Rabbi Salomon Gruenwald's Blog

Bucket List Source Sheet

2010-09-21T13:49:00.002-06:00

Following my Rosh Hashanah sermon, many people asked me to show them where to find the Talmudic quote upon which the sermon was based. For your convenience, I have provided the text here as a PDF document. The source sheet also includes some other references to questions you're asked in heaven.

To download the source sheet, please click here.

Dr. Ron Wolfson wrote a thought-provoking and inspirational book that I highly recommend called The Seven Questions You're Asked in Heaven (Jewish Lights, 2009) based on these sources.

Kicking the Bucket List

2010-09-10T23:59:00.021-06:00

Rosh Hashanah 5771

The Rabbi, the Cantor, and the President of the synagogue were flying home from a conference when their plane crashed on a tiny pacific island. The three men crawled out of the wreckage only to be captured by a tribe of vicious cannibals. The chief of the tribe said to the men, “Gentlemen: by tribal tradition, you are lunch… but seeing that you are men of great distinction, we will grant you one last request.” The rabbi said, “In that case I would like to preach my greatest high holiday sermon – a two-hour discourse that ties together the entire Bible and finally solves the question of good and evil… but I never got to give that sermon because the cantor needed more time for Kol Nidre.” The cantor stepped forward and said, “In that case, I wish to give my most sublime rendition of Kol Nidre ever. Each 30 minute repetition is a tribute to one of the three greatest Hazzens of the early 20^th Century. But I never had a chance to sing that Kol Nidre because the Rabbi here needed more time for his sermon.” “In that case,” said the President, “eat me first!”

The “dying wish” joke is, of course, part of a genre we love. The final request of a dying person is supposed to reveal something essential about their character. The question is: if you knew you were going to die soon, what would you want to do? In recent years, a number of popular books, websites, and films have tried to answer that question. It’s called “making a bucket list” – as in: “what would you like to do before you kick the bucket?” It has become very popular to make bucket lists… especially for other people. A number of books have been published in recent years beginning with Dave Freeman’s 1999 book titled 100 Things to Do Before you Die. The book is about events and sites around the world that are worth experiencing. Now there are hundreds of these books: 1001 Films to See Before You Die, 50 Foods to Try Before You Die. The funniest one I came across is called No Regrets. This one is too impatient to wait for death. Marketed to young women the subtitle is: 101 Fabulous Things to Do Before You're Too Old, Married, or Pregnant.

There are also a number of websites that provide suggestions and give you advice about writing your own bucket list. If you go to 43things.com, you can see what the most popular bucket list items are. The typical stuff usually involves travel, extreme experiences like skydiving, or accomplishments like writing a novel.

A couple of years ago, Rob Reiner made a movie called “The Bucket List” in which Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson share a hospital room when each man is informed that he has less than a year to live. Nicholson, who plays an obnoxious billionaire, and Freeman, a wise and intellectual auto-mechanic, make their bucket list and set off on an extravagant adventure around the world. As you might expect from a big Hollywood film, the two men have their trite epiphanies in the last few minutes and discover that what really matters isn’t all the adventure but family and friendship. The Bucket List is entertaining enough, but not all that profound.

I have to wonder what the proliferation of these bucket list themed movies and books and websites is about. What does it say about our culture and our society? What does it say about an enormous generation of baby-boomers entering retirement? What does it say about Gen Xers confronting a world with no clear answers or laid out paths? The philosopher Ernest Becker observed that we are the only creatures who are consciously aware of our mortality. And, it is this knowledge that drives us. In his book, The Denial of Death, Becker argues that we compensate for this dreadful knowledge by constructing what he calls “affirmation systems.” We see death as the ultimate failure, so we pursue success. We see death as ultimate emptiness, so we fill our lives with stuff. We see death as the end of feeling, so we crave pleasure. We see death as impotence, so we seek power. The bucket list craze is just another attempt at the denial of death. Checking things off the list – even if they are noble pursuits – is still about us trying to conquer the inevitable.

Judaism doesn’t see death as “kicking the bucket.” And Judaism doesn’t see life as the short journey during which we have to get as much done as possible. Judaism teaches us that our lives are a precious gift – a gift we did not earn, but one that comes with enormous responsibility and opportunity. In the account of Creation we read that God fashioned humanity out of the dust of the earth and blew into us “nishmat hayyim” – the breath of life (Gen. 2:7). The Torah means to teach us that our bodies are made up of the same finite stuff as the rest of the universe and will return to the earth from whence they came. But, at the same time, we possess a tiny mysterious bit of what God is. We call it many things: the soul, the spark of the divine, the image of God – it is that part of us that makes us who we are and that which lives on.

So death isn’t oblivion to be feared; but Judaism isn’t a morbid religion either. It is a religion that affirms life while reminding us that we don’t have an infinite number of tomorrows.

Once a year Judaism asks us to confront our mortality – but not with a bucket list mindset. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are a drama. A rehearsal. The prayers we recite tell the Jewish story of what happens to us when we die. Our ancestors imagined that when we leave this world we go before a Heavenly Court that reviews our lives. This drama is represented in the most important and emblematic prayer of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, the U’netane Tokef. The prayer describes God as the ultimate Judge: “B’rosh Hashanah Yikateivu, u’ve’yom tzom kippur yechatemu”… “On Rosh Hashanah [the judgment] is written; and on Yom Kippur it is sealed: … who will live and who will die… who by fire and who by water…” – you know the rest.

In this heavenly court we find ourselves today, they don’t ask you if you ever went sky diving or climbed all the 14ers in Colorado . God doesn’t want to know if you made a million bucks or if you belong to the Mile High Club. The prosecutor in this court isn’t going to ask you how many items you checked off your bucket list. No. In this court, you’re asked to give an account of your life and how you lived it.

According to the Talmud, there is a final exam in heaven. The 4^th Century sage known as Rava says there are 6 questions you’ll be asked when you reach the heavenly court (see BT Shabbat 31)[1]. So what are they? What’s on the entrance exam to heaven? Before I tell you what Rava says, I’d like you to think about it for a moment. What questions do you suppose you will be asked on that day?

So, according to Rava, the first question is: “were you honest in your business?” WHAT!?! Of all the questions that could be on the exam, that’s the first one!? What about tzedakah? Did you give to charity? Where you generous? Were you kind to people? What about mitzvot? Did you keep Shabbat? Were you scrupulous about Kashrut? How can the first thing on the list be so mundane? But, it actually makes a lot of sense. Tzedakah (giving charity) is certainly a righteous act, but you can be very generous and still be a crooked SOB. I’m sure Bernie Madoff was very generous with other people’s money. And religious piety is certainly important too. God expects us to follow the commandments, but it’s possible to rest on the Seventh day and lie, cheat, and steal on the other six. You can be scrupulous about what you put in your mouth, and lie with every word that comes out of your mouth. So it makes a lot of sense that this is the first question. How you conduct your affairs says a lot about you.

The words in Hebrew are “nassata v’nattata be’emunah” – literally, did you give and take faithfully. It is talking about business, but much more than commerce. The question is: in your dealings in the world, in your interactions with other people, were you fundamentally honest and did you act with integrity? How we deal with other human beings is an essential requirement to be considered a decent person.

Interestingly, the question does not ask if you were successful in business – that’s a bucket list mentality. The 1^st question is, were you honest in business?

The second question: did you set aside time for Torah study? How should we apply this question to our lives today? I want us to interpret it simultaneously in two ways. The first way is to take Torah in its broadest sense. To our sages the word Torah has always meant much more than the 5 Books of Moses. Torah means knowledge – so the question here is: did you set aside time for acquiring knowledge? We all know how easy it is to neglect our minds once we’re out of school.

But I also want us to take the question more literally – that it really means Torah. It means Judaism. I can tell you with 100% confidence that there isn’t a single person in this enormous room (including the people up here on the bima) who doesn’t need to learn more. I’m going to say something very challenging, but I believe it deeply: there is no way to have a meaningful experience of Judaism without learning. You may enjoy our services and you may love coming to hear the Cantor’s powerful voice; you might enjoy the company of other Jews; but the religion of our ancestors will not touch your soul or improve who you are if you don’t learn.

And, again, the point isn’t to read the entire Talmud or memorize the Torah… that’s a bucket list mindset. The question is: did you make time for Torah?

The third question you’re asked in heaven is: “did you engage in the mitzvah of being fruitful and multiplying.” After my wife Melanie and I had our first child we argued often about how many more children we were going to have. Melanie wanted to have a total of three children and I wanted only two. It seems that God decided that for us when we conceived twins. So it looks like we’re covered when it comes to being fruitful and multiplying! Wrong! That’s not necessarily true.

At first glance you might think this question is about having children… but it doesn’t ask, “did you have children?” So what could it mean? Our tradition teaches that a person can fulfill the mitzvah of being fruitful and multiplying in many ways – certainly by having children or adopting, but also by being a teacher, a mentor, or by being creative and putting something new into the world. The question isn’t about children; it’s about leaving a legacy. It’s about making a positive difference in the world. Not for the sake of fame or honor, but for the sake of advancing the human enterprise.

There is a legend in the Talmud about a man named Honi who was famous for performing all sorts of miraculous deeds. In one story, Honi sees an elderly man planting a carob tree (BT Taanit 23a). So Honi asked the man, “how long will it take for that tree to produce fruit?” The man answered, “seventy years.” Honi laughed, “do you expect to live 70 years to see the fruit of this tree?” To which the old man replied, “I may not see the fruit, but just as my grandparents planted carob trees for me, I now plant a carob tree for my grandchildren.” Honi snickered as he sat down to eat some lunch and fell into a deep sleep. He slept for 70 years and when he awoke he saw a man picking fruit from a carob tree. Honi asked him, “are you the man who planted this tree?” The man replied, “no, my grandfather planted this tree.”

Now, if you’ve ever heard this story at a Jewish fundraising event, this is usually where the storyteller will ask you to make a gift in order to leave a legacy to the next generation. And that is correct – that is what the tale is about. But it isn’t actually the end of the legend. The continuation of the story is that Honi goes back into town and tries to convince everyone that he is the famous Honi who had made miracles happen a couple of generations ago. But, no one believes him; so, Honi despairs and asks God to take his life. He would rather be dead than anonymous.[2] Honi is actually a failure because he didn’t understand the true moral of the story: that leaving a legacy is important, but leaving a legacy in order to be famous is not – that’s the bucket list mentality.

The question you’re asked in heaven – “did you leave a legacy? – is not about grandiose accomplishments. It’s about planting simple carob trees from which others will someday eat.

The fourth question you’re asked in heaven is: tzipita li’shuah. “Did you hold out hope for redemption?” This too is an unexpected question. We usually think of Judaism as a religion that places a priority on our behavior over our attitudes. We might expect this question to be about repairing the world – doing tikkun olam… not simply hoping for redemption. So why is hope so important?

The Torah teaches us that in the beginning, the world was “tohu va’vohu” – unformed and void, chaos and disorder… and God created the reality we know by making order out of the chaos. Yet we all have a sense that just under the surface of this world is tohu va’vohu. We see it every day – when we watch the news, when we see the injustices and violence in our world, when we confront the struggles in our own lives. It isn’t hard to despair in the face of all that chaos. But the story of creation also teaches us that after each day of creation, God looked at what had been created and said, “ki tov” – that it was good.

One of my mentors, Rabbi Ed Feinstein says that “good” is the most important word in the chapter. “This is the great revolution that began our faith,” he says, “The whole world sees chaos, terror, random death as inevitable. And this one little people, a people who suffered more than any other people, this people has the cosmic chutzpah to say ‘It doesn’t have to be that way! Come, be God’s partner. There is goodness in creating the world.’”[3] It is true that our world exists in the precarious balance between order and chaos, between good and evil. It’s tempting to become cynical – to believe that nothing can change, that there is no hope for a better world. It’s tempting to focus on ourselves and what we can grab in our short time on this earth. It’s also tempting to think that the only thing that really matters is making big changes to the world – that anything short of a revolution is pointless… again, those are bucket list ways of thinking. But Judaism teaches us that we have the power to bend the moral arc of the universe (even if only slightly) in favor of goodness and justice. In order to be partners with God in the pursuit of a more perfect world, we have to hold on to hope despite the odds.

The last two questions are related. The fifth question is “pilpalta b’chochma – did you delve into wisdom?” and the sixth question is “havanta davar mitoch davar - did you understand one thing from another?” On the surface these questions are about study and learning; but I think these questions are getting at something much deeper. First we have to understand what wisdom is. My teacher, Rabbi Elliot Dorff, always taught us that wisdom is the knowledge we gain through experience. It is what we learn when we pay attention. Wisdom is a way of living in the world.

And the 6^th question is related. “did you understand something from something?” In your life experience, in the choices that you made, did you derive some additional understanding from what was presented to you? Did you accept the conventional wisdom or did you advance that wisdom is some meaningful way?

Taken together, these last two questions are about the choices we make in life. Interestingly, the question isn’t did you always make the correct choice? Again – that’s a bucket list mindset. They aren’t asking: were you right? We all make mistakes, we all make bad choices. These are questions about your process. Did you make thoughtful and deliberate choices based on wisdom and understanding?

In the Talmud, Rava ends his list of 6 questions with an interesting conclusion. He says, “even [if a person doesn’t have answers to these questions] if he/she had reverence for God, the judgment will be favorable.” I think Rava telling us something I’ve to which I’ve been alluding all along. Having the right answers to the questions isn’t what matters most. After all, each of us will have different answers to these questions. These questions aren’t about what you’ve accomplished or what you’ve checked off a cosmic bucket list. These questions are also not about being perfect or even righteous – that bar is too high for most of us; and it is a bucket list mindset. These questions are about being a decent person, a good person. They are about striving to be better; being better next year than you were last year.

In these days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur we should all be asking ourselves theses questions: Was I honest last year, and I can do better next year? Did I make time to learn, and how can I learn more? Am I proud of the legacy I cultivated last year, and what will I do in the year to come? Did I live with hope this year? And, do I still hold out hope for a better life, hope that one day we will achieve a world worthy of the good God created? And, finally, were the decisions I made based on wisdom, and will the choices I make next year advance that wisdom to the next level?

So let’s kick the bucket list mentality out of our lives; and instead, keep these questions in mind so we can live more thoughtfully, more deliberately and improve a little every day. If we do, I believe the final judgment will be favorable

L’Shanah Tovah.

To download the source sheet, please click here.

