Vayishlach -- 5777

Jacob tricked his brother, ran away from home, and started a family. Years later, he’s on his way back.

In anticipation of seeing his twin, Jacob sends Esau a huge gift:

“200 goats and 20 he-goats, 200 ewes and 20 rams, 30 milk camels and their young, 40 cows and 10 bulls, 20 female donkeys and 10 male donkeys” (Genesis 21:16).

As his desperate prayer to God indicates, Jacob is terrified that Esau means to harm him. “I will win him over with an offering in advance; then, when I face him, he may pardon me,” Jacob, ever the schemer, reasons (Genesis 21:21). His largess is really a bribe.

In this holiday season, it’s easy to think like Jacob does, giving to get – perhaps a gift in return, some affection, or attention. But there are eight nights of Hanukkah, eight chances to turn a perfunctory present into a human connection. Can you elevate your gifting into something holy?

As you plan your gift giving this year, consider the intangible: time spent with others, shared experiences, helping the community.  

Sweaters fade and sweets get eaten. True connections last forever.

Lech L'cha -- 5777

“Look around from where you are, to the north and the south, to the east and the west.”  These are God’s words to Abram in Genesis 13, and I think they are vital today.

We – myself included – have cloistered ourselves beyond what’s healthy. Our cities and states offer segregated experiences. We encounter people of a different socio-economic class only across a counter, not in truly shared space. The generations don’t mix much. Facebook is America’s primary source of news, and its algorithms feed us what we want to consume. We are rarely challenged with a fact or opinion with which we disagree.

Rather than cocooning ourselves in our personal realities as we have done, Americans are called to look around ourselves and to understand in a deep and meaningful way the experiences of those who are different from us:

• The retiree who lives in a mobile home, and the retiree who lives in a condo by the beach.
• The urban high school dropout, and the Ivy League lawyer.
• The father whose job isn’t coming back, and the mother who loves to work.
• The immigrant taxi driver and the new recruit.
• The former foreman and the savvy CEO.
• The hungry and the full, the young and the old, the eager and the scared, and everyone in between.

We are America, those at the edges and those in-between. This nation’s greatest challenge has always been how to be One while, at the same time, being Many.

How can we accomplish this? By going out of our way to talk and listen to others. By reading books from different points of view. By visiting each other’s homes rather than another Starbucks. By taking a trip to an undiscovered part of the country. By subscribing to a news source that doesn’t confirm our existing biases. By popping the bubble that’s become an echo-chamber of our own thoughts.

We are no doubt each entitled to believe and vote as we will. But we are not entitled to believe that ours is the only opinion that counts, nor to denigrate the experiences of others. We owe it to ourselves, to our fellows, and to our descendants, to understand the contours of other peoples’ lives.

“This land is your land.  This land is my land. From California to the New York Island. From the redwood forests to the Gulf Stream waters, this land was made for you and me.”

Simchat Torah -- 5777

Each Shabbat, a new bar or bat mitzvah takes their place in front of the unrolled Torah, takes a deep breath, and reads.  Some are confident and some are shaky, but all understand the power of the moment:  they are doing something difficult, and they are standing where countless others have stood before.  They are assuming their place in the great chain that is our people.

In honor of Simchat Torah, I’m dedicating this column to our sifrei Torah (Torah scrolls) and their places of origin.

Two of our scrolls are on permanent loan from the Memorial Scrolls Trust, a London-based non-profit dedicated to the preservation and promulgation of Torah scrolls from the former Czechoslovakia.  Our principal scroll hails from Pilsen (Plezn), and our secondary scroll comes from Kardasova-Recice, in West and South Bohemia, respectively.

Beilee Kagan, our member, spent the summer researching the towns of Pilsen and Kardasova-Recice.  She built a page on the Temple Emanuel website to share information about the communities that created and once housed our sifrei Torah.  We hope this will deepen our connection with them.

To think that boys from those places read the very same words, written in the very same ink, as they became Bar Mitzvah.  Our lives are linked to theirs because we share the same story.  To think that thousands of people from those places reached out to kiss these scrolls as they paraded past.  Our lives are linked to theirs because we share the same Torah scroll, just as our lives are linked to all Jews because we share the same Torah.

Beilee compiled photographs of those communities as well as our own scrolls.  Please take a look, here:  emanueloftempe.org/about-us/about-our-torah-scrolls.

Learn more about the work of the Memorial Scrolls Trust here:  www.memorialscrollstrust.org.

