questions.  We define words.  We seek to empathize.  We allow disagreement.   I encourage younger kids to ask smart questions and refine their vocabulary.  I ask them to consider other angles.  All of this should make it harder for someone to pull the wool over their eyes someday.

In our worship and our study, we don’t require agreement but in fact relish a range of interpretation.  There is no required statement of faith, nor abdication of mind. 

Synagogue can be an antidote to the pervasive dumbing down of our culture.

Vayetzeh -- 5776

Jacob, on the run and exhausted, readies himself for sleep. “He took from the stones of the place and he put [them] around his head, and lay down in that place” (Genesis 28:11). Then he passes out. As he sleeps, he dreams famously of the ladder rising to heaven. When he wakes, transformed by the mystical experience, he “takes the stone that he had placed around his head and set it as a pillar” (Genesis 28:18).

How did several stones become one?

I like to imagine that Jacob, rather than remaining supine on the ground, actually ascended the ladder. He saw the world from God’s perspective. From on high, what once appeared distant becomes close. Boundaries dissolve. What appears divided is shown to be whole.

The same is true for people. We allow ourselves to be blinded by differences in race, gender, age, nationality, religion, culture, sexual orientation, gender identity, and politics. But these are illusion. We believe that there’s an ‘us’ and a ‘them,’ when, in fact, we are all One.

Toldot -- 5776

Goats heading to water in East Africa's Afar Triangle.

Isaac has grown up. Once an abused child, he has married and become a dad.  He’s received the promise God made to his own father, that his heirs will be as numerous as the stars of the heavens and that they will inhabit the land (Genesis 26:4).  What’s more, Isaac has become wealthy, the master of a large household and plentiful flocks.

But Isaac cannot stop moving.  When the Philistines, the local tribe, “stopped up all the wells which his father’s servants had dug in the days of his father Abraham, filling them with earth” (26:15) he moves to the Wadi [“wash”] of Gerar.  He clears out the wells his father had dug, and restores their names.  “But when Isaac’s servants, digging in the wadi, found a well of spring water, the herdsmen of Gerar quarreled with Isaac’s herdsmen, saying ‘the water is ours’” (26:18-20).

Isaac moves again, seemingly to avoid conflict, and digs another successful well.  “Now at last YHVH has granted us ample space to increase in the land” (26:22).

Since he’s finally found space with sufficient water and without belligerent local, we expect him to stay put.  But in the verse that follows, we learn that “from there he went up to Beer-sheba” (26:23).  How curious.

Perhaps this is a case of “the grass is [literally] greener” – Isaac finds somewhere even better to settle.  Perhaps he’s an ambitious man, who always yearns for more out of life.  Perhaps he’s an unsettled man, who cannot be content where he is.  Perhaps moving is the only way he knows to live.

I think this is one of life’s great challenges:  knowing when to stay put and knowing when to get going.  Both have their blessings.  Success requires the self-awareness of understanding why we do what we do.  Are we moving towards something or running away from something?  Can we name that thing, or is it a general sense that resides in our bellies?  Are we moving just to move, or staying out of inertia?  Have we imagined – and planned for – the alternatives?

What would you do if you knew you would not fail?

Chayyei Sarah -- 5776

Abraham decides it’s time for his son to marry.   Abraham, “well advanced in years,” sends his servant to his native land, his birthplace, to “get a wife for [his] son Isaac” (Genesis 24:4).  He can’t abide his son marrying a local, nor may his son return to live in their ancestral home.

What a complex suite of ideas.  Abraham exists somewhere between the past and the present.  Only the “Old Country” will do – but as a touchstone, a source for imported information, not as the context for life.

We can understand this as a metaphor for Jewish life in our times.

The native land represents tradition -- the way things used to be, the meanings we used to ascribe.  It’s the power of standing under the chuppah, the bar mitzvah because-my-father-had-one, the taste of pastrami on rye, the blessings of Shabbat.  Whether we grew up with it or embrace it later in life, tradition is our upbringing and our vocabulary, the common culture and universe of meanings we share as a people.  The Old Country – whether it be Russia, Germany, Poland, Mexico, Yemen, Turkey or elsewhere – represents the accumulated wisdom of centuries of lived Jewish experience.  It matters to us, yet it exists in a foreign language that doesn’t fully suit our contemporary existence.   

“That’s the way we’ve always done it” rings hollow.  Our lives have changed too much for that – and generally for the better.  Like Abraham, we can’t live there anymore.  For Judaism to be worth our time, effort and expense, it must be relevant.

But neither can we give it up.  Just as Abraham doesn’t want his son to marry a Canaanite, neither can we fold into mainstream society and ignore the wisdom of Judaism.  Abraham wants his son to access the wisdom, the beauty, and the truth of Tradition.  He knows that Isaac’s life will be richer thereby; these enhance our lives, too.  At our peril do we turn our back on our unique experience.

Tradition for tradition’s sake alone is tepid at best.  When it flavors our lives, it brings depth, color, and meaning.

