Global Hunger Shabbat

Here is how I started my day.  I dropped off leftover food at a local soup kitchen.  In fact my car’s trunk was overflowing with bagels and cookies.  Only a few hours later I went to Whole Foods to get lunch.  I spent $15 for my quick lunch.  A person living on food stamps gets $5.50 per day.  Later tonight I will go home and will make dinner.  I have not yet decided what I will prepare but I will open the refrigerator and search for inspiration.  My day’s total will far exceed the allotment given to a person living on food stamps.

I am fortunate that I can buy anything I want.  I am blessed.  I may not choose to eat everything, but I am richly blessed that I have so many choices.  This afternoon I could choose between the salmon with lemon butter, Mediterranean steak, brussel sprouts or quinoa salad.  What variety will Whole Foods offer me today?  This is how we eat.

Contrast this with the pictures from East Africa.  There is a famine raging there that has claimed 10,000’s of lives.  This is only part of the larger picture.  Every day 925 million people go hungry. 98% of these live in developing countries.  One out of four children in developing countries goes hungry.  That is 146 million children.  6.5 million children die each year from hunger related causes.

As a Jew I refuse to accept that I can’t do anything to change this.  Yes, the world is broken.  And also yes, we can repair it.

The terrible irony is that the world’s farmers produce enough food to adequately feed every person on the planet.  Part of the problem is that these children are too dependent on imported food and not local farming.  Part of the problem is that the donations we send overseas undermine local food production and makes people even more food insecure.

Too often local farm lands are confiscated by governments for economic development.  Water sources become contaminated by factories.  Trade agreements sometimes have the unintended consequence of flooding local markets with cheap food imports.  Likewise food-aid programs sometimes have similar effects.  These undercut local farmers and their ability to sell their product and thereby make communities less self-sufficient.

The American Jewish World Service, with whom we are partnering this evening, is working to change these facts.  Here is one example of an AJWS grantee.  This can be found on the AJWS website.  I encourage you to visit this website and learn more about this global problem.

Jean Saint Georges is a struggling farmer who lives in a rural village in Haiti. Over the past 20 years, food aid and trade policies have allowed imports of cheap agricultural goods from the United States and other countries to flood local markets. Jean and others like him couldn’t compete with the artificially low prices of these goods and were put out of business. Many of them migrated to the capital city Port-au-Prince in search of work, but once there, they encountered few employment opportunities. It is no surprise that 1.9 million Haitians, like Jean, faced hunger even before the earthquake on January 12, 2010.

The magnitude of the loss of life during the earthquake was due, in part, to this mass migration of rural farmers to the capital. Poverty forced these people to live in poorly constructed homes on steep mountainsides.

In the aftermath of the earthquake, international donors, including the U.S. government, sent food aid to Haiti. In the short term, this food helped feed thousands of earthquake survivors who had lost everything. But it has had an unintended—and devastating—consequence on local farmers. The influx of free rice from abroad brought the price of Haitian rice down so low that Haitian farmers couldn’t compete. Because they couldn’t earn an income from their crops, they couldn’t purchase seeds for this year’s crop. As one Haitian farmer put it:  “We were already in a black misery after the earthquake of January 12th. But the rice they’re dumping on us, it’s competing with ours and soon we’re going to fall in a deep hole. When they don’t give [rice] to us anymore, are we all going to die?”

As Haiti rebuilds, it is important that international donors support local agricultural development, not undermine it. For example, the Partnership for Local Development (PLD), an AJWS grantee, helps Haitian farmers like Jean. The organization provides support to rural farmers, including seed and grain storage and training in methods to help the farmers maximize their agricultural production. In the aftermath of the earthquake, PLD also established cash-for-work programs to enable affected Haitians to earn an income. This allows them to rebuild their communities and decide.  Through PLD’s cash-for-work program, Jean and his family were able to earn desperately needed money by working on a soil conservation project and fixing a local road. With the money they earned, the family bought food and clothes. Jean also received seeds to plant corn, beans and sweet potatoes. The soil conservation project has helped to ensure that the land where he farms will be viable for years to come. As a result, he no longer fears hunger.

Jean’s experience is not unique. Across Haiti, farmers are working to strengthen local agricultural production. It is the hope of AJWS to help promote Haitian self-sufficiency.

Even in this country we have similar problems.  There are far too many people who go hungry in our very own country.  Or, who because they are dependent on food stamps, buy unhealthy food.  Organic vegetables are more expensive than a candy bar.  I am not saying you have to eat at Whole Foods.  (I certainly cannot afford to buy every lunch there.)  But our country’s food aid programs undermine the eating of healthy food.  Why buy fresh fruit and vegetable when you can buy an entire meal at McDonalds for the same price?

As a nation we should subsidize not the production of corn syrup but healthy eating.  It should not be a luxury to eat organic.  It should be a necessity.  The consequences of our diet for our nation’s future are exceedingly worrisome.

We learn from our tradition that we cannot turn away from the world’s troubles.  We especially cannot turn aside from the pains of hunger that are so near.  We will continue to support the Interfaith Nutrition Network (the INN).  We will do more and work in a soup kitchen not only on December 4th but on other days.  Our hard work begins today.

So here is what we are going to continue to do.

1. Throughout this month we will be collecting canned food.  Bring these to the office or the Hebrew School.

2. If you wish to make a monetary donation write “Social Action Fund” in the memo.  We will use these monies to help the INN purchase turkeys for Thanksgiving.

3. The office will serve as a way station.  If you have gently used clothes or books bring them to the office and I will find someone or an organization that can use them.  There is unfortunately no shortage of need.

4. If you want to volunteer on December 4^th send me an email.

5. We will continue to collect leftovers from shiva.  Although we are sad that there were so many tears in our congregation this week, by tomorrow afternoon a hungry person will no longer be hungry.

6. If you are planning a simcha add the extra planning of collecting the leftovers to your to do list.

This week we meet Abraham for the first time.  Among the many traits that our tradition ascribes to him is that of hospitality.  He would always welcome travelers into his tent and offer them food.  Those who live in Israel’s desert, the Bedouins, still observe these ancient customs.  If you are traveling by another’s tent you are welcomed in and offered food and water.

We instead speed from destination to destination.  We run from house to house, play date to play date, or appointment to appointment.  We are blind to the hunger and poverty that surrounds us.  I am not suggesting that we welcome strangers into our homes.  But like Abraham we can lift the flap of the tent open.  We can open our eyes to the pain around us.  We can resolve to do more.

The great faith of Abraham was that he understood what we too often forget; one person can change the world.  And even if we don’t change the world, if we only save one life then all our efforts will be worth it.

May God grant us the resolve of Abraham to make our world better.  And even if it is only a little better then grant us the faith to say, the effort will have been worth it.

The Israeli songwriter, Arik Einstein, wrote: “Ani v’atah…  You and I can change the world, you and I.  Then all will join us.  Though it’s been said before it doesn’t matter.  You and I will change the world.  You and I will start from the beginning.  It may be difficult, but it doesn’t matter.”