We are custodians of these scrolls and the invisible yet indelible memory of those who have gone before us.  It is our honor to protect the scrolls and allow the wisdom they contain to live through us.  We hope that others will follow after, taking their place 100 and 150 years from now and, after a deep breath, begin to read.

Netzavim -- 5776

The people gather once more to hear Grandfather Moses.  He talks and talks, yet they never tire of listening.  He won’t be with them much longer.  “You stand this day, all of you, before the Eternal your God – you tribal heads, you elders, and you officials, all the men of Israel, you children, you women, even the stranger within your camp, from woodchopper to water drawer, to enter into the covenant of the Eternal your God” (Deuteronomy 29:9-11).

This passage is read this week, and soon again at Yom Kippur.  Why the repetition?

Why did the people bother listening to Moses?  They’ve heard him intone week after week, sermon after sermon.  Why do they show up?

Perhaps the answer to both questions is the same.  We don’t show up for the High Holy Days simply because of the words, and perhaps our ancestors didn’t, either.  We show up to be together – men, women, and children, all of us as one.  On Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, like no other days of the year, we experience our peoplehood.   There’s nothing like being in a crowd of folk who share your world views, experiences, values, and commitments.  That’s especially true for us, isolated as we are in the East Valley.  When we stand shoulder to shoulder in our hundreds, five hundreds, and thousands, we remember that we are part of something far bigger than ourselves, our family, or our circle of friends.  We belong to a great and ancient nation, and we are party to an eternal covenant.  There is no substitute for your tribe.

We’ll hear these stirring words this week, and again on Yom Kippur, and again and again (God willing!) in years to come.  We hear them because we need them, and because we need to be with our people.

Ki Teitzei -- 5776

“You shall make tassels on the four corners of the garment with which you cover yourself” (Deuteronomy 22:12).

This Biblical injunction is the basis for the tallit, or prayer shawl.  The knots of the tassels (here called “gedilim,” but called “tzitzit” in Numbers 15:38) remind us of the mitzvot, our ritual and ethical responsibilities.  But they also remind us of something else.

When, in the morning service, we pray the Shema, traditional Jews gather the four tassels into their hands, turning many strands into one.  This demonstrates that, although the world appears to be divided and complex, there is a fundamental Unity behind it.  We call that Unity God.

“As above, so below.”  As God is unified although apparently diffuse, so too is the Jewish people.  We are scattered amongst all the lands, speaking different languages and eating different foods.  Despite appearances, we are nonetheless one people.  Klal Yisrael, the Unity of the Jewish people, is real.  You feel it when you visit a foreign synagogue or you’re behind an Israeli family in the grocery store.  You know it when Israel is besieged. 

When we gather the four tassels, we are encouraging God to gather us from the earth’s four corners, fortifying Israel with our unity.

There are many meaningful ways to observe the High Holy Days and to engage in tshuvah.  Undoubtedly, one of them is to join with your people.  It is then that we realize that we are a thread in a much greater tapestry, and that we are not alone.

Ekev -- 5776

After a 40 year-long slog through the wilderness, haven’t the Israelites waited long enough?  The Promised Land lies sparkling before them, ready to be entered and occupied.  Destiny, and a place to hang their hats, await. 

Not so fast.  Moses tells them that “the Eternal your God will dislodge [the inhabitants of the land] before you little by little; you will not be able to put an end to them all at once” (Deuteronomy 7:22).  Even though the Israelites are ready for the land, it is not ready for them.

There’s a good reason the natives aren’t to be vanquished all at once.  Were the land to be emptied of human inhabitants, “wild beasts would multiply to your hurt.”

Even when doing something wonderful or exciting, the pace must be right.  Moving either too fast or too slow can be harmful.

My natural instinct is always to rush forward with a good idea.  As a congregational rabbi, however, I’ve learned the value of taking my time.  I’ve realized that success requires asking the right questions, planning thoughtfully, listening actively to supporters and naysayers alike, and communicating the vision – and the logistics! -- in multiple ways.  It’s a slower process, but makes success more likely. 

You’ve likely heard the news by now that Beth Olson, the synagogue’s Executive Director, has resigned her position.  Although it’s tempting to jump right in to the search process, it is wiser to be thoughtful about it – to acknowledge our feelings of sadness, to think through the options, to assemble the right team of decision-makers, and to do our research before moving forward.  That is exactly what we’ll do, so as to ensure the congregation’s continued success.

