Look at Those Jews!
Below are my remarks from our annual fundraiser.
I want to begin by thanking everyone for being here. You did not have to come tonight and support your synagogue. Yet you chose to do so. Thank you. In fact in this day and age belonging to a synagogue, participating in Jewish life can no longer be assumed. I recognize that your choice remains unique. I am grateful for your devotion. I am thankful for your involvement....
To reflect on the meaning of this hour, and the import of our merger, I wish to share a story. Years ago, when Susie and I were still in rabbinical school, we were the unit heads for a newly created six week summer program for 10th graders at Jacobs Camp in Utica Mississippi. Part of the program was taking these Southern Jewish kids on two trips. On one we took them on their first trip to the big city of Atlanta and to this new 24 hour news place called CNN and also for many of them to their first major league baseball game. The Braves lost in extra innings.
I want to begin by thanking everyone for being here. You did not have to come tonight and support your synagogue. Yet you chose to do so. Thank you. In fact in this day and age belonging to a synagogue, participating in Jewish life can no longer be assumed. I recognize that your choice remains unique. I am grateful for your devotion. I am thankful for your involvement....
To reflect on the meaning of this hour, and the import of our merger, I wish to share a story. Years ago, when Susie and I were still in rabbinical school, we were the unit heads for a newly created six week summer program for 10th graders at Jacobs Camp in Utica Mississippi. Part of the program was taking these Southern Jewish kids on two trips. On one we took them on their first trip to the big city of Atlanta and to this new 24 hour news place called CNN and also for many of them to their first major league baseball game. The Braves lost in extra innings.
On another trip we took them throughout the Deep South. We cleaned up old Jewish cemeteries. We tidied abandoned synagogues. I remember in one town the lone Jew greeted us with the keys to the cemetery gates. He was literally the only Jew remaining in that town. We then filled up another synagogue with rows and rows of young people singing. We read Torah there. We taught Torah. Even on the High Holidays when this synagogue brought in a student rabbi only half of its pews were filled. We brought Torah to a small Southern town.
In another synagogue in Port Gibson, Mississippi there were no more Jews. There once were hundreds. The synagogue building was a beautiful building. The keys were in the care of the gas station owner adjacent to the synagogue. I told him who I was. “I am soon to be rabbi Moskowitz and we are here with sixty high school kids to clean up the synagogue and pray there.” “Here are the keys,” he said. No ID. No skepticism. No doubt. After cleaning up and dusting the floor we sang the Shema in a sanctuary emptied of its furniture. It still pulls at my heart to remember that moment sitting on the floor of a closed synagogue singing the prayers that have sustained our people for generations.
Later when we returned to camp we heard rumblings from the campers that some of our students stole candy from the gas station when we had allowed them to buy snacks. We soon discovered the identities of the three. I put them in the back seat of my Subaru and drove them the 45 minutes back to Port Gibson. No music. No talking on the ride. Only quiet reflection. Judaism demands honesty. It requires ethical scrupulousness. “Back so soon?” the owner asked. These students have something they want to say. They timidly approached the man. They offered their confession. They paid for their stolen candy. Then the response I still recall. “You drove all the way back from Utica to give me a few dollars for candy. You Jews are so honest. Wow. I am so impressed by you Jews.” “Here,” he said, “let me give you something as a thank you present. Here take these cigarette lighters.” I said, “Thank you” and then said, “But you have to understand they cannot accept a gift.” He forced the lighters into my hand. “You have to take something. Thank you, thank you, he said over and over again.”
I have been thinking about that event this past year. Too often the wealth of synagogues is measured by the number of Torah scrolls they have in their Arks or the majesty of their buildings. But if the Torah is only held close and never shared with the world at large, if we do not bring it into our hearts and influence our hands then we have failed. Even our holy scrolls are but tools to bring healing to the world. Even our buildings are intended to help us bring more beauty and meaning to our neighborhoods. The Talmud states that the world is sustained only by the breath of schoolchildren. (Shabbat 119a) The world not just the Jewish people it states. A confession about stolen candy changed everything—at least for a day—in a small town in Mississippi. That is the breath that breathes life into our souls.
Our two congregations are now one. We are now stronger because we are bound together. We have created friendships. We have ensured our continued success, but mere survival is not good enough for me. All of our hard work is only a starting point. It only matters if it brings meaning to our lives and improvement to our world.
It only matters if because of this place and these people and this congregation the world stands up and says, “Look at the Jewish people.” Let's start here and now. We begin by improving our small corner of the world. We have to start somewhere. Our synagogue, and our survival, must have meaning for the world. As long as we bring healing to others then this undertaking will have import. All of this only matters if people rise up and exclaim, “The world is better because we stood here in this place, because we stood here together.”
In another synagogue in Port Gibson, Mississippi there were no more Jews. There once were hundreds. The synagogue building was a beautiful building. The keys were in the care of the gas station owner adjacent to the synagogue. I told him who I was. “I am soon to be rabbi Moskowitz and we are here with sixty high school kids to clean up the synagogue and pray there.” “Here are the keys,” he said. No ID. No skepticism. No doubt. After cleaning up and dusting the floor we sang the Shema in a sanctuary emptied of its furniture. It still pulls at my heart to remember that moment sitting on the floor of a closed synagogue singing the prayers that have sustained our people for generations.
Later when we returned to camp we heard rumblings from the campers that some of our students stole candy from the gas station when we had allowed them to buy snacks. We soon discovered the identities of the three. I put them in the back seat of my Subaru and drove them the 45 minutes back to Port Gibson. No music. No talking on the ride. Only quiet reflection. Judaism demands honesty. It requires ethical scrupulousness. “Back so soon?” the owner asked. These students have something they want to say. They timidly approached the man. They offered their confession. They paid for their stolen candy. Then the response I still recall. “You drove all the way back from Utica to give me a few dollars for candy. You Jews are so honest. Wow. I am so impressed by you Jews.” “Here,” he said, “let me give you something as a thank you present. Here take these cigarette lighters.” I said, “Thank you” and then said, “But you have to understand they cannot accept a gift.” He forced the lighters into my hand. “You have to take something. Thank you, thank you, he said over and over again.”
I have been thinking about that event this past year. Too often the wealth of synagogues is measured by the number of Torah scrolls they have in their Arks or the majesty of their buildings. But if the Torah is only held close and never shared with the world at large, if we do not bring it into our hearts and influence our hands then we have failed. Even our holy scrolls are but tools to bring healing to the world. Even our buildings are intended to help us bring more beauty and meaning to our neighborhoods. The Talmud states that the world is sustained only by the breath of schoolchildren. (Shabbat 119a) The world not just the Jewish people it states. A confession about stolen candy changed everything—at least for a day—in a small town in Mississippi. That is the breath that breathes life into our souls.
Our two congregations are now one. We are now stronger because we are bound together. We have created friendships. We have ensured our continued success, but mere survival is not good enough for me. All of our hard work is only a starting point. It only matters if it brings meaning to our lives and improvement to our world.
It only matters if because of this place and these people and this congregation the world stands up and says, “Look at the Jewish people.” Let's start here and now. We begin by improving our small corner of the world. We have to start somewhere. Our synagogue, and our survival, must have meaning for the world. As long as we bring healing to others then this undertaking will have import. All of this only matters if people rise up and exclaim, “The world is better because we stood here in this place, because we stood here together.”
Spotify and Synagogues: A Meditation on the Synagogue
What follows is the written text of my Rosh Hashanah morning sermon exploring why we need the synagogue.
I would like to speak this morning about ancient history. On this Rosh Hashanah I wish to meditate on history and wonder aloud about our future. For this occasion I have unearthed a number of artifacts. Here is the first show and tell item. It is of course a record album, an exhibit of classic vinyl. I uncovered this in my basement buried in the boxes from our move eleven years ago to our current home. There remain my albums stacked neatly in the moving boxes, never again to be unpacked until this very moment. Some of my younger students might be marveling at this object. Yes, this is what I once used to play music. To put this in contemporary terms, this double album contains 26 songs, a mere fraction of the 1,000 songs presently on my iPhone.