Yes indeed.  You and I can change the world.

Lech Lecha

This week’s Torah portion is Lech Lecha.  It is the story about the first Jews, Abraham and Sarah.  In the opening of the portion Abraham is called and commanded to venture forth to a new land, the land of Israel.  In the conclusion of the portion the covenant is sealed with Abraham and Sarah.  For Abraham the sign of the covenant is circumcision.  According to the rabbis Sarah goes to the mikvah to seal the covenant.  Both Abraham and Sarah take on new names as symbols of their new identities.  In the interim our heroes struggle—unsuccessfully—to have a child together.  Ishmael is however born to Abraham through Hagar.  It is not until next week’s portion that Sarah gives birth to Isaac.   The promise of that birth is issued this week.

“When Abram was 99 years old, the Lord appeared to Abram and said to him, ‘I am El Shaddai.  Walk in My ways and be blameless.  I will establish My covenant between Me and you….  And you shall no longer be called Abram, but your name shall be Abraham, for I make you the father of a multitude of nations….  Such shall be the covenant between Me and you and your offspring to follow which you shall keep: every male among you shall be circumcised.  You shall circumcise the flesh of your foreskin, and that shall be a sign of the covenant between Me and you….   As for your wife Sarai, you shall not call her Sarai, but her name shall be Sarah.  I will bless her; indeed, I will give you a son by her.’”  (Genesis 17)

Abraham then circumcises himself (at 99 years old), his son Ishmael (at thirteen) and all the men in his household.  Isaac is the first to be circumcised at the age of eight days.  For men there are two signs of our Jewish identities.  One is private and the other public.  Although brit milah (a bris) is performed publicly the sign remains private.  It is only between a man and God.  It is interesting (although perhaps uncomfortable) to reflect on circumcision.  Judaism insists that the sign of the covenant must be inscribed in the most private of areas.  It is here that a Jewish man is reminded of his obligations to the Jewish people.

For women no physical sign, or reminder, is demanded.  The rabbis suggest this is because men need far more reminders than women.  (Sorry guys.)  Women require few, if any, reminders.  There is no physical sign of the covenant.  Nowhere in the Jewish tradition is female circumcision even suggested.

For both men and women the outward sign of their Jewish commitments is their name.  When the covenant is sealed, both Abraham and Sarah take on their new names.  To each of their given names of Abram and Sarai the Hebrew letter hey is added.  This letter symbolizes God’s name and is still used to abbreviate God’s name.  Thus they take God into their names and into their identities. 

Throughout the ages the private sign of the covenant was observed with steadfast commitment.  Even in ages when circumcision was a distinguishing mark and could result in persecution, as during the Holocaust, Jews observed this ritual.  It should be noted that when Jews lived under Greek rule some underwent a painful procedure to reverse the sign of circumcision. This enabled them to compete in sports.  Of course this was because men competed naked and thus this private sign was then public.  Yet, especially in modern times, the outward sign of the covenant, a Jewish name, is relegated only to synagogue life.  In the public square we call each other by American names.  Wherever we lived we soon adopted the names of the surrounding culture.

We are comfortable being Jews in private.  Yet in public we too often hide our identities.  It is not that I no longer wish to be called by my name, Steven.  It is instead that I wish to be known by my acts of compassion.  Let the world come to know that a descendant of Abraham and Sarah reaches out to the world around him because his Judaism demands this of him.    Let us be known by our kindnesses.  Let this be the name that others attach to our people.  Then the vision of the Torah and the promise later given to Abraham will also be fulfilled: “All the nations of the earth shall bless themselves by your descendants…”  (Genesis 22)

Noah

This week’s Torah portion contains the familiar story of Noah and the flood.  God was angry about humanity’s evil ways and so destroys the world’s inhabitants save Noah and his family and the animals two by two.  After Noah emerges from the ark he offers a thanksgiving sacrifice and God promises him that never again will the earth be destroyed.  The symbol of this covenant is the rainbow.

The portion begins with the statement: “This is the line of Noah.—Noah was a righteous man; he was blameless in his age; Noah walked with God.—Noah begot three sons: Shem, Ham, and Japheth.”  (Genesis 6:9)  The story of the flood concludes with a seemingly contradictory verse: “Noah, the tiller of the soil, was the first to plant a vineyard.  He drank of the wine and became drunk, and he uncovered himself within his tent.  Ham, the father of Canaan, saw his father’s nakedness and told his two brothers outside.”  (Genesis 9:20-22)

 

According to many historians viniculture first began near Mount Ararat, located in modern day Turkey.  This of course is where the ark came to rest as the flood waters receded.  The Bible therefore locates the development of wine making with the earliest generations.  More importantly the cultivation of grapes, especially those for wine, takes a great deal of time.  This implies that a significant number of years have passed since the flood.  Noah and his family have now become tied to the land.  In fact Noah now has a grandson, Canaan. 

This is exactly why the Jewish tradition prizes wine.  It must be cultivated over years.  This is part of its great value.  It is for this reason that we use wine to welcome Shabbat and mark the holidays.  It is for this reason as well that we recite a blessing and shout “L’chaim” when a bride and groom share the wine under the huppah.  It is not because of its intoxicating effect. It is instead because it is a demonstration of how we can take God’s creation of grapes and fashion them into something of value and worth.  Although water is required for sustenance wine is required to elevate life, to sanctify and transform an ordinary day into Shabbat and an everyday occasion into a simcha.  This is what Noah discovered in our portion.

This of course does not mean that we are supposed to get drunk and certainly run around naked like Noah.  So the question is why did Noah get drunk?  The first answer is that he did not know the potency of what he had created.  Like a high school or college student (Hmm, why would that come to mind?) he does not appreciate the power of alcohol.  If this were the first cup of wine anyone had ever sipped how would he know its power?  (I can tell them over and over again about the dangers of alcohol but they like Noah have to learn for themselves and taste its power on their own.) 

Then again I once heard Elie Wiesel suggest that Noah became drunk because he was plagued by survivor’s guilt.  He and his family were the only people to survive this great catastrophe.  According to the rabbis he took a great deal of time to build the ark in the hope that others would inquire about his mission.  The rabbis saw his righteousness and argued that his building project was meant as a sign to others so that they might repent.  In the end no one even bothered to ask about his task.  No one even bothered to offer help.

He emerged from the ark a scarred man.  He emerged seeing himself as a failure.  He was tortured by guilt.  He could only save his family.  No friends, no countrymen could be rescued.  (Wiesel could only save himself.)  But Noah cared for the entire world.  And thus he spent his final years in his tent, plagued by guilt and feelings of failure.

Thus even the righteous sometimes stumble.  They set too lofty goals for themselves. Noah’s great tragedy was that he tried to save the entire world.  When you try to save everyone you are far more likely to fail.  I choose instead to work to save our small corner of the world.  Join me in this task.