What Jewish traditions have meaning to you?  How might the meaning you ascribe be different from that of generations past?

Vayera -- 5776

I admire Abimelech, a local warlord whom Abraham and Sarah visit. 

Abimelech and Abraham squabble when Abraham accuses Abimelech’s servants of stealing water from Abraham’s well – a substantial violation in the desert.  Abimelech replies “I do not know who did this; you certainly never told me, nor did I hear of it until today” (Genesis 21:26).  The two men set things right.

Abimelech is clear:  he expects Abraham to communicate properly and tell him what’s going on.  He is not responsible for what he doesn’t know.  Too often today, people imagine that others know what’s happening, that we can read their minds and understand their feelings without being told.  Such people are more inclined to live with disappointment than to ask for what they need.

“Rabbi, you didn’t visit me in the hospital,” I’ve sometimes heard.  “I’m so sorry about that,” I reply.  “I would have liked to but I didn’t know you were there.  No one told me.”  

“My mother should have known that would upset me.”

“My boss is giving me too much work so I’m going to quit.” 

Abimelech, on the other hand, requires and provides effective communication from his fellow.  This promotes a life of simplicity, integrity, and honor.

Lech L'cha -- 5776

“Lech L’cha,” God tells Abram.  “Get going” (Genesis 12:1).

Rashi notices the unusual grammar of the commandment.  “Lech – go,” is simple enough.  But the second word, “l’cha,” implies “to yourself” or “for yourself.”  Rashi believes that God is telling Abram to depart his homeland “for his own good.”

How can this be?  How can hitting the road be of personal benefit to the elderly Abram?

Abram is known for his exceptional hospitality.  By becoming a traveler himself, a Chassidic master points out, Abram gets to receive the mitzvah he had performed for so many others.  He must leave home in order to experience a true welcome.

Many of us give of ourselves and care for others, whether professionally or personally.  We prepare.  We parent.  We protect.  We teach.  We cushion.  We fix.

When do you get to experience receiving the nurture that others receive from you?

Beresheet -- 5776

The Torah begins twice.

Genesis 1 tells the story of the seven days of creation, charting the progression from Chaos to Order. In Genesis 2, God first creates Man, fashioning him out of dust and breathing into his nostrils, and then placing him in the Garden. Later, God creates the animals and, eventually, Woman from Man’s rib.

When the Torah begins with two different tales of Creation, it is telling us from the get-go: You are entering a zone of multiple meanings. Interpretation is required here. Don’t take what follows literally.

Indeed, that’s the Jewish approach to Scripture. We embrace and encourage a wide range of readings, and know that the human insight is the key that unlocks the Torah’s deeper meanings. “The text … reveals itself through the accumulated readings of its many seekers and learners … [The Bible] speak(s) now only through the spirit and breath of its interpreters.” (Michael Fishbane in Etz Hayim Study Companion, pp. 11-12) We – with our ideas and life experience -- bring the Torah to life. We are not asked to abdicate our intellect to do so.

The Torah’s opening also holds a powerful truth for us in our daily, messy, frustrating lives. When things go bad, do what the Torah does: begin again. And don’t forget to breathe.

Elul -- 5775: God in Mishkan HaNefesh

When you say “God,” what do you mean?  Is it the same as I mean?  Is it what the Torah means? 

Has your understanding of God transformed as you have?  Does it change depending on what’s happening in your life?  Your mood?

The Jewish concept of God is vast and subtle.  It has evolved through the centuries and, what’s more, it evolves through the year.  At Passover, we call God “Redeemer.”  At Rosh HaShanah, “Creator.”  At Yom Kippur, God is “Judge.”  And often, God is “Sovereign,” “Lover,” “Shepherd” or “Rock.”

We never believe that God is any one of these alone.  Rather, these are aspects of Divinity to which we relate in the moment.  God is Judge when we need to be judged.  God is Rock when we need something substantial in our lives.  God does not change, but human needs of God do.

Mishkan HaNefesh, like Mishkan Tfilah before it, uses “Integrated Theology.”  That is to say that it presents a range of God-ideas, traditional and transcendent, anthropomorphic and mysterious.  From page to page, each takes its turn.  It is certain that some prayers and poems in the new machzor will not satisfy you.  And it is also certain that some of them will thrill you – regardless of your vision of God or the God-language you employ, and regardless of whether or not you believe in God.

Integrated Theology does not mean “that one looks to each page to find one’s particular voice.”  Rather “that over the course of praying, many voices are heard, and ultimately come together as one. 