For more on the questions you're asked in heaven and a somewhat different take on the Talmud section I discussed, please read Ron Wolfson's wonderful book, The Seven Questions You're Asked in Heaven (Jewish Lights, 2009)

[1] My teacher Ron Wolfson wrote a wonderful book called The Seven Questions You’re Asked in Heaven” (Jewish Lights, 2009) based on this section of Talmud. He counts this list as five and adds two additional questions from other sources. Some of my examples come from the book. Though I interpret the questions somewhat differently from him, I owe Ron a debt of gratitude for the influence of his book.

[2] See Taanit 23a. Most readers interpret Honi’s despair at the end of the story as a plea for “scholastic fellowship.” Coincidently, it is Rava who interjects a comment at the end of the story citing an aphorism: “O Hevruta, O Mituta,” (“either fellowship or death.”). But, in context and considering what we know about Honi’s personality from other stories, the source of Honi’s misery is clear: he is despondent because no one will accord him the honor he feels is due to him. “Hevruta” in this context does not mean he is looking for a study-partner. “Hevruta” here means the recognition of his peers.

[3] Quoted by Ron Wolfson in The Seven Questions You’re Asked in Heaven (Jewish Lights, 2009), p. 60.

It's the Grown-up Thing to Do.

2010-08-21T23:00:00.000-06:00

Parashat Ki Tetze 5770

Having young children in your home at times feels like being the anthropologist living among warring tribes of ruthless Ya̧nomamö warriors. Take my two year-old twins (please). I like to observe Hannah and Micah when they don’t think I’m watching. It’s interesting to see how they figure out problems together (like how to help each other climb up a book shelf) or how they are learning to share and take turns. But, they are two years old and it usually doesn’t take long before the harmonious little society they’ve created in the living room breaks down. One of them decides sharing is overrated, the other grabs the toy, the other screams, then the other replies with hitting or pinching, then it escalates to bighting or pulling hair. Meanwhile I sit in the corner wearing my pith helmet recording it all in a field journal. Of course, I’m kidding… as a parent I break up the fight and I discipline them. It drives me crazy when the kids fight. But I try to remember that they are, after all, two year-olds. They don’t yet have the impulse control to respond appropriately when they feel wronged. They haven’t learned that there are more important things at stake than who has the ball.

It’s also interesting to observe how our 5 year-old, Koby, behaves differently. His little brother and sister gang up on him – they break his stuff, they hit and pinch, they pull his hair; but, matter what they do to him, he very rarely will retaliate in kind. It’s interesting to observe what a difference a few years makes: he’s begun to understand that even when someone does you harm, it isn’t always justifiable to do the same back. He’s learned that there are higher principles to take into account: he understands that they are still learning how to behave; he knows that escalating isn’t going to solve the problem; he trusts that he can rely on grown-ups to help him; and he’s learning that hurting his siblings is wrong no matter what. Approaching age six, he’s become more mature and I’m proud of him for that. It isn’t easy to do the right thing when your instincts dictate otherwise.

This week’s Torah portion is largely about the rules that ask us to transcend our instincts and inclinations – even when giving in to them might be justifiable. At first glance, Parashat Ki Tetze reads like a laundry list of laws that don’t have much to do with one another. But one theme that ties together most of the mitzvot in Ki Tetze is the irreducible dignity and worth of every human being. These are laws that demand that we uphold principles, even when it feels like a sacrifice. Here are some of them:

The Torah says that if you, as a soldier, are fighting in a war and you take a woman captive; and if you find her attractive and want to marry her, you have to wait for a month. In the meantime, she’s supposed to make herself as unattractive as possible. If after a month you still like her – only then can you marry her. If not, you have to set her free? Why? Why is it that in a world in which it was typical for men to rape women in war, Israelite soldiers had to go to such lengths to marry a captive woman? Would our enemies have afforded our women the same rights? After all, he’s not forcing her. But God says no, you have to give her time to mourn her parents and you have to transcend the passion you felt on the battlefield in order to preserve her dignity. If you’re going to marry her, you have to actually fall in love with her.

The Torah says when you see someone’s lost animal, you have to return it. Why? Why is it your problem if your neighbor can’t keep his ox tied up? What if your neighbor is a jerk? But God says no, you can’t ignore it, lo tuchal l’hit-alem. It doesn’t matter if you like your neighbor; you have to go out of your way to help him.

The Torah says when you build a house with a flat roof, you need to build a wall around it to prevent people from falling off. Why? It’s your house. If someone’s walking around on your roof and they don’t look where they’re going, why is that your fault? You didn’t push them off! But God says no – you have to protect other people, even against their own clumsiness.

The Torah says if your father is married to a woman who isn’t your mother and your father dies, you can’t marry his widow. Why not? Your single; she’s single. You like her; she likes you. What’s wrong with that? –she’s not even related to you! But God says no – you have to transcend your instincts and respect your father’s dignity even in death.

The Torah says if you lend someone money you can’t take the clothes off his back or the tools he uses to make a living as collateral. Why not? If he wants to pawn his shirt, why’s that your problem! But God says no, you have to look out for his dignity, even if poverty has stripped him of it.

The Torah says if someone owes you money and doesn’t pay up, you can’t enter her house to seize property. Why not? You’re the repo man; and you’re taking what is rightfully yours. But God says no - it may be yours, but you have to afford her the dignity of handing it over herself.

The Torah says if you hire a day laborer you can’t wait till the next day to pay him. Why not? You’re not denying him his wage, you’re just saying, “I’ll pay you in the morning”? But God says, no – a person who lives hand-to-mouth deserves to eat dinner after an honest day’s work and shouldn’t have to go hungry till morning.

And there are several other examples like these throughout the Torah. Taken together, they teach us that God holds human dignity as a primary value and an unconditional right.

But the question remains: why do we have to be so moral? There’s nothing I just listed that is in itself wrong. Doing the things prohibited by this list doesn’t make you an overtly bad person. Why should we be expected to be better than what human inclinations dictate? Why should we be better than the other nations amongst whom we live who don’t follow these rules? But God says no, you do have to be better.

Over and over the Torah says that it isn’t enough to refrain from doing harm. Again and again, the Torah teaches us that human dignity is not up for debate. You don’t get to choose which people are deserving of dignity and which are not. You have to act fairly and respectful of others even when your inclination is to do otherwise, even when it costs you something, even when it doesn’t feel fair, even when it is uncomfortable for you. But that takes maturity to understand.

The Torah does not use the language of “rights,” but in modern legal parlance we would say that human dignity and freedom are rights. As Jews we should be proud of our religion for holding us to high standards. And I think this is also true for us as Americans. Like Judaism, we have a Constitution that holds us to high standards. Like Judaism, the law of this land is one based on principles that uphold human dignity for all people. That’s really hard to do! Like the soldier who has to go to a lot of trouble to marry a woman who, by anyone else’s standards has no rights, sometimes upholding our principles is costly. Like the guy who owes you money and fails to repay; or the schlemiel on the roof, some people take advantages of the system – they act irresponsibly or offensively; nonetheless, we afford them rights and dignities, even if we think they don’t deserve them.

Judaism acknowledges that it’s hard to be that moral. If these standards were easy, God wouldn’t have to command them. Likewise, the US Constitution recognizes that providing freedom equally and standing on principles is hard to do. If these freedoms were easy to ensure, we wouldn’t have to declare them as rights.

Being Jewish and also being American means we don’t measure ourselves by other people’s lower moral standards. We’re not governed by the lowest common denominator. We don’t act like children who say “I’m going to treat you the way you would treat me if the tables were turned.” We stand on principle even when we don’t like it or find it convenient. Upholding our ideals not only makes us better people; it is a sign of maturity. Like parents who have to teach their children not to lash out every time someone offends them; the law is there to help us be more mature, even when we don’t like it.

Be Wholehearted With God

2010-08-14T23:00:00.000-06:00

Judaism draws our attention to the preciousness and holiness of moments in time, reminding us of the limits of our power as human beings.

Until recently, if you had asked me to go camping, I probably would have made an excuse not to go. I’ve been camping before and I’ve had good experiences. But I’ve never been enthusiastic to go on a camping trip. I have to admit I’m a city kid and a bit… let’s say… fastidious. I don’t much like to get dirty. I don’t like bugs and reptiles. I like sleeping on a good quality mattress surrounded by 4 solid walls and roof. I like having a bathroom with a flush toilet and a shower. (In short, I’m a wuss.) At least that’s how I used to feel until this past weekend.

I spent last weekend with Melanie and the kids at Camp Ramah in the Rockies for the annual family Shabbaton. I have to admit that prior to the weekend I was not very enthusiastic about the trip. Ramah in the Rockies is secluded in the wilderness of Pike National Forest on the site of an old Girls Scouts camp, which even in its heyday was pretty rustic. As a person who likes his home environment, I get very nervous about all the possible contingencies – all the “what ifs.” I don’t like being caught off guard without my stuff. I want to know what to expect… but camping requires the kind of flexibility that I find uncomfortable.

So when we arrived at camp on Friday afternoon, we set up our tents and unpacked our gear and I was still pretty agitated. But then something happened. As the sun began to set behind the beautiful red mountains on the west side of camp, we made our way to where the young campers were holding their Kabbalat Shabbat service in a wide open field next to where horses were grazing. The campers’ spirited singing to the tune of guitars blended with the gentle outdoor sounds of evening… and a calm came over me that I haven’t felt in a long time. Suddenly I became aware of the beauty that surrounded me – the crisp breeze, the smell of pine trees, the babbling of a nearby creek, the waving tall grass, the majestic horses a few feet away, the expansive valley and towering mountains all around, colorful rocks and rich dark earth, and even the insects that I usually dislike. I looked at my children running around – healthy and happy. I looked at my beautiful and talented wife, who had organized the Shabbaton. I took a deep breath of mountain air and I felt at peace – profoundly grateful for everything that surrounded me. I let go of some of my worries and nervousness and resolved to accept whatever the weekend would bring.

It turned out to be a glorious experience. On Shabbat we sang, and played and prayed, and learned together. We had great conversations and enjoyed the outdoors. On Sunday and Monday we were treated to the activities the camp has to offer – hiking, mountain biking, rock climbing… and I got to go horseback riding for the first time in my life. And, yes, I got some bug bites, I didn’t bathe, I slept on the hard ground, it rained on us a couple of times, and our kids refused to go to sleep when we wanted them to. But, somehow, none of that bothered me very much.

For a city boy like me, spending a Shabbat in the wilderness reminded me of some very important lessons. It reminded me of the wisdom Dr. Abraham Joshua Heschel shared: that in humanity’s need to survive and conquer nature, we must not be tempted to believe that we have ultimate control. He taught that the rhythms and practices of Judaism draw our attention to the preciousness of the moment. This is especially true on Shabbat, when we refrain from labor and activities related to the conquest of things and space. And, being out in nature on Shabbat brings that into even sharper focus. Dr. Heschel wrote: “The solution to mankind’s most vexing problem will not be found in renouncing technical civilization, but in attaining some degree of independence of it. In regard to external gifts, to outward possessions, there is only one proper attitude – to have them and to be able to do without them. On the Sabbath we live, as it were, independent of technical civilization… Man’s royal privilege to conquer nature is suspended on the seventh day.”[1]

One doesn’t have to trek into the mountains in order to be independent of civilization – that, according to Heschel, is what Shabbat affords us. It is what he called “an island in time.” Nonetheless, taking a break from the creature comforts we all enjoy certainly reminds us that, in the scheme of things, what makes life meaningful is not what we possess or what we can conquer, but how we live with whatever and whomever surrounds us. It teaches us the limits of our power. It reminds us of what is truly valuable. Similarly, and perhaps paradoxically, being attuned to time reminds us that we are not in control of time.

In this week’s parsha, the Torah discusses a very interesting prohibition. Chapter 18 of Deuteronomy admonishes us not to imitate the practices of the surrounding pagan nations. Moses warns: “Let no one be found among you… who is an augur, a soothsayer, a diviner, a sorcerer, or who casts spells, or who inquires of the dead… [Instead] You must be wholehearted with the Lord your God.”[2] These practices are associated with paganism, and for that reason alone they are forbidden. But, the medieval commentator, Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman (known also as Ramban or Nachmanides) makes a very perceptive observation. In his commentary on these verses he asks: how can these things be abominations? After all, it is only human nature to want to know the future and seek out guidance about what’s to come. Furthermore Ramban says, these things have some efficacy. You see, Ramban was himself a mystic and he studied astrology. He writes in his commentary that some kinds of fortunetelling actually work! So what’s wrong with wanting to know the future? To answer this Ramban draws on Rashi (the most famous of the medieval commentators) who points to the next verse that says, “Tamim tih’ye eem HaShem Elohecha.” “You shall be wholehearted with the Lord your God.” Rashi says that to be “wholehearted with God” means to trust in God. Wholeheartedness means accepting with equanimity whatever comes – both the good and the bad. Ramban expands on this and says that the problem with necromancy and fortune-telling isn’t that it doesn’t work; rather the problem is that these things feed into our impulse to control the future and manipulate time.

One of our challenges as human beings is that we are indeed very powerful; but that power is also seductive. We start to believe we can defy time and space. But, Rashi and Ramban wisely counsel us to accept what the future holds without fear. That doesn’t mean being passive. Instead it means believing in the capacity that God gives us to deal with what life brings. It means we should embrace what Rabbi Irwin Kula calls the “sacred messiness of life” with humility, awe, and gratitude.

Like the experience of Shabbat that Heschel prescribes; and like the experience of nature and wilderness, the prohibition against sorcery in the Torah teaches us to put into perspective the limits of our power. These things teach us that our very lives are themselves precious; that the present moment is unique and valuable… but, only if we cultivate that awareness and let go of our desire to control everything. That means instead of always trying to cheat the limits of time and space, we should respect what we have been given; that we should trust in our capacity to deal with what life has in store for us with grace and dignity.

We are less than a month away from Rosh Hashanah. During this month of Elul leading up to the Holy Days is a time to reflect on the year that has passed and look to improve ourselves in the year to come. Paradoxically, one of the best ways we can do that kind of reflection is to be more fully present in the current moment. So, sometime between now and Rosh Hashanah, I hope you will find some quiet time – perhaps in the peaceful rest of Shabbat, or maybe in the tranquility of nature – to look around you, to gain some perspective, to think about the many blessings in your life, to be honest with yourself about the challenges, to feel grateful, to experience wonder and awe. It is the sort of reflection that happens when we let go a bit, when we refrain from trying to manipulate time or overpower space, when we take some time to just be rather than to do.