This of course is no ordinary album. It is Pink Floyd’s The Wall. I recall the discussions when this album came out. It was the most ancient of days. The year was 1979. There was the excitement and enthusiasm of that moment when in December of that year I finally got my hands on the album. I held the prize in my fingers. My friends and I marveled at the cover graphics. We even argued about the hidden meanings found in the track order. As those Saturday evenings would drag on into Sunday mornings, we would run back and forth to the turntable to replay track 6 of side 3. (“Hello, hello, hello…Is anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me. Is there anyone at home.”)
That’s what it was like in ancient days. That was the experience of listening to music. Some might be looking at this relic, especially those on our Israel Committee, and saying, “Did he have to pick Pink Floyd? Did the rabbi have to choose Roger Waters given his hatred of Israel and his activism in the BDS movement (Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions)? I pledge we will examine these issues in more detail on Yom Kippur. This album remains a world to its own. I recall those days with fondness when I hold it in my hands.
But what of music today? It has been a mere thirteen years since the invention of the iPod. My current b’nai mitzvah students know of no other world. We shared music in ancient times not on Facebook but by making mix tapes. That is how we shared our love of Pink Floyd or the Eagles or if we want to march into the 80’s, Squeeze and the Talking Heads. (“You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack… And you may ask yourself, ‘Well, how did I get here?’”) And now even downloading music is a thing of the past. What was revolutionary a decade ago, our children by and large no longer do. There is Spotify and Grooveshark. For a mere $10 per month I can have access to 20 million songs. Gone is the sense of holding the music in my hands. Gone is the sense of owning music. For my young students music is only shared. It is about playlists and individual songs rather than albums and tracks. It is about Facebook discussions like “I can’t believe Steven Moskowitz is listening to Hotel California again.”
I hold now a second piece of history in my hands. This is a book. I would like to think that this is not yet ancient history, but I wonder what the future holds for the book in the fast paced digital age? The movement from scrolls, with which we of course still read, to those few, precious books made for wealthy individuals to the mass production of books by Gutenberg in 1440 helped to democratize learning. And yet the piles of books, the rows upon rows of filled to overflowing bookshelves are no longer the most common feature of a Jewish home. My Kindle, this small little device, can hold over 1,000 books. I can have access to a library of books on my iPhone.
Lest this sound like another advertisement, for another $10 per month I can have unlimited access to 700,000 books. Then again there is something about the feel of a book in the hand. The People of the eReader does not have the same ring to it. And this book that I clutch is again no ordinary book. It is my prized collection of Emily Dickinson poems. There is of course an Emily Dickinson app given that she is among this country’s greatest poets, but a book represents a journey, a book tells a story separate even from its words.
And I can tell you the story of my discovery of this book. I had boarded the subway to make my journey uptown from Penn Station when I looked up from my folded paper (remember how we used to fold the paper so as not poke the person next to us) to discover this sign called Poetry in Motion. Launched by the MTA and the Poetry Society of America in 1992 the subway cars were now decorated not only with advertisements but poems. And there I read “Hope is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all –.”’ I did not know then that poem #254 could so capture my heart. I exited the subway to find a bookstore and purchase this book: The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. I recall that each and every time I hold this book in my hands and discover another of her lines. Among the dog-eared pages I find again “A smile so small as mine might be/Precisely their necessity –“ (#1391).
Leafing through the pages of these poems I continue the journey. For my children their journeys will be very different. Children’s journeys are of course supposed to be different than their parent’s. Books might no longer line their shelves but the written word, I hope and pray, will continue to stimulate their minds and penetrate the soul. Still I wonder what might be lost without a book under their arms, without books lining their shelves. How will they still leaf through pages and discover anew a poem to stir the soul?
The third show and tell item in this meditation on history I cannot even wrap my hands around. It is the synagogue. It is likewise undergoing radical transformations. Like music and poetry, it too is ancient yet changing. What will the synagogue be like in an age when so much is shared for such little expense? People might not be asking this question so directly but I see it forming on their lips. They ask, if I can have all access to music and books for $10 per month why can’t I have all access to Judaism for just as little? And so here is my response to why the synagogue must survive. Before we can even answer this question we must ask a more basic question: why be Jewish. So let me tell you straight out. Why be Jewish.? Because Judaism offers a path of meaning. Because Judaism tackles questions with which we are still wrestling. Because Judaism offers a road to bring healing to the world.
These answers are uncovered in the book. The answer is unfurled in the edges of a scroll. And that takes some work to uncover. Let’s be honest if you want something akin to the convenience of eReaders and iPhones you can go elsewhere. You can find a tutor to come to your house. You can hire a “rabbi” who will officiate at a bar or bat mitzvah three months from now. If you just want the ceremony you can do that. But synagogue is first and foremost about community. Hebrew School is a misnomer. It is not about learning Hebrew as much as it is about teaching our children to attach themselves to their community and to fall in love with their faith. That is why it matters that they sit across the table from others. Learning is not a solitary activity for the Jew. It is done with others. Sure you can read by yourself. Sure you can even practice your alef-bet by yourself. But you can only truly learn with others.
This is why as well learning is supposed to be a life long pursuit. That in a nutshell is one of the reasons why I run away to Jerusalem every summer. So I can study surrounded by others, so that my head can be filled with the arguments and debates that have sustained our people. And why must we learn? Because we believe that Torah is meant to better the world. I don’t mean to suggest that we should convert the world to being Jewish, but I do mean to say that if Judaism is to matter it has to matter not just for ourselves and our own individual needs, but it has to matter for the world. Abraham Joshua Heschel, the unparalleled 20th century rabbi, remarked, “To be a Jew is either superfluous or essential…. Hence we learn the purpose of Jewish existence: we are obligated to live lives that will become Torah, lives that are Torah.” (Pikuach Neshama: To Save a Soul)
If Torah is only about lighting candles 18 minutes before sunset or about answering questions such as is this oven kosher or not and not about is it ethical to lay off employees so as to increase the stock price, is it moral to wage war against ISIS, then it is meaningless. Torah must be relevant for our lives today. It must have meaning for the here and now. If Torah is only about personal meaning and not even more importantly about the betterment of the world, then it loses its significance. If it remains here and does not venture to the streets, to our offices, to our homes then it lacks profound truth. We must live lives that become Torah.
Do you want to know why we should survive? Here is why. The world desperately needs these answers or at the very least a place where we can debate these questions. Do you want to know why the synagogue must survive? It is the address where these values are learned and re-engaged; it is where community is fostered and Torah is brought to the world.
That is why the synagogue was created. 2,000 years ago there was only one address to be Jewish. The only address was the Temple in Jerusalem. There we would bring our sacrifices to the priest to be offered on the Temple’s altar. There was no local address for Judaism in each and every town. It was centralized in the Temple. And then in 70 CE the Romans destroyed the Temple and nearly wiped us out completely when they leveled Jerusalem. All that remains of that grand structure is the Kotel, the Western Wall. Out of that tragedy the synagogue was born. The rabbis developed a portable faith that was independent of place that was separated from even the holiest of places. We could go anywhere. All we needed was a book, the Torah, and the songs of our prayers. Even more importantly all we needed was each other. Synagogue comes from the Greek translation of the Hebrew Beit Knesset, a house of assembly. What makes a synagogue a synagogue is not a building but the people. If you have the required ten, you have a synagogue, whether you are in Jerusalem, or Brookville or Jericho or Oyster Bay.
The Rabbis fashioned Judaism out of the Bible; they made wandering and journeying part of the enterprise. They recognized that even though we might, until realizing this dream in the present day, longed for Jerusalem, our lot would be to wander throughout the lands. In each city, in every town, in all the countries of our dispersion, the synagogue became the primary address for teaching Torah, for bringing Torah to successive generations and the world at large. We would forever be wanderers. We would forever journey. We would learn new things in every land, we would discover new truths in every city and we would relearn our ancient teachings in the synagogue, now on Temple Lane. In a way we carried the synagogue, as we carry a book, from place to place. We held it in our hands. We carried its meaning in our hearts. We marveled at its architecture. We looked at the album cover. We continue to wander.
The Torah is of course on its most literal level about a journey. First it tells the story about the discovery of God. Abraham looks up and realizes that there can only be one God who made the heavens and the earth. It is then about God responding to our suffering and freeing us from Egypt. But it is mostly about 40 years of wandering through the wilderness. That is the majority of the story. It is about the trials and misfortunes of the longest camping trip ever described. “Moses, I can’t believe you forgot to pack more food!” the people scream over and over again. But it is worth the journey, and the grumblings and the complaining, because there is a promise of a new home in the land of Israel. And then on the shores of the Jordan River, Moses gives one final speech followed by another final speech filled with advice, but mostly filled with warnings about what to do and of course mostly what not to do. And then he dies. God buries him on Mount Nebo.