As a worship­per, I must be certain that I am not excluded; yet, it is not my partic­ular belief that needs to be stated each moment. As worshippers, we realize that our community, however diverse, includes me—but it is the community that matters most.”  (Rabbi Elyse Frishman, “Entering Mishkan T’filah,” CCAR Journal) 

Flipping through Mishkan HaNefesh for Rosh HaShanah, here are some of the metaphors I encounter for God:

“God of all who in every way works wonders” (21)

“Adonai who spins day into dusk.”  (23)

“Sovereign of the Universe” (25)

“Living Source” (97)

“Straightener of Bent Backs, Source of strength for the weary” (125)

“Beloved Friend” (139)

“Oneness that exploded into cosmos, spun the double helix” (139)

“Infinite” (143)

“Engineer” (171)

“Power of All” (205)

Some of these may appeal to you; others will not.  Some may surprise or even offend you.  Regardless, if a name for God catches your attention, pause to consider it.  What does it mean?  Why does it move you the way it does?  When might it be useful?  What value might someone else find it in?

The purpose of prayer is not to reinforce our conceptions of Self and the World, but rather to have them enlivened.  In Frishman’s words, “prayer must move us beyond ourselves. Prayer should not reflect me; prayer should reflect our values and ideals. God is not in our image; we are in God’s. Our diversity is God. The integrated theol­ogy in Mishkan T’filah [and Mishkan HaNefesh as well] suggests that it is the blending of different voices that most accurately reflects God.”

When all members of the community are represented, so too are aspects of God.

Elul -- 5775: On Mishkan HaNefesh

Mishkan HaNefesh (“Dwelling Place for the Soul”) spills its treasures like a bounteous picnic basket on a summer’s day.  It is a delight for the senses, and offers something for everyone.  It will bring us together.

The machzor is divided into two books.  One – golden – is for Rosh Hashanah and the other –  silver  – is for Yom Kippur.  This means that, although they are clock full of offerings, they are quite a bit lighter than our Mishkan Tfilah.

Akin to Miskhan Tfilah, each Hebrew passage is provided in transliteration as well as translation.  

 

The editors have included a cornucopia of interpretive texts for us, representing a wide range of theologies – some quite traditional, others quite radical, and many in between.  The editors don’t expect that each passage will inspire each person.  Rather, they predict that some of the passages will move each one of us powerfully.  That has been my experience in preparing to use Mishkan HaNefesh.  In this way, the book replicates what it means to be in healthy community – there is something for everybody, but no one perspective dominates.  If a passage doesn’t appeal to you or – Heaven forbid – offends you, skip it and move on.  Know that it touched someone else in the room.

Nobody is expected to pray each prayer on each page.  That would require all 10 Days of Awe!  As service leaders, Rabbi Jason, Emily and I are making judicious choices.  Nor do we expect you to pray each offering we select.  You may skip or add as suits your needs.  We are a community of different people, with different needs and beliefs.  Prayer is not “one size fits all.”

New in Mishkan HaNefesh are pages with a grey background.  These include texts for personal reflection.  Pages with a blue background are designed to be studied.  At any point in the service, you are invited to stop praying the text of the page and find another passage to consider.  In fact, this is encouraged!

You’ll find color prints by artist Joel Shapiro (no relation to me) scattered through the pages of Mishkan HaNefesh.  That’s because some of us respond more directly to image than to text.  When you encounter one of the renderings, or need a pause from text, look deeply and consider:  what do you see?  Name the shapes, colors, and textures and the ways they fit together.  How do you feel when you look at the image?  Of what does it make you think?  There are no right answers, only inspirations.

Mishkan HaNefesh is designed to inspire us to reconsider the ancient words of the High Holy Days.  We don’t want them to grow stale and dusty, when they should be fresh and vivid for our lives, for this very moment.  After all, the liturgy does not exist for the sake of tradition.  It exists for our sake.  It exists so that we living Jews can pause, reflect, and repair our lives.

May our new machzor live up to its own aspiration, articulated in the opening of the Erev Rosh Hashanah service:

May we renew our words of prayer tonight –

Restore their luster,

Bring them to life.

Let song and shofar-sounds

Awaken our souls.  (21)

Gates of Repentance -- 5775

The High Holy Days are about change.  We strive to become better people than we were, and we work to heal our relationships through tshuvah, the act of introspection and repair.  The date on the calendar changes automatically; transforming our souls takes work.

Change is complex, and we each relate to it in our own ways.  Some people thrill to change; others dread it.  Some plan and organize; others jump in.  What’s your approach?

This year, synagogues across North America will be changing their machzorim.  We say goodbye to the familiar crimson Gates of Repentance, the words of which we know so well even though we only said them once a year.

Here are some of my favorite passages:

With the setting of this evening’s sun, united with Jews of every place and time, we proclaim a new year of hope.  May the light of the divine shine forth to lead us, to show us the good we must do, the harmony we must create. Let the fire we kindle be for us a warming flame, whose brightness shows us the path of life.  (p. 49)

What can we say before You, who dwell on high?  What shall we plead before You, enthroned beyond the stars?  Are not all things known to You, both the mysteries of eternity and the dark secrets of all that live?  You search the inmost chambers of the heart, and probe the deep recesses of the soul.  Nothing is concealed from Your sight. (p. 270)

Time, like a river, rolls on, flowing year after year into the sea of eternity.  (p. 294)

I didn’t grow up with Gates of Repentance, but I’ve gotten so comfortable with it.  I’ve never lead High Holy Day services from any other book, and I remember as if it were yesterday working through it my first time, making notes, deciding how to annotate it.  (I still use that system.)  Gates of Repentance has become part of who I am.