As Moses said, “May you be wholehearted with the Lord your God.” Shabbat Shalom.

[1] A. J. Heschel (1951) The Sabbath.

[2] Deut. 18:10-13

Love II: Choosing to Love Judaism

2010-07-31T23:00:00.001-06:00

Parshat Ekev 5770

Last week I spoke about love and how love relationships bring with them many challenges. It isn’t easy to find love and when you do, it isn’t easy to sustain. Yet, love is essential to who we are as human beings and love is our best hope for redemption – as individuals and as a world. So, whenever two people come together in love, it is worth celebrating.

This evening, former first daughter Chelsea Clinton is getting married. She apparently has found her beshert – the love of her life. I wouldn’t usually remark on this sort of thing; but, as it happens, her groom Marc Mezvinsky is Jewish. The son of a political family himself, Mezvinsky was raised with a Jewish identity and grew up in a Conservative synagogue. So a lot of our Jewish friends in the press and in the leadership of the Jewish community have felt a need to comment on this very famous interfaith wedding. Frankly, I feel a bit sad for Chelsea and Marc – neither of them chose to be celebrities and they probably don’t appreciate having millions of people gawking or giving opinions about how they should live their lives. So I’m going to try not to talk about Chelsea Clinton and Marc Mezvinsky, per se, but I am interested in the ways this event has prompted a conversation in our community about interfaith weddings. So, “Mazal Tov” to Chelsea and Marc and let’s leave it at that.

That being said, the reactions to the Clinton-Mezvinsky wedding, have been interesting to read because they say a lot about where we are as a Jewish community on interfaith relationships. On the whole the Jewish community is not reacting with horror or dread. However, there is an ambivalent mix of pride and concern. On the one hand, I hear some muted pride that “one of ours” has made it to the top of American social life. For some people this wedding is further evidence that we’ve arrived as a community. All the barriers have fallen. Yeah us! On the other hand, it is a sign of the times because the reality is that Marc Mezvinsky is not at all unusual. He’s among the majority of American Jews today who marry someone of another religious background. In fact, in his age cohort of younger Jews, the intermarriage rate is approaching 70%. Oy vey!

As a community, we have good reason to be concerned about intermarriage. The sociological research shows that intermarriage is a huge challenge to Jewish continuity. We have always been a small minority that has felt threatened by outside influences. This week’s Torah portion is a good example of how far back these concerns go. In parashat Ekev Moses admonishes the people to follow in God’s ways or risk destruction. He exhorts the Israelites to wipe out the pagans who occupy the land of Israel saying, “You shall destroy all the peoples that Adonai your God delivers to you, showing them no pity. And you shall not worship their gods, for that would be a snare to you.” Moses goes on to say, “You shall consign the images of their gods to the fire… You must not bring any abhorrent thing into your house, or you will be destroyed like it; you must reject it as abominable and abhorrent, for it is forbidden.” (Deut. 7:16; 25-26).

To our modern sensibilities these words seem harsh and intolerant. But in context these strict social boundaries made a lot of sense. The Cannanite tribes threatened to destroy us and their pagan practices enticed our people away from the One true God. And I think our defensiveness over the centuries about mixing with other peoples made a lot of sense because we were persecuted and abused. Today the situation is markedly different (or at least I would like to think so). Jews today, especially in the United States, are freer and more accepted than at any time in our long history. And, in contrast to our early 20th Century European brethren, I don’t think we’re deluded when we feel truly part of this multicultural society. I really think we’re living in a new era of Jewish life. That doesn’t mean we should stop encouraging Jews to marry other Jews, but it also means that shunning people who intermarry isn’t going to get us very far.

When I was growing up, when someone married out of the community, it was often interpreted that they were rejecting their Jewish heritage. But that turns out not to be true. Instead, intermarriage is an outcome of the very freedom and acceptance we cherish; and many people who choose a partner who isn’t Jewish do not see their choice as incompatible with maintaining a Jewish identity or passing that identity along to their children. And this isn’t unique to the Jewish community. Americans today do not, by and large, see themselves divided by tribes or ethnicities. And when it comes to religion they pick and choose with little loyalty to dogmas or ideologies. People are instead seeking religious experiences that add wisdom and meaning to their lives.

So, if we can no longer rely on tribal loyalty to keep us together; and if fear of anti-semitism isn’t a good enough reason to be Jewish, what then is the basis of our Jewish identity? Judaism today is something people either choose to participate in or not. So if we are to survive as a community, we need a new way of talking about Judaism and Jewish identity. If couples like Chelsea and Marc are going to choose to give their children a Jewish identity, it will be because they find something meaningful, relevant, and compelling in Judaism that helps them live their lives with greater depth and purpose. The challenge for Jewish leaders is: how we do that with integrity and loyalty to our tradition?

We shouldn’t forget that Judaism is much more than a wisdom tradition. It is a way of life practiced by a people who share a common culture. Judaism makes claims on our lives and demands of us. The mitzvot, God’s commandments, are not a menu of choices. So what is it that Judaism expects of us today? Perhaps this week’s parsha also can give us some guidance. In parashat Ekev Moses sums up Judaism in a succinct statement. “And now, Israel, what does Adonai your God ask of you? Only this: to revere Adonai your God, to follow in God’s ways, to love God, and to serve Adonai with all your heart and soul.”

That’s Judaism in a nutshell. All of our ancient traditions, customs, and laws, are directed to this purpose: Serving God and living by God’s example. Judaism and the mitzvot are not an end in themselves. Instead they are the means to a higher purpose. If we remember that, perhaps we have a good chance of passing our religion on to our children.

Love is a Verb

2010-07-25T23:00:00.002-06:00

Love is an art form that must be continually refined and practiced.

Parashat Va’etchanan / Shabbat Nachamu 5770

In one of my favorite scenes in Fiddler on the Roof, Tevye the milkman asks his wife Golda this very simple question: “do you love me?” To which she very romantically answers, “do I what!?”

To modern audiences it might seem like a silly question. In an open and free society like the one we live in, we take for granted that love is an individual decision that stems from romantic feelings. But Fiddler is a reminder that it wasn’t too long ago that arranged marriages were common in many Jewish communities as well as in other traditional cultures.

When we think about our ancient ancestors and the texts we inherited from them, the theme of romantic love does not usually come to mind. There are only a few examples of romance that stand out in the Torah. But the truth is that love is very important in Judaism. In fact we have a day set aside for celebrating love.

According to the Mishna (Taanit Ch. 4), during the time of the 2^nd Temple, the 15^th Day of Av (Tu B’Av) was a day set aside for romance. Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel recounts that on Tu B’Av, under the warm glow of a full summer moon, the young women of Israel would go out of the city walls dressed in white and dance in the vineyards calling to the young men to choose their bride.

We know very little historically about Tu B’Av and it fell out of practice after the destruction of the Temple, but in recent decades this day has been revived in modern Israel as the Jewish day of romance (kind of like Valentine’s Day).

It’s interesting to me that this joyous day comes right after the saddest day of the Jewish year – Tisha B’Av. On the 9^th of Av we mark the destruction of the 1^st and 2^nd Temples, the massacre of Jewish martyrs, and a number of calamities that have befallen our people over the centuries; but just 6 days later we have a celebration of love. It was also on the 9^th of Av, according to tradition, that the Spies returned a negative report about the Land of Israel and God condemned the generation that had left Egypt to wander in the wilderness; but on the 15^th of Av, 40 years later, the Israelites were given permission to enter the Promised Land.

I don’t think it is a coincidence then, that Tu B’Av – the day of love – falls during the week we read Parshat Etchanan. Love figures in very centrally to this week’s parsha in which Moses admonishes the people to follow God’s mitzvot and live up to God’s standards when they settle the Land of Israel. He recounts how we witnessed God at the foot of Mount Sinai (called Horev in the Book of Deuteronomy) and how we received the 10 Commandments.

This parsha also contains one of the most famous passages in Torah – recognized by almost any Jew. “Shma Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Ehad.” The Shma and the paragraph known as “V’ahavta” are taken from Chapter 6 of the book of Deuteronomy. This section is essentially a sermon on the first commandment, which is to know that there is One God and to Love God. “Shma Yisrael – Hear, O Israel! Adonai is our God, Adonai is One. You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all you have.”

The most well-known Mitzvah – to Love God – is also one of the most enigmatic. How can love be commanded? How can God demand our love? The reason this commandment seems odd to us is that we’ve been raised in a culture in which love is thought of as a noun – an emotion or sentiment that one feels. But for God, love is a verb – love is something you do. It is true that emotions cannot simply be commanded, but we can be instructed to act in loving ways.

Let’s consider the first line of V’ahavta because from it we can learn about what the Torah means by love. “V’ahavta – You shall love Adonai your God with all your heart (b’chol levavcha)…” Our ancestors believed that the heart was the seat of intellect and will. Therefore, to love God with our heart means to love with intention – with all our thoughts and desires. The Hasidic Rabbi known as the Sfat Emet says that loving God with our heart means directing our impulses and drives (both noble and base) to God so that everything we do is imbued with holiness.

“u’v’chol naf’shecha - With all your soul…” The word nefesh in the Torah is often translated as “soul” but it really means “life.” Love God with your life. Basing himself on the Talmud (Ber. 54a, 61b) the commentator Rashi says that loving God with your Nefesh means being willing to give even your very life for God. When you truly love someone, you have to be willing to give of yourself. It takes a commitment of the heart, but also a commitment of self.

“u’v’chol me’odecha” This is usually translated as “with all your might.” The word “me’od” is really a measure of quantity, so the traditional understanding of this phrase is that loving God “b’chol me’odecha” means loving God with all you own and all you have. It means not only the willingness to give something intangible – like your time and effort. This means quite literally to give what you have to God. Sometimes loving relationships call on us to really give to another what is precious to us.

The paradigm for loving God also applies to all the loving relationships in our lives. Loving other people cannot simply be a sentiment we hold in our hearts. The romantic impulse that draws us to another person is not enough to sustain a relationship. The Psychoanalyst Erich Fromm (perhaps drawing on his Jewish roots) also observed that true love is not a passive feeling but rather an art we must cultivate and practice.

It isn’t easy for me to talk about this subject. I like to think of myself as a pretty good husband and father, but I’m as guilty as anyone of being lazy when it comes to what Fromm called The Art of Loving. It’s so easy to forget that love is a verb – something you have to do and sustain. But that’s the point. One of the lessons of parashat Etchanan is that God would not have to command Love if it were easy to do. Think about it: Moses is speaking to the generation that experienced God’s salvation from Egypt, saw the plagues and the miracles God did, and actually encountered God face to face at Mount Sinai. You might think that they would have no trouble loving God. But God understand that love is not easy. So we shouldn’t beat ourselves up when we falter in our attempts to love another. Through love of God, the Torah gives us a paradigm for life. Or, as Fromm put it “Love is the only sane and satisfactory answer to the problem of human existence.”

So this Sunday night and Monday (on the 15^th of Av) do something loving for someone you love; and let this day – like the Sh’ma we recite day and night – serve as a time to refine your skill in the art of loving. Take an opportunity to go beyond the feeling of love that you hold inside and instead remember that love is verb.

UPDATE: Rotem Conversion Bill

2010-07-20T13:05:00.001-06:00

Thankfully, it looks like the Rotem Bill will not be voted on before the end of this legislative session. Your letters and the efforts of our leadership made a difference. But the Rotem Bill is not dead yet. In all likelihood it will be taken up again when the Knesset reconvenes after the High Holy Days. Please stay tuned for updates and keep yourself informed on the issue. United Synagogue of Conservative Judaism has a very helpful page with information about the bill and relevant links.

The situation with regard to the Conversion Bill looks very encouraging. I hesitate to say it is totally and completely off the table for this session only because I know there are still some meetings taking place and I know that MK David Rotem and his allies would attempt to move the bill forward if they saw the slightest chance for success.

Your efforts in all of this were extremely important. Through our website link alone we know of 23,000 emails that went to Prime Minister Netanyahu and we understand that the office of the Prime Minister, in total, received in excess of 50,000 emails.

I think it looks very good, but we are staying alert. Again, thank you.

David H. Lissy
Executive Director and CEO
Masorti Foundation for Conservative Judaism in Israel

To learn more, please contact:
Masorti Foundation for Conservative Judaism in Israel
475 Riverside Drive, Suite 832
New York, NY 10115-0068
(212) 870-2216; 1-877-287-7414
http://www.masorti.org/; info@masorti.org

Words of Rebuke

2010-07-17T23:00:00.002-06:00

Parshat Devarim 5770

Events taking place in Israel threaten to further disenfranchise non-Orthodox Jews. We should not be afraid to offer loving rebuke backed up by real substance.

This Shabbat we begin reading from the Book of Deuteronomy – Sefer Devarim. The entire book of dvarim consists of a series of sermons that Moses gave to us as we stood poised to take possession of the Land of Israel.

In this first parsha of Sefer Dvarim, Moses recounts the long journey the people took through the wilderness. He lists all the places where Israel encamped or where some significant event took place. The parsha opens very simply: “Eile ha-dvarim asher diber Moshe el kol Yisrael…” These are the words that Moses spoke to all Israel…” On this verse, Rashi – the most important of the Medieval Biblical commentators – points out that the verse uses the word diber (spoke) rather than amar (said). Rashi explains that the use of the word “spoke” means that by these words Moses was rebuking the people; and that the purpose of recounting all the stops along the way was to remind the people of all the times that they disobeyed God. Rashi bases his comment on a principle set out in Midrash (Sifre) that notes that anywhere that the Torah uses the word diber (spoke) it indicates rebuke whereas the word amar connotes praise. Rashi goes on to say that the reason Moses only recounts the places and not each sin committed in those places was in order to not shame the people. In other words, Moses wanted the Israelites to remember all the setbacks along the journey, but didn’t want to rub their faces in it.

From this instance of gentle reproof we learn some Jewish principles of loving rebuke. The first thing we learn is that criticism is necessary and important. Without critique and expressions of disapproval, people don’t grow or improve. The second lesson Moshe teaches us is that truly valuable rebuke comes out of love and sincere concern for the wellbeing of the other.

In Hebrew, the word for rebuke is tochecha. And our ancient sages were very concerned with tochechah because, as important as rebuke is to our interpersonal relationships and a well functioning society, when done wrong it can be very destructive.