And the Torah then does the most surprising of things. It ends. The Torah concludes on the wrong side of the river. It ends with the promise unfulfilled, with the dream unrealized. Our most important book ends with the journey incomplete. And what do we do? We roll the scroll back to the beginning and start reading the story all over again. “In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth…” In the synagogue and the Torah reading cycle that is central to this institution we ritualize the journey over the destination. The journey always continues we remind ourselves year after year. On Simhat Torah we sing for joy not because we have arrived at some destination but because we can begin again. The wandering always continues.
People think that the synagogue is fixed, that is immovable and never changing. People think that a synagogue is a building. It is not. The building is a tool. It serves the congregation. It must never become the other way around. This is the most important lesson I learned, and I hope all of us learned, from our fifteen years of wandering and schleping the Torah scroll all over Long Island. I never felt it inauthentic to serve a congregation without its own building, I never felt that we were anything less than even the grandest and oldest of synagogues. Having our own building makes the teaching easier. You don’t have to wonder anymore where your rabbi is. The address is clear. It is simpler.
But with this simplicity comes some dangers. Will we become overly focused on the building? Will we lose sight of what has made us a holy congregation? Will we lose sight of the people who have made this a special and unique community? The great Hasidic rabbi, the Kotzker rebbe taught: To what is the one who looks out only for himself and his (or her) own perfection compared to? To a tzaddik in a fur coat. If the house is cold and a person wishes to warm himself, he has two choices: to light a fire or put on the fur coat. What is the difference between lighting a fire and putting on the fur? When the fire is lit, I am warm as well as others. We are warmed when I light a fire. When I put on the fur coat only I am warm. We must remain on guard never to become that tzaddik who wraps himself in a fur coat and fails to help light the fire that warms all.
The St Louis congregation in which I grew up recently celebrated its 140th anniversary. That may appear really old, but 140 years is a mere speck on the Jewish timeline. Each synagogue only gains its ancient voice because it does not stand alone. It is tied to all other synagogues, some of which are no more, others of which continue to thrive, some of which are brand new. The synagogue moves through history. Movement is part of its very nature. Think about prayer, another central feature of synagogue life. We stand up and sit down. We bow and bend our knees. We beat our chests on Yom Kippur. The Hasidic masters sway to and fro, moving their bodies to the rhythm of prayer. And I have heard that on the North Shore of Long Island some even dance to their prayers. We continue to move.
I worry that some might think that the journey is now complete. We have arrived at a building. We have survived the wandering. But the journey continues. The holy work of fashioning community forever marches on.
We need the synagogue. Why? Because we need each other. The point of community is to enlarge our circle of friends and solidify our friendships. You can only teach the value of community with others, with peers. That is the essence of minyan, the quorum required for prayer. While the synagogue was a response to a catastrophic change, an answer to the question of how are we going to keep being Jewish without a center, it was also a response to a need. The spirit will always require a poem to stir its being. The soul will always need music and song, no matter the cover.
The Jewish spirit is nurtured by the synagogue. It is this institution that gives it life, that nurtures our souls and brings the values of Torah to the world.
There is a legend about the Temple that once stood in Jerusalem. It is about its windows. Ancient buildings like the castles and churches we visit throughout Europe constructed their windows so as to funnel the natural light from the outside in. In other words the windows cut into the building’s thick stonewalls were wider on the outside and thinner on the inside. The Temple’s windows were the opposite. They were larger on the inside. Their purpose was to funnel the light from the inside to the outside, to bring the meaning and content gained within to the world at large. That is the purpose of the synagogue: to bring light to the outside, to build a fire together to warm the community. The purpose is to bring Torah to the world.
As much as we are overjoyed about our new building, it is really not about the building. The building is not the dream. The building serves the dream.
Back to Pink Floyd. “All in all it was all just bricks in the wall. All in all you were all just bricks in the wall.”
It is not the building. It is something far grander and more eternal. It is the light that comes from within.
I would like to speak this morning about ancient history. On this Rosh Hashanah I wish to meditate on history and wonder aloud about our future. For this occasion I have unearthed a number of artifacts. Here is the first show and tell item. It is of course a record album, an exhibit of classic vinyl. I uncovered this in my basement buried in the boxes from our move eleven years ago to our current home. There remain my albums stacked neatly in the moving boxes, never again to be unpacked until this very moment. Some of my younger students might be marveling at this object. Yes, this is what I once used to play music. To put this in contemporary terms, this double album contains 26 songs, a mere fraction of the 1,000 songs presently on my iPhone.
This of course is no ordinary album. It is Pink Floyd’s The Wall. I recall the discussions when this album came out. It was the most ancient of days. The year was 1979. There was the excitement and enthusiasm of that moment when in December of that year I finally got my hands on the album. I held the prize in my fingers. My friends and I marveled at the cover graphics. We even argued about the hidden meanings found in the track order. As those Saturday evenings would drag on into Sunday mornings, we would run back and forth to the turntable to replay track 6 of side 3. (“Hello, hello, hello…Is anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me. Is there anyone at home.”)
That’s what it was like in ancient days. That was the experience of listening to music. Some might be looking at this relic, especially those on our Israel Committee, and saying, “Did he have to pick Pink Floyd? Did the rabbi have to choose Roger Waters given his hatred of Israel and his activism in the BDS movement (Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions)? I pledge we will examine these issues in more detail on Yom Kippur. This album remains a world to its own. I recall those days with fondness when I hold it in my hands.
But what of music today? It has been a mere thirteen years since the invention of the iPod. My current b’nai mitzvah students know of no other world. We shared music in ancient times not on Facebook but by making mix tapes. That is how we shared our love of Pink Floyd or the Eagles or if we want to march into the 80’s, Squeeze and the Talking Heads. (“You may find yourself living in a shotgun shack… And you may ask yourself, ‘Well, how did I get here?’”) And now even downloading music is a thing of the past. What was revolutionary a decade ago, our children by and large no longer do. There is Spotify and Grooveshark. For a mere $10 per month I can have access to 20 million songs. Gone is the sense of holding the music in my hands. Gone is the sense of owning music. For my young students music is only shared. It is about playlists and individual songs rather than albums and tracks. It is about Facebook discussions like “I can’t believe Steven Moskowitz is listening to Hotel California again.”
I hold now a second piece of history in my hands. This is a book. I would like to think that this is not yet ancient history, but I wonder what the future holds for the book in the fast paced digital age? The movement from scrolls, with which we of course still read, to those few, precious books made for wealthy individuals to the mass production of books by Gutenberg in 1440 helped to democratize learning. And yet the piles of books, the rows upon rows of filled to overflowing bookshelves are no longer the most common feature of a Jewish home. My Kindle, this small little device, can hold over 1,000 books. I can have access to a library of books on my iPhone.
Lest this sound like another advertisement, for another $10 per month I can have unlimited access to 700,000 books. Then again there is something about the feel of a book in the hand. The People of the eReader does not have the same ring to it. And this book that I clutch is again no ordinary book. It is my prized collection of Emily Dickinson poems. There is of course an Emily Dickinson app given that she is among this country’s greatest poets, but a book represents a journey, a book tells a story separate even from its words.
And I can tell you the story of my discovery of this book. I had boarded the subway to make my journey uptown from Penn Station when I looked up from my folded paper (remember how we used to fold the paper so as not poke the person next to us) to discover this sign called Poetry in Motion. Launched by the MTA and the Poetry Society of America in 1992 the subway cars were now decorated not only with advertisements but poems. And there I read “Hope is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all –.”’ I did not know then that poem #254 could so capture my heart. I exited the subway to find a bookstore and purchase this book: The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. I recall that each and every time I hold this book in my hands and discover another of her lines. Among the dog-eared pages I find again “A smile so small as mine might be/Precisely their necessity –“ (#1391).
Leafing through the pages of these poems I continue the journey. For my children their journeys will be very different. Children’s journeys are of course supposed to be different than their parent’s. Books might no longer line their shelves but the written word, I hope and pray, will continue to stimulate their minds and penetrate the soul. Still I wonder what might be lost without a book under their arms, without books lining their shelves. How will they still leaf through pages and discover anew a poem to stir the soul?