Gates of Repentance was published in 1978 and revised in 1996.  I loved it when the congregation says different words even as we read in unison, because some people are using one edition and some the other.  I loved the meditations and array of small study texts before each service.

Our use of Mishkan HaNefesh will feel like a loss for some people.  I understand that, and appreciate it.  I will feel it, too.  Although it’s not the same, we’ll be using Gates of Repentance on the Second Day of Rosh Hashanah so that anyone who wants to pray from it will be able to.  Plus, we’ll have copies of Gates of Repentance on hand at the Stake Center, so that you can thumb through it and use it if you’d like.  And Mishkan HaNefesh includes many of the texts and translations we know from Gates of Repentance.  It will be new, but hopefully not foreign.

These High Holy Days, there is change in the air for us all.

Reih -- 5775

I live near the 101, and frequently drive on it and under it.  At every corner, it seems, there’s a man or woman, skinny and ragged, holding a sign and asking for money.  Some smile at passersby; some stare at the pavement.  It must be excruciating in summer.

“There shall be no needy among you,” the Torah declares (Deuteronomy 15:4).  But then, shortly afterwards, we find the statement “if … there is a needy person among you … you must open your hand and lend whatever is needed” (Deuteronomy 15:7-8).  This makes no sense.  How can it be that there’s a person in need when there are no needy people among us?

Perhaps it’s a difference in perception.  Sometimes we notice the need, and sometimes we don’t.

When I drive past the freeway alone, I see the solicitors and an internal conversation starts:  “I’m in the wrong lane.  And he looks young and healthy.  Where will the money go?  I wish I had a bottle of water or a tooth brush to give him instead of cash.  How can I make systemic improvements instead of giving a handout?”  But when I’m driving with my son, it’s very clear:  “We have to give that man tzedakah, daddy.”

I fail to see the need so often.  To my son, it is plain as day:  “If … there is a needy person among you … you must open your hand …”

Eikev -- 5775

Children aren’t punished any more.

For those of you without little ones, the term “punishment” has been replaced by “consequences.”  The switch is made, I believe, to teach youngsters about cause and effect.  The changed terminology is also meant to demonstrate that kids have personal power -- “punishment” comes from an outside force, whereas “consequences” result from our own actions.

I don’t think anyone’s fooled.

Kids know when they are being punished, especially when the consequence doesn’t fit the infraction.  The logical consequence of staying out past curfew isn’t being grounded – its being tired the next day.  The consequence of not eating your dinner is likely hunger – there’s no logical connection between meat loaf and losing TV privileges.

Human beings often attribute causality when none exists.  We are excellent pattern makers and inventors.  The ability to understand cause and effect must have been profoundly important for early hunters and farmers.  It may be a primary distinction between us and the other animals.  But human beings can also see patterns where they do not, actually, exist – witness the constellations, for example, which group together stars that are thousands of light years away.

“And if you do obey these rules and observe them carefully, your God YHVH will maintain faithfully for you the covenant made on oath with your fathers:  [God] will favor you and bless you and multiply you…”   “You shall faithfully observe all the Instruction that I enjoin upon you today, that you may thrive and increase and be able to possess thee land that YHVH promised on oath to your fathers,”  Deuteronomy tells us repeatedly (7:12-13, 8:1, and elsewhere).

I think it’s hubris for us to claim to know the cause and consequence of what happens in our lives.  I don’t believe that anyone is struck ill “to learn a lesson.”  Difficulties aren’t given to us to make us better people.

Illness and other difficulties are not punishments.  Rather, they are experiences through which we learn about ourselves, our community, and life itself.

V'etchanan -- 5775

“Teach [these instructions] diligently to your children,” the Torah commands us this week, in a verse that’s famous from the V’ahavta (Deuteronomy 6:7).  We are to impress the words of Torah into our children’s very beings.

Most Reform Jews honor the Torah.  We know it’s a rich compendium of ancient wisdom, story, and ethics.  We understand that it stands at the center of our tradition.  But few of us have spent enough time reading the Torah to understand it.  Even fewer have invested enough to allow the Torah to become a frame through which we understand our life experiences. 

During preparation for a Bar/Bat Mitzvah ceremony, I study Torah not only with each young person, but also with their parents.  Parents are amazed at how perceptive and eloquent their kids are.  And they are staggered by the beauty they find within the Torah.  “This is really interesting!” they tell me.  “I’d like to do this more!”

I understand why.  The Torah was the lamp that lit my way back to Judaism as an adult.  In Torah study with my rabbi, I found a life of the mind – ideas, ambiguity, complexity – that was missing from my life otherwise.  How I looked forward to our monthly study sessions!

And so I encourage you:  read analyses of Torah like this one, but go to the source as well.  Read the entire parsha, or just a few verses that jump out at you.  You’ll find yourself pondering them as you drive to work or while making dinner –“when you stay at home and when you are away” -- and your life will be richer for it.