The Mishna – the compendium of Torah interpretation from the 2^nd century – recounts a discussion on the opening of our parsha. In it, Rabbi Tarfon laments, “I doubt if there is anyone in this generation who is fit to give rebuke” because there is no one who is beyond reproach like Moses. Rabbi Eleazar ben Azariah replies, “I doubt if there is anyone in this generation capable of receiving rebuke.” Rabbi Eleazar observed that, unlike the Israelites who listened attentively to Moses, most people nowadays get defensive when they are criticized and are not able to hear rebuke as an act of love. Then Rabbi Akiva adds a third opinion saying “I doubt if there is anyone in this generation who knows how to offer criticism.” In other words, the problem isn’t that we lack people as righteous as Moses or as receptive as the Israelites, but rather that good tochecha is an art form that few people know how to practice. Too often, we level criticism of others in order to feel superior or to humiliate. Sometimes rebuke is really a veiled way of attacking our enemies. On the other hand, tochecha done right starts from a place of genuine love and concern for others. We offer reproof to the people we love because we want them to improve. When you offer criticism with love and humility, it is not destructive but rather an act of affirmation and faith – it affirms that you care about the person you’re criticizing enough to be concerned for his or her behavior. And, loving rebuke expresses faith that the person you are criticizing is capable of doing better.

It is with this long preface that I now step with trepidation into the risky territory of tochecha with what I hope will be taken as loving rebuke.

I have been preoccupied this week with two events that took place in Israel. On Monday morning, Rabbi Anat Hoffman, a leader of Reform Judaism in Israel and Chair of a group known as Women of the Wall was arrested at the Kotel. Since 1989, Women of the Wall has been meeting every Rosh Hodesh to pray at the Kotel. Over the years, these women have been subjected to verbal and physical violence from haredi men for doing nothing more than praying quietly. In a number of rulings, the Israeli Supreme Court has upheld the right of the women to pray at the kotel so long as they do not wear Tallitot or Teffilin and as long as they don’t chant from the Torah. On Monday of this week, Rosh Hodesh Av, Rabbi Hoffman was arrested for merely holding a Torah, even though she was not in violation of the court’s ruling.

This incident, and other recent arrests of WOW members, has caused an enormous uproar among the leadership of the Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist movements because it is emblematic of an ongoing religious conflict within Israeli society and only the latest in a growing effort by the state-sponsored rabbinate to disenfranchise non-Orthodox and secular Jews.

The incident at the Kotel was closely followed by another troubling event. On the same day, a Knesset committee approved a draft bill that, if passed, will cede greater authority to the Chief Rabbinate over conversions to Judaism. Up to this point, conversion has been one of the few areas of Jewish life that the Chief Rabbinate does not control. According to the status quo, any orthodox rabbi can perform conversions in Israel; and conversions performed by rabbis of any stripe outside of Israel must be recognized by the State for purposes of immigration and citizenship. But, that has left a lot of Jews, especially immigrants from the Former Soviet Union in limbo. Though they are recognized as Jewish citizens of Israel, they are not Jewish for purposes of marriage, divorce, and burial in Jewish cemeteries (because all of these areas are controlled by the chief rabbinate). A Member of Knesset named David Rotem originally drafted this bill in an attempt to make the conversion process easier on the largely Russian supporters of his Yisrael Beiteinu party. But, once it got into committee, MKs representing religious parties amended the bill to give unprecedented power to the Chief Rabbinate which will allow them to impose a strict standard for conversion and give them the power to invalidate conversions they deem un-kosher, even for purposes of immigration. Earlier this year, PM Netanyahu indicated he would oppose the bill, but he now appears to be wavering. This has leaders of the non-Orthodox movements very worried and they are lobbying hard to persuade Netanyahu to put an end to this legislation.

Please understand that I am vocalizing this rebuke as someone who deeply loves and cares for Israel. I think that because of the very real and scary threats to Israel’s security, we’ve conditioned ourselves not to be critical of the Israeli government (even when the issue doesn’t concern foreign policy). But if we love Israel and care about its future and the future of the Jewish people, we must not be afraid to rebuke when rebuke is warranted. When we lovingly express our concern about something going on in Israel, it doesn’t weaken us or give fuel to our enemies. It demonstrates that we care enough to want Israel to do better.

As American Jew who know the value of religious freedom; and as Conservative Jews who stand to lose if that freedom is denied us in Israel, we need to be speaking up about this issue. Many of you probably saw my blog and facebook postings on the Rotem conversion bill. If you haven’t, I urge you to learn more about the issue of religious pluralism in Israel. I hope you will join me in lovingly rebuking the Israeli politicians who are allowing the haredi minority to grab even more power than they already have.

Finally, we have to do much more than send letters. We need to put some substance behind our concern for religious freedom in Israel. There are a number of things we can do. We can support financially the small but vibrant Masorti Movement (which is what Conservative Judaism is called in Israel). Instead of visiting the ultra-Orthodox neighborhoods like Me’a Shearim and spending our tourist dollars in Haredi shops, whose owners distain our practice of Judaism, we should visit Masorti communities like the one our good friends Holly and Phil Seigel just moved to in Kfar Vradim. We should be careful not to donate to Israeli and American organizations who work to undermine religious freedom and diversity. And, likewise, we need to urge Federation and other large organizations and philanthropists to direct their funds to Israeli organizations that promote freedom and democracy in Israel.

There’s a lot we can do if we’re not afraid of being critical - as long as our critical support is motivated by our love and concern for Israel.

Shabbat Shalom.

Urgent Request: Please write to PM Netanyahu in support of religious pluralism

2010-07-15T10:20:00.001-06:00

Please take a moment to read the letter below from the Masorti (Conservative) Movement in Israel about the impending passage of a bill that severely threatens religious pluralism in Israel. This is of urgent concern to all Jews, especially American Jews who affiliate with the non-Orthodox denominations. Thank you. --Salomon

Dear Friends,

In March, we wrote to many of you about proposed legislation in the Knesset which, under the guise of helping address the conversion problem for olim from the former Soviet Union, would have granted legal standing to the control of the Chief Rabbinate and would, additionally, discriminate against Jews By Choice in terms of rights under The Law of Return.

On Monday, a version of the proposed legislation, with language added by Shas which would make it even more problematic, was approved by a 5-4 vote in the Constitution, Law and Justice Committee. This happened despite public assurances by Prime Minister Netanyahu that no action would be taken until Natan Sharansky, Chair of the Jewish Agency, and the non-Orthodox streams had collectively worked on an appropriate solution.

This proposed legislation is extremely damaging to Israel-Diaspora relations. Its proponents are pushing for speedy passage by the full Knesset. You must help stop this.

Please click below to send an email to the Prime Minister recording your objections. Please forward this email to your friends and congregants and urge them to follow your lead in writing to Prime Minister Netanyahu. Speed matters. Please act right away. We are joined in this battle by leaders of the Reform movement and the Jewish Federations of North America.

It is important to note for the record that Natan Sharansky has been extremely cooperative, constructive and helpful. He has expressed to the Knesset his own displeasure with regard to the actions being taken.

Click here to ask Prime Minister Netanyahu to prevent passage of the MK David Rotem Conversion Bill.

Sincerely,

David H. Lissy

Executive Director & CEO

Masorti Foundation for Conservative Judaism in Israel

The Cost of Silence

2010-07-10T23:00:00.005-06:00

Parshat Mattot-Masei 5770

When you become a parent, your cultural context changes. My favorite poets used to be Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson. Nowadays I read a lot of Shel Silverstein poems. One of my favorites is called “The Bagpipe Who Didn’t Say No.” The poem is about a very brief romance between a lonely turtle and a bagpipe. It begins:

It was nine o'clock at midnight at a quarter after three
When a turtle met a bagpipe on the shoreside by the sea,
And the turtle said, "My dearie,
May I sit with you? I'm weary."
And the bagpipe didn't say no.

Said the turtle to the bagpipe, "I have walked this lonely shore,
I have talked to waves and pebbles--but I've never loved before.
Will you marry me today, dear?
Is it 'No' you're going to say dear?"
But the bagpipe didn't say no.

I’ll spare you the rest. Suffice it to say marriage was short lived. Now it might seem funny to us that a bride – in this case a bagpipe – can consent to being married without saying a word. But, as a matter of fact, in traditional Jewish law this is pretty much how a wedding happens. According to halachah, the groom presents the bride with a ring and makes a legal declaration of his intention to acquire the her as his wife. The bride need not say anything; rather, her silent acceptance of the ring is enough to signal her consent. Thankfully we’ve evolved the traditional ceremony a bit, and today most brides also give their groom a ring accompanied by an affirmative statement of intention.

In this week’s Parsha we also see an instance where silence is considered as assent. Parshat Mattot starts with a discussion of the vows taken by women. In Biblical times, if a woman took a vow or an oath, her husband had the legal right to annul it. As long as he verbalized his objection on the very day that he learned of the oath, he could invalidate it. We might take this, like the traditional wedding ceremony, to be an artifact of a patriarchal society. I’m not going to apologize for our Biblical ancestors – that’s the way it was back then. But, you could argue that the rule was progressive in its context because at least it affirmed that women had the power to make binding vows. Furthermore, you could say that the rules actually curb her husband’s power over her by limiting his opportunity to overrule her. At any rate, if he did not object on the very day he learned about the vow, his silence was taken as approval.

There are other examples in Jewish law where silence is understood to be a gesture of assent. Our tradition does not believe that it is possible to just stay quiet (certainly not for Jews!) Not speaking up is as good as saying yes. And when we learn of something objectionable and we fail to speak out, it is as though we support it. As a Jew you don’t have the option to sit on the sidelines. And, indeed, we Jews have a long history of speaking out against injustices and wrongdoing.

For the past few months we’ve all been watching a horrifying event unfold. On April 20, the Deepwater Horizon oil rig exploded off the coast of Louisiana, killing 11 rig workers and setting off what is now the worst environmental disaster in US History. Today marks 82 days since the spill started gushing at least a million gallons of crude into the Gulf of Mexico every day- that's roughly one Exxon Valdez every 4-7 days. Chances are the gusher won’t be plugged until a relief well is completed in August (and there’s a chance that might not work either). I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. We’ve all been paying attention to this story unfolding, but as I studied this week’s parsha it occurred to me that I’ve been silent about it from the bima. The BP spill has been going on for nearly 3 months and I haven’t said anything about it. And, reading about how silence can be taken as assent, it made me wonder what to make of my own silence.

And, I’m not alone – neither rabbi Dollin nor I have spoken about it. Please understand, that’s not meant as criticism of Rabbi Dollin or myself. In fact, I put out an email to my colleagues around the country asking if they have spoken about the spill. Only three rabbis told me they’ve preached about it from the bima. I’ve looked on the internet for any statement from a rabbi on the oil spill and have found very few. Like I said, I’m not pointing this out to be critical. I think there are good reasons for the silence. It is hard not to be totally dumbstruck by this tragedy – especially when we’re still in the midst of the crisis. It will take a long time for us all to make some sense of this terrible catastrophe (hopefully not as long as the cleanup will take). So I’m not surprised about the silence. But at the same time, I became a rabbi because I sincerely believe that Torah is a source of wisdom; and that living by its values makes our lives better and makes the world better. It may be too soon for a totally coherent Jewish response, but I have to believe that our tradition cannot remain silent much longer.

There are many Jewish sources that can be brought to bear on this situation, but let’s consider an episode in this week’s Parsha. Shortly after the discussion of women’ vows, the Torah says that the tribes of Reuben and Gad approached Moses with a request. Reuben and Gad were wealthy tribes who owned a lot of cattle. So they asked Moses for permission to settle the fertile grazing grounds on the East side of the Jordan River, instead of joining their brethren in the conquest of the Land of Israel. Moses erupted in uncharacteristic indignation saying: “Are your brothers to go to war while you stay here!?” The leaders of Reuben and Gad – confronted with their selfishness and self-centeredness – instead committed themselves to lead the way in the conquest of the land. “We will not return to our homes,” they respond, “until every one of the Israelites is in possession of his portion.” In turn, for their loyalty they were granted their request.

One of the values we can derive from this episode is the idea of communal responsibility. It’s true that Reuben and Gad’s initial impulse was self-interest rather than responsibility to their community. It’s not surprising and I don’t think it makes them bad people. We all act that way sometimes when left to our own devices. I think our tradition recognizes that people act in their self interest unless otherwise called upon to be responsible to others. We wouldn’t need Torah and laws if people always acted responsibly. Moses may have shamed them into it, but in the end Reuben and Gad were rewarded for acting responsibly and looking out for their brethren. One of the many lessons we can take from the Torah is that we can’t always expect people (or corporations) to act responsibly on their own. BP might have prevented this disaster if they had spent (or been compelled to spend) a little more time and money on sensible safety measures and realistic contingency plans.

And then there’s a second point I want to make about responsibility. Beyond the need for oil companies to act more responsibly (or be compelled to act more responsibly), each and every one of us has got to come to terms with our own culpability for this tragedy.

It is my observation that one of the reasons we’re having such a hard time talking about the spill is that it scares the tar out of us. And I think it terrifies us into silence because we quietly know that we bear some responsibility too. This event is a harbinger. It’s a canary in the coal mine. It certainly isn’t the first one, but I think it might just be the most tangible. For decades scientists and activists have been warning about the many different potential negative consequences that lie ahead due to our ever growing consumption of oil – global warming, melting ice caps, rising sea levels, and global conflicts. But, it’s hard to grasp what the big deal is about a few degrees of atmospheric temperature change; and it’s easy to ignore a story about polar bears who can’t find ice or tiny Pacific Islands that are being swallowed up by the rising seas. This one is different. It’s in our backyard, it’s devastating an entire region of our country and its economy, it’s smelly and dirty and toxic and it’s sticking to everything it touches. I think part of the reason we’re scared dumb about the oil spill is that this time we can’t avoid the inconvenient truth – that our use of hydrocarbons will someday have devastating consequences. Well “someday” was April 20, 2010. The petroleum party is over. We can no longer defer the real costs of a petroleum-dependent economy to sometime in the future. The future is now. This spill is going to cost us billions, maybe trillions, and far more in ways that you can’t put a price tag on. Moving forward we have a choice: we can start acting responsibly and pay the real costs of energy up front; or we can pay even higher costs later.

In the next several months, years, and even decades there will be a lot to say about this event. The BP Oil Disaster, I predict, will be one of those watershed moments. I hope it will energize a new conversation about our dependence on hydrocarbons, our stewardship of the environment, and the balance of business interests and public interests.

We can no longer afford to be silent.