“Remember the long way that the eternal your God has made you travel in the wilderness these past forty years, in order to test you by hardships to learn what was in your hearts” (Deuteronomy 8:2).

Va’etchanan -- 5776

My dvar Torah in this week's Jewish News.

Dvarim -- 5776

Moses describes the wilderness as “great and awesome/hagadol v’hanorah,” (Deuteronomy 1:19), using two of three adjectives used later to describe God: “great, mighty, and awesome/ha gadol, hagibor v’hanorah” (Deuteronomy 10:17, cited as well in the Amidah).  God, then, shares important qualities with the land.

The land represents the unknown to the newly-freed slaves.  Similarly, God represents the unknown to many contemporary Reform Jews.

The Hebrews believe the land is a land of punishment – home of war, starvation, and beast.  Many Reform Jews believe that God is a God of punishment.  After all, this is the image of God presented to us when we were children: the wizened male God who punishes and rewards.  Who wouldn’t fear such a Being?  Sadly, our theological education typically ends when we turn 13 or 15.  The turbulent world we encounter after high school doesn’t jibe with such just and orderly God.  The view of God we were taught can’t accommodate adult questions and problems.  No wonder so many reject the idea of God.

As the Israelites mature, they come to see the land in a more nuanced manner.  What was once overwhelming becomes nourishing.  What was once impossible becomes possible.  After their slave mentality, incapable of nuance, drops away, they are permitted to enter. 

The same is true for us.  If we consider God through an informed, thoughtful Jewish lens, we can find a God idea that meshes with our experience of the world and that helps us in times of trouble. 

• ·         Instead of seeing God as an actor in the world, determining the course of human events, we might see God as the Source of the World. 
• ·         Instead of a God who Rules Over, we might understand a God who Dwells Within. 
• ·         Instead of a God in heaven, we might feel God everywhere. 
• ·         Instead of a God who wants to be worshipped, we might envision God as the Source of Energy and Abundance. 

These God-concepts are far more expansive than the one we were taught as children.  And they are fully grounded within the Jewish tradition. 

We can see God as punitive.  Or we can see God as Great as the Rockies, Mighty as the Colorado, and Awesome as the Grand Canyon.

How do you understand God?

Matot -- 5776

A neder is a vow.

“If a householder makes a neder to God or takes an oath imposing an obligation on himself, he shall not break his pledge; he must carry out all that has crossed his lips” (Numbers 30:3).

Judaism understands that our words have extraordinary power.  That’s especially true of words declared to God.  Even so, our tradition holds that all speech has great impact.

Speech is an essential dimension of the human animal.  We are called “HaM’daber – the Speaker,” for that’s what distinguishes us from the other species.  In the Torah, Adam’s very first action is to give names to every creature (Genesis 2:19-20).

Words shape reality.  When a rabbi declares “I now pronounce you married,” the couple, their families, and the IRS accept the change in status.  When a judge declares a person “guilty,” their life heads off in a profoundly different direction.

The rabbis of old understood that words can cause extreme damage, and named several language-related sins, among them humiliating, gossiping, lying, and rebuking improperly.

The principle of not humiliating another person is called “lo levayesh.”  According to a sage in the Mishnah, public shaming is equivalent to shedding blood.  So grave is the offense that “one who whitens a friend’s face (by putting him or her to shame) in public has no share in the World to Come” (Baba Metziah 58b-59a).

It is sometimes necessary to rebuke one who is doing wrong.  Leviticus instructs us to engage in rebuke/tochechah when we can correct faulty behavior (Leviticus 19:17).  But, Maimonides added, we must do so privately, gently, and for our friend’s own good – not our own self-aggrandizement.  There are right ways, and there are wrong ways, to instruct others.

Through this thoroughly surprising election season, I’m reminded of the power of words.  We’ve seen that words can energize and inspire, and also that they can inflame and harm.   Words can help us articulate our shared values and understand our differences.  They can chart and refine our collective path.  They can also belittle, deceive, and hide.

As Jews, we are asked to choose our words carefully so that they will be true, helpful, and good.  We value honesty, integrity, and modesty in speech and we ask that God will, in the words of prayer Elohai Ntzur,

guard my tongue from evil and my lips from deception. 

Before those who slander me, I will hold my tongue; I will practice humility. 

[Mishkan Tfilah 100]

Chukat -- 5776

Bedraggled and rancorous, the Israelites must traverse the desert of Edom.  Canaan beckons from the other side.