The third show and tell item in this meditation on history I cannot even wrap my hands around. It is the synagogue. It is likewise undergoing radical transformations. Like music and poetry, it too is ancient yet changing. What will the synagogue be like in an age when so much is shared for such little expense? People might not be asking this question so directly but I see it forming on their lips. They ask, if I can have all access to music and books for $10 per month why can’t I have all access to Judaism for just as little? And so here is my response to why the synagogue must survive. Before we can even answer this question we must ask a more basic question: why be Jewish. So let me tell you straight out. Why be Jewish.? Because Judaism offers a path of meaning. Because Judaism tackles questions with which we are still wrestling. Because Judaism offers a road to bring healing to the world.
These answers are uncovered in the book. The answer is unfurled in the edges of a scroll. And that takes some work to uncover. Let’s be honest if you want something akin to the convenience of eReaders and iPhones you can go elsewhere. You can find a tutor to come to your house. You can hire a “rabbi” who will officiate at a bar or bat mitzvah three months from now. If you just want the ceremony you can do that. But synagogue is first and foremost about community. Hebrew School is a misnomer. It is not about learning Hebrew as much as it is about teaching our children to attach themselves to their community and to fall in love with their faith. That is why it matters that they sit across the table from others. Learning is not a solitary activity for the Jew. It is done with others. Sure you can read by yourself. Sure you can even practice your alef-bet by yourself. But you can only truly learn with others.
This is why as well learning is supposed to be a life long pursuit. That in a nutshell is one of the reasons why I run away to Jerusalem every summer. So I can study surrounded by others, so that my head can be filled with the arguments and debates that have sustained our people. And why must we learn? Because we believe that Torah is meant to better the world. I don’t mean to suggest that we should convert the world to being Jewish, but I do mean to say that if Judaism is to matter it has to matter not just for ourselves and our own individual needs, but it has to matter for the world. Abraham Joshua Heschel, the unparalleled 20th century rabbi, remarked, “To be a Jew is either superfluous or essential…. Hence we learn the purpose of Jewish existence: we are obligated to live lives that will become Torah, lives that are Torah.” (Pikuach Neshama: To Save a Soul)
If Torah is only about lighting candles 18 minutes before sunset or about answering questions such as is this oven kosher or not and not about is it ethical to lay off employees so as to increase the stock price, is it moral to wage war against ISIS, then it is meaningless. Torah must be relevant for our lives today. It must have meaning for the here and now. If Torah is only about personal meaning and not even more importantly about the betterment of the world, then it loses its significance. If it remains here and does not venture to the streets, to our offices, to our homes then it lacks profound truth. We must live lives that become Torah.
Do you want to know why we should survive? Here is why. The world desperately needs these answers or at the very least a place where we can debate these questions. Do you want to know why the synagogue must survive? It is the address where these values are learned and re-engaged; it is where community is fostered and Torah is brought to the world.
That is why the synagogue was created. 2,000 years ago there was only one address to be Jewish. The only address was the Temple in Jerusalem. There we would bring our sacrifices to the priest to be offered on the Temple’s altar. There was no local address for Judaism in each and every town. It was centralized in the Temple. And then in 70 CE the Romans destroyed the Temple and nearly wiped us out completely when they leveled Jerusalem. All that remains of that grand structure is the Kotel, the Western Wall. Out of that tragedy the synagogue was born. The rabbis developed a portable faith that was independent of place that was separated from even the holiest of places. We could go anywhere. All we needed was a book, the Torah, and the songs of our prayers. Even more importantly all we needed was each other. Synagogue comes from the Greek translation of the Hebrew Beit Knesset, a house of assembly. What makes a synagogue a synagogue is not a building but the people. If you have the required ten, you have a synagogue, whether you are in Jerusalem, or Brookville or Jericho or Oyster Bay.
The Rabbis fashioned Judaism out of the Bible; they made wandering and journeying part of the enterprise. They recognized that even though we might, until realizing this dream in the present day, longed for Jerusalem, our lot would be to wander throughout the lands. In each city, in every town, in all the countries of our dispersion, the synagogue became the primary address for teaching Torah, for bringing Torah to successive generations and the world at large. We would forever be wanderers. We would forever journey. We would learn new things in every land, we would discover new truths in every city and we would relearn our ancient teachings in the synagogue, now on Temple Lane. In a way we carried the synagogue, as we carry a book, from place to place. We held it in our hands. We carried its meaning in our hearts. We marveled at its architecture. We looked at the album cover. We continue to wander.
The Torah is of course on its most literal level about a journey. First it tells the story about the discovery of God. Abraham looks up and realizes that there can only be one God who made the heavens and the earth. It is then about God responding to our suffering and freeing us from Egypt. But it is mostly about 40 years of wandering through the wilderness. That is the majority of the story. It is about the trials and misfortunes of the longest camping trip ever described. “Moses, I can’t believe you forgot to pack more food!” the people scream over and over again. But it is worth the journey, and the grumblings and the complaining, because there is a promise of a new home in the land of Israel. And then on the shores of the Jordan River, Moses gives one final speech followed by another final speech filled with advice, but mostly filled with warnings about what to do and of course mostly what not to do. And then he dies. God buries him on Mount Nebo.
And the Torah then does the most surprising of things. It ends. The Torah concludes on the wrong side of the river. It ends with the promise unfulfilled, with the dream unrealized. Our most important book ends with the journey incomplete. And what do we do? We roll the scroll back to the beginning and start reading the story all over again. “In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth…” In the synagogue and the Torah reading cycle that is central to this institution we ritualize the journey over the destination. The journey always continues we remind ourselves year after year. On Simhat Torah we sing for joy not because we have arrived at some destination but because we can begin again. The wandering always continues.
People think that the synagogue is fixed, that is immovable and never changing. People think that a synagogue is a building. It is not. The building is a tool. It serves the congregation. It must never become the other way around. This is the most important lesson I learned, and I hope all of us learned, from our fifteen years of wandering and schleping the Torah scroll all over Long Island. I never felt it inauthentic to serve a congregation without its own building, I never felt that we were anything less than even the grandest and oldest of synagogues. Having our own building makes the teaching easier. You don’t have to wonder anymore where your rabbi is. The address is clear. It is simpler.
But with this simplicity comes some dangers. Will we become overly focused on the building? Will we lose sight of what has made us a holy congregation? Will we lose sight of the people who have made this a special and unique community? The great Hasidic rabbi, the Kotzker rebbe taught: To what is the one who looks out only for himself and his (or her) own perfection compared to? To a tzaddik in a fur coat. If the house is cold and a person wishes to warm himself, he has two choices: to light a fire or put on the fur coat. What is the difference between lighting a fire and putting on the fur? When the fire is lit, I am warm as well as others. We are warmed when I light a fire. When I put on the fur coat only I am warm. We must remain on guard never to become that tzaddik who wraps himself in a fur coat and fails to help light the fire that warms all.
The St Louis congregation in which I grew up recently celebrated its 140th anniversary. That may appear really old, but 140 years is a mere speck on the Jewish timeline. Each synagogue only gains its ancient voice because it does not stand alone. It is tied to all other synagogues, some of which are no more, others of which continue to thrive, some of which are brand new. The synagogue moves through history. Movement is part of its very nature. Think about prayer, another central feature of synagogue life. We stand up and sit down. We bow and bend our knees. We beat our chests on Yom Kippur. The Hasidic masters sway to and fro, moving their bodies to the rhythm of prayer. And I have heard that on the North Shore of Long Island some even dance to their prayers. We continue to move.
I worry that some might think that the journey is now complete. We have arrived at a building. We have survived the wandering. But the journey continues. The holy work of fashioning community forever marches on.
We need the synagogue. Why? Because we need each other. The point of community is to enlarge our circle of friends and solidify our friendships. You can only teach the value of community with others, with peers. That is the essence of minyan, the quorum required for prayer. While the synagogue was a response to a catastrophic change, an answer to the question of how are we going to keep being Jewish without a center, it was also a response to a need. The spirit will always require a poem to stir its being. The soul will always need music and song, no matter the cover.
The Jewish spirit is nurtured by the synagogue. It is this institution that gives it life, that nurtures our souls and brings the values of Torah to the world.