Listening to Chutzpah

2010-06-12T23:00:00.002-06:00

Parashat Korah 5770

Chutzpah. Of all the Yiddishisms that have entered the English language, “chutzpah” has got to be the most common – used by Jews and non-Jews alike. It even appears in the Official Scrabble Dictionary. Some years ago a couple of Jewish lawyers wrote a funny article for the Yale Law Review – they did a Lexis search of Yiddish words that appear in legal opinions. The most commonly used Yiddish word was “chutzpah,” appearing in hundreds of court cases since the 1970s. Chutzpah actually comes from classical Hebrew meaning impudence, nerve, or audacity. In early sources, chutzpah is used to describe someone who has over-stepped the boundaries of accepted behavior; but, interestingly, chutzpah doesn’t mean being wrong. You can be right and still have chutzpah. Sometimes, chutzpah is even a virtue.

In this week’s Torah portion we read one of the most famous stories of Jewish chutzpah. Korah and a band of 250 prominent leaders rise up in rebellion against the authority of Moshe and Aaron. The Torah says,

They assembled against Moshe and against Aaron and said to them, “Rav Lecha – You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and Adonai is in their midst. Why then do you elevate yourselves up over Adonai’s community?” (Num. 16:3)

Wow! That’s chutzpah! To stand in defiance of Moses and Aaron – the two men most responsible for leading the people out of slavery, the two men who more than anyone else had to suffer the demands of thousands of Jews – that’s chutzpah!

We might expect that Moses would respond with anger and righteous indignation. Instead, we read “Moses listened and he fell on his face” (v. 4). Confronted with a challenge to his authority, Moses’ initial reaction is very strange. He doesn’t yell or get angry – instead he listens. What does it mean that he fell on his face? Most of the commentators say that this was a gesture of despair in the face of yet another rebellion.

But I came across one very interesting interpretation of this verse. Reb Shneur Zalman of Liadi, who founded the Lubavitch Hassidim at the turn of the 19^th century, wonders why Moses did not immediately get defensive or angry with the mob. In his commentary known as the Tanya[1], Reb Zalman speculates: what if Moses – the most humble of men – fell on his face because he really had to ask himself if Korah had a valid point. Perhaps he took a moment to reflect on whether Korah – despite the chutzpah of his approach – was correct. After all, Korah was himself a priest, just like Aaron. And his companions, Dathan and Aviram were from the tribe of Reuben – descendants of Jacob’s eldest son – the rightful heir of the clan. And what about Korah’s claim? He essentially says, “look, Moses, God has told us that we are ‘a kingdom of priests, a holy nation.’ (Exod. 19:6) Each one of us is holy. What makes you so special to rule over us!”

Korah had chutzpah, but was he wrong? He may have gone about it poorly; but, Reb Zalman says, Moshe fell on his face because he had to consider if perhaps Korah’s argument contained some kernel of truth.

It’s a very provocative interpretation. How easy is it to get defensive in the face of conflict or anger? How easy is it to beat our chests and assert authority? Reb Zalman is challenging us to think about how we react when someone contradicts us. Can we be, for at least a moment, reflective in the face of criticism? Can we be at least as humble as Moses and entertain the possibility that another’s words may contain painful truths?

Today we find that the leadership of the Jewish community – rabbis, Federation executives, organization presidents – is facing a number of challenges. A younger generation of Jews in their 20s and 30s are not buying into the status quo. Recent demographic studies reveal that the next generation of Jewish adults is radically different from earlier generations; and they are challenging the Jewish community to rethink its approach and its messages. The studies point out that these Jewish Gen X-ers were born and raised in a post-racial America where they have not experienced explicit anti-Semitism. They move effortlessly through a multi-cultural society where they have benefited from and have embraced modern American values like equality for all people. Many of them feel proud to be Jewish, but they also feel very comfortable among their friends of every race and religion – and that’s a good thing. But, we’re finding that the messages that worked in previous generations don’t work with this younger crowd. They are not motivated to participate in the Jewish community by guilt or fear. They are not convinced that assimilation will “give Hitler a posthumous victory” (as Emil Fackenheim famously warned). They don’t believe that “we have to stick together because the goyim are always out to get us.”

Here are a few statistics: You’ve probably heard that the national rate of intermarriage is about 55% today – that’s an average across all demographics. But, ¾ of Jews under the age of 40 will marry someone who is not Jewish. I’m not stating this as a judgment, just a fact. Only about 1 out of 5 young Jews belong to a synagogue. And, having been raised to value personal choice and freedom, Gen X Jews don’t respond to the authority of rabbis or the demands of Jewish law. Most of them don’t care about denominations and labels. Paradoxically, however, the studies also tell us that while younger Jews are less interested in organized religion, they are drawn to spirituality and the pursuit of greater meaning in their lives. With little loyalty to the established organizations and synagogues in which many of them grew up, they are today forming their own small independent groups where they can practice Judaism and connect with other Jews any way that works for them.

And when it comes to identification with Israel and Zionism, the studies tell us that many young secular Jews are apathetic. Having never known a world without Israel, they look upon the Jewish State as a country not unlike any other. The more observant and involved a young person is, the more likely they are to have strong attachments to Israel, but among our more secular young adults, Israel is not a primary concern. And some have argued (as Peter Beinart recently did) that many younger secular Jews are turned off by what they perceive as the Jewish leadership’s uncritical and unconditional defense of Israel.

We can argue whether Beinart’s interprets the data well. But the response to Beinart from those leaders he’s criticizing is very telling – ranging from dismissive to hostile. Whether Beinart overstates his case for liberal Zionism or not, I think he has proven one of his points – that the reflexive response of Jewish leaders to criticism is often to circle the wagons and attack the messenger.

My goal is not necessarily to defend Beinart, per se (though I happen to think Beinart is on to something). The point I’m trying to make is that we – rabbis, leaders, and the Jews who are affiliated and are active in the community – should start listening a little more. Like Moses who heard Korah out, we should pause, and take a moment to reflect, and consider if the critics have a valid point.

Young Jews today are telling us – “rav lecha – the status quo doesn’t work for us.” Is it chutzpah for them to expect us to bend to their sensibilities and preferences? Probably! Those of us who – through a lot of money and work – built and maintain the institutions they reject are perhaps justified in being indignant. Is it chutzpah for young Jews to do Jewish in any way that pleases them? Yeah! Their consumerist attitude is, at times, obnoxious and vacuous. Judaism has survived for thousands of years because it makes claims on our lives. It asks of us… it sets boundaries. Every individual defining Judaism for them self is not a way of sustaining community. Is it chutzpah to indict leaders for defending Israel in the face of vicious bias and de-legitimization? Certainly. Many of us work hard to respond to unfair assaults with facts that, frankly, many young Jews are ignorant of. But if slicker PR and spin can’t win over the hearts and minds of young Jews, what chance do we have with the rest of the world?

We have a choice. Our knee jerk reaction can be to get angry and indignant. Go ahead and try, as Dennis Prager recently did, to lecture down to young Jews about their lack of commitment to God and the Jewish people… see how far that gets you. Or – like Moshe – we can pause. We can listen. We can reflect on what we do and how we do it.

After thinking it over, some Jewish leaders will decide that it is better to have a smaller but more committed community (that’s valid). But, if we simply dismiss these demographic shifts, most of the next generation of Jews will be swallowed up like Korah and his bunch. That’s not a gamble I think we should take. A new generation of Jews presents challenges (some of them chutzpadik, for sure) but they also present enormous opportunities: the opportunity to offer Judaism through the lens of value and meaning rather than guilt and tribal loyalty; the opportunity to welcome people who bring diversity of experiences and social connections; and the opportunity to engage in robust and honest conversations about Israel and other issues that we care about.

When it comes to the next generation of Jews, I hope we will take up Reb Shneur Zalman’s challenge to listen before reacting.

Shabbat Shalom.

[1] Quoted in Itturei Torah

Priestly Blessings

2010-05-22T23:00:00.008-06:00

Parashat Naso 5770

A man comes to see his rabbi and asks, “rabbi, will you make me into a kohen?” The rabbi replies: “I can’t just make you into a kohen.” “Oh rabbi, you don’t understand how much it would mean to me… I want to be honored with the first Aliyah on Shabbat. Won’t you please make me a kohen!” “I understand,” said the rabbi, “but that’s not how it works.” Oh, but rabbi, I want to have the privilege of dukhening – of blessing the congregation on the holidays. Please rabbi, I beg you, please make me a kohen.” “I hear what you’re saying,” replied the rabbi, “but it’s simply not possible.” As the disappointed man turned to leave, the rabbi asked him, “by the way, why do you so badly want to be a kohen?” The man replied, “my father was a kohen and his father was a kohen and his father’s father was a kohen; and I just want to be one too.”

Growing up, I never really understood what the big deal was about being a kohen. I learned in school that the kohanim are the patrilineal decedents of Moses’ brother Aaron – the High Priest of ancient Israel. For generations, the Priests served in the tabernacle, and then in the Temple in Jerusalem, performing the sacred sacrifices and praying on behalf of the community on Yom Kippur. But, there hasn’t been a functioning priesthood since our Temple was destroyed nearly 2000 years ago. Nonetheless, families who trace their roots back to the Priestly line have guarded their status as kohanim for generations. They are the closest thing we have to a Jewish aristocracy. Many of us know that in traditional synagogues like our own, kohanim are still honored with the first aliyah to the Torah; and on the Jewish festivals, they bless the congregation with the ancient priestly benediction – often referred to as dukhenen. They stand on the bima with their shoes off, pull their tallitot over their heads and bless us with the Mr. Spock hands.

When I was a kid, I heard what many of you were probably told – that the blessing is so powerful, so sublime, that we shouldn’t gaze upon the kohanim when they are reciting it. I vividly remember standing under my grandfather’s tallit playing with the tzitzit. And while the kohanim droned on, I did what every one of us did – I looked! I peeked out and was disappointed when I wasn’t struck with blindness by magic laser beams shooting out of the kohens’ fingertips.

So, growing up I never quite appreciated the kohanim and their blessing. It seemed like a ceremonial gesture to an ancient past. But in recent years, I’ve gained new appreciation for birkat kohanim and I now look forward to the holidays when the kohens bless us. And a couple of days ago, I experienced something that really brought it into focus for me. On the second day of Shavout, my son Koby came running in from the lobby with the other kids and huddled very sweetly under my tallit. Standing there with him listening to birkat kohanim was a poignant moment. With my arms around him, I felt emotions welling up in me as I thought about how I myself say this blessing to him and his siblings every Friday night. Just before kiddish, Melanie and I draw our children close to us – one at a time – and we invoke the words that appear in this week’s Torah portion (Num. 6:22-27).

If we consider what the words mean, it becomes abundantly clear that this is a perfect blessing. The blessing consists of three succinct sentences. Each line is a little longer than the last (3 words, 5 words, 7 words). They seem to say essentially the same thing, but if we break them down, there’s a profound message in them. First, we should notice that the verses use what is called “biblical parallelism.” That means each sentence says the same thing in two different ways. The blessings follow the same patter – the first half is abstract, and the second half is more concrete.

Y’varechecha Adonai v’yishmerecha – May God bless you and protect you. Seems simple enough – blessing and protection. But what is this bracha about? Interestingly, Rashi (the medieval biblical commentator) says this blessing is about material wellbeing. The first blessing is about basic security. It is saying, “May God give you enough to feel content and secure.” (see Rashi, Ibn Ezra) It speaks of the basics of what every human being needs and deserves – sustenance and protection.

Ya’er Adonai panav elecha vi’chuneka. This one’s harder to understand. It literally says, “May God cause His face to shine upon you and be gracious to you.” Vichuneka is from the word “chen.” Chen is God’s attribute of grace or generosity. What it means for God’s face to shine upon you – what it means to be the recipient of grace – is to get more than you deserve. If the first blessing is about getting what you need, this one says, “may you get more than you need.” This blessing describes what it’s like when God is pleased with us and feeling generous.

Yissa Adonai panav elecha v’ya-sem lecha shalom. This one literally says, “May God lift His face to you and grant you peace.” Lifting the face in biblical imagery is associating with showing favor. When God is unhappy with us, He is said to “turn away.” Turning toward, by contrast, is a gesture of approval. In law, lifting the face implies taking sides (see Deut. 10:17). What this blessing is asking for is for God to take your side even when you mess up. The blessing asks for shalom – peace. In Hebrew, the concept of peace (shalom) comes from the idea of being whole (shalem). In other words, this blessing asks God to make you feel whole even when you are broken. It invokes God’s forgiving nature. (cf. Rashi).

The Priestly blessings bring to mind a parental relationship. That is why Birkat Kohanim is so appropriate as a blessing for our children. It is the voice of a parent saying, “I will give you what you deserve and take care of you. When you make me proud, I will show you kindness and generosity. And, even when you falter, I will show you favor and make things right.”

What a beautiful thing to say to your children. How perfectly it describes the love of a parent for a child. If you currently bless your children with this blessing, I want you to think about what it means when you’re saying it. And, if you don’t do birkat kohanim with your children, I really hope you will. No matter what has happened during the week. No matter what your children have done (or you have done), or how you are feeling toward one another – it is a moment to embrace them and say “I will protect you, I will be kind to you, and I’ll always love you no matter what.”

My children don’t yet understand what the words of the blessing mean, but I can tell you that they look forward to receiving that blessing every week. Every child needs to hear these words. Every child deserves to be assured of his or her parents’ love. And, as a parent, we have a need to give the blessing just as much as our children need to receive it. It reminds us of the kind of Godly love that we can embody.

As children of God, each of us has a need to be blessed by these words. Each of us deserves to be blessed and be held by parental love. That is why we still cherish birkat kohanim. That is why those that trace their lineage to the ancient Priesthood are so relevant to us even to this day. When the Kohanim get up to dukhen they precede it with a special bracha which says, “Blessed are you God… who has sanctified us through Aaron, and commands us to bless His people Israel out of love.” The Talmud, in fact, says that a kohen must invoke the blessing with love for the Jewish people in his heart (Sotah 39a). If he is not feeling benevolent, he’s not allowed to dukhen. Birkat Kohanim is an expression of Godly love for us in the way that a parent loves a child.

I now understand why it is indeed such a powerful blessing. Now, when I listen to the Kohanim give it, I see myself as the child being held in the loving embrace of a parent. And, I now appreciate why it is such a high honor to be the conduit for this blessing. Birkat Kohanim, the three-fold priestly blessing, reminds us that as children of God, we deserve to be regarded with love; and that one of the highest things to which we can aspire in life is to be a source of blessing for others.

