Tzav -- 5775

Among the priests’ sacred tasks:  to remove the ashes from the altar and deposit them outside the camp.  Before gathering the sooty remnants of the previous night’s burnt offerings, the priest dons linen clothing.  Anyone who has worn linen knows that it looks pristine for a few minutes; then it turns to a wrinkled mess.  And that ash stains.

It’s counterintuitive, then, for the priest to wear linen for this particular job  -- unless, that is, he is supposed to get stained from this sacred work.

What’s true for the priests of old is true for us today:  we are supposed to get stained.  Many of us give tzedakah – it’s easy to stay pristine while dropping a dollar into a slot or making a donation on line.  Many of us perform acts of g’milut chasadim – feeding stray animals or returning shopping carts.  That might wrinkle your clothes a little. But the priest’s example should inspire us to do even more:  to roll up our sleeves and be permanently changed by helping others.

What do I mean?  Sitting with a friend as she gets chemo.  Cleaning out a senior’s rain gutters.  Inviting a single parent’s kids for a sleep-over.  Speaking with a pan-handler human being to human being.  Teaching someone to read.  Building a house.  Give of yourself till you feel it start to change your soul. Then give more.

Shlomo Ben Meir Ha-Levi of Karlin taught:

“If you wish to raise a person from poverty and trouble, do not think that it is enough to stand above and reach a helping hand down to him and her.  It is not enough.  You must go down to where the person is, down in the mud and the filth.  Then take hold of him or her with strong hands and pull until both of you rise into the light.”

So I ask you:  What will you do for others that is sufficiently substantial and intense that it changes you, that you’re left with stains to show for it?

Vayikra -- 5775

And so the Book of Leviticus begins, with all its gore.  In the coming weeks, we’ll immerse ourselves in the ancient sacrificial cult of our ancestors: the blood, the fat, the ashes, the diseases.  Its real world stuff, and not for the squeamish.  The sacrifices brought them closer to God.  They were a duty and a privilege.

“If [the] offering to God is a burnt offering of birds, … choose [the] offering from turtledoves or pigeons.  The priest shall bring it to the altar, pinch off its head, and turn it to smoke on the altar, and its blood shall be drained out against the side of the altar.  He shall remove its crop with its contents and cast it into the place of the ashes, at the east side of the altar” (Leviticus 1:14-16).  Why remove a bird’s stomach when a bull, ram, or lamb’s stomach is to be burnt?  Why are the sacrifices treated differently?

Cattle are penned and graze only the on fodder given to them.  The rabbis (BT Hullin Chapter 3, Mishnah 4) remind us that birds, however, fly free.  They peck wherever they want.  A bird’s stomach, therefore, likely contains seed purloined from someone’s field.  Stolen goods are inappropriate gifts to God.

The bull, ram, or lamb must be unblemished, but no such restriction applies to the turtledove or pigeon. Its fault – the stolen seed -- is hidden, but real nonetheless.  When we sacrifice, only the best will do, even if the defect isn’t visible.

When we give of ourselves, whether to our families or our jobs or in communal settings, we are to give our best rather than what’s easiest.  Short cuts, cheap tricks, and easy-ways-out sully us.  The end result may appear just as good, but it’s not.  How we do what we do counts.  The means matter.

Vayak’heil -- 5775

Three weeks ago, Parshat Terumah gave us a detailed description of the Tabernacle and all the materials needed to build it.  In Vayak’heil, this week, we are presented with the same list of goods.  Now, however, the weavers weave, the carvers carve, and the Taberacle rises.  How splendid it must have been:  blue, purple, and crimson against the desert sand.  Former slaves, who had toiled so long to build temples for other peoples’ gods, had finally built one for their own.

Going from plan to action can be tricky.  I know scores of people with brilliant inventions, projects, companies, and scripts … all unrealized.  They exist in the mind but not in the physical world.  Oceans of ink have described best practices to bring an idea to fruition; certain approaches are more or less effective depending on our personalities and the project we envision.  Some people need to research, some to sketch.  Some want to understand the context of their idea.  Some require teamwork and some solitude.  All of these are important.  But successful projects all have one thing in common:  at some point, their inventors got started.

If you’ve identified a problem in the world or in your life, if you have an idea or a vision, get started making it happen.  Set aside 15 minutes to begin.  Open a document and type a few words.  Make a phone call and set up a coffee.  Sketch it – on paper or screen, not in your mind.  This week, in the spirit of Parshat Vayk’heil, take the first step.    

Be sure to dream.  And then, be sure to build.

Ki Tissa -- 5775

The Blame Game:  this week’s parsha is filled with it.  The people insist that Moses, not God, took them out of Egypt – and that they were passive in the process.  The people made the famous molten calf, says God – not Aaron.  The people told to me to make it, says Aaron – I didn’t want to.  Later, he asserts that he didn’t make it at all — he collected the people’s gold, hurled it into the fire, the calf emerged out fully formed!  You did/I didn’t/He did/They did.  Are these characters even in the same story?

It occurs to me that the first verse of Pashat Ki Tissa holds an answer to these multiple perspectives.  “When the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down the mountain…”  (Exodus 32:9).  Moses, we know, is busy doing the holy work of receiving the Torah.  Nonetheless, the people are lost without him.  They need to see him, hear him.  His presence is reassuring. 

Isn’t this the way with most misunderstandings?  They occur because we’ve lost touch with each other, failed to check in with each other, speak meaningfully, and listen well.  Confusion develops into misunderstanding, and can lead to mistrust, resentment, anger, and hurt.  It builds up and up until we are consumed in fire.

What’s true of interpersonal relationships is true of communal ones, too.  If there’s something you don’t understand about our synagogue, if there is something you don’t like, please speak with the appropriate person.  That might be me, Beth Olson, the Religious School Directors, or an officer.  We want the chance to hear you so that we can serve you better.  The feedback we receive can lead to change – as happened recently when two couples spoke with me about the marriages I perform.  I heard them, asked questions, and changed my approach.

We can only hear each other when we’re present for each other.