There is a legend about the Temple that once stood in Jerusalem. It is about its windows. Ancient buildings like the castles and churches we visit throughout Europe constructed their windows so as to funnel the natural light from the outside in. In other words the windows cut into the building’s thick stonewalls were wider on the outside and thinner on the inside. The Temple’s windows were the opposite. They were larger on the inside. Their purpose was to funnel the light from the inside to the outside, to bring the meaning and content gained within to the world at large. That is the purpose of the synagogue: to bring light to the outside, to build a fire together to warm the community. The purpose is to bring Torah to the world.
As much as we are overjoyed about our new building, it is really not about the building. The building is not the dream. The building serves the dream.
Back to Pink Floyd. “All in all it was all just bricks in the wall. All in all you were all just bricks in the wall.”
It is not the building. It is something far grander and more eternal. It is the light that comes from within.
Naso, Buildings and Dreaming Big
There is a Jewish tradition that God never finished the creation of the world, leaving it purposefully incomplete. God allowed for human beings to continue the creation process, to use their hands, and their efforts, to complete the work of creation.
The Midrash teaches: “A philosopher asks Rabbi Hoshaya, ‘If circumcision is so precious, why was Adam not born circumcised?’ Rabbi Hoshaya responds, ‘Whatever was created in the first six days of creation requires further preparation, e.g. mustard needs sweetening…wheat needs grinding, and so too man needs to be finished.’” (Genesis Rabbah 11:6) We are partners in creation.
We read in this week’s portion that the Israelites completed the building of the Tabernacle. “On the day that Moses finished setting up the Tabernacle, he anointed and consecrated it and all its furnishings, as well as the altar and its utensils.” (Numbers 7) As in the creation story, the Hebrew suggests that the work continues, that it remains, like the world at large, a work in progress. We still continue to finish the Tabernacle, the mishkan.
For the ancient Israelites this truth was apparent. They understood that despite Moses’ dedication ceremony, the Tabernacle was temporary and impermanent. The mishkan was the portable Tabernacle that they carried with them throughout their wanderings in the wilderness. The Israelites would pack up the mishkan and its furnishings and move from one destination to the next. For our ancestors the Tabernacle was the symbol of God’s presence in their midst. It gave them the confidence that God accompanied them throughout their journeys.
They continued to move, stage by stage. And they continued to finish the building, and perfect creation, while believing that God remained in their midst. One of the many lessons of the Torah is that the journey is what is defining not the destination. Otherwise the Torah would not have five books, but six and conclude with the Book of Joshua in which we conquer the land of Israel and establish there our homeland. Instead the Torah concludes in what is today modern day Jordan, looking at the dream off in the distance. And then we return to reading the creation story.
The purpose is the journey. The sanctuaries and buildings we build are but tools.
Too often these buildings and their furnishings become identified with the synagogue rather than the people they serve. This week we learn that community is never completed. We are reminded that we are forever wandering.
While I recognize that the journey can sometimes be frustrating, (“Rabbi, when are we going to have a building of our own?”) we too continue to journey and are forever completing. And while a building is now within reach, and even closer at hand, there is a certain power to holding dreams off in the distance. There is a strength and resolve that is gained, imagination and vision that is clarified, when we continue to reach for something.
Part of what the Torah teaches is that there is a spirit of the wilderness, of wandering that sustains the Jewish people. It is a feeling that we are creating something new and different. It is a passion that this journey has meaning and that the dream, however distant it might sometimes appear, is worth the challenges of the midbar, the wilderness. It is these aspirations that continue to give life to our people. And it is this same spirit that has sustained our congregation for nearly twenty years.
Some people look at our congregation and say, “When are you guys ever going to have a building?” But that is not what I see. I look at our congregation and say, “We are better without a building than most synagogues are with a building.” I believe it is because we continue to reach for dreams, that we, more than most of our contemporaries, have imbibed this spirit of wandering that is our biblical legacy.
Soon we will have a building. “Halleluyah! Praise God in God’s sanctuary.” (Psalm 150) We must then recall that this moment is not the realization of a dream, but the beginning of another journey and a new task of completing the work. We must then strive even harder to hold fast to our aspirations, to cling to this spirit of wandering. The building will not sustain us. Such sustenance can only come from our hearts.
The process continues of perfecting our world, of bettering our community, of striving to bring God’s presence to our world. The building will most certainly aid us in these goals, but it is not the dream. Those must be held off in the distance.
The wandering continues. Even the building continues. The world requires more work.
The Midrash teaches: “A philosopher asks Rabbi Hoshaya, ‘If circumcision is so precious, why was Adam not born circumcised?’ Rabbi Hoshaya responds, ‘Whatever was created in the first six days of creation requires further preparation, e.g. mustard needs sweetening…wheat needs grinding, and so too man needs to be finished.’” (Genesis Rabbah 11:6) We are partners in creation.
We read in this week’s portion that the Israelites completed the building of the Tabernacle. “On the day that Moses finished setting up the Tabernacle, he anointed and consecrated it and all its furnishings, as well as the altar and its utensils.” (Numbers 7) As in the creation story, the Hebrew suggests that the work continues, that it remains, like the world at large, a work in progress. We still continue to finish the Tabernacle, the mishkan.
For the ancient Israelites this truth was apparent. They understood that despite Moses’ dedication ceremony, the Tabernacle was temporary and impermanent. The mishkan was the portable Tabernacle that they carried with them throughout their wanderings in the wilderness. The Israelites would pack up the mishkan and its furnishings and move from one destination to the next. For our ancestors the Tabernacle was the symbol of God’s presence in their midst. It gave them the confidence that God accompanied them throughout their journeys.
They continued to move, stage by stage. And they continued to finish the building, and perfect creation, while believing that God remained in their midst. One of the many lessons of the Torah is that the journey is what is defining not the destination. Otherwise the Torah would not have five books, but six and conclude with the Book of Joshua in which we conquer the land of Israel and establish there our homeland. Instead the Torah concludes in what is today modern day Jordan, looking at the dream off in the distance. And then we return to reading the creation story.
The purpose is the journey. The sanctuaries and buildings we build are but tools.
Too often these buildings and their furnishings become identified with the synagogue rather than the people they serve. This week we learn that community is never completed. We are reminded that we are forever wandering.
While I recognize that the journey can sometimes be frustrating, (“Rabbi, when are we going to have a building of our own?”) we too continue to journey and are forever completing. And while a building is now within reach, and even closer at hand, there is a certain power to holding dreams off in the distance. There is a strength and resolve that is gained, imagination and vision that is clarified, when we continue to reach for something.
Part of what the Torah teaches is that there is a spirit of the wilderness, of wandering that sustains the Jewish people. It is a feeling that we are creating something new and different. It is a passion that this journey has meaning and that the dream, however distant it might sometimes appear, is worth the challenges of the midbar, the wilderness. It is these aspirations that continue to give life to our people. And it is this same spirit that has sustained our congregation for nearly twenty years.
Some people look at our congregation and say, “When are you guys ever going to have a building?” But that is not what I see. I look at our congregation and say, “We are better without a building than most synagogues are with a building.” I believe it is because we continue to reach for dreams, that we, more than most of our contemporaries, have imbibed this spirit of wandering that is our biblical legacy.
Soon we will have a building. “Halleluyah! Praise God in God’s sanctuary.” (Psalm 150) We must then recall that this moment is not the realization of a dream, but the beginning of another journey and a new task of completing the work. We must then strive even harder to hold fast to our aspirations, to cling to this spirit of wandering. The building will not sustain us. Such sustenance can only come from our hearts.
The process continues of perfecting our world, of bettering our community, of striving to bring God’s presence to our world. The building will most certainly aid us in these goals, but it is not the dream. Those must be held off in the distance.
The wandering continues. Even the building continues. The world requires more work.
Riding in Circles
The following is the sermon delivered at Friday evening Shabbat services.
When we were younger all of us took our required math
classes. Some of us enjoyed these. Many did not.
In those classes we learned about the basics of adding and subtracting,
multiplying and in my most advanced class, division. Later we learned geometry and there I first
found out about this magical number called Pi.
Pi is a curious number. It is a
mathematical constant of 3.14159 and so on.
In recent years it has been calculated out to 10 trillion digits. In theory it goes on into infinity without
ever repeating. It is the ratio of a
circle’s circumference to its diameter.