If you have children or grandchildren, consider taking it a step further.  Select a paragraph of the actual Torah with them, not watered-down Bible stories for kids.  (I find Genesis and the first half of Exodus are best for younger children because they tell stories.) Ask them questions:  specific ones first, moving into more abstract ones later in the conversation.  Solicit their opinions.  Just like parents of bar and bat mitzvah kids, you’ll be amazed at the conversations you have.

“If you truly wish your children to study Torah, study it yourself in their presence. They will follow your example. Otherwise, they will not themselves study Torah but will simply instruct their children to do so,” Rabbi Menahem Mendel of Kotzk taught.  And I add:  if you want them to become engaged in Jewish life and thought, to be sophisticated thinkers in their own right, study Torah with them.

Dvarim -- 5775

The end has begun.  This week we read Dvarim, the first parsha in the final book of the Torah.

The Book of Deuteronomy tells the people’s travels and travails.  Moses recounts the story.  He lists the stops they’ve made along the way, and also the battles they’ve fought.  They were victorious over Heshbon and Og.  They were defeated at Hormah, and struck down Zered.

It’s an effective way to tell a story: victories and defeats.

We’ll soon observe Tisha b’Av, the holy day commemorating the falls of the First and Second Temple, as well as the Expulsion from Spain in 1492.  Many Jews fast as a way to remember our defeats.  We seek to understand their causes so as to strengthen ourselves as a people.  We also honor our fallen.

What about your life story?  What have been your victories?  What have been your defeats?

Matot -- 5775

After all this time and so many miles, their destination is in sight.  The Israelites amass on Eastern bank of the Jordan River, ready to cross into the Land.  So too do we readers amass this week at the conclusion of the Book of Numbers, about to cross into Deuteronomy, the fifth and final book of the Torah.  The end is about to begin.

But the tribes are not unified.  Gad, Reuben, and the half tribe of Manasseh want to remain in the East.  Moses is outraged as his vision of a unified people in a unified land dissolves before his eyes, and he excoriates them.  Then the eminence grise changes tack, and listens to his fellows.  The Eastern shore is more favorable for our herds, they explain.  Moses pushes back:  “Are your brothers to go to war while you stay here?” (Numbers 32:6).  We need you, he tells them, and you need to have skin in the game.  The tribesmen, for their part, demure:  we will fight alongside you, but want to settle here afterwards.  Moses listens and, satisfied, agrees.  They are all in this together.

This third week of July, 2015 begins a pivotal time for the Land and People of Israel, and indeed the entire Middle East:  the P5 +1 announced a deal on Iran.  Instantly, the experts erupted, more like volcanoes than pundits:  The deal is horrible!  The deal is the solution!  Doom!  Hope!  Negotiation works!  Military option?

As Congress debates the treaty for the next sixty days and beyond, we’ll hear voices from every side of this profoundly complex situation.  We’ll be encouraged to speak out, to contact our Senators and Representatives – and we should.  The outcome is uncertain, but this I know:  we’ll disagree with each other and we’ll upset each other.  That’s what happens when the stakes are high and the matter complicated.

And at the same time, let us remember to listen to each other civilly -- even those with whom we disagree.  We are, in fact, all on the same side.  We will disagree about approach, but when it comes to Iran, we Jews share the same goal.  No one’s loyalty is in question.

And let us further remember that whether we are in the Land of Israel or in Diaspora, we all have skin in this game.  We don’t all have the same exposure, but we are exposed just the same.  Israel’s safety is essential for our families, for our culture, and for our people.  Like twelve tribes comprising one nation, we are all in this together.

Pinchas -- 5775

Moses, Aaron, and Miriam have led the Israelites for forty long years.  Together, the three have guided, sustained, and inspired their wandering people.  Now, as the Promised Land approaches, Aaron and Miriam have died and Moses doesn’t have much longer to live.  The people need new leadership.

God tells Moses:  “Single out Joshua ben Nun, an inspired man … and commission him in sight of [the community].  Invest him with some of your authority” (Numbers 27:18-20).

This week marks a similar transition in the life of Temple Emanuel.  Rabbi Jason Bonder has arrived, moved in, and gotten to work.  He’s consulting with Religious School teachers.  He’s planning High Holy Days.  He’s met with bar mitzvah students, answered questions for families, and taught Torah study while I was on vacation last week.  He’ll lead services with me and Emily for the first time on July 24.

I am no Moses, but I am overjoyed to “commission Rabbi Jason in sight of the community and invest him with some of my authority.”  That’s because Rabbi Jason has earned his own authority through five years of rigorous study and on-the-job training at synagogues, Hillel, religious school and Hebrew High.  Rabbi Jason’s rabbinic voice is good and important and caring, and it will resonate with this community.  He will bring wisdom, insight, enthusiasm, and humor to Temple Emanuel.  Rabbi Jason is my partner in caring for the Jews of the Southeast Valley, in charting the course for Temple Emanuel, and steering us towards our goal(s).  He is indeed an inspired man.