Moses sends greetings to Edom’s king, and requests permission to cross.  After repeating the story of the Exodus, he makes a series of promises:  “We will not pass through fields or vineyards, and we will not drink water from wells.  We will follow the king’s highway, turning off neither to the right nor to the left until we have crossed your territory” (Numbers 20:17).  Israel, he says, will be respectful of Edom’s sovereignty and integrity.

Edom refuses their passage nonetheless.  Perhaps Edom feared that Israel intended to invade.  Perhaps Edom was hoarding resources and didn’t want to share.  Perhaps Edom sought to keep Israel out of Canaan.  Perhaps the king was cruel.

Or, perhaps, the fault was Moses’.  In his eagerness, he never pauses to enquire of Edom.  Moses makes a proposition that’s based on assumptions and ignorant of Edom’s fears and realities.  If he had asked about Edom instead of telling, he might have found a way through.  Instead, he only reaches impasse.

We regularly bring our own agenda to our encounters.  We believe we know the best outcome, both for ourselves and for the other parties.  What would it take to say instead “I don’t know what’s best in this situation.  Let’s talk about what we all need, and what’s possible.”  Can you imagine being out of control and open to a situation’s full – and unimagined – potential?

What do you think?  

Yizkor -- Orlando

I didn’t really cry until the press conference.  There was something about the way the surgeons of Orlando Heath described the bombardment of bodies – at once so professional, using precise technical terminology, and at once so human, their eyes betraying the overwhelming horror they had witnessed, that finally brought home the immensity of this massacre, and how much of my own life is bound up in it.  And how wholeheartedly sad and angry I am.

A tale of two locations: a discotheque and an emergency room.  The walls of one are black, and pop with colorful lights and posters.  The walls of the other are white and smeared with blood.  Reggaeton music thumps throughout the disco, while the hospital hums with machinery and beeps to the pulse of the patients.  One is a place of joy and release, a place to shed the masks of oppression we pull so tightly over our faces.  The other is a place of pain and despair. 

And a third place, I suppose: inside the mind of a killer so tormented by his own humanity that he cannot allow others to enjoy theirs.

And then a fourth place: our televisions, where politicians use this event to make hay, twisting it like the limbs of the victims to suit their own world view, to score a few points with constituents, to feather their nests and fund re-election campaigns even as the floors are sticky with blood.

“Do not stand idly by the blood of your neighbor,” says Leviticus (19:16), that same Leviticus used by politicians and pastors and hate-mongers to denigrate us, forgetting the verse that follows:  “You shall not hate your kinsfolk in your heart” (19:17).  Those God-fearing politicians and pastors and hate-mongers who are rightfully are horrified by the carnage, but blind to connection between it and the homophobia, misogyny, and dislike for difference that they themselves inculcate.  Their self-righteousness stinks like burning hair.

Most modern translators understand “do not stand idly by” to mean “do not profit by the blood of your neighbor.”  And yet here they are, doing just that.  All the perfumes of Arabia won’t sweeten their hands.

At the press conference, one of the senior surgeons praised “Environmental Services,” the hospital custodians.  That long night, he explained, they cleaned the bloody receiving bays in less than a minute to make them ready for the next victim and the next and the one after that.  Despite the pain, there is a lot of good in the world, and a lot of love.

This Friday night, June 17, during erev Shabbat services, we’ll create a space for healing and for Yizkor.  I hope you can join us.

Emor -- 5776

The priest’s primary work is to make distinctions:  between holy and profane, between ritually pure (“tahor”) and ritually impure (“tamei”), between legal and illegal, between healthy and sick, and, as the one who sacrifices animals for God, between life and death.  Emor, this week’s parsha, describes the priest’s duties and responsibilities.  He must wear linen clothing, he can only marry a Levite woman, he must not come into contact with a corpse.  If he does, he becomes “tamei,” and cannot do his holy work until he is once again purified.

Distinctions such as these are helpful because human life is messy.  Boundaries create a mental map of the world, and help us navigate it.  Nonetheless, they are never absolute.  Life sometimes requires that the rules be broken.

Case in point:  the priest may not come into contact with a corpse, but can if the deceased is his parent, brother, unmarried sister, or child.  In these cases, the Torah understands that human empathy requires even the priest to mourn properly.  The contact, at the funeral for example, will change his status and mean that he cannot perform his duties.  But that status, tamei, can be reversed – after the proper ritual and with the passage of time, he will be tahor once more.