It is in a word the constant around which a circle revolves.
Like a circle the Torah is perfect and so I am given to
wondering, what is its Pi. What is the
verse around which the Torah spins? Is
it its opening verse: Bereshit bara Elohim—In the beginning God created heaven
and earth? Without a beginning that
immediately establishes God’s relationship with the world there could be no
Torah. But you can’t spin around a
beginning or ending for that matter. Is
it instead the command to observe Shabbat: Zakhor et yom hashabbat—Remember the
Sabbath day? Can there be a more central
command to Jewish life than Shabbat?
Perhaps instead the verse: Vahavata l’r’echa kamocha—love your neighbor
as yourself? Some have pointed out that
when the Torah is unrolled to that verse of Leviticus 19:18 the scroll is perfectly
balanced. This verse stands at the exact
center of the Torah. It certainly could
be argued that if we observed this command day in and day out we would do more
to elevate our lives and the lives of those around us.
Still I remain unsatisfied that these verses could be the
Torah’s constant, that these could represent the circle of the Torah’s Pi. This week in Parashat Beshalach, we read not only the Song of the
Sea, containing the words of Mi Chamocha, but the following as well: So God led
the people roundabout by way of the wilderness.
And I have come to believe that these words are in fact the linchpin for
the remainder of the Torah’s story. God
intentionally led the people on what would become a forty year journey. I know that we have read the commentaries
suggesting that it was not God’s intention at the outset. It was instead the Israelites’ sins that
caused a few month journey to turn into one of forty years. We recall as well the teaching that only
those who were born as free people in the wilderness could become a free nation
in their own land. Slaves cannot really
know freedom. And so the slaves must die
so that a new, free people can be formed.
In fact this forty year long journey was always God’s
intention all along. That is clear from
this week’s parsha. The famous Jewish
philosopher, Franz Rosenzweig, suggests this as well. He writes that God purposely misdirects us. We only discover our freedom when pointed in
the wrong direction. I think that God
just kept leading us in circles until we learned enough to realize the dream of
entering the Promised Land. Have you
ever considered the fact that our central book, the Torah, concludes without
this dream being realized? It ends at
the edge of the land, at the border of a dream.
And then what do we do? We circle
back to the beginning: Bereshit bara Elohim.
One of the geniuses of our tradition is having faith in the
messianic redemption, but also always believing that the messiah’s arrival
stands at a great distance. This notion
is codified by the rabbis when they wrote (and I share this in honor of the
upcoming Tu B’Shevat): If the messiah comes and you are planting a tree, first
finish planting, and then go to greet the messiah. (Avot deRabbi Natan) When the messiah gets too close we tend to
forget about the here and now. There are
plenty examples from our history (Shabtai Zevi is the most notorious) but the
lessons are the same. If you believe
that this guy is the messiah then you stop trying to fix things yourself and
say instead, “He will take care of it.”
You forget to plant the tree. So
we sing and pray for the messiah’s arrival but continue to take care of things
ourselves. The dream is held at a
distance. The Promised Land is across
the way, off in the distance. We circle
back and begin the journey again.
As many of you know, I am an avid cyclist. Others might suggest, obsessed but to the
aficionado, avid is the preferred name.
Every ride is a new journey. While
I always circle back home, I almost never ride the same route. Sometimes I look for a new road to explore.
Other times I just don’t want to climb Mill Hill. Then there are days when I realize that
climbing Mill Hill will be worth the tail wind I will gain riding out of
Bayville. How many times have I raced on
Berry Hill on my way back towards Huntington and never even noticed Temple
Lane? How many miles are required to
discover a new, potential home? How many
years of journeying and wandering are necessary?
Part of the problem is our goal-oriented society. A life without goals appears meandering and
aimless. The sentiment is that without a
predetermined destination we are lost.
But it is possible to explore without ever being lost. When I ride I don’t carry maps. I know that if I am riding west the Sound is always
on my right. And how do you know that
the Sound is on your right when it is not within sight? By the
temperature. As you approach the water
the air cools and even though the Sound is outside of view, you can feel it’s
near and so you can ride, and explore and wander without ever really being
lost. The direction can only be a
feeling.
You can’t learn and grow if everything is about a goal. The destination, the goal, is not the purpose
of a journey. School is supposed to be
about discovery and not about test scores and grades. If the message of our tradition were all
about goals, then Torah would conclude with the Book of Joshua and not
Deuteronomy. The lesson of the Torah is
revealed in this week’s verse. In
journeys we discover our Torah. In
wandering we find our lessons. When you
wander you discover things that are unintended.
It is there that we write stories.
Think of the stories from vacations and travels. Rarely do we retell them as follows:
Everything went according to plan. We
followed our itinerary to the letter.
Our plane took off on time. Our
driver picked us up at the appointed hour.
More often, it is recounted like this: we were walking and exploring and
we happened into this restaurant because we were tired and hungry and we
discovered this gem. We were the only
foreigners there. The food was
delicious. We talked to the chef. Now we go back there every time we visit.
Life-long friends can be made when there is a mistake in
your seat assignment. Would we remain in
the seat or berate the flight attendant about the error? Leon Wieseltier once observed, Serendipity is
how the spirit is renewed. Wandering is
how truths are discovered and lessons learned.
It could be as simple as a new route for a bike ride or as profound as a
new friend. Lessons are gained on
journeys.
This week we discover the guiding verse of our most sacred book. It is not as others would suggest. It is instead about the journey and wandering. The key Hebrew word is Vayesev. It is translated in most Bibles as leading roundabout. God turns the people around and around and around. We could almost say that God spins us around in circles. The verb shares the same root as one word for circle.
This week we discover the guiding verse of our most sacred book. It is not as others would suggest. It is instead about the journey and wandering. The key Hebrew word is Vayesev. It is translated in most Bibles as leading roundabout. God turns the people around and around and around. We could almost say that God spins us around in circles. The verb shares the same root as one word for circle.
People always think that a journey is a straight line. It is not.
It is instead a circle. But even
a circle has a constant. That is a
lesson learned long ago in math class. There
is a certain principle within each and every circle. The Torah is the same. And God led the people roundabout. We continue on the journey. Who knows what lessons might be learned. The Torah never concludes. We take a mere breath in between reading its
last word and its first. The Torah is
drawn in circles.
Have faith in the journey. Even though we might wander in circles there remains a constant with infinite meaning. Relish the wandering. At times we might only be able to sense the destination. Other times the goal appears mysterious. Understand this: we always circle back home.
Have faith in the journey. Even though we might wander in circles there remains a constant with infinite meaning. Relish the wandering. At times we might only be able to sense the destination. Other times the goal appears mysterious. Understand this: we always circle back home.
Shabbat Meditation
The following is the meditation offered prior to yesterday's Shabbat services.
This morning although it was snowing, raining and sleeting the temperature was 30º. Compared to the beginning of the week’s -15º wind chill, I felt warm. It only takes a bitterly cold day, or few days, to appreciate and be thankful for an ordinary winter day.
That is Shabbat. When life feels cold it warms us. It offers us a day to draw in that extra breath, the neshamah yetirah, that additional soul granted to us on this day. We sing our songs, we offer our prayers, we gather as a community to gain perspective on the week. Our troubles and frustrations appear less bothersome, our difficulties and pains seem more manageable.
We emerge strengthened. Our perspective is restored.
July-August Newsletter
Below is my message from the July-August 2012 Newsletter.
I thought of all those who turned the prayerbook’s pages marking the happy occasions in their lives. And I thought of those who stained them with their tears when they stood up from shiva and returned to their congregation. How many shouts of mazel tov were heard by these siddurim? How many anguished cries poured on to their words? I still believe what I have said many, many times. It is these prayers that have carried us from place to place.
Too often people confuse a congregation with a building. They think the synagogue is a matter of architecture. It is not. It is a matter of the people. And it is a matter of their songs and prayers.
And so on this day I carried once more. I packed up the prayerbooks and brought them to our new home. But even this new building will not define us. The ancient Levites were charged with caring for the tabernacle as the Israelites wandered through the desert. They also shlepped, moving the tabernacle from place to place. There is nothing demeaning or unholy with carrying our sacred books. More than anything else this carrying is what has defined us for generations. For generations we have carried siddurim from one home to another.