Turn it Over and Over

2010-05-01T23:00:00.001-06:00

Torah learning is not a destination, but rather a life-long journey.

Parasht Emor 5770

Learning new things doesn’t often come easy, especially for me. I often need to study something two or three times or more before I even begin to learn it. As much as I love learning and have devoted my life to it, it frustrates me when I can’t retain things I’ve learned.

But, as I read this week’s Torah portion, I took some comfort. Parashat Emor details further instructions to the Cohanim (the Priests) about the Temple service. It then goes on to detail the sacrifices that were to be made at each of the festivals. And as I read about each holiday, I realized that I’m not the only one who needs a lot of repetition to learn things. I happen to know that this is not the only instance in which the Festivals are discussed. In Chapter 34 of the Book of Exodus, we already read a detailed list of the holidays. Over the summer, we’ll encounter the same list in Numbers 28-29. And, the list is repeated again in Deuteronomy 16. Each of these iterations focuses on a different aspect of the festivals. The Torah could have grouped all of these together and saved a lot of time. But I think the Torah recognizes that we don’t learn very well that way. We need repetition. We need to learn overlapping information from different angles and perspectives to understand it. I take comfort in knowing that my ancestors didn’t learn things thoroughly the first time through either.

I work with a lot of people who are studying to become Jewish. My conversion students often ask me, “how will I know when I’m ready? How will I know if I’ve learned enough?” It always makes me laugh (which, I’m sure they appreciate) and I explain to them that when it comes to Jewish learning, there is never an arrival point. There will never come a time when our learning will be over. It is a misnomer to say that Jews are the “People of the Book.” The fact is that we are the People of the Books – books upon books and libraries upon libraries.

I remember when I began building my rabbinic library. When I started at the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies, our teachers sent us off to purchase books. I went to one of the bigger Orthodox-owned book stores in LA with my list and started looking for books. The store was stacked from floor to ceiling with books bound in faux-leather with Hebrew words engraved in gold on their spines. I stood there with my list feeling totally lost. For as much as I already thought I knew about Judaism, I realized that I had barely scratched the surface. I didn’t even know what I was looking at. In my first year, I didn’t even know how to find the books I was supposed to read. Then, in my second year, I knew what some of the books were, but I had no clue what was in them. In my third year, I started getting a grasp of what was in the books and started to understand how the books related to one another. In my fourth year, I started knowing what to look for in the book store. And, by my fifth year, I ran out of money and could no longer buy any books. There is no end when it comes to Jewish books. The Torah is but the starting point, like the spout of a gushing fountain.

At the very center of our religious culture and philosophy is a belief in the pursuit of greater wisdom and knowledge. We believe that God is ultimately unknowable; that understanding is a moving target. The more you learn, the more you appreciate how little you know. Every book you read leads you to greater understanding, but it also leads you to more books. In Judaism we believe that there is no arriving. There is no graduation. The journey is its own reward. In the Talmud, the word for a scholar (a synonym for rabbi) is “talmid hacham” – “a wise student.” Every one of us, regardless of how much we know is always a student.

Today we take some time to show gratitude for our Synagogue’s many teachers and celebrate the accomplishments of our students. And I want to take this opportunity to remind us all that we are all at times teachers and we are all always students. Jewish learning is not like other kinds of learning. Jewish learning is not about possessing information or conquering a subject. Torah – in its broadest sense of the ever-expanding library – is the collective wisdom of our civilization passed down through literature, rituals, customs, and symbols. When you engage in Torah study, you enter into one of the longest running conversations in Human history. Jewish learning is an ongoing and never-ending conversation across the generations. Every time you open a Jewish book, you have the opportunity to insert yourself into that conversation. Through our learning we come together to find ways of coming closer to God, ways of improving the world, ways of understanding how to live a life that matters.

In our era of computers and an exponentially growing capacity to store data, it is easy to forget that there is a difference between information and knowledge; between records and wisdom. Information can be stored – knowledge needs to be acquired and reinforced. Records can be filed away for posterity – but wisdom can be lost if it isn’t practiced and renewed. Midrash Kohelet Rabbah says, “It is for our own good that we learn Torah and forget it!; because if we studied Torah and never forgot it, people would make an effort to learning it for two or three years, then resume their ordinary work, and never pay further attention to it. But, since we study Torah and forget it, we don’t abandon its study.”[1]

To our younger students I say, “the best is yet to come.” Your teachers – who we honored today – are giving you the basic tools that will allow you to join the great conversation. This is only the start. Once you enter that conversation you are never finished learning. You may forget some of what you learn; but you’ll come back to it. Just as every repetition in the Torah of the Jewish Festivals shares something different about the Holidays, every time you engage in Torah study you learn more. You will discover new angles on the same verses. You will learn new information and new commentaries. You will make new connections and build on your knowledge. And, you will come at it a slightly different person every time. Over your life you’ll learn and grow and gain experience; therefore every time you open the same book, it will be with new eyes. Therefore, I leave you with a blessing from Pirkei Avot (5:22): “hafoch ba, v’hafoch ba d’chulei ba” – “Turn [the Torah] over and over for everything is in it. Delve ever deeper into it, grow old and gray over it, and never move away from it, for you will find no better portion than that.”

Shabbat Shalom

[1] Quoted from The Bedside Torah by Rabbi Bradley S. Artson, p. 238 (Contemporary Books, 2001)

News Alert: Joint Statement on the Rotem Conversion Bill

2010-04-30T12:30:00.004-06:00

IN WAKE OF ROTEM/AYALON MEETINGS WITH JEWISH LEADERS IN NEW YORK CONSERVATIVE, REFORM AND RECONSTRUCTIONIST MOVEMENTS RELEASE STATEMENT CRITICAL OF THE CONVERSION BILL

Statement Reflects United Stance on Proposed Legislation

April 30, 2010 (New York, NY) -- Israeli Knesset Member David Rotem, author of a proposed bill dealing with conversion in Israel, met this week with leaders of the North American Jewish community to discuss the bill's possible ramifications. Following a series of discussions with Rotem, the Conservative, Reform and Reconstructionist movements together issued the following statement:

We are appreciative of the substantial amount of time MK David Rotem devoted to meetings with us, individually and collectively, during his visit to the United States to discuss the legislation he has sponsored in the Knesset dealing with conversion and the Law of Return. We also welcome Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs Daniel Ayalon's participation in many of our meetings.

It should, first, be emphasized that we deeply appreciate Mr. Rotem's stated goal in advancing the legislation - to ameliorate the bottleneck in the conversion process that currently keeps as many as 350,000 thousand olim (immigrants) from the former Soviet Union from converting to Judaism. The laudable goal of attempting to hasten the process of conversion for these individuals - who currently serve in the Israeli army and contribute positively to Israeli society - is one that deserves widespread attention and support. Together, we thank MK Rotem for his efforts in addressing this crisis.

MK Rotem believes his proposed legislation would rapidly open the door to a faster conversion process. We respectfully disagree. Not only would this legislation fail to achieve his forecasted result, the collateral damage to the 85% of world Jewry who are not Orthodox (and perhaps others who are) would be disastrous to the unity of the Jewish people in a number of ways.

The bill threatens to alter the Law of Return and consolidate conversion power into the hands of the Chief Rabbinate of Israel. Both of these results could have devastating effects on the relationship between Israeli and Diaspora Jewry and thus on the broader unity of the Jewish people. Such concentration of power in favor of Ultra-Orthodox Jewry effectively negates the roles of the non-Orthodox movements both within Israel and abroad, sending the message that only the Orthodox have a place within our Homeland.

Specifically, the current formulations of Article 1 would legislate the role and status of the Chief Rabbinate in a way not previously written into law. Such legislation would turn back the clock on 20 years of hard-won accomplishments in the Israeli High Court and complicate future efforts to appeal to the Court, which has been the single mechanism to counter religious discrimination in Israel.

This bill returns us to the destructive "who is a Jew" question, that has previously threatened to divide World Jewry, as it does today. To explicitly connect conversion to a single religious stream, while making no mention of other streams of Judaism, is by definition to compromise and jeopardize the Law of Return, as it places the decision for "who is a Jew" in the hands of one group. Such an action is inconsistent with the democratic ideals on which the State of Israel was founded and relies, and would detrimentally affect the worldwide Jewish community.

Further compounding our concern is the fact that the bill mentions no alternative method of conversion via non-Orthodox streams. We - and more importantly, our Israeli colleagues and their lawyers - believe that this language, if adopted as written, would further marginalize and hamper the Masorti and Reform movements in Israel. This would be a tragic consequence as we offer vibrant religious alternatives to a nation of Jews religiously alienated by the increasingly extreme positions of a minority religious establishment. We firmly believe that any conversion legislation must explicitly address these concerns.

We are additionally troubled by language that provides that any person who entered Israel while ineligible to receive Israeli citizenship under the Law of Return will remain ineligible following conversion. Though MK Rotem says this language exists to outlaw the possibility of illegal immigrants undergoing conversion solely to obtain Israeli citizenship and remain in the country, the reality is that this deeply troubling clause differentiates between those who are born Jewish and those who choose to be Jewish, amending the Law of Return to exclude those who have made a conscious decision to join the Jewish community. For 2,000 years, Judaism has treated Jews-by-choice the same as Jews-by-birth. We are taught "as soon as a convert emerges from the mikvah (ritual bath) she or he is Jewish for all purposes." (Talmud, Yevamot 47b) We see no justification now for differentiating between groups of Jews or including an article with such severe ramifications in the framework of a law purportedly dealing with easing conversion procedures.

While we recognize the goals Mr. Rotem is working to achieve and deeply respect his efforts, we cannot lend our support to a bill that will have such devastating ramifications. This moment, when Israel faces a great many challenges, both at home and abroad, is no time to enact legislation that has the potential to divide the Jewish community or to alienate Diaspora Jewry.

Even as we expressed our concerns to Deputy Foreign Minister Ayalon and MK Rotem, we also emphasized our steadfast love and commitment to the people and State of Israel. It is in this spirit of unity that we stand shoulder to shoulder with our colleagues in the Masorti and Reform movements in Israel and with one another. Indeed, it is our unconditional love for Israel as both a sovereign nation and a worldwide Jewish community that calls us to urge, in the strongest possible terms, upon MK Rotem, the Yisrael Beitenu party, and Prime Minister Netanyahu to withdraw this bill and introduce legislation that resolves the urgent problems of olim from the former Soviet Union without compromising either the core democratic values of the State or the Law of Return.

For information about this joint statement of the leadership of the Conservative, Reform and Reconstructionist movements to the Rotem Conversion Bill, please contact the following: Conservative: Shira Dicker at 917.403.3989, shira.dicker@sd-media.comReform; Kate Bigam at 202.398.2800, kbigam@rac.org Reconstructionist: Yael Ridberg at 917.287.4207, yridberg@yahoo.comCarl Sheingold at 215.885.5601, csheingold@jrf.org

The Disease of Hate Speech

2010-04-17T23:00:00.005-06:00

While the law doesn’t have the right to censor people, we as consumers and as a community should respond to hateful and violent speech like it’s an infectious disease – we should identify it quickly, isolate it, and if we can, cure it before it kills somebody.

Parashat Tazria-Metzorah 5770

By now we’ve all heard the term “hypertext.” The term was actually coined in 1965 by Ted Nelson, a pioneer of information technology. The idea of hypertext is that computers and the internet allow us to instantly link words, pictures, and other media to one another in webs of association. Well, Ted Nelson may have coined the term, but our ancient Jewish sages invented hypertext 2000 years ago. If you read the Torah, you won’t find underlined words that appear in blue. But, our rabbis had a unique way of interpreting Torah. They read the Torah as one unified self-referential text in which any word or concept could refer to other references to that same word or concept.[1] One of the ways they would figure out the meaning of a word in the Torah was by reference to other instances of that word elsewhere in the Bible. When our rabbis read the Torah, they had in mind everything else in the Torah… and they did this without computers!

In this week’s double portion – Tazria-Metzorah – we encounter one of these very difficult Biblical concepts. The Torah describes a scaly rash called tzaraat. If someone suspected they had this condition, they would go to a Cohen (a priest) to be examined. If the Cohen determined that it was, indeed, tzaraat the person was declared ritually impure and sent out of the camp for some time until the condition cleared up. The Torah does not explain the causes of this ailment, so when our sages read about this bizarre scaly skin eruption, they tried to figure out what it was and why it was of such enormous concern to our ancestors.

Many English translations render the word tzara’at as leprosy. But what is described in the Torah bears no resemblance to what is referred to today as Hansen’s Disease. We don’t know what tzara’at was, but we know that it terrified our ancestors and was one of the causes of ritual impurity. So, when our sages of the 1^st and 2^nd century tried to figure out tzaarat, they used their hypertext skills to find other references to the disorder. The most salient example is from the Book of Numbers, in which Aaron and Miriam criticize Moses, because of the race of his wife.[2] As punishment for her slander, God strikes Miriam with tzaraat. From these and other sources, our sages concluded that tzaraat was an outer sign of a moral failing. They associated this punishment with a host of sins categorized as lashon ha’rah – literally: “the evil tongue.” Lashon Harah can be many things including gossip, slander, lying, tale-bearing, verbal attacks, swearing falsely, and vulgar language.

I don’t know whether our sages thought their diagnosis of tzaraat was science or not. It is clear, though, that they regarded lashon ha’rah as a disease that threatens society. There’s a great deal of wisdom in their assessment and volumes have been written on the evils of Lashon Ha’rah. The most famous is by the Chafetz Hayyim, a great rabbi of the late 19^th century.[3] The Chafetz Hayyim – drawing on earlier sources – says that unethical speech can be akin to murder and theft in its gravity! It is true that gossip can spread like an infectious rash. It’s true that slander can destroy reputations. Lashon Ha’rah can destabilize communities, undermine leadership, and cause endless feuds among families and friends. But is it really so bad? After all, gossip and slander are ubiquitous. Our media culture practically revels in it. People Magazine and cable news wouldn’t exist without lashon ha’rah. Yes, it can be corrosive, but is it really as serious as murder? Is it really fair to compare lashon ha’rah to a disease that renders a person unfit to live among other people!?