Our society draws many such distinctions:  minor or adult, true or false, clean or dirty.  All people who are literate in their culture know them and generally observe them – even if the “five second rule” doesn’t accurately promote food safety, and even if some minors can care for themselves and some adults cannot.  Some distinctions are based in nature (“day/night”), some appear to be (“male/female”), and some are products of their culture (“work/life”).

To navigate our culture, we must know the boundaries.  To navigate life, we must know when to cross them.

K'doshim -- 5776

“You shall be holy for I, God, am holy,” we are told in Leviticus 19:2.  Such a grand theological statement!  We, earthly creatures descended from Adam, share a common trait with God.  Created in God’s image, we can aspire to emulate the Epitome of Holiness.  Our lives, usually filled with baseness and banality, can be rendered sacred.  We can be more than we are.

Parshat K’doshim describes the “Holiness Code” – rules for developing holiness in our lives. 

The directions are scarcely spiritual, however.  There is no discussion of fasting or prayer.  Rather, the rules deal principally with human interaction.  They are grounded in ethics:  Revere your parents.  Keep Shabbat.  Don’t turn to idols.  Provide for the poor and the stranger.  Don’t steal or deal deceitfully with each other.  Pay people on time.  Don’t insult the deaf or place a stumbling block in the path of a blind person.  

For the Jew, ethical behavior IS religious behavior.

How can we make our lives meaningful, special, holy? By treating other people well, even in the small moments.  Divinity is in the details.

Acharei Mot -- 5776

The priest places his hands on the goat’s head and then, with a smack, drives it into the wilderness.  While another animal is sacrificed, this one is spared that fate, scampering over the rocks into freedom:  the original (e)scape goat.

It’s human nature to find a scapegoat, someone to blame for our own problems and shortcomings.  It’s easier to point the finger at another than to look in the mirror.  We create human scapegoats rather than take responsibility for our actions, rather than acknowledge our short comings.  When someone else is to blame, we feel pristine and our ego remains unbruised.  The mess we’re standing in?  Someone else made it.

“My father didn’t support me, so I didn’t pursue my dream to graduate school.”  “Why don’t you go now?”  “It’s too hard.”

“My daughter got a C in Spanish because the teacher was mean.”

“I didn’t get the promotion because my boss wanted someone he could push around.”

“I’m angry that you didn’t invite me!”  “Why didn’t tell me you wanted to come?”

Scapegoating is a form of bullying.  (Note the animalistic reference in both terms.)  So is gaslighting, a term I recently learned.  Gaslighting is a suite of behaviors intentionally designed to challenge another person’s perception of reality.

Classically, gaslighting is the practice an abuser uses to make his partner doubt her own sanity: secretly moving things in the house, denying something she knows to be true, repeating a lie often enough that it becomes ‘fact.’  The gaslighter makes his victim feel uncertain, unworthy, or irrational.

I’ve met a few gaslighters.  Not knowing the term, however, I couldn’t define what was happening.  

Every time I’d point out something they were doing that was inappropriate, they’d turn it around without acknowledging the observation.  “But what about you?  You…”  By doing that, the gaslighter’s own shortcoming is overlooked.  A gaslighter may present as sweet in public, but bitter in private.  That’s incredibly disconcerting.  Was I missing something?  Why didn’t everyone see what I saw?  A gaslighter can play the martyr, creating an image of victim even while victimizing others.  Someone else is the cause their distress, not their own failure to perform.

Human beings are complex animals.  We protect our own self-image, at times, even if it hurts others.  It is helpful to recognize these tendencies in other people, and also in ourselves.

Passover -- 5776

Our Passover tables will soon be festooned with goblets, nibbles and dips.  Each mouthful tells a piece of our sacred story.

Karpas is the green vegetable we dip into salt water.  The sprig represents springtime and hope.  The salt water is our ancestors’ tears.

This year, both Passover and Earth Day occur on April 22.  So it’s fitting that we contemplate the health of our planet, and how many people are already suffering because of environmental degradation.

When I taste the salt water this year, I’ll be thinking of our planet’s oceans.  They are at risk in many ways.  For one thing, acidity is rising due to higher concentrations of carbon dioxide.   Acidification is proven to dissolve shells, leading to the deaths of those animals that inhabit them.  That’s bad news for the many creatures who consume mollusks and crustaceans.  Coral will perish, and along with it fish who call the reef home.  If the ocean’s acid levels continue to rise, the fishing and tourism industries will collapse.