In the two months until the High Holy Days, there will be lots of opportunities to meet him:  havdallahs, learning sessions, onegs, and bowling and pizza parties with our kids.  If your havurah would like to invite him over, please drop him a line.  His email address is RabbiJason@EmanuelofTempe.org – feel free to email him some words of welcome!

Rabbi Jason will be formally installed as Temple Emanuel’s rabbi on August 28.  Please come and take part in the ceremony.

Welcome, Rabbi Jason Bonder.

Sh'lach L'cha -- 5775

It’s been a rocky road from Freedom to the Promised Land – an army in pursuit, an (im)passable  sea, doubling back, detouring, fighting, stopping, running out of water.  And now that they’ve arrived at their destination … giants.  “The country that we traversed and scouted is one that devours its settlers.  All the people that we saw in it are men of great size” (Numbers 13:32).  The Hebrews have marched gallantly.  They realize that they won’t make it only now that the Promised Land is within reach.

I am writing this dvar Torah on the floor of Chicago Midway Airport.  It’s midnight.  My flight has been delayed several hours due to weather.  Another, bound for Charleston, has just been cancelled for the night and I’m wondering whether we’re next.  We’ve been bounced from concourse to concourse.  The restaurants are closed except for one or two.  There’s no telling how this night will end.

“The whole community broke into loud cries, and the people wept that night.  All the people railed against Moses and Aaron” (Numbers 14:1-2).  There’s a crowd of upset people pointing fingers at the flight managers, and I don’t blame them – but I don’t understand them, either.  What is the airline supposed to do – fly in violation of FAA rules?  What’s yelling at the gate attendant going to accomplish?  It’s mighty frustrating, but what do they think can be done?  At least we aren’t crossing the prairie in wagons or the stormy sea by steamer.  It’ll be late and unpleasant, but we’ll all be dry and safe and get where we need to go eventually.

Sometimes, things don’t work out as planned.  You can get upset and frustrated all you want, but you’d do better to roll with it.  I’m concerned about my son spending the night on a cot.  I’m concerned about my appointments tomorrow.  But muscling your way through life, determined that there’s only a single satisfactory ending, will only get you a sore back.  “Man plans.  God laughs,” the Yiddish saying goes.  Let go of the illusion of control, and go for a ride.

B'ha-alotcha -- 5775

Two silver trumpets shine in the sun.  Their blasts, loud and sweet, resound through the hills and across the plains.  They summon soldiers with their cry “War!” and they announce joyous occasions.   They shall be “l’chukat olam l’doroteichem,” in Fox’ translation, “as a law for the ages, throughout your generations” (Numbers 10:8).

If the law of the trumpets is for the ages, doesn’t it inherently last throughout the generations as well?  Why the repetition?

Ibn Ezra picks up on the dual nature of the trumpets when he observes that they are to be used both in the Land and out of the Land.  That is, they are to sound when the Israelites are invaders and also when they are defenders.

The twin trumpets are no more, yet we are told they exist forever.  Perhaps, then, they live on inside us.  Perhaps the trumpet’s call is the pure voice within us that we summon when we cry out for what’s good and true.  It’s the righteous demand in times of trouble.

 If so, why are there two of them?

• One trumpet calls out when you need to defend yourself, and one calls sounds when you need to protect others.
• One trumpet summons Justice; the other trumpet cries for Mercy.
• One trumpet blasts when it is time to start, and the other when it is time to stop.

Be the trumpet, and sing out.

Naso -- 5775

Love is turtle doves and sunset strolls … but only in the movies.  In real life, love is enthralling and uplifting but also frustrating and disappointing.  Mature love withstands these and goes on loving anyway.  As it is between people, so it is with the Torah.

Parshat Naso describes a ritual to determine a wife’s fidelity.  If her husband accuses her of cheating but has no witness, he can force her to drink a noxious potion in sight of the priest.  If she has had sex with a man other than her husband, the reaction will be painful:  “her body shall distend and her thigh shall sag; and the wife shall become a curse among her people” (Numbers 5:27).  If she hasn’t, she will be unharmed.

The ordeal outlined this week relies on superstition and psychology.  More than this, it is patriarchal and painful.  “The unequal application of the ritual to women and not men, the lack of due process, the physical and emotional humiliation – all of these combine to make this passage a challenging place in which to find meaning,” Lisa J. Grushcow observes in The Torah:  Women’s Torah Commentary.

True love means speaking up when we’re upset.  True love means giving the gentle rebuke.  Otherwise it’s not love, but a false friendliness that melts like paper in the rain.  Honesty is scary, but also necessary for love.

And so I must declare that Parshat Naso is the painful practice of another time and place.  Even the Talmud’s declaration that the ordeal was an “unusual and infrequent event” (Sotah 1:1) is not enough to mitigate its hatefulness.

I understand the Torah to be profound and beautiful and instructive.  It is infinitely meaningful.  I also understand that it sometimes fails to meet basic ethical standards.  The ordeal of the sotah ordeal is one of these times.