And now many people think that our shlepping will end. They confuse arriving at a destination with the conclusion of a journey. In truth this too is only a stage. The journey is always incomplete. That is the religious perspective. To appreciate Jewish history is to understand that we are always journeying and we will never arrive home. That is why throughout our long history of wandering our singular hope was to return to our first home, Jerusalem.
For centuries Jews observed the tradition that a corner of every home built outside of that city must remain incomplete. We must never become too comfortable in any other land. But the modern era has taught us that even though we have arrived home to Jerusalem it also remains incomplete. That dream is only partially fulfilled. And so we cling to the messianic longings of Yerushalayim shel maaleh, the heavenly Jerusalem. We forever hold in our prayers a vision of perfection. No earthly destination can ever be perfect. Not our beautiful homes. Not our ornate sanctuaries.
I am a Jew. I have no home. I have moved from city to city. And so only the prayers of my people have carried me on my journeys. They have been my sails. And they will continue to sustain me.
They will accompany our congregation in whatever building we might find ourselves in. Many will hold these prayerbooks in their hands and they will remember where they once stood and who once held them. They will be strengthened by their words.
I look forward to leading our praying within these new walls. I do not think, however, that the journey is complete. It is never complete. We are forever journeying. No matter where we might find ourselves we continue our travels—but always together and with these sacred books carried in our hands.
March-April Newsletter
What follows is my article from our March-April 2012 Newsletter. In it I answer a number of our students' ask the rabbi questions.
What’s your first name in English?
Steve, but you should continue to call me rabbi.
How old are you?
47. My birthday is in July when I will be 48.
This is a not smart question. R U married?
Yes. I am married to Susie. She is also a rabbi. Also I have two children. One is in high school and the other in college. By the way no question is stupid. You can only learn if you ask questions. But you may want to write out the words to your questions instead of writing in texting slang.
Are you from Israel?
47. My birthday is in July when I will be 48.
This is a not smart question. R U married?
Yes. I am married to Susie. She is also a rabbi. Also I have two children. One is in high school and the other in college. By the way no question is stupid. You can only learn if you ask questions. But you may want to write out the words to your questions instead of writing in texting slang.
Are you from Israel?
No. But every Jew is connected to the land of Israel and I hope the State of Israel
Who is the President of Israel?
The President of Israel is Shimon Peres, but in Israel the real power is not in the president but the Prime Minister and that is Benjamin Netanyahu.
Why did you want to become a rabbi?
I always wanted to help people and I love learning. A rabbi is a combination of helping others and teaching and learning.
Do we ever have a field trip in Hebrew School?
I think it would be really great if we organized a youth trip to Israel for when you are in high school. How would that be for a field trip! We always visit the Holocaust Museum in Glen Cove when you are older, but it would also be really great if we went to the Jewish sites in New York City one time. I would also be happy to go with you to a Jets or Giants game.
Why did Hitler feel the need to hate our people? What’s there to hate?
There is nothing to hate. People like Hitler will hate no matter what. So the first lesson is that we can change nothing about ourselves to prevent antisemites from hating us. There are a lot of really smart people who have spent their lives studying the Nazis and the Holocaust. No one has come up with a really good answer for why Hitler, the Nazis, ordinary Germans and far too many Europeans, hated Jews so much that they wanted to murder them. To my mind there are two explanations that are important to remember. 1. The roots of antisemitism go back thousands of years. Children were taught to hate Jews for generations. From this long held hatred it is not such a logical jump to say “Let’s get rid of them.” That is why we must fight against those who hate, or make fun of, others for who and what they are. 2. Germany had so many problems right before World War II and people wanted to blame others for all of their problems. The Jews became the scapegoat. And that is the final lesson. It is always easier to blame others for our own problems.
What did Jesus do that made people believe he was the messiah?
According to the Christian Bible he performed many miracles and fulfilled the traditional Jewish vision of the messiah, a man sent by God who would save the world. The world still waits to be repaired however. Christians believe that he will return to save the world. Jews believe that he was an extraordinary man who taught some beautiful and meaningful lessons, but that he is not the messiah because he did not save the world during his lifetime.
On Mount Sinai did Moses receive the first five books of the Torah?
Yes. Moses and the entire people received not only the written Torah but all of Jewish teachings. Now I can’t prove this to you. Just like the last question it is a matter of belief so too is this question about what happened at Mount Sinai. I think we discover God when we study Torah. We bring God into the world when we live by the instructions in the Torah. I don’t worry so much about the details of what happened then. I am more concerned with what we do now.
Thanks for the questions!
Who is the President of Israel?
The President of Israel is Shimon Peres, but in Israel the real power is not in the president but the Prime Minister and that is Benjamin Netanyahu.
Why did you want to become a rabbi?
I always wanted to help people and I love learning. A rabbi is a combination of helping others and teaching and learning.
Do we ever have a field trip in Hebrew School?
I think it would be really great if we organized a youth trip to Israel for when you are in high school. How would that be for a field trip! We always visit the Holocaust Museum in Glen Cove when you are older, but it would also be really great if we went to the Jewish sites in New York City one time. I would also be happy to go with you to a Jets or Giants game.
Why did Hitler feel the need to hate our people? What’s there to hate?
There is nothing to hate. People like Hitler will hate no matter what. So the first lesson is that we can change nothing about ourselves to prevent antisemites from hating us. There are a lot of really smart people who have spent their lives studying the Nazis and the Holocaust. No one has come up with a really good answer for why Hitler, the Nazis, ordinary Germans and far too many Europeans, hated Jews so much that they wanted to murder them. To my mind there are two explanations that are important to remember. 1. The roots of antisemitism go back thousands of years. Children were taught to hate Jews for generations. From this long held hatred it is not such a logical jump to say “Let’s get rid of them.” That is why we must fight against those who hate, or make fun of, others for who and what they are. 2. Germany had so many problems right before World War II and people wanted to blame others for all of their problems. The Jews became the scapegoat. And that is the final lesson. It is always easier to blame others for our own problems.
What did Jesus do that made people believe he was the messiah?
According to the Christian Bible he performed many miracles and fulfilled the traditional Jewish vision of the messiah, a man sent by God who would save the world. The world still waits to be repaired however. Christians believe that he will return to save the world. Jews believe that he was an extraordinary man who taught some beautiful and meaningful lessons, but that he is not the messiah because he did not save the world during his lifetime.
On Mount Sinai did Moses receive the first five books of the Torah?
Yes. Moses and the entire people received not only the written Torah but all of Jewish teachings. Now I can’t prove this to you. Just like the last question it is a matter of belief so too is this question about what happened at Mount Sinai. I think we discover God when we study Torah. We bring God into the world when we live by the instructions in the Torah. I don’t worry so much about the details of what happened then. I am more concerned with what we do now.
Thanks for the questions!
November-December Newsletter
What follows is my November-December Newsletter message in which I answer our students’ “Ask the Rabbi”
questions.
How did God get the idea for Hebrew?
What is my favorite
color?
Blue. I like the blue
of the Israeli flag. I like the blue of
the sky. Blue has always been a favorite
Jewish color which is why it is often found in a hamsa, a Sephardic
amulet. There is in fact a synagogue in
Safed, Israel, the heart of Jewish mysticism, whose interior is painted
blue. Everywhere you turn in Safed you
find this blue. Oops, sorry you just
asked about my favorite color. It is
blue like the sky.
When is my birthday?
July 1, 1964. 21 Tammuz 5724. The Torah portion Pinhas was read in synagogue on Shabbat a few days later. Look at what you can learn from the internet!
July 1, 1964. 21 Tammuz 5724. The Torah portion Pinhas was read in synagogue on Shabbat a few days later. Look at what you can learn from the internet!
What is my favorite
food?
I love hummus. It is
healthy and delicious and can be added to anything. Zohan was wrong, however. It should not be used in your hair. You really should try some hummus.
How did God get the idea for Hebrew?
I don’t think God invented the language you are now
struggling to understand. People write
languages. The coolest thing about
Hebrew is that it has so many different words for God. It is just like what you learn about the
Eskimos and snow. We love God so much
that we have a lot of different names for God.
Our different names are how we try to get closer to God and how we try
to bring more God into the world.
What is my Hebrew name?
What is my Hebrew name?
My Hebrew name is Shmaryah.