What’s more, the proliferation of plastics, over fishing, the use of drift nets, and polluted run-off are causing additional damage in the oceans.  When is the point of no return?  Try to imagine life on earth if our seas perish.

The cup of salt water will also bring to my mind the 663 million people (1 in 10 globally) who lack access to safe water, according to Water.org.  A child dies from a water-related illness every ninety seconds, about the time it takes to fill our wine cups.  Women and children spend 125 million hours each day collecting water.  2.4 billion Human beings lack access to proper sanitation.  For these people, like those in Flint, Michigan, fresh water is the exception, not the rule.

What can you do?  This Passover, as you dip the karpas into the salt water, dip once, then pause.  In that moment, acknowledge with gratitude your access to plentiful, uncontaminated water.  Then, dip a second time for all those billions for whom clean water is a regular struggle.  Surely, they are in Egypt still; their plagues are real.  As you eat the salty parsley – a blend of suffering and hope -- commit to making a difference for others.  Double your efforts at reducing plastic, since it winds up infiltrating ecosystems.  Consume only sustainable fish, whether at home or in restaurants.  Reduce your carbon emissions.  Pledge to donate at water.org.

Perhaps you’ll offer this blessing over the second dip or over Miriam’s Cup:

Blessed are You, Be’er Chayim, Sacred Wellspring of Life.  You are the Source of Life, coursing through my veins.  May Your blessings flow through me into the world, and may I, like my ancestor Miriam, be an agent for sustaining the all that lives.

I’d like to thank Yael Dennis who has so inspired me to develop my thinking on Judaism and Environmental Justice.

Wishing you and your family a happy, meaningful Pesach.

About Acid Seas

About Plastics in our Oceans and our Bodies

Water.Org

At The Conclusion of Shloshim -- 5776

I got my hair cut the other day, as I have countless times.  It was no big deal for the barber – just another head in the chair, #2 on sides and back, finger length on top.  But it was significant for me.

I hadn’t cut my hair since before my step-mother’s funeral.  During the 30 days of mourning that followed, known as shloshim, I observed the tradition not to cut my hair.  (I tried not to shave, but my beard got so scraggly that I didn’t think it was fair to the couples I was marrying to show up unkempt at their weddings.  And besides, my throat was unbelievably scratchy.)

With each passing day, I saw my hair grown longer and greyer.  I didn’t bother me at first.  But then I grew uncomfortable with my appearance, of looking like a man who didn’t care.  My external appearance came to reflect what was going on inside me --  a sense of disorder, of wildness, even.  Each time I looked in the mirror, I was reminded that things were not as they were supposed to be:  not just my hair, of course, but in my father’s life especially.  His beloved companion, with whom he was supposed to travel the remainder of his days, had left him behind.  We were lost and uncertain just what to do next, out at sea without a compass.  I was beginning to look like a bedraggled sailor.

As I sat in the barber’s chair, I thought of all the experiences this month of mourning had brought me.  I had observed shiva with the older Religious School students, and remembered their thoughtful consideration of the feelings of loss:  “relief, orphaned, empty, regret, thankful, helpless, numb, unfinished, lonely, overwhelmed, heavy, closed off, confused.”  I had felt all of those.  I brought to mind the hundreds of cards, emails, and hugs I’ve received from you, and my deep gratitude for them.  I recalled officiating at another funeral, and staring at a coffin just like my step-mother’s, reeling as I contemplated the unbounded loss that sealed box represents.  I thought about the drawn out bureaucracy of getting my name added to a safety deposit box, and the bags of clothes we’ve hauled away.

And, most poignant of all, as the clippers cut away a month’s growth, I felt myself standing once again with my father at his wife’s fresh grave, exactly 30 days after she was laid to rest.  In that place, boundary of grass patch still visible, I tried to intuit what my father was feeling.  I pondered the depths of darkness in the soil below, and wondered what was happening to the memories of all we had shared, my step-mother and I.  And I felt the enormity of the truth that all roads lead here.

In Biblical and Prophetic times, the Nazarite was a person who voluntarily dedicated him- or herself to God.  For an amount of time they themselves determined, Nazarites would refrain from consuming grapes or wine, and from cutting their hair.  I now understand better what a constant reminder their growing locks were to them.  With every turn of the head, they’d remember the promise they’d made. They’d know themselves to be like the mourner: set apart from all others, all those who think that today is like any other day, and who live under the mistaken notion that this day is like tomorrow will be.  Both the Nazarite and the mourner know that nothing lasts forever.