We are partnering with the American Jewish World Service to mark Global Hunger Shabbat and eighteen days of action leading up to Thanksgiving.  For more information visit this organization’s website.

Join me in these efforts to make a difference in our world. We dare not sit in our homes and like Noah in his concluding years look with pity at our own lot. We must instead start somewhere and work to rescue a piece of the world.

Simhat Torah Sermon

We have come to the conclusion of the Tishrei marathon. We observed Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot and now finally, Simhat Torah. We travel from personal introspection and repentance to fasting and the recounting of our many failings to the wandering and fragility of temporary booths to now the joy of Simhat Torah.

We celebrate the conclusion of the Torah reading cycle and its simultaneous beginning. On this day we begin the cycle all over again. We believe that everything we ever wanted to know is in this scroll. It is only perhaps a matter of reading it at a different angle if the wisdom is not immediately apparent.

This is because all wisdom is contained in this book. This day is therefore cause for great celebration. Simhat Torah is the quintessential Jewish holiday. It is about dancing and singing. And these more than anything else are more the Jewish postures than the fasting and litany of sins on Yom Kippur. We are supposed to celebrate. We are commanded to rejoice.

In fact the Talmud Yerushalmi states that we will be held to account for all the joys we neglected to celebrate. When we approach the heavenly court we will be asked in effect, “Did we rejoice enough?” That in a nutshell is the Jewish message. Revel in life. Celebrate life. Most especially celebrate the gift of Torah. And never pass up an opportunity to join a party.

May this year offer us many opportunities to celebrate. May this year offer us many opportunities to learn from this Torah.

Simhat Torah

What joy!  We begin the Torah reading again.  This is the sentiment surrounding Simhat Torah, the concluding holiday of the busy month of Tishrei.  On this day we proclaim, “I am privileged to reach this milestone again.  I am blessed to open this book again.  I am overjoyed that I can unroll the Torah scroll yet again.”

For Judaism the greatest blessing is not the new, but to return to the old, the familiar.  We return to this same book year after year.  We read the Torah every year in the hope, and with the faith, that we will find something new there.  In these pages we believe we will discover something new and restorative. 

It is this same sentiment that accompanies our visits to the land of Israel.  When we journey there we return to the land.  It may very well be a modern state but in our souls we know that we are returning to an ancient land.  This is Israel’s great and lasting power.  (We rejoice as well about Gilad Shalit’s return!)

So much of modern day life is about the new.  Do you have the iPhone 4S or are you waiting for the iPhone 5?  Have you replaced your LCD TV with an LED TV?  Moreover why watch football on a regular TV when you can watch it in 3-D?  Such is the sentiment of contemporary culture.  The newer something is the better it is called.

It is a bitter irony that the man who relentlessly developed such technologies and more efficient ways of communicating spent his life estranged from his birth father.  Because Steve Jobs’ birth parents were not married when he was born they gave him up for adoption. After hiring a detective to find his birth parents, he developed a relationship with his birth mother and sister, but never his father.  Despite extraordinary wealth, unrivaled technology and seemingly effortless communication tools, parts of Steve Jobs’ life remained fractured.  What is new does not always redeem. 

This is why Judaism suggests that the new is discovered in the old.  We believe that it is in the old, in the ordinary, and in the most basic of relationships that truth is revealed.  On the High Holidays we prayed that we might return to our truer selves, that we might rediscover the lofty purpose of our lives. 

Even the bar and bat mitzvah on which we lavish so much attention is not the celebration of something new.  It is not simply a thirteenth birthday party.  It is instead the arrival at something old.  On that day our son or daughter peers at the lettering of the Torah scroll and becomes linked to past generations. They return to the faith of their ancestors.  Of course no generation’s faith is the same as its predecessor’s.  Yet holding the scroll close to their hearts they reclaim their parent’s faith as their own. In the ancient calligraphy of the Torah scroll they also discover something new about themselves. 

In our return we always discover something new.   Such is our faith.  This is our belief.  This is our celebration on Simhat Torah.

Sukkot Sermon

This Shabbat we find ourselves in the midst of the holiday of Sukkot.  This day has its origins both in the agricultural seasons and Jewish history.  In ancient times our ancestors used to build booths at their distant fields in order to make the fall harvesting easier.  Our sukkot are thus reminiscent of this attachment to the land.  Our booths also recall our wanderings through the desert, wandering from our freedom in Egypt to the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai.  We travel between Passover and Shavuot.  Sukkot therefore marks not a destination but a journey.

Moreover the entire Torah is a record of this journey.  Like so many camping trips we were not always at our best.  As we traveled we sometimes complained.  This makes this holiday even more curious.  Here is a day that marks a journey rather than the arrival at the intended destination.  Ponder this.  Most holidays are about getting there, or getting out of there rather than traveling to there.  The message in this holiday is therefore that we are always journeying.  We are never completely there.  If you think you have arrived then your goals are too small.  That is Sukkot’s power and its message.

This brings me to recent news and the announcement that Gilad Shalit will soon be home.  What extraordinary news.  He has been held for over five years in captivity.  He has been held against all international laws.  He has been denied visitors even from the Red Cross.  His journey from captivity will soon be over.

I am proud and saddened by this moment.  Netanyahu and Israel have agreed to trade over 1,000 prisoners for one life.  I am sad that murderers will go free.  I am saddened that those who have killed will be free and that those who lost family members will see these terrorists come home to a heroes’ welcome.  That might be almost too much to bear and far too much to imagine.

Then again I am proud that Israel so values the lives of its citizens and especially its citizen soldiers that it is willing to make this extraordinarily unbalanced deal.  Yossi Klein Halevi said: “For all my anxieties about the deal, I feel no ambivalence at this moment, only gratitude and relief. Gratitude that I live in a country whose hard leaders cannot resist the emotional pressure of a soldier’s parents. And relief that I no longer have to choose between the well-being of my country and the well-being of my son.”

Come Tuesday I will rejoice with Noam and Aviva Shalit that their son is home.  I will also rejoice as I look up through the schach of my sukkah at the stars.  I will remember that we are forever journeying.  I will recall that Gilad’s return is but a way station and not the conclusion of the story.

The only destination is the messianic dream when the sukkot of earth are transformed into sukkat shalom, the sukkah of peace.  This vision is spoken about and dreamed about in our prayers and even in the Byrd’s song, “Turn, Turn, Turn.”  Until then we will be forever journeying.  Until then take heart in the command to rejoice in this holiday!

Read the full article by Yossi Klein Halevi here.

Sukkot

This evening begins the holiday of Sukkot, the week long celebration that commemorates our people’s wandering in the wilderness as well as the fall harvest.