We modern Jews need not chose only between the extremes of swallowing the Torah whole or spitting it out altogether.  While we could use this passage as a basis to reject the entire Torah, it would be far more productive to use it as a prompt for study and action – to understand the psychology of spousal abuse, for example, or to help out in a shelter.

It is no rejection to point out a failure.  If we do not decry, we do not love.

Shavuot -- 5775

 The call went forth in fire and thunder:  I AM.  The people trembled in awe.  All the souls of all the people who would ever be Jewish gathered in awe.  At the mountain’s summit, Moses transcribed furiously.  Thus did the Torah come into the world.

The tale of the giving of Torah by God to Moses at Mt. Sinai is tremendous.  It serves to enforce the text’s sanctity and the eternal bond between God and the Jewish people.  We reenact this story every time the Torah is taken from the ark to be read.  We revel in this account of revelation even though we know that the reality of the Torah’s creation was likely far more prosaic.

The Torah symbolizes the love shared between God and the Jewish People.  Because the festival of Shavuot marks the night that symbol was given (this year, May 23), the Kabbalists taught that Shavuot is our marriage night as well.  We study into the night to achieve a mystical union with God.  Just as Ruth bound herself to Naomi and her tribe, so do we bind ourselves, over and over again, to our God and our Torah.  This is precisely what converts to Judaism do through the choices of their lives, and we honor and learn from their commitment.

For most of us, the idea that God can “marry” a human being or group is bizarre.  It is, I think, actually metaphorical, expressing that we mere mortals can bind ourselves to a Truth that’s larger than ourselves.  We can locate ourselves within a story that makes sense out of a complex mélange of personal feelings and experiences.  The image of marriage declares that we, as individuals, find ourselves within the nation’s sweeping narrative, and that our people’s ongoing story is inherently holy.  No matter how we became Jewish, we see ourselves in the Torah, and declare it to be our story, too.

Behar/Bechukotai -- 5775

Shmitah -- Release.  This year is the final in the seven year cycle of the land, during which time it is not to be worked.  It is a Shabbat for the land.  “Six years you may sow your field and six years you may prune your vineyard and gather in the yield.  But in the seventh year the land shall have a Sabbath of complete rest, a Sabbath of the Eternal:  you shall not sow your field or prune your vineyard.  …  It shall be a year of complete rest for the land” (Leviticus 25:3-5).

If seeds aren’t sown and weeds aren’t pulled, what are we to eat?  The land, actually, continues to produce even without human industry.  Seeds are scattered by the wind; crops drink rain when they can.  Yields may be smaller, but they are still enough.  And we can save during the sixth year to protect against any shortfall.

Since food is a fundamental need, releasing our control over its production calls us to have powerful faith.  Somehow, God willing, it will all work out.

I so often see people trying to muscle their way through life:  admission to the right college hinges on each test, the bar mitzvah center pieces have to be just so, we slave to buy a home with the right address.  They have a plan for their lives and they make it come true.

Industry is good; we create the lives we lead.  At the same time, some of us place ourselves under extraordinary stress that harms our health without actually bettering our lives.

What would happen, I wonder, if we relaxed our grips just a little bit?  What would it be like if we weren’t so very attached to a particular outcome, but instead let things happen in the easiest possible way?  What if we valued grace over strength? 

If we allow life to unfurl as it will, at least 1/7^th of the time, we might experience even greater wonder than what we had planned.

Emor -- 5775

Who mourns a death?

The rabbis of the Talmud answered by applying the injunction of Leviticus 21:1-4:  A priest may not come into contact with corpses except for certain close relatives.  These are his mother, his father, his son, his daughter, his brother, and his unmarried sister.  Therefore, they concluded, these are the relationships of mourners, adding wives and married sisters to the list (BT Mo’ed Katan 20b).

In modern custom, this means that only these relatives wear the black kriyah ribbon of mourning and recite Mourner’s Kaddish.  Only these observe the full period of mourning; others are comforters rather than mourners.  Mourners don’t attend parties, celebrations, or shows, and don’t get haircuts.

Our tradition understands mourning, or “avelut,” as an official state, designated by relationship to the deceased, and time – it begins with burial and concludes thirty days later, except for the death of parents.  When a parent dies, the period of Avelut lasts an entire year.  Certainly, our grief may extend far longer.  But the formal period of mourning is finite, reminding us that we must, eventually, return to life.  The family of the deceased is not permitted to continue formal mourning after Avelut is completed.

Avelut does not begin with the death of a relative, but rather with his or her burial.  When a close relative dies, the survivors’ state is called Aninut.  Anunut is the time of intense shock, confusion, and limbo.  The deceased is dead but not gone, and we feel that “neither/nor-ness.”  Those in Aninut are except from most obligations.  We just let them be.  Jews bury as promptly as possible out of respect for the deceased, and also to assist the family to move from Aninut to Avelut.