Thank you for all the cards, messages, hugs, donations, and support.  They have meant the world to me, to Haim, to Jacob and to my father, with whom I shared them.

My hair is back to normal.  Our life, however, is not.

P'kudei -- 5776

The gifts are collected and the encampment is built.  The priests are installed and ceremony is completed.  God’s presence, finally, arrives in the Tabernacle.  Appearing as cloud by day and fire by night, when God’s presence was in the Tent of Meeting, the people stayed put.  When it lifted, it “accompany them on all their journeys” (Exodus 40:38).

“On ALL their journeys.”  Surely the text, in its plain meaning, speaks of the journeys the people will take on their way through the desert to the Holy Land – from Elim to Seir to Kadesh and onward.  I think it goes further still to imagine all the journeys – the myriad experiences and transitions -- of the countless members of our tribe, exalted and degraded, all those who have marched, inexorably, from womb to tomb and throughout time.

The many ways to experience being a child and the many ways to experience being a parent – each of these is a journey.  So are the uncountable moments shared by brothers and sisters, and the uncountable moments without them.  The weddings celebrated under the canopy and in the heart; the lives spent together and apart.  The milestones we’ve achieved, and failed to achieve, and failed to imagine, the hopes as fresh as the new day and the dreams as tired as summer.  The times we’ve looked in the mirror and been pleased, and the times we’ve looked in the mirror crestfallen.  The ideas and the breakthroughs, the art and the music that have poured from this people like wind from the sea.  The marches towards freedom and the marches to death.  Flights of fancy and cold hard truth.  Journeys across solid ground, journeys across turbulent seas, and journeys into the interior of the human soul.  We have done and felt it all:  “the honey and the bee-sting, the bitter and the sweet.”

As I contemplate my life, I’m aware that my own journey has in fact been many journeys.  Some have been grand, like marriage, living in Cairo, or becoming a father.  Some have been intimate, like a walk behind a casket, a hug from a child, or a moment of prayer.  And I see that journeying is not the distance traveled, but rather the meaningful encounter, the honest connection between two beings.  I realize that my journey is not limited to the path I walk.  It is, instead, the set of genuine interactions I’ve had with others and with myself.  My life cannot accurately be described as a thread, for it twists and loops and ties with the threads of other people’s lives to such an extent that there is no possible way to extricate it from the entire fabric of life and of wonder.

We are accompanied in all our journeys.  We are never alone.

Mishpatim -- 5776

Before debit cards, it happened all the time:  you’d run out of cash, and had to borrow a few bucks from a friend or co-worker to cover lunch.  Debt weighs heavily on some people, who wouldn’t rest until they’d repaid what they owed.  Others seemed to take their sweet time.  And some lenders, it must be said, were more intense about being repaid than others.  Debt can strain relationships.  No wonder Polonius cautioned “neither a borrower nor a lender be” (Hamlet, 1:3).

It’s easy when the debt is the price of a sandwich between people who have sufficient.  But when the stakes rise, and a person needs money for life’s substantial needs, the pressure grows ever higher. 

Jewish Free Loan of Greater Phoenix provides interest-free loans to Jews in need.  As a member of the Board of Directors, I’ve seen first-hand how people come in needing a bit of assistance – a student loan, money to buy a new car or to fix up a home, cash up front to pay adoption expenses – and walk out with the problem resolved.  They don’t have to load up their credit cards.  Instead, they can get on with their lives with less stress and with less interest.

“If you lend money to My people, to the poor among you, do not act toward them as a creditor; exact no interest from them” (Exodus 22:24).  These words from Parshat Mishpatim are the animating force behind Jewish Free Loan.

If you ever have a need – or know someone in a tough spot – please refer them to Jewish Free Loan.  The process is respectful, simple, and helpful.

Loans are available for a wide range of uses:  adoption/in-vitro fertilization, business development & expansion, education (both Jewish and secular, including college), Israel experiences, medical/dental, personal/emergencies, burial, senior care, special needs/disability assistance, and general need.

If you ever want to give tzedakah, knowing that it will be recycled countless times as loans are made, re-paid, and the funds re-distributed, consider giving to Jewish Free Loan.  Your gift will have a truly infinite impact.