Sukkot is observed in two primary ways.  We build sukkot, temporary booths, and spend as much time as possible in them, eating in them and even sleeping in them.   These sukkot must capture the temporary quality of our ancient dwelling places.  No home was viewed as permanent.  All were way stations on our millennial journey of return to the land of Israel.  We must be able to view the stars and especially the bright, fall harvest moon through the roof’s lattice.  This suggested the impermanence of our lives.  Nothing is forever.  The wind and rain can sometimes sting our faces.  Life sometimes brings tears.

Second we take the lulav and etrog in our hands and wave them in six directions: east, south, west, north, up and down.  We do so in remembrance of the Torah’s command: “…You shall take the product of hadar trees (etrog), branches of palm trees, boughs of myrtle trees, and willows of the brook, and you shall rejoice before the Lord your God seven days.” (Leviticus 23:40)  It is entirely possible that this ritual was an ancient Jewish rain dance given that the rainy season begins in Israel at this time.  Nonetheless we reinterpret its meaning and import.  We celebrate that God is everywhere, a protecting shelter all around us.  We affirm this by shaking these four species in six directions.

The lulav is constructed of one palm frond, two willow branches, and three myrtle twigs.  It is taken together with the etrog, an oversized and sweet smelling lemon.  The ancient rabbis offer this interpretation of these four species.  The etrog has both taste and smell.  It symbolizes people in our community who do both good deeds and study Torah.  The palm has taste but no smell.  It symbolizes people who perform good deeds but do not study Torah.  The myrtle has smell but no taste.  It represents people who study Torah but do not perform good deeds.  And the willow has no smell and no taste.  It represents people who do not study Torah and do not perform good deeds.

A community has all kinds of people.  We hold all four species together in our hands.   We are bound together.   We can’t say, “I only want to be with people who take Torah seriously.  I only want to be a part of group that does good deeds.”  We can’t say as well, “I only want to be with people who are like me.  I only want a group that looks and acts like me.” 

A community has all kinds of people.  Some are the closest of friends.  Some feel distant.  But we are only strong when we hold each other tight.  We are only one when we are bound together like the disparate species of the lulav and etrog. 

A community has all kinds of people. We need each other more than we care to admit.

Yom Kippur

As we prepare for this holiest of Jewish holidays I often think of the Yom Kippur fast.  To be honest denying ourselves food seems so un-Jewish.  But this observance traces its origins to the Torah.  “Mark, the tenth day of this seventh month is the Day of Atonement.  It shall be a sacred occasion for you: you shall practice self-denial…  you shall do no work throughout that day.  For it is a Day of Atonement, on which expiation is made on your behalf before the Lord your God.” (Leviticus 23:26-28)

The ancient rabbis ask what is the meaning of this commandment of self-denial.  Being rabbis they answered their own question and said that five enjoyments are forbidden on Yom Kippur.  They ruled there is to be no eating or drinking, no wearing of leather shoes, no washing, no anointing with oils, and no sexual relations. 

Again one might counter that taking pleasure in life is one of Judaism’s greatest teachings.  We do not belong to an ascetic tradition.  Monks are not our religious ideal.  In fact another rabbinic statement suggests that in heaven we will be called to account for all the worldly enjoyments we denied ourselves.

Yet one day a year we are commanded to practice self-denial.  We are commanded to become monks.  All are instructed to leave the pleasures of this world and look within, toward the inner life.  We leave aside our needs and pleasures and focus instead on our spiritual lives.  We turn to God and more importantly turn to our friends and family seeking to make amends for past wrongs.  But sometimes I wonder if the fast and this self-denial achieve their lofty goals.  I don’t know about you but I can get pretty cranky when I don’t eat.  And then whom do I snap at?  Those closest to me—my family and friends.

Nonetheless on this one day a year, I don’t worry about what I need to cook for breakfast, lunch or dinner.  I don’t try to squeeze in a Starbucks coffee in between the office and Hebrew School.  I don’t think, “Maybe I can stop at Whole Foods for a quick, if over-priced, snack or 16 Handles for a frozen yogurt.”  I think only about what is really most important: my relationship with family and friends.  I dwell on my longings for God.  I look within and see what I most wish to repair.  No one is perfect.  All can do better.

G’mar chatimah tovah—May you indeed be inscribed for life.

Rosh Hashanah

These High Holidays are given to us so that we may renew our commitment to our tradition and to each other.  We gather for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur as well so that we can rekindle our commitment to improving ourselves and our world.  Let us gain inspiration from Elie Wiesel’s words as these tasks draw nearer.  Wiesel writes:

I remember: as a child, on the other side of oceans and mountains, the Jew in me would anticipate Rosh Hashanah with fear and trembling.

He still does.

On that Day of Awe, I believed then, nations and individuals, Jewish and non-Jewish, are being judged by their common creator.

That is still my belief.

In spite of all that happened?  Because of all that happened?

I still believe that to be Jewish today means what it meant yesterday and a thousand years ago.  It means for the Jew in me to seek fulfillment both as a Jew and as a human being.  For a Jew, Judaism and humanity must go together.  To be Jewish today is to recognize that every person is created in the image of God and that our purpose in living is to be a reminder of God.

Naturally, I claim total kinship with my people and its destiny.  Judaism integrates particularist aspirations with universal values, fervor with vigor, legend with law.  Being Jewish to me is to reject all fanaticism anywhere.

To be Jewish is, above all, to safeguard memory and open its gates to the celebration of life as well as to the suffering, to the song of ecstasy as well as to the tears of distress that are our legacy as Jews.  It is to rejoice in the renaissance of Jewish sovereignty in Israel and the reawakening of Jewish life in the former Soviet Union.  It is to identify with the plight of Jews living under oppressive regimes and with the challenges facing our communities in free societies. 

A Jew must be sensitive to the pain of all human beings.  A Jew cannot remain indifferent to human suffering, whether in other countries or in our own cities and towns.  The mission of the Jewish people has never been to make the world more Jewish, but to make it more human.

May we find ourselves ready for these efforts.

Shanah tovah u’metukah—A happy, sweet near year,

Nitzavim-Vayelekh

A prayer for the High Holidays, as we approach this period of introspection and repentance.  We recite this prayer at tashlich, when we gather and symbolically cast away our sins into the vastness of the sea.

Let us cast away the sin of deception, so that we will mislead no one in word or deed, nor pretend to be what we are not.

Let us cast away the sin of vain ambition which prompts us to strive for goals which bring neither true fulfillment nor genuine contentment.

Let us cast away the sin of stubbornness, so that we will neither persist in foolish habits nor fail to acknowledge our will to change.

Let us cast away the sin of envy, so that we will neither be consumed by desire for what we lack nor grow unmindful of the blessings which are already ours.

Let us cast away the sin of selfishness, which keeps us from enriching our lives through wider concerns, and greater sharing, and from reaching out in love to other human beings.

Let us cast away the sin of indifference, so that we may be sensitive to the sufferings of others and responsive to the needs of our people everywhere.