That’s what the tradition holds, but both Reform Judaism and I are more expansive.  I well remember my best friend’s death, and how his family included me as one of the mourners.  It allowed me to grieve more powerfully, and to heal more completely.  When I officiate at a funeral, I certainly allow all those who wish to wear a kriyah ribbon to do so, as an external sign of their internal state.  At Temple Emanuel, we invite all who wish to stand and recite Kaddish Yatom.  It is emotionally satisfying, and it demonstrates community support.

But I also believe that mourning must conclude at some point.  Although we may feel intense loss, sadness, and even anguish, the time comes for us to return to life – to the people around us, to good works, to beauty, to self-care.  Otherwise, we make a shrine of death, and that’s undoubtedly unhealthy.

The Jewish mourning customs are psychologically sound.  They create a structure within which we can feel our feelings.  It would be my honor to discuss them with you, if you would like.

Tazria -- 5775

There’s reason we say that a pregnant woman is expecting.  The time before a birth is one of great emotion – excitement, fear, hope, regret, and others.  Parshat Tazria opens with a discussion of a woman’s ritual state following childbirth, and it arrives during the Counting of the Omer.

That’s appropriate, because the Counting HaOmer is a time of expecting, building, and anticipating.  The forty-nine days are those between Pesach (Liberation from Egypt) and Shavuot (Receiving the 10 Commandments).  According to our tradition, the Torah and the Mitzvot conveyed within it are the purpose of our freedom.  Since Shavuot also marks the barley harvest, it’s a time for growth.

Day by day, throughout the seven weeks of the Counting, we build towards the revelation at Sinai.  We anticipate drawing nearer to God.

Although Sefirat HaOmer is not a tradition many Reform Jews embrace, it is profoundly spiritual.  It is a time for reflection, and to embody Godly qualities like Endurance, Glory, Leadership, Lovingkindness, Groundedness, Discipline, and Humility.

What’s growing in your life?  What’s changing?  How will you be different by the time summer relaxes its broiling grip?  How do you want to be different?  Focus on what you seek.  Picture yourself with it.  Hear it, taste it, and smell it so that it becomes a reality within you.  Then, analyze the steps you need to take, both internal and external, to make it real.  Who are your partners and what are your impediments?

Now’s the time to bring about the change you seek.

Chol HaMoed Pesach -- 5775

The plates are washed and put away.  The left overs are gone.  Even so, it’s still Passover.

Pesach is a seven-day long Festival.  For Reform Jews, Pesach doesn’t end until Friday night (Saturday night if you’re Conservative or Orthodox).  While most of us enjoy a seder or two, and many of us refrain from bread products during the whole week, few of us pause to consider the meaning of a week-long observance.  If Passover commemorates our freedom from Egypt, and the Angel of Death passed over the Jewish homes in one night, why extend the Festival?

The Israelites, you will recall, didn’t enter the Promised Land for a generation after the Exodus.  Those sent to scout the land thought they looked like grasshoppers to the natives, for that’s the way they saw themselves:  inconsequential, worthless, puny.  Although their feet were no longer shackled, their minds still were.

Liberation is a process, not a moment.  Slaves may escape; Supreme Courts may declare it.  But it takes time for freedom to percolate down into our daily lives.  We need to reshape society to include the formerly disenfranchised – something the United States is still doing, 150 years after Emancipation.  We need to learn to see the full humanity of those we haven’t previously understood.  We need to re-constitute our own psyches, to understand ourselves as free people with the power to determine how our lives should go, to know to our cores that we are grasshoppers no more.

What freedoms do you cherish in your life?  Which are legal, which are social, and which are personal?  How can you integrate them more fully into your sense of self?

Freedom doesn’t come over night.  It’s a long, hard trudge.

Passover -- 5775

Crack! goes the matzah overhead.  Crumbs fall down like rain.

“This is the Bread of Affliction,” we announce to all who will hear, “which our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt.”  Matzah is a humble bread, the meal of those without resources of time or money.  It is the bread of those who make due.

Matzah is more than the food our ancestors ate in their anguish.  It is our suffering selves, too.

Crack! go our bones as we toil day in and out.

Pop! go our dreams as they’re ground down by life.

Sigh! go our hearts as another year goes by.

We, like the dry cracker, break under the stress of our lives.  We fear that we will crumble.  But all is not lost.

The matzah is broken and half is hidden away.  Then, once the story is told and the meal is eaten, the search is on.  Eager children scamper for a prize.

But the real prize isn’t a two-dollar bill or a chocolate bar.  Life’s real prize is making it through the tough spots.  Sharing the journey with good people.  Telling your own story.  Laughing through the tears.  

When the afikoman is found, it will be reunited with its missing piece.  The two halves will fit together and become whole once more, as can our battered and bruised selves.  There’s a reason Pesach comes at springtime – because after the discontented winters of our lives, we need the promise of green sprig and egg, reminders to hope.

What’s lost can be found.  What’s broken can be mended.  What hurts can be healed.  What’s bound can be freed.  This is the meaning of Pesach.