It’s better not to be a borrower.  But if you’re in need of money, thank goodness for Jewish Free Loan.

For more information, visit:  Jewish Free Loan of Greater Phoenix

Yitro -- 5776

Photo:  Geir Magne Saetre

Anshe Emet – People of Truth.”  Moses’ father-in-law, Yitro, calls for him to designate such people to serve as chiefs within the community (Exodus 18:21).  What does it mean to be a “Person of Truth”?  How can this aspirational title serve to enhance our lives?

To be a Person of Truth is to hold a metaphorical mirror up to yourself so that you can see yourself as you truly are.  It means being honest about your weaknesses, strengths, abilities, and deficits.  It means owning your past, your relationships, your desires, and your fears.  It means getting real with yourself, even when the truth hurts.  People of Truth adhere to their principles even when it’s difficult to do so.  They keep their word. 

Many of us engage in self-deception, telling ourselves stories of who we are that don’t match objective reality.  Sometimes we believe ourselves to be greater than we truly are (smarter, funnier, more beautiful, more successful), and sometimes we believe ourselves to be less than we truly are (dumber, duller, plainer, less worthy). We become confused when others (spouses, children, bosses, teachers, physicians, for example) don’t see us as we see ourselves.  Mussar leader Alan Morinis describes humility as “taking up the right amount of space” – understanding our true role in any situation, not requiring extra attention nor forgoing our due of sunlight and oxygen.  To do so, we must see ourselves accurately rather than believing our own press.  How tricky this can be!

Honest self-reflection and awareness is no easy feat.  It can hurt.

One way to begin is by looking into an actual mirror for no less than five minutes, noticing each feature, owning your body as it is.  At times this can be painful; at other times, surprising or inspiring.  It’s always insightful.  Another way is to listen deeply to people whose opinions matter, and who are willing to be honest with you.  Many people use therapy to gain insight into themselves.

A slight shift of vowels turns the Hebrew word “emet” into “amoot” – from “truth” to “I will die.” 

That each of us will die is itself among the ultimate truths.  Before the truth of mortality, self-deception becomes petty and meaningless, the chatter of so many birds.  Dishonesty is an impediment to a life lived fully.

What is true about you?

B'shallach -- 5776

The Israelites, recently released from captivity, pour out of Egypt.  Pharaoh chases after, desperate to capture them.  The Torah describes his determination this way:  “YHVH strengthened Pharaoh’s heart” (Exodus 14:8).

That’s how it feels when we get determined or stubborn:  hardened, tightened, rigid.  Fight or flight kicks in.  We feel powerful.  Our hands make fists, our jaws lock, and our field of vision narrows.

This approach isn’t successful for Pharaoh (“God locked the wheels of their chariots so that they moved forward with difficulty” [14:25]), and it’s rarely successful for us.  When we harden, we fail to see possibilities and opportunities.  We overlook allies.  We make poor decisions.

Instead, take a lesson from the ocean.  It is always changing, always rolling.  Waves pass through it and it bends around any corner.  An ocean is fluid enough to divide, even though that’s contrary to its own nature.  When confronted, water relaxes its grip and gets out of the way.

When a situation gets intense, try to be conscious and move yourself in the opposite direction: relax your grip, close your eyes, breath in and out.   Feel how you are feeling in that moment.  Release the requirement that your solution is the only one.  Shift yourself from being an obstacle to moving with the flow. 

Who knows?  Something miraculous might happen.

Va-eira -- 5776

The Exodus tale is an account of a labor dispute:  unpaid workers, toiling under dangerous conditions, negotiate against their powerful boss.  This week, the portion of Va-eira brings us the first seven plagues.  In the initial one, water is transformed into blood.

With these plagues, God turns the tables on the Egyptians.  They come to know suffering as they have meted it out.  It’s fitting, therefore, that the sequence begins with the Egyptians forced to work as they have made the Hebrews work:  “And all the Egyptians had to dig round about the Nile for drinking water, because they could not drink the water of the Nile” (Exodus 7:24).

It’s a clever tactic.  From the outset, the Hebrew side is building empathy among their opponents.  The Egyptians are suddenly stripped of privilege, their existence made precarious and dependent on their own effort.  As they slog in the mud, they will begin to perceive life from the bottom up, both socially and literally.  Thirsty, dirty, and aching, the Egyptians may begin to understand the injustice of their system.  Certainly, their eyes will begin to open.

Freedom will be born from this mud.