Let us cast away the sin of pride and arrogance, so that we can worship God and serve God’s purposes in humility and truth.  (Mahzor Hadash)

Judaism counsels that actions and deeds define our lives.  Good intentions do not redeem bad deeds.  And bad intentions are dissolved by good deeds.   Thus we can only correct our wrong actions.  We can only repair misdeeds.

How many times do we instead discuss and debate intentions?  Our tradition’s counsel is that they are irrelevant. Only deeds can be judged.  If a person does good then he or she is deemed righteous.  Intentions are known by God alone.  What a person holds in his or her heart is the purview of the divine.  It is not the province of human beings.  Thus the High Holidays are devoted to repairing and correcting our actions.  We spend these days focusing on what we might do different, not what we might intend. We resolve to cast away our wrongs and repair our lives.

The Torah portion declares: “Hidden acts concern the Lord our God; but revealed acts, it is for us and our children ever to apply all the words of this Torah.” (Deuteronomy 29:28)

Nitzavim-Vayelekh Sermon

We are nearing the completion of the Torah.  We read the words also read on Yom Kippur morning in Reform shuls.  “I make this covenant, with its sanctions, not with you alone, but both with those who are standing here with us this day before the Lord our God and with those who are not with us here this day.” (Deuteronomy 29)

This passage is a remarkable statement that Torah is given in every generation.  Torah must be forever renewed.  It was not given only back then.  It is given in each and every day, in each and every generation.  That is what we also celebrate when we mark Simhat Torah.  We renew our commitment to Torah as we begin the reading schedule again.

Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berditchev was asked: Why does every tractate of Talmud begin on the second page?  (The first page is not alef, but instead bet.”  He answered: “However much we learn, we should always remember that we have not even reached the first page.”  The greatest lesson of Torah is that it is never complete.  We are always starting again.

Very soon we will also of course celebrate Rosh Hashanah. This period marks the time of introspection and repentance.  This idea is connected to a verse in this week’s Torah portion. “Hidden acts concern the Lord our God; but revealed acts, it is for us and our children ever to apply all the words of this Torah.” (Deuteronomy 29)

We spend a good deal of time arguing about people’s intentions.  She didn’t mean it…                    He is only being nice because…  Torah reminds us that when it comes to intentions only God can know them.  We instead must focus on actions and deeds.  We can only judge people by what they do or don’t do.  Judaism does not  for example believe that the act of tzedakah is tainted if someone gives for the wrong reason.  Even if a gift is given to gain honor, or to get an end of year tax deduction, the gift is not negated.  It still helps someone, or an institution, in need.  We can only judge the act of tzedakah not the intention with which it is given.

We can only judge ourselves even by what we do or don’t do.  The High Holidays are thus about working to do better.  We can’t just resolve to do better or promise to correct our mistakes.  We have to make the effort to change.

Repentance in Hebrew is teshuvah.  It is about turning.  It is not a matter of the heart, it is a matter of the hands.  Let us use these weeks wisely to turn and better our lives.  To better ourselves.  To correct our failings.  And to repair our relationships.

Ki Tavo Sermon

I have some questions about memorials as vehicles of remembrance.  The root of the word for memorial of course derives from memory.  How effective are these memorials in facilitating our remembering?

We live in a culture cluttered with memorials.  There are roadside memorials.  There are cemeteries.  There are the Gettysburg and Vietnam War memorials.  There is now the 9-11 memorial.

A student shared these feelings about her recent visit to this new memorial.  “The waterfalls are awe-inspiring.  This is kind of odd, especially juxtaposed against the tragedy that occurred there and also when you remember that you're in the middle of such a bustling part of the city.  I found there a sense of peace that is soul-quenching.”  

In Jewish life there are countless memorials to the Holocaust.  In Israel there are memorials to the many battles.  These are scattered throughout the city of Jerusalem.  And there are now a number of memorials to terrorist victims.  I hurry by a number of these as I walk through Jerusalem’s streets.  I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but we are all these memorials helpful?

Our collective response to tragedy and death is to build something.  We build with such frenetic impulse that we appear to fear forgetting.  In ancient times a gravestone was a pile of stones.  And this is the origin of the custom to leave stones on a grave when visiting.

Given this human impulse you would think that the Torah would command that we build a memorial to what Amalek did to the Israelites.  The Amalekites of course attacked the Israelites from the rear, and killed the weakest.  Therefore the Torah is unflinching in its command to wipe out the Amalekites and their memory.  But what of the memory of those who were murdered?

That is not what the Torah tells us to build.  Instead the command is to inscribe all the words of the Torah on a stone.  “As soon as you have crossed the Jordan into the land that the Lord your God is giving you, you shall set up large stones.  Coat them with plaster and inscribe upon them all the words of this Torah.” (Deuteronomy 27:2-3) 

You could argue that all the words include the tragic stories, and certainly the command to remember Amalek and the details of what they did.

I don’t think this is the meaning.  The monument that we are to first build is to the Torah.  We are to inscribe all the teachings—the entire Torah.  God insists that once we cross the Jordan we are not to look back at tragedy.  We are only to look ahead.  We are only to look forward to the laws and obligations of Torah.

It would be as if instead of the 9-11 memorial we there inscribed the words of the Constitution and Bill of Rights.  “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”

That of course is what our enemies sought to destroy.  I wish for us to always remember these words of Torah, these sacred words.  I wish instead of beautiful and soothing, and even necessary, memorials we inscribed the words that we will forever be most important to us and our country.  It is those words that we must never forget.  Giving life to these words and our Torah will forever be the greatest and most lasting memorials to those who were murdered.  It will the building that will continue to stand throughout the generations.

Ki Tavo

I have been thinking about memorials. On Sunday we watched as the new 9-11 memorial was dedicated. I of course have not yet visited but I imagine it is a powerful testament to that terrible day. The structure appears appropriate and meaningful. New buildings were not constructed in place of the towers but instead these memorial fountains, etched with the names of those murdered. To build anything else in place of these ruins would be to suggest that we wish to erase memory.

Memorials offer us places to mourn and remember. As the people who experienced the tragedy grow older memorials become instead places to educate future generations. I have visited many memorials. It occurs to me that not one of them commemorates a natural disaster. All are built to memorialize the evils that human beings do to one another. I think in particular of the vast expanse of Gettysburg, the site of the largest battle in the Civil War, where nearly 8,000 were killed in that battle’s three days. The Vietnam War memorial, by contrast, is an endless wall of names rather than Gettysburg’s endless fields of grass and gravestones.

Often when walking through the streets of Jerusalem I stumble upon a simple stone etched with the names of those killed at the spot at which I find myself. At one I find the names of soldiers killed in the Six Day War’s battle for Jerusalem. At another I discover the names of victims murdered by terrorists at a bus stop. And at yet another spot I read the names of those murdered at Café Hillel on Jerusalem’s trendy Emek Refaim street. These stones are part of modern Jerusalem’s landscape. Most of the time I hurry by. I rarely notice the piles of stones, notes and even flowers that friends and loved ones leave. I have noticed that the more recent the event the greater these piles. As the years go by the stones, notes and flowers appear to diminish.