You and I live in a country where speech is regarded as a sacred right. The freedom to express and exchange ideas is a foundational principle of our nation. And I happen to be an ardent believer in the 1^st Amendment. To my mind, the Constitution of the United States is a sacred text. And I agree with the Founders of our Country that the free exchange of ideas – even when offensive or odious – is the cornerstone of a vibrant democracy. There are, of course, limits – even legal limits – that can be imposed on speech. We all know you can’t falsely yell “fire” in a crowded theater because the ensuing panic could be fatal. But, on freedom of expression, I tend be a libertarian – I believe that in all but a few cases of clear incitement the government has no business dictating what we say or how we say it.

However, as Jews, I think we are confronted with a question: How do we as American Jews reconcile the strong aversion our tradition has to lashon ha’rah with our commitment to the freedoms of our democracy? What can we, as Jews, add to the public discourse on freedom of expression?

I believe freedom of speech is indeed sacrosanct. I don’t think the government should restrict expression; but, that doesn’t mean that irresponsible and hateful speech is without consequences. Speech that encourages violence, that incites crimes; speech that calls for sedition, that dehumanizes, may be protected by the first amendment, but as citizens, we still have a duty to respond to its destructive potential.

Today we are hearing in our public discourse words that could – arguably – be considered incitement to violence. We are hearing of death threats against public officials and coded language calling for citizens to take up arms against legitimate institutions of our government. I realize I’m about to wander into a minefield. I usually try to be more subtle from the pulpit; but, frankly, I’m scared. I’m scared that a dangerous atmosphere is being created – and all it takes is one fanatic who takes it all seriously. I know some of you are going to holler about this. I sincerely hope I’m wrong. And, when the dust settles on this period in our history, I give you permission to tell me “I told you so.” (I pray to God I won’t be the one saying “I told you so.”)

As I said, I strongly believe that the government has no right to suppress speech. But, I also think that our society has a duty to respond and can gain some wisdom from the Jewish tradition’s views on lashon ha’rah. So let’s consider for a few minutes how the Cohanim responded to tzara’at. If, as our sages deduced, this skin affliction is an outer sign of unethical speech, than perhaps the metaphor can be extended to our communal response.

In Biblical times, if a person was suspected of having tzaraat, the Cohen would come to their house and closely examine their skin in order to clearly identify the nature of the disorder. Not every rash was tzara’at. It had to present very specific symptoms. Similarly, we need to be fair. Not every vitriolic outburst is hate speech; not every hyperbolic criticism is incitement. But let’s also get some clarity on what we’re talking about. Speech that calls on people to commit illegal acts of violence is probably criminal – certainly immoral. But then there are also more subtle forms of incitement. There’s coded language that acts like a dog whistle to anyone who’s prone to violence. If someone were to convince you that the government is tyrannical, wouldn’t you logically conclude that a good citizen is obligated to take up arms against tyranny? If someone convinces you that a leader is a traitor, wouldn’t it be logical to conclude that he or she should be eliminated? After all, treason is a capital offense!

If you don’t believe me, recall the rhetorical atmosphere that preceded the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin (“alav ha’shalom”). I lived in Israel in 1994 and 1995. I saw with my own eyes billboards depicting the Prime Minister wearing Yasir Arafat’s head scarf emblazed with blood red letters reading “traitor” and worse yet “rodef” – a legal term in halakha for someone who you are obligated to kill in self-defense. I remember posters depicting Rabin as Hitler; Rabin with a sniper’s crosshairs over his face. All it takes is one guy that decides that it’s a call to arms (tragically, one did.) Like the Cohen inspecting an oozing sore, we too have to be vigilant, and we have to identify incitements to violence when we see it.

Second, after the priest identified the nature of the rash, he would declare it pure or impure. He would announce it publically. As a society, we have to be prepared to call out those who incite violence; and when someone deliberately and repeatedly lies for political advantage, we need to call it what it is - lying. When truly appropriate, we need to call people out. The best response to bad speech is not censorship, but rather more speech – truthful speech.

The third step that the Cohen took was to isolate and confine the person with tzaraat. Again, I’m not suggesting we censor anyone. Censorship is what governments do. On the other hand, there are hate mongers operating today under the auspices of corporate media outlets and privately owned publishers. Freedom of speech is a right vis-à-vis government; it doesn’t mean that people who purvey lies and incite violence should be given a platform from which to speak to millions of people every day. As consumers of media we also have a right to isolate and marginalize hate mongers and the companies who sponsor them.

And finally, the Cohen in ancient times would help the person with tzaraat return to society. Banishment wasn’t forever. In Biblical times when the rash healed, the person was invited back into the camp. He brought a guilt offering to the tabernacle, cleansed himself in the mikvah, and was reintegrated into society with no stigma attached. I’m not talking about demonizing people or suppressing speech with which we disagree. I’m talking about rooting out bad behavior. If people who have in the past disseminated lashon ha’rah are repentant; if they acknowledge their transgression and change their behavior, there is no need to demonize them. Again, I’m not suggesting we silence people for their views or their politics. I’m suggesting that, as consumers and citizens, we treat those who spread hateful and dehumanizing speech like lepers ; and instead we should welcome into the camp those who engage in civil and vigorous substantive debate. When our Nation’s Founders talked about Freedom of Speech that is what they were hoping for: impassioned public discourse – not political violence.

Our sages were correct when they linked tzaraat to evil speech. And while the law doesn’t have the right to censor people, we as individuals and as a community should respond to hateful and violent speech like it’s MRSA or TB – we should identify it quickly, isolate it, and if we can, cure it before it kills somebody.

Shabbat Shalom.

[1] In Rabbinic exegesis this is called gezeira shava

[2] Numbers 12:10

[3] Yisrael Meir (Kagan) Poupko (Dzyatlava, 1838 - Radun', 1933) known popularly as The Chofetz Chaim was an influential Eastern European rabbi, Halakhist, posek, and ethicist whose works continue to be widely influential in Jewish life.

How to tell when a Mideast Expert is lying - Haaretz - Israel News

2010-04-14T16:48:00.000-06:00

How to tell when a Mideast Expert is lying - Haaretz - Israel News

Remember Me!

2010-04-06T23:00:00.002-06:00

When we remember our loved one, we should remember them for all they were and all they meant to us.

Yizkor – 8^th Day of Pesach 5770

On the 8^th day of Pesach, we read a selection from Parashat Re’eh. This section of Deuteronomy is clearly appropriate because it discusses the observance of Passover. It is also appropriate for the last day of the holiday because this section also looks forward to the upcoming pilgrimage festivals. As I studied this section again, I came across a verse that caught my attention. Deuteronomy 16:3 says, “You shall not eat anything leavened with [the Pesach offering]; for seven days thereafter, you shall eat unleavened bread (matzah) – the bread of affliction – for you departed from the land of Egypt in haste – in order that you may remember the day of your departure from the land of Egypt all the days of your life.”

A couple of things strike me as odd about this verse. The first thing I find surprising is that God commanded us to remember. God is addressing the generation that had experienced slavery and their children. Did He need to command us to remember? How could we have possibly forgotten a lifetime of oppression and violence? How could we forget how God freed us with fierce plagues and awesome miracles? And, the second thing I find curious about this passage is an inherent paradox. What exactly are we being commanded to remember? Is it the oppression of slavery, the trepidation with which we fled, or is it the freedom that came with our deliverance?

I think the answer to the first question is that we do, indeed, need to be reminded to remember. We human beings have an extraordinary capacity to forget the past and repress painful memories. And, the answer to the second question is that we need to be reminded to remember all of it. It isn’t enough to remember only the hardship or only the triumph. Passover is full of these contradictory memories. At our Seder we are commanded to eat the Korech – the sandwich of matzah, maror, and charoset. It is an odd – bittersweet taste; but I think it is perfectly appropriate way to fulfill the mitzvah of remembering our Exodus from Egypt. The sweet haroset tempers the sharp sting of the maror; and, paradoxically, the maror brings out the sweetness of the haroset. My teacher, Rabbi Ed Feinstein, teaches that the Korech is the bittersweet taste of life. For those who have never experienced death, hardship, loss, and disappointment, time is undifferentiated – every day is the same. But, he writes:

Those who know how to live in time have learned to savor the bittersweet flavor of life. They have learned to mellow the harshness of mortality with the precious sweetness of special moments -- moments of love, of solidarity, of insight, of wholeness. They embrace moments; preserve and collect moments. And when darkness encroaches, they return to these moments to renew life, to build new hope, to regain strength. In moments of time, they find eternity.[1]

We do, in fact, need to be commanded to remember, because it is far too easy to remember selectively. It’s too easy to dwell on life’s painful moments, on life’s inevitable disappointments, on the losses we’ve experienced. It is too easy to return to Egypt and taste only the bitterness of the maror. On the other hand, it is also very tempting to, as they say, “put the past behind us” – to sweep aside the painful memories and celebrate only our joys and successes. It is too easy to rush into the sweet Land of Milk and Honey and forget the challenges that brought us there. This is not the Jewish way. The Jewish way is to eat maror with hasoret – to remember the bitter with the sweet and the sweet with the bitter.

In a few moments we will recite the traditional Yizkor service. Yizkor is also about remembering. We remember our loved ones with warm memories and often with painful memories as well; and we ask that God remember our loved ones for all that they were. Like the Torah’s commandment regarding Pesach, our deceased relatives call out to us at this time. Just as we ask God to remember them, they ask us to remember them too. They call out to us saying: “Remember me!”

Remember me! Remember that I gave you life. I loved you in your victories and loved you in your shortcomings. You know how to love because of me.

Remember me! Remember that I was human too. I rejoiced, I laughed, and I savored life. Remember that I also suffered. I had pain. I made mistakes. I celebrated triumphs and I mourned losses. All you are feeling, I once felt. You learned how to respond to life from me.

Remember me! Remember what I stood for, what I cared about. Remember my values and my passions. Remember how I made a difference in the world and in your life. My greatest legacy is you.

Remember me! Remember where you came from and where I came from. Remember that you part of a chain that goes back generations, centuries, millennia.

Remember me! Remember that I loved you.

The Yizkor service calls on us not simply to remember the fact that our loved ones once walked this earth. Like the commandment to remember our Exodus from Egypt by eating the maror with the haroset, Yizkor asks us to remember everything about them – all that they were and all that they meant to us.

[1] http://www.jewishjournal.com/articles/item/bittersweet_life_20000421/

Keep it Burning

2010-03-27T23:00:00.003-06:00

The best way to keep our passion for Judaism aflame is to engage in Jewish learning and Jewish observance.

Parashat Tzav / Shabbat Ha-Gadol 5770 – Youth Shabbat

It is truly wonderful to see our USY members leading the services today and speaking from the bima. Having you actively involved in the synagogue, years after bar or bat mitzvah, is a tribute to you, your parents, our school, and our youth group. Today you demonstrate that the passion that your parents ignited in you has not been extinguished. And it is a fact that we should not take for granted. You each have countless choices as to what you do with your time and what you occupy yourselves with; and the fact that you devote some of your time to Jewish life is worth taking note of and celebrating. Today, I want to talk to you about keeping that flame alive within ourselves.

This week’s Torah portion – Parshat Tzav – continues the instructions to Aaron and his sons about the burnt offerings they are to make in the Tabernacle. The beginning of Lev. 6 says, “The burnt offering itself shall remain where it is burned upon the altar all night until morning, while the fire on the altar is kept going on it.” We learn in this parsha that the fire for the altar was kept burning continually, 24 hours a day. The Midrash says that, even during our travels in the wilderness, it was kept in a kind of tinderbox. This is one of the sources for the idea of the Eternal Flame or Light that you find in synagogues to this day. But the Torah doesn’t just leave it at that. The commandment is repeated two more times! Verse 5 says, “v’ha-esh al ha-mizbe’ah tukad bo...” (The flame of the altar is to be kept there). And, verse 6 again says, “esh tamid tukad al-ha mizbeah…” (A perpetual flame shall be kept burning on the altar). As you know, we believe there are no superfluous words in the Torah. If something appears repetitive or redundant – it isn’t. Each word of the Torah has something unique to teach us. Some commentators have pointed out that the phrase “tukad bo” is ambiguous. It can mean that the flame should be kept burning in “it” – referring to altar. But, that is seemingly unnecessary because we are told elsewhere that the flame on the altar is to be maintained. However, “Tukad bo” can also mean that the flame should be kept burning in “him” – referring instead to the priest. In other words, just as it is important that the flame on the altar be kept perpetually burning, the priest who performs the ritual sacrifice must also keep his passion burning within himself.

I imagine that it must have been hard for the priests to perform their duties day-in and day-out year after year and do so with the same passion and enthusiasm that they had at the beginning of their careers. It is no less difficult for us today to keep our passion for Judaism aflame. And it is perhaps even more difficult because we no longer have the powerful rituals centralized in the ancient Temple. How, then can we keep that “eish tamid” – the eternal flame – burning in us. Our sages offer two responses to the question. For the first answer they point to our parsha which says, “This is the Torah of the burnt offerings…” The word Torah means instructions, but the verse could have used a different word. Why call it Torah? In the Talmud (Tractate Menachot) the sage known as Resh Lakish answers, “In order to teach that if someone studies the laws of an offering it is as though they had actually offered the sacrifice themselves.” Think about what Resh Lakish is implying – he’s saying that study is a form of vicarious action; that, learning is itself a religious practice. This is why – by the way – Jews talk about “learning” Judaism rather than “studying” Judaism. Study implies a certain academic distance. Learning Torah – if done with passion and identification – is a spiritual practice that binds us as Jews to our people and our narrative tradition. So, one of the ways we can keep the flame of Jewish identity alive is through learning.

The second way we keep the flame burning is in our homes. This Monday and Tuesday nights we will sit around our tables for the Passover Seders. When we gather around our family tables, we should be reminded of another rabbinic teaching. After the destruction of the 2^nd Temple, the sages said that the home became the “mikdash me’at” – “the miniature Sanctuary.” And, our family table took the place of the altar. That is why, before we eat bread, we wash our hands in a ritual manner, recalling the way the Kohanim purified themselves before making sacrifices, and why we salt the challah, to remember the way the Priests salted the sacrificial meat. In essence, we embrace the idea that we are – as the Torah says – “a kingdom of priests; a holy nation.” (Ex. 19:6). Each one of us is like a Kohen of ancient times and that is why each of must keep the flame of passion and devotion alive within us. It is what the Hasidim call “hitlahavut” from the root meaning flame. It refers to the fiery enthusiasm can feel in moments of prayer and devotion.