The name means God is my guard or perhaps I am God’s guardian. You decide.
I am named for my mother’s grandmother Sarah, who was the most devout
person in our family. Interesting. Mysterious.
If you mean what is your Hebrew name, you should ask your mom or
dad. Make sure to ask for whom you are
named as well. That is the most
important part. It is a wonderful Jewish
custom that we are named for someone who has recently died. That way we keep their memory alive.
Why do we say a prayer
before we eat?
Actually you are supposed to say a prayer before and after
you eat. It is not really a prayer in
which we are asking for something. It is
instead a blessing that we are giving thanks for something. Before we eat we pause and say, “Thank you.”
First we thank God for blessing us with enough food to eat. It is just like thanking your mom or dad for
cooking dinner for you or buying dinner for you. I hope you do that too. You should always say “thank you.” Nothing should ever be expected or taken for
granted, even the food that you eat.
That is why it is always good to stop before you stuff your mouth with
food and say, “Thank you.” The more we
say thank you the more we are likely to count everything that happens, even the
ordinary, everyday stuff, as wonderful.
You should never think that everything you have is deserved. Instead think that everything you have is a
gift. Every day that you get a gift you
should say thanks. The more you say a
prayer before you eat the more you will become thankful. That is a great state of mind.
Is God Catholic or
Jewish?
God is God. People are Catholic or Jewish, Muslim or Hindu, Baptist or Buddhist. There are many ways to pray to God. I like the Jewish way the best. That is part of what makes me a rabbi. That does not make other ways bad. I have my favorite. I hope yours is the same. But God does not have a favorite. God wants everyone to do his or her best. God wants everyone to try to make the world a little better. God wants everyone to start every day and every meal with a thank you. God wants everyone to think that every day and every life is a gift.
God is God. People are Catholic or Jewish, Muslim or Hindu, Baptist or Buddhist. There are many ways to pray to God. I like the Jewish way the best. That is part of what makes me a rabbi. That does not make other ways bad. I have my favorite. I hope yours is the same. But God does not have a favorite. God wants everyone to do his or her best. God wants everyone to try to make the world a little better. God wants everyone to start every day and every meal with a thank you. God wants everyone to think that every day and every life is a gift.
Keep asking your questions.
That is the best way to learn more.
Asking questions has always been one of the things Jews do best.
Newsletter Article
What follows is my newsletter article from the May-June 2011 Newsletter.
A few more questions from our Religious School students.
How was the first person made?
According to the Torah there are two stories about the creation of human beings. In the first God creates a human being (adam) just by saying, “Let there be a person.” Then God divides this person in half and makes the first man and woman. In the second God creates adam out of adamah (earth). In this story God is more like an artist who is fashioning a clay pot. Then God realizes that something is wrong. Adam is really lonely. So God creates the first woman, Eve, out of his rib so that they can keep each other company. So in the first version God creates the first people and in the second God creates the first couple.
Why do we only believe in one God?
Is this a trick question! The answer is because there is only one God. I know it is really hard to think about something or understand something that you can’t touch or see, but that is what we believe. I believe we can see God when we see beautiful things or when we see people do really wonderful things.
Do you keep kosher? What are things that kosher people do?
Yes. I really like keeping kosher. It makes me think about being Jewish even when I am eating. Keeping kosher is about only eating meat that has been killed in the least painful way. It is about not mixing milk and meat and it is also about only eating those animals that God says in the Torah are permitted. But keeping kosher is not only about food. It is also about doing the right thing. The word kosher means fitting or proper. So the most important thing is always to do the right thing. That is what a kosher person is supposed to do!
Will another Holocaust start? Please say “No.”
I wish I could say no, but unfortunately too many have already happened since the Holocaust we learned about in Religious School. This is why we have to focus really hard on making the world a better place and doing kosher things. If everyone tries to do the right thing then another Holocaust can’t happen.
Recently Annie Bleiberg, a Holocaust survivor, came to our sixth grade class. The following quotes are what some of our students wrote after listening to her story. Their words give us hope that no more Holocausts might happen!
“When she said how all the people were dying for no reason at all and it just occurred to me how all the people just probably fell asleep and never woke up. Also when she said how they were freed from the camps and ghettos and they were crying tears of joy.”
“What I remembered most was when she was telling us about how she got the number on her arm. This stood out to me most because of the way it happened and what happened when it occurred. “
“This is a picture of when she jumped off the train and fell on the snow.”
“It amazed me how Annie never gave up on life no matter how tired or how hungry she was. She kept fighting for freedom and life.”
“Annie said to us, ‘Don’t give up. Life is worth fighting for.’”
Amen. Annie always says it best!
Have a great summer! Thanks as always for your questions.
Unemployment and Torah
Yesterday I had the privilege of delivering the D'var Torah at the local Connect to Care town hall meeting and networking opportunity. This event was for those who have found themselves unemployed or underemployed because of the recent economic crisis. I am proud that my synagogue was one of the event's co-sponsors.
As a rabbi that is my most fervent hope and prayer. Despite all difficulties and struggles may our souls forever remain whole. Kein y'hi ratzon.
Thank you Jim Krantz. Thank you to all of the organizers of this Connect to Care event: UJA-Federation, Sid Jacobson JCC, Jericho Jewish Center and my congregation and its leadership.
This week’s Torah portion is Behar, from the book of Leviticus. It is a portion decidedly focused on eretz yisrael, the land of Israel. In particular it outlines two laws. It first details the sabbatical year, shmita, the seventh year in which the land must remain untilled. We are commanded not to work the land during this year. We can only eat what grows on its own.
The spiritual intention of this law is clear. Everything is deserving of menuchah, rest. In addition it reiterates the age old Jewish principal. Everything belongs to God. Just as you can’t do whatever you want with your bodies so too you can’t do everything with your land. Everything is borrowed. Everything is on loan. In a sense on the sabbatical year the landowner and the landless are on equal footing. Both can only take what the untilled earth offers.
The second group of commandments makes the point that all belongs to God even stronger. It is the law of the jubilee year, the yovel. In the 50th year three things are to occur: 1. the land is again to lie fallow (by the way that would mean that the earth would remain untilled for two years: on the preceding sabbatical year and then the jubilee year), 2. Hebrew slaves are to be set free and 3. all properties sold must revert to their original owners. This combined with the commandment detailed in the book of Deuteronomy that not only is the land to lie fallow on the seventh year, but that all debts are forgiven on that sabbatical year, are indeed worthy of further examination at this moment when we gather as a Connect to Care community.
To be honest it is doubtful that these practices of the jubilee when all land reverted to its original tribal owners and the remission of all debts were ever practiced. As they say in modern terms, that might bring the economy to a standstill. Nonetheless the ideal offers us an extraordinary teaching. The Torah here suggests that not only does the land belong to God but also our wealth. Even our money is in a sense God’s. All our worldly accumulations belong to God.
What is the goal of these biblical laws? So that we might better share with others. So that we might not measure ourselves by the acres we own or the wealth we accumulate. The Torah wants to draw a circle around the community. It seeks not fence others out, but to fence all in.
I think about this when I see our fenced in backyards. We work to keep our neighbors out. The Bible worked to bring our neighbors in. The Torah wants us to share with others. It wants us to include others. The Bible wants to instill in our hearts the idea that nothing is mine and everything is God’s.
As I read the Torah portion’s words I think to myself what it might be like to sit where many sit. Far too many are unemployed and far too many are underemployed. What an extraordinary opportunity it would be to have the jubilee this year, to have this ancient do-over when all debts would be wiped clean and each us would have the opportunity to start over. Too many feel that they are not even returning to the starting line, but instead beginning yards back because they are suffering under crushing debt. I wish I could proclaim the jubilee for all. I wish I could blow the shofar and announce that jubilee and say we are all starting over. Everything and everyone is back to the beginning. It is good to dream—especially when it is the Bible’s dream.
I of course have no such power. Not only am I poor shofar blower, but such power belongs to no one today. Long ago we lost count. And the 50th year was never again proclaimed. But each of us has the power to transform our own souls. Each of us has the power to proclaim such a thing to ourselves. Each of can say to ourselves that my wealth is God’s.
If the Torah is right, and I believe it to be so, that land is not truly mine, but God’s then I can never lose. I am only a tenant. Each of us is only a tenant. Holding such a belief in our souls might prevent us from becoming broken.