In some ways the Western Wall is also a memorial. It represents the surviving remnant of the destruction of Jerusalem and the murder of thousands upon thousands of its inhabitants. The scale of that destruction 2,000 years ago was a holocaust for its generation, and according to historical records even surpassing the tragedy of 9-11. We of course no longer view it as such. We recognize the stones as the remnant of our ancient Temple. And so there we come to remember the Temple and its glory. We come to connect to our people and our history. Do we also resolve never to forget the evils human beings commit against one another?

In this week’s Torah portion, Ki Tavo, Moses commands the people to build a memorial, but not to the evils that Amalek committed against the Israelites. Instead Moses charges the people with this command: “As soon as you have crossed the Jordan into the land that the Lord your God is giving you, you shall set up large stones. Coat them with plaster and inscribe upon them all the words of this Torah.” (Deuteronomy 27:2-3) The first thing that the people must do upon entering the land is to write the words of the Torah for all to see. It is the words of Torah that serve as testimony. We are also commanded never to forget Amalek and the atrocities his people did as we journeyed through the wilderness. But it is not those evils in particular that are inscribed in stone. It is instead the words of Torah in their entirety.

Abraham Lincoln said at Gettysburg. “…In a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground… It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

This too is the Torah that we must inscribe on each and every stone that we erect as memorials.

September 11 Sermon

I have many feelings and thoughts as we mark this tenth anniversary of 9-11.  They are mostly feelings of pain and loss.  I continue to believe that things will never be the same.  I also carry with me the searing memory of driving my children home from school after having to pick them up early.  As I drove on the LIE I kept looking in the rear view mirror at their faces.  I continue to hear their questions, “Abba, what happened?  I don’t understand.  Someone drove a plane into a building?”  I hear as well my inadequate answers.  Ten years later here are my still, partial answers.

I wish to address three points.  1. About our enemies.  2. The proper response to our enemies.  And 3. Our lingering, incomplete feelings.

1. Let’s say this clearly.  We indeed have enemies.  This truth seems to evade us.  We still appear unwilling to speak these words.  There are people who are bent on our destruction.  And they are Islamic fundamentalists.

We are so afraid of offending or being labeled politically incorrect that we shy away from this awful truth.  I have no quarrel with Islam.  We should have no quarrel with Islam.  We should however have quarrel with the far too many Muslims who stand silent before what their co-religionists do in their name, and the countless Muslims who celebrate these murders committed in their tradition’s name.

We are as well unable to say loudly how many of our so-called allies support these enemies of ours.  Our continued dependence on Mideast oil defames the memory of 9-11.  Say what you will about the science of global warming, although I find the evidence inescapable, but it should be a matter of national security that we wean ourselves of oil.

2. In the course of these past ten years we have also lost our way in fighting our enemies.  We have resorted to torture.  We have shipped suspects to Libya and Syria so that they might be tortured outside of the protections of our democracy.  We have contorted our most cherished laws in the name of security.  We cannot, we must not ever lose our way again.  Terror and fear are insidious.  But they need not make us into cowards who forget what makes us really great.  It is not shopping!  It is democracy.

Terror and fear worm their way into our hearts and souls.  They distort our vision.  We must always see clearly what this country means.  We must always proudly declare the values our country stands for.  Moreover we should celebrate exactly what our enemies most hate because it is these very values that have made this nation great.

We live in a country that revels in difference, that is moreover strengthened by difference.  We are an overwhelmingly religious people, but never a people where one religion must be chosen over another.  The fact that our congregation meets and prays in a church, as frustrating as it might continue to be at times, is cause for celebration on this day.

Our enemies want a world that is only like them, that is absent of Jews and Christians and homosexuals, a world where women are veiled and science is labeled as blasphemy.  I want none of that.  I want a world where science and religion can learn from each other, where differences are celebrated and cause for new learning.  Ten years later my resolve is only stronger.  I pray, let my resolve never grow weaker.  Let terror and fear never find their way into my soul.

And finally 3. For this point let us return to the Torah portion.  I am thinking again about the bird’s nest.  We are commanded to shoo the mother bird away before taking the young.  We cannot have everything.  Even that which is permitted must be regulated.  Our freedoms are always framed by compassion.  That is the plain meaning of the Torah’s command.

But I am thinking as well about the bird’s nest as a metaphor.  Hatchlings are of course blind.  They are hidden and shielded from the dangers of the world by their parents.  It seems obvious but let’s be clear.  Staying in their nest these young birds will never learn to fly.  When they fly they may very well succumb to other, greater dangers.

We have learned from 9-11 that staying in the nest does not shield us from all harm.  Many died, many were murdered, for the simple act of going to work or walking down the street, or going on vacation, or getting a cup of coffee.

Leon Wieseltier writes: “… Shopping is not the highest expression of the will to live. We are fighting wars abroad that show almost no traces at home, except among the limited segment of the population whose children are fighting them, and we have been differently encouraged in this disconnection by George W. Bush and Barack Obama. When the financial cataclysm occurred, and the hardship in America became unconscionably widespread, we redirected our gaze almost entirely upon ourselves. First materialism, and then a crisis of materialism, turned us inward. After we were attacked, we were wearied. I worry that the insularity of America, which is its natural condition, and also its lasting temptation, is gathering a renewed prestige among Americans. Our insularity is a kind of safety and a kind of blindness. The attacks of September 11 punctured that safety and that blindness: we gained—at what cost!—a broader sense of historical possibility and a broader sense of historical agency. But we are listing. We want the safety back, of course, but I fear that we want the blindness back, too.” (The New Republic, September 15, 2011)

So we can choose to be blind like the hatchlings in this bird’s nest.  Or we can choose to fly.  9-11 should have taught us that blindness is no safer than flying.  Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote about the insecurity of freedom in his book of the same name.  He taught that there is an inherent insecurity in the blessing of freedom.  The more freedom, the more insecurity.  The more freedoms, the greater responsibilities.

I continue to believe that the greatest danger of terrorism is not external but internal.  We can let it seep into our hearts or we can shut it out and continue flying.   Insularity will not protect us.  It serves no noble purpose.  And those purposes are all I am really interested in.

The message of this week’s Torah portion is even more true on this tenth anniversary of 9-11.  The concern of our tradition is improving our world.  We begin with the small and seemingly insignificant.  We begin with a bird’s nest.  And from there reach out to the world at large.

No nest is forever safe.  And so my only choice is to reach out to the world, and to struggle to better and improve the world.  My life is made better, and yes more assured and even more secure, by my reaching to the world.  And that is the only response we should focus on.

More on September 11

On Thursday, Leon Wieseltier, Literary Editor of The New Republic, said the following at a 9-11 commemoration at Washington DC's Kennedy Center.