So, to our youth I want to say, y’yasher ko’che’chem, for the Esh Tamid – the eternal flame – that you keep alive, and which you demonstrated here today. And my prayer for you is that you should keep fueling that flame. You can keep that flame burning through learning and deepening your knowledge of and appreciation for our tradition; and you can keep the flame burning through Jewish practices as simple as celebrating Shabbat or a holiday around your family table.

Shabbat Shalom.

"Let all who are hungry come and eat..."

2010-03-25T11:52:00.004-06:00

This Monday night we will open our Seder with the words of “Ha Lachma Anya” which says “This is the bread of poverty that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt… Let all who hungry, come and eat; Let all who are in need, come and share the Pesach meal.” This statement is not meant to be a symbolic feel-good gesture, but rather a reminder of our moral obligations as we prepare to celebrate the “Feast of Freedom.”

There are many families in our community who will not have a feast on Seder night. Especially in our current economic climate, it is important for us to remember those who are oppressed by poverty. Please join me in making the declaration of Ha Lachma Anya sincere. Consider making a donation before Pesach to an organization that provides for those who are hungry.

One option is to give to the JFS-Weinberg Food Pantry. A donation of less than $50 is enough to provide an entire family with everything they need to have a Seder meal. In-kind donations of food and volunteer time are also welcome. Read more about the Passover program here or contact Nancy Benyamin at (303) 597.5000 x369. Jewish Family Service agencies around the country have similar Passover programs. Find your local JFS here.

If you want your donation to have a more global reach, I recommend donating to American Jewish World Service, Oxfam International, or Mazon.

L'shanah ha-ba'ah b'nei chorin - May we soon see the day when we are all truly free.

Hag Sameach,

Salomon

Elevating Our Work. By Melanie Gruenwald

2010-03-13T23:00:00.001-07:00

This sermon was given by Melanie Gruenwald in honor of HEA Sisterhood Shabbat.

Shabbat Ha-Chodesh 5770 / Parshat Vayak'hel-Pekudei

A man once came across three masons who were working at chipping chunks of granite from large blocks. The first seemed unhappy at his job, chipping away and frequently looking at his watch. When the man asked what it was that he was doing, the first mason responded, rather curtly, "I'm hammering this rock, and I can't wait 'til 5 when I can go home."

A second mason, seemingly more interested in his work, was hammering diligently and when asked what it was that he was doing, answered, "Well, I'm molding this block of rock so that it can be used with others to construct a wall. It's not bad work, but I'll sure be glad when it's done."

A third mason was hammering at his block fervently, taking time to stand back and admire his work. He chipped off small pieces until he was satisfied that it was the best he could do. When he was questioned about his work he stopped, gazed skyward and proudly proclaimed, "I...am building a synagogue."

Three men. Three attitudes. Three ways of approaching the work they do every day.

We spend much of our time working; And some of our time seeking God and spirituality. Perhaps, we seek spirituality when we come to shul, when we are at a wedding, baby-naming, or funeral. But, how often do we seek God in our day-to-day work? What would it look like if we did?

This week's Torah portion is filled with seemingly mundane details about the building of the Mishkan - the tabernacle that our ancestors carried with them in the wilderness. But our ancestors didn't think the details were mundane at all. The Torah describes them - men and women - engaging in their work with enthusiasm and creative energy, like the third mason in the parable. Artisans of all sorts brought their unique skills and talents; and the people brought every sort of fine material. So generous were their donations that Moses had to tell them to stop. If only we could all infuse our day-to-day work with that kind of holy enthusiasm!

Prior to the construction details, Moses instructs the people: "On six days work may be done, but on the seventh day you shall have a Sabbath of complete rest, holy to the Lord…" (Exod. 35:2). The word for work - Melacha - is the same as the verb by which God created the universe. From this, our sages derived that the work of the mishkan was parallel to God's work in creating the universe. Thus the kinds of work that are prohibited on Shabbat are those tasks that were involved in building the tabernacle. Just as our work is a reflection of God's creative energy, so, too, is our Shabbat rest a way of imbuing our weekday work with deeper spiritual meaning. Shabbat is when we can step back and recognize that we were created in the image of God and that what we create on the other days of the week is a reflection of the divine.

In our day-to-day lives, we check emails, create to–do lists, fill calendars, file papers, shuttle kids, meet with clients, meet with committees, create marketing plans, strategic plans, and weekend plans. It may not be for the building of a mishkan, but how can we also recognize that the mundane tasks serve greater purposes? How can we raise the mundane and make it holy? We have in our community some great examples.

On this Sisterhood Shabbat, we honor the memory of Clara Gertz - long time member of the HEA and the Sisterhood - who passed away this year. Many of us knew Clara for her work at the Bagel Deli and for her tireless volunteer work at the synagogue. Most of all, we remember Clara for her unique personality. But, in that quirky way she had, there was something very holy - something that can help us understand how we can elevate our work. When Clara met you, she wanted to know about you - because every human being mattered to her. Clara made a point to connect with our kids and with me—always offering to babysit and even offering us to sell us her house. She was a holy woman in our community….

The work of our Sisterhood is also instructive. The women of the Sisterhood plan events- and always elevate them with meaning. Sisterhood Soup in the Sukkah is not just a luncheon. The sisterhood asks for donations to benefit the JFS Food Pantry… This event sent ripples through our community—it inspired the HEA preschool to run an incredible Thanksgiving Food Drive. As a result of Soup in the Sukkah- our son decided to ask friends for donations to JFS instead of gifts for his birthday. Many of his friends have done the same over the years—elevating birthday parties and family events with requests for tzedakah instead of gifts.

Our shul also approaches bnai mitzvah with meaning and a commitment to tzedek through the amazing projects our young adults perform. Once again, transforming what can be a passive experience into one in which the young adult and entire community are engaged.

This is so much bigger than the physical work we do each day-- Every act of creation we do changes the world. When we encounter a stranger, a clerk who is trying to assist us, a homeless person on the freeway exit, a frustrating client, friend, or relative—what is it that we are going to ‘put out in the world’? We have a choice in how we are going to engage with this individual. We can decide what will make it a moment of creation and building, rather than one of destruction.

As we expand beyond ourselves- we should examine what our role is in building the mishkan for our community- as we make decisions in consumption, life style, and philanthropic efforts. We can choose to be builders—to make these choices in ways that are meaningful rather than impulsive. We can choose to build homes of intention, so our children can continue our story of creation. We can build community institutions that are visionary and affect the world we live in.

I think of Ramah in the Rockies, the first specialty camp of the Ramah camping movement, combining outdoor adventure and environmental awareness with Jewish living and learning. This unique camp is opening in June for rising 6th through 10th graders. I have been blessed to work with Ramah since last summer, when we celebrated with an Open Camp day. Ramah in the Rockies, is a vision of a mason, becoming a reality. I am constantly reminded of creating a holy mishkan by the inspirational volunteers and visionaries who brought this dream- of a Ramah in the Rockies- to the amazing reality it is today. There are hundreds of donors, families, and community members who are invested in the success of this institution. THESE are the people making the holy from the mundane- the masons who chip at the granite, seeing the sanctuary they are building for our community.

And this brings us back to the masons- chipping away at the granite. Which mason are we? Which would we want to be? And what can we do to make the change- to create meaning in our every day- to sanctify, and to create in the image of God…?? I bless our community with the ability to make the choice to elevate- to contribute our skills, wisdom, and gifts to the mishkan, To bring our “selves” to our work, and to elevate our day-to-day experiences with holiness. If our days are filled with this intention, just imagine what our mishkan can be….

Shabbat shalom

Refining the Soul

2010-02-20T23:00:00.005-07:00

We need our rituals and customs the way our ancestors needed the mishkan – because deeply embedded in them are ways of refining our souls

Parashat Terumah 5770

One of our synagogue’s religious school teachers walked in to my office quite distressed. “Rabbi,” he said, “I can’t get my religious school kids to practice their Hebrew. All I ask of them is 10 minutes a day to review the Amidah! Don’t they get it, Rabbi? If they would only practice now, it would be a lot easier for them when they start preparing for their bnei mitzvah. But the kids tell me that they have too many other things to do, other commitments, other priorities. I don’t get it… don’t they understand that in the end, this is what’s going to matter?”

The teacher is right, but the problem is that the students don’t understand why it matters. We – rabbis and Jewish educators – have not done enough to communicate the value that Judaism can have in the lives of Jews. And we can no longer count on the tribal loyalty that kept our people together in the past. Our parents and grandparents joined shuls because, in the face of discrimination, Jews had to stick together. For many of them, it didn’t matter a whole lot if they understood the service or could appreciate the rituals. Many people belonged because they felt a need to uphold an ethnic heritage. But, that’s no longer the case. We’ve made it in America. Jews are – thankfully – part of the fabric of this society. I wouldn’t want it any other way, (I’m not interested in going back to the shtetl!) but it means that we can no longer count on tribal loyalty or a siege mentality to keep us together.

And this is true across our society. We are freer than we’ve ever been, with more choices than ever before. There is no lack of stuff with which to fill our lives, no lack of activities with which to fill our time, and no lack of entertainment with which to fill our minds. But I sincerely believe that, at our core, as human beings we have a yearning. We yearn for meaning, purpose, and connection. And that’s what has not changed since the beginning of time. It is that yearning that created religion and it is that yearning to which we, as religious leaders and teachers and parents must respond. Most Jews today have little interest in sustaining institutions for their own sake or submitting to someone else’s authority. They want religion on their own terms. I hear it a lot: “rabbi, I’m a spiritual person, but I don’t believe in organized religion.” (To which I say, “I don’t believe in organized religion either… that’s why I belong to the Conservative Movement”).

Jews – by-in-large – want religion on their own terms. Whether they affiliate with a synagogue or not, Jews expect more today. And, frankly, I’m glad for that. I’m not interested in preserving Judaism like some artifact in a glass case. I’m delighted that Jews are expecting more of religion, I’m glad Jews are asking for meaning; but, as a rabbi, it is challenging. I spent years studying Hebrew and Aramaic; dissecting ancient narratives; comparing fragments of manuscripts; learning the tools of textual hermeneutics. We have a beautiful and ancient tradition that is often hard to access. And the challenge for Jewish educators and Rabbis is to help people connect to that tradition.

And it isn’t easy - especially on a week like this. Parashat Terumah is not an easy parsha to talk about. The entire parsha is devoted to the minute details of the Mishkan (the portable sanctuary our people travelled with in the wilderness). In fact, the Torah spends the better part of 5 parshiot on the details of the mishkan and its construction. At first glance, this is boring! If you’re a Jew who walks in off the street, predisposed to think Judaism is just another antiquated religion whose concerns and demands have nothing to do with your life – and all you heard was this parsha – you’d walk out and probably never come back!

So, I want to say something to that disaffected and alienated Jew. And, more importantly, I want to address myself to the religious school kid in each and every one of us who was forced to learn words we didn’t understand. I could give you a lot of good reasons to be Jewish; but, if forced to sum it up while standing on one foot, I would teach you just this: The purpose of the commandments – the purpose of practicing Judaism – is to refine your soul.

Our sages asked the following question: “What does God care whether a person slaughters an animal in the proper Jewish way or not? What does God care whether a person eats kosher or non-kosher animals?” (And we could just as easily ask of our parsha: What does God care whether the ark in the mishkan is 2 ½ cubits long or 3 cubits long?) To these questions our sages say this: “Lo natnu ha-mitzvot elah l’tzaref bahem et ha-briot.” “The mitzvot were given for no other purpose than to refine humanity.”[1] In the words of Rabbi David Wolpe – the purpose of the mitzvot is “to grow our souls.”[2]

So, let’s take a closer look at our parsha. What is the purpose of all these construction specs? How does knowing the dimensions of the ark help us to refine our souls? My mentor, Rabbi Brad Artson, teaches the following: He asks – why is it that on top of the ark there are two angelic figures (called Kruvim, or cherubs)? According to the Second of the Ten Commandments, we are to make nothing that resembles an idol or statue. And, yet, right here in the very center of the holiest place are two figurines with human faces!

The Torah says: “make two cherubim of gold… at the two ends of the cover. The cherubim shall have their wings spread above them, shielding the cover with their wing. There I will meet with you… from between the two cherubim that are on top of the Ark of the Covenant.”[3] Rabbi Artson – citing the 13^th Century French commentator known as Hizkuni – teaches that “the cherubim are permissible, even though they appear to violate the prohibition against statues, because they are made not to be worshipped, but rather to symbolize God’s invisible, glorious throne. The Cherubim point to a higher truth: the invisibility of the God of Israel.”[4] In other words, the purpose of this physical place – the Mishkan, with all of its detailed adornment and visual splendor, is actually to direct our attention to the intangible transcendence that is God. By its very physicality, it points to that which is beyond the physical. That where God is truly to be found is in the open space between two faces looking at one another. This is also why, when God commands the Israelites to build the mishkan He says “v’Assu li mikdash, v’shachanti b’tocham.” “Build for me a sanctuary, and I will dwell amongst them.” The Torah does not say that God will dwell in the mishkan. The sanctuary cannot confine God. Instead, the purpose of this structure is for us to create a space in our lives where God can come in. And, one of those places is in the encounter between two human faces.

That’s a profound lesson! And it isn’t obvious on the surface of the text. It takes work to find it and it takes dedication to unlock the value and depth of our tradition. Spirituality is fine… but the lesson of the mishkan is that spirituality isn’t something that simply happens on its own. It’s something we make, it’s something we do, it’s something we work on as a community. We need our rituals and customs the way our ancestors needed the mishkan – because deeply embedded in them are ways of refining our souls.

My religious school teacher was spot-on in his question when he asked: “Don’t they understand that in the end, this is what’s going to matter?” That right. In the end, in the ultimate end, what matters – what we will be judged on – is not how many toys we collected, how many movies we’ve seen, or how many deals we made in our lives.

God placed within each of us a soul, and our task here on Earth is to refine it; so, that one day, when we return to God, we can say that the soul You have given me is more refined, more elevated, more deepened, more beautiful, than when You gave it. True, it is also burdened by some sins, some shortcomings, some pain, and some sorrow; but, it is also beautified by having given to others, by having learned, and by having loved. That is why we are here today.

[1] Paraphrased. See Mishna Tanchuma on Parashat Shmini (Buber Edition 15b) and Bereshit Rabbah 44:1. Also cited by Nachmanides on Deut. 22:6.

[2] I strongly recommend Rabbi David Wolpe’s book, Why Be Jewish?

[3] Exod. 25:19-22

[4] Bradley S. Artson. The Bedside Torah. (Contemporary Books, 2001), p. 139.