Though we encounter it as suffering, grief is in fact an affirmation. The indifferent do not grieve, the uncommitted do not grieve, the loveless do not grieve. We mourn only the loss of what we have loved and what we have valued, and in this way mourning darkly refreshes our knowledge of the causes of our loves and the reasons for our values. Our sorrow restores us to the splendors of our connectedness to people and to principles. It is the yes of a broken heart. In our bereavement we discover how much was ruptured by death, and also how much was not ruptured. These tears lead directly to introspection.

Here is what we affirmed by our mourning on September 11, 2001, and by the introspection of its aftermath:

that we wish to be known, to ourselves and to the world, by the liberty that we offer, axiomatically, as a matter of right, to the individuals and the groups with whom we live;

that the ordinary lives of ordinary people on an ordinary day of work and play can truthfully exemplify that liberty, and fully represent what we stand for;

that we will defend ourselves, resolutely and even ferociously, because self-defense is also an ethical responsibility, and that our debates about the proper use of our power in our own defense should not be construed as an infirmity in our will;

that the multiplicity of cultures and traditions that we contain peaceably in our society is one of our highest accomplishments, because we are not afraid of difference, and because we do not confuse openness with emptiness, or unity with conformity;

that a country as vast and as various as ours may still be experienced as a community;

that none of our worldviews, with God or without God, should ever become the worldview of the state, and that no sanctity ever attaches to violence;

that the materialism and the self-absorption of the way we live has not extinguished our awareness of a larger purpose, even if sometimes they have obscured it;

that we believe in progress, at home and abroad, in social progress, in moral progress, even when it is fitful and contested and difficult;

that just as we have enemies in the world we have friends, and that our friends are the individuals and the movements and the societies that aspire, often in circumstances of great adversity, to democracy and to decency.

It has been a wounding decade. Our country is frayed, uncertain, inflamed. There is hardship and dread in the land. In significant ways we are a people in need of renovation. But what rouses the mourner from his sorrow is his sense of possibility, his confidence in the intactness of the spirit, his recognition that there is work to be done. What we loved and what we valued has survived the disaster, but it needs to be secured and bettered, and in that secure and better condition transmitted to our children. Our dream of greatness must be accompanied by an understanding of what is required for the maintenance of greatness. The obscenities of September 11, 2001 exposed the difference between builders and destroyers. We are builders. Let us agree, on this anniversary, that it is an honor to be an American and it is an honor to be free.

Little else needs to be said.

Shoftim Sermon

This week’s Torah portion is about appointing judges and establishing courts.  It contains the famous verse: “Justice, justice you shall pursue…”  I have been thinking about how we approach the pursuit of justice.

We are commanded by our tradition to pursue justice and to pursue peace.  We often confuse these two values.  We apply justice when we should apply peace.

Societies of course are to be built on justice.  Families by contrast are built on peace.  Yet we speak about injustice when it comes to family members.  You wouldn’t believe what uncle so and so did.  How many families sever ties over such perceived injustices?

When it comes to families however we should be talking about peace and not justice.  Both notions have to be pursued.  It is an interesting word choice.  To pursue is to run after.  You can’t wait for justice or peace to come to you. 

There is a related value to justice.  In order to pursue justice you must run after truth.  Societies must be built on truth.  Forgive my venture into politics, but our politicians seem unable to speak truths anymore.  Both Democrats and Republicans refuse to speak honestly and forthrightly about the problems we face.  They do not speak truths.  Our problems are not going to fix themselves.  There are the problems of global warming, joblessness, and poverty to name a few.  Yet we appear unable to speak honestly about the problems facing our country.

But when it comes to family and friends there are no shortages of truth.  You can hear all of the sordid details of what this family member did to that or this friend did to another.  Whereas societies must be built on truth and justice families must be built on forgiveness and peace.  You can’t have peace without a lot of forgiveness

I wish we could get it right.  Families could certainly use more forgiveness and even forgetfulness.   Our society requires more truth and even righteous indignation.  We need justice for our country not for our families.  We need to speak loudly about the problems facing our country and turn a blind eye to the mistakes we see in our families.

It is not easy to bring justice or peace. That is why our tradition says we must pursue these values. So let’s get out there and try to fix things in our broken country. And let’s get out there and heal things in our far too judgmental families.

Is it mere coincidence that Friday's sermon touched on the same theme as Tom Friedman's New York Times column?  Yes.  Then again perhaps it is indeed because we need more truth-telling!

September 11

It was a beautiful August morning.  The temperature was a comfortable 70 degrees.  I was riding along Asharoken Avenue towards Eatons Neck.  My legs felt strong and I was setting a fast pace, despite the gusting head wind.  The dune grass blew in the breeze.  The waves on the Sound lapped at the expanse of sand.  I was riding on my favorite flat, a road that extends for miles along the shoreline.  I looked up and saw a blue sky, absent of clouds.  It was a perfect morning.  I could focus on my riding.  I could contemplate the beauty of this moment.

It was almost as if it was an early fall morning.  The blue sky was nearly as deep and blue as that of a September day.  And then it happened.  The perfect blue sky reminded me not of the grandeur of God’s creation but instead of a morning nearly ten years earlier, the morning of September 11.  The perfect moment was stolen.  Memories of that terror stricken day filled my thoughts.  I was taken back to another day, one that began with blue skies and the grandeur of God’s tapestry, but ended in darkness and clouds of smoke and ash.

Ten years ago, on what began as a perfect fall morning, I was driving to my office.  I looked to the sky and thought to myself, what an extraordinary day.  There were no clouds, only the deep blue sky of an early fall day.  I silently offered praise to God for this beautiful creation.  And then I turned on the radio to hear reports of the first plane striking the North Tower.  Soon I would be driving East on the LIE after collecting my children from school, looking at the empty West bound lanes, save the occasional emergency vehicle careening towards the city, as signs flashed “New York City Closed.”

I lost no family member or friend on that day, not even a member of the synagogue I still proudly serve; yet I remain wounded.  Ten years later time moves forward.  Eight year olds become eighteen year olds heading to their first semester in college.  And time moves backward.  Even the sky stands as a silent reminder of that day.  Ten years later moments are too often stolen.  Terror still finds its way into my soul.  A perfect blue sky and a favorite morning bike ride turns into the drive back to our house ten years earlier and my feeble attempts to explain to my then eight year old and five year old what happened to our city.  As I drove my children home I knew that the world they were born into had been forever changed.  Ten years later I still did not know how.

Every sky would be tinged with that day, every moment would be tempered.  Judaism counsels that even at the happiest of occasions, a wedding, we break a glass before adjourning for hours of dancing and celebration.  It is taught that we do this in remembrance of the ancient tragedy of the Temple’s destruction.  In the midst of great happiness we pause, if only briefly, to remember the tragedy that changed our people forever.  With that cataclysmic act we were transformed from a people whose lives revolved around one Temple to a people spread out and oriented towards many temples.  Thousands of years later we know what that destruction fashioned.  It helped to create a people devoted to prayer rather than sacrifices, Torah study rather than pilgrimages, ordinary acts of lovingkindness rather than priestly rites.  Thousands of years later the memory of that searing day is distant, but its import is clear.

Ten years later the memory of September 11 is clear, but its meaning is still unimaginable.  Ten years later we do not know yet if we should, or even can, break a glass.  We have not yet figured out what this day might mean.  But we have come to understand the following.  The best of moments are still unexpectedly stolen and transformed into moments of sadness and pain.  Ten years later even blue skies can become darkened by memories.

Nonetheless on my return, still riding on Asharoken Avenue, the wind was now at my back and the joy of riding into the future found its way back into my heart. 

Shoftim

We live in a world where people often scream about injustice, but rarely take action to correct such failings.  The injustices we most often speak about are those that involve people closest to us.  We complain about this friend or that.  We criticize this family member or another.  Rarely do we seek to make amends and make peace.

This week’s Torah portion focuses on justice.  In addition to legislating how judges should be appointed, it contains the famous verse: “Justice, justice you shall pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that the Lord your God is giving you.” (Deuteronomy 16:20)

We hear this call for justice, but we misapply its message to friends and family.  Instead we need to spend more time pursuing justice for our society.  Our country faces many problems.  There is a growing inequity between rich and poor.  On our very own Long Island there are far too many homeless and hungry.  The Interfaith Nutrition Network, for example, serves over 300,000 meals per year.  There are as well far too many without adequate jobs.  We must create more employment opportunities.  We need to work to repair the many problems in our broken society. 

This is the Torah’s demand.  We must pursue justice for the sake of our country.  But rather than working to fix these problems we level the charge of injustice against family members and friends.  With regard to those closest to us we are instead commanded to pursue peace.  According to our tradition Aaron best exemplifies peace making.  Why? The Israelites clamored to build a Golden Calf when their leader Moses was busy on the mountaintop communing with God.  Aaron was left in charge.  He did not as one might expect talk them out of their unholy task.  Instead he appears to have helped them.  Aaron facilitated the building of the calf.  The Torah’s judgment of his actions is harsh. 

The rabbis, however, see in Aaron a model of peace making.  Their suggestion is extraordinary.  Even when family members are straying, or in this case building idols, we are to be like the disciples of Aaron, and make peace.  Thus when it comes to family shalom, peace, is the greatest virtue. When it comes to the larger society the greatest value is tzedek, justice.  We often confuse which value is to lead the way.

Pursue justice for the society.  Pursue peace for family and friends.  As the High Holidays approach I pledge to seek justice for our society, and make peace among my friends and family.

Elul

Today (August 30th) begins the Hebrew month of Elul.  According to Jewish tradition this day begins a forty day period of introspection and repentance that concludes with the beautiful Yom Kippur Neilah service.

We belong to a remarkable tradition. We believe that human beings are capable of change.  We believe that we have the capacity to mend our ways.  No one is perfect.  All have erred.  Let us take these precious days to mend our failures.  This is the grand purpose of the upcoming High Holidays.  Rosh Hashanah begins the evening of September 28^th.

A Hasidic story.  Reb Chaim Halberstam of Zanz once helped his disciples prepare for Elul and its goals of teshuvah (repentance) and tikkun (repair) by sharing the following story.

Once a woman became lost in a dense forest.  She wandered this way and that in the hope of stumbling on a way out, but she only got more lost as the hours went by.  Then she chanced upon another person walking in the woods.  Hoping that he might know the way out, she said, “Can you tell me which path leads out of this forest?”

“I am sorry, but I cannot,” the man said.  “I am quite lost myself.”

“You have wandered in one part of the woods,” the woman said, “while I have been lost in another.  Together we may not know the way out, but we know quite a few paths that lead nowhere.  Let us share what we know of the paths that fail, and then together we may find the one that succeeds.”

“What is true for these lost wanderers,” Reb Chaim said, “is true of us as well.  We may not know the way out, but let us share with each other the way that have only led us back in.”  (Rabbi Rami Shapiro, Hasidic Tales)

Together we are always stronger.  Together we can find ourselves out of any difficulty and surmount any stumbling blocks.

Reeh

Parents tell their teenagers, “You can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery if you get a tattoo.”  This often repeated tale is meant to dissuade young adults from following the example of their peers and engraving a tattoo on their bodies.  To be honest, the tale is not true.

Tattooing is of course contrary to Jewish tradition, but it would not by itself constitute a reason for the denial of burial rites.  Perhaps people suggest it would do so because it is a visible sign, even following death, that the person was not observant of Jewish law.  But some people observe many Jewish traditions.  Others observe few.  The denial of burial for any person would show a supreme lack of compassion in the face of tragedy.

Interestingly the biblical verses prohibiting tattooing connect tattooing to mourning rituals.  Our Torah portion states: “You are the children of the Lord your God.  You shall not gash yourselves or shave the front of your heads because of the dead.  For you are a people consecrated to the Lord your God; the Lord your God chose you from among all other peoples on earth to be His treasured people.” (Deuteronomy 14:1-2)

Apparently in ancient times tattooing was associated with mourning.  According to biblical scholars removing of hair and gashing the flesh until blood runs were common mourning rituals.  People believed that these acts had an effect on the ghost of the deceased.  Or perhaps these acts were performed as self-punishment to assuage feelings of guilt.  Judaism however counsels that we tear our garment rather than our flesh.  In addition Jewish custom advises men to refrain from shaving when mourning.  We are commanded to do the opposite of what our neighbors do.

I understand that tattooing for the dead is a powerful emotional response to grief.  People inscribe a name or a symbol on their body as a sign of mourning.  It is especially common among soldiers.  It is an understandable impulse.  Mourners promise themselves that they will never forget, that they must never forget.  Inscribing the memory on their bodies fulfills this impulse.  It as if to say, “Now I will always remember.”  Judaism insists however that memories must be built on stories and words.

Again and again the Torah seeks to distinguish its traditions from those of Israel’s neighbors.  Tattooing was viewed as something connected with idolatry.  Moreover the Jewish tradition believes that the human body is created in God’s image.  We are to care for the body because it is a reflection of the divine.  We therefore do not defame the body in any way.  The Talmud rules that we are therefore forbidden to inscribe a permanent tattoo on the body, although there is some debate as to whether or not the prohibition only applies to a tattoo with God’s name.

I often think that in addition to the tradition’s reasons we should give weight to modern Jewish history.  During the Holocaust Jews were of course forcibly tattooed with numbers.  We should therefore not choose to do this to ourselves.  This is what our enemies did to us.  Let us not do the same.

Parents can of course resort to tales of denying burial rites in order to convince children to obey this prohibition, but I prefer making arguments based on modern Jewish history and the Jewish value that the human body is a reflection of the divine.  Of course teenagers being teenagers they may very well not listen to such logic.  Their desire is to be like their peers.  The Torah wants us to be unlike our neighbors. 

Of course in the end the primary job of parents is to love their children.