Church Pews

What follows is the letter I sent to my congregation about our decision to celebrate two of our High Holiday services at St. Dominic Catholic Church. Our synagogue building cannot accommodate the larger numbers who attend these services. I am proud of my congregation for embracing this decision. My words proved true. We found our services deeply meaningful. I look forward to our observance of Yom Kippur.

Sometimes practical challenges illustrate important philosophical principles. Our decision to celebrate Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur Morning services at St. Dominic is such a case.

Judaism teaches that the place is secondary to the moment. We sanctify time rather than space. It is far more important when we gather rather than where. What transforms ordinary days in the calendar into Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur is that we join together as a community. What matters is that we sing our prayers together. What matters is that we learn Torah. These are the acts that sanctify the day. This is the Jewish principle that ensured our survival after the destruction of the Temple in 70 C.E. Regardless of where we find ourselves we can celebrate our sacred days.

When formulating this principle the ancient rabbis never of course imagined our current situation, that we might celebrate our holiest of days in a church. How could the victims of oppression imagine such a circumstance? We, however, live in a unique age and in a unique country.

When we realized that our synagogue’s sanctuary, as well as CW Post’s hall, would be unable to accommodate our greater numbers on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur mornings I approached my colleague and friend Reverend Kevin Smith. He immediately offered the use of his church’s auditorium-style sanctuary. In addition he offered to allow us to cover the large cross and move some of the church’s sacred objects to help us create a Jewish atmosphere. He is an extraordinarily kind and generous man.

We will not be able to cover every Christian symbol, especially those in the church’s beautiful stained glass windows. We will instead transform this place by our songs and our prayers. While it is not a synagogue it is a house built for prayer. I have led services in many different locations and can tell you that it is far better to join together in prayer in a place that is intended for that purpose. My heart is filled with gratitude by the generosity of my Christian neighbors.

I recognize that some might be uncomfortable singing Jewish prayers and celebrating Jewish holidays in a church. I understand your feelings. We will of course be in our own synagogue for Rosh Hashanah Evening, Second Day Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur Evening and Yom Kippur Afternoon services.

I choose to see this unusual circumstance as an unexpected blessing. I will, like every High Holidays, be smiling and singing, praying and even dancing. The prayers and songs will continue to uplift us on these days, regardless of where we sit. It is these days that we hold to be most sacred. I have every confidence you will say to yourself, in the synagogue as well as the church, “I have never heard a more beautiful Avinu Malkeinu in all my life.”

Perhaps you might also say, “What an extraordinary country I live in!” Here, in the United States, it is natural that a church and its leaders would reach out to a synagogue and say, “Come and observe your holiest of days in our sanctuary.”

I choose to see blessings.

Yom Kippur Sands

Annie Dillard writes:

The more nearly spherical is a grain of sand, the older it is. “The average river requires a million years to move a grain of sand one hundred miles,” [the American physicist] James Trefil tells us. As a sand grain tumbles along the riverbed—as it saltates, then lies still, then saltates for those millions of years—it smooths some of its rough edges. Then, sooner or later, it blows into a desert. In the desert, no water buoys its weight. When it leaps, it lands hard. In the desert, it knaps itself round. Most of the round sand grains in the world, wherever you find them, have spent some part of their histories blowing around a desert. Wind bangs sand grains into one another on dunes and beaches, and into rocks. Rocks and other sands blast the surfaces, so windblown sands don’t sparkle like young river sands. “We live surrounded by ideas and objects infinitely more ancient than we imagine; and yet at the same time everything is in motion,” [the French paleontologist] Teilhard said. (For the Time Being)

The beach, with its waves, never ceases to stir my heart.  I did not know the sand beneath my feet, and crushed between my toes, had traveled so far.  I did not recall that it once began with such sharp, hard edges.

Yom Kippur reminds us that we have at best a mere 120 years to smooth out our edges.  We are but imperfect specks of sand. 

The Unetanah Tokef prayer concurs:

Our origin is dust,
and dust is our end.
Each of us is a shattered urn,
grass that must whither
a flower that will fade,
a shadow moving on,
a cloud passing by,
a particle of dust floating on the wind,
a dream soon forgotten. 

And yet we are buoyed by each other.  Taken together and standing as one community we can become like a magnificent beach.  We are held together by the we of Ashamnu.  We say, “For the sin we have sinned…”  We are strengthened by “we.”  We are weakened by “I.”  

Yom Kippur reminds us of our imperfections.  It shouts about our potential insignificance.  And yet Yom Kippur also affords us the opportunity to smooth out our mistakes and errors.  We are carried by the recitation of “we.”  We are sustained by community.  We are carried by the breath of others.  In their “we” I am strengthened.    

Only when carried by time can the grain of sand become smooth.  Only by standing with others can this grain become significant.  

History's Deals

What follows is my Rosh Hashanah morning sermon, exploring the Iran deal.  

In December of 1938 Nicholas Winton, then a 29-year-old London stockbroker, was planning a skiing vacation to Switzerland.  Before leaving he received a phone call from his good friend Martin who urged him to cancel the vacation and come to Prague instead.  “I need your help,” Martin said. “Don’t bother bringing your skis.”  In Prague Winton confronted thousands of Jewish refugees living in appalling conditions.

I am sure many are familiar with this story.  Still I want to retell it because this past July Nicholas (Nicky) Winton died after living to 106 years.  I recall his story as well because much of our discussion this past summer hinged around the very question Winton faced.  How do we confront evil?  The stories we tell influence how we evaluate contemporary events and in particular the now concluded Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action that lifts the sanctions against Iran in exchange for the dismantling of its nuclear program.  Some have called President Obama’s negotiated deal appeasement.  Others have praised it.  Some believe the deal forestalls war.  Others believe that we are once again reliving those concluding days of 1938.

Winton believed that the Munich Agreement between Germany and the Western European powers would not offer “peace in our time,” but was instead a prelude to war.  The Germans would not stop with the annexation of western Czechoslovakia.  Kristallnacht in November of 1938 confirmed Winton’s feelings.  In Prague he saw first hand the Jewish refugees.  He saw that no one was looking out for them.  He decided to try to get permits for the children.  He wrote: “I began to realize what suffering there is when armies start to march.”  Winton set up an office in Prague and returned to London where he appealed to European nations to accept the children. Only Sweden and Britain said yes.  The United States by the way said no.  He worked tirelessly to raise funds and secure foster homes for the children. 

Three months later Winton had his first success: a planeload of children left Prague for Britain.  Winton organized seven more transports, the remainder by train.  Each transport was greeted by waiting British foster parents in London’s Liverpool Street station.  On September 1, 1939 the largest transport of children was set to leave.  On that day Hitler invaded Poland.  Germany then closed all the borders they controlled.  250 children destined for London perished instead in the fires of the Shoah.  Winton has said many times that he remained haunted by the faces of these children waiting eagerly at Prague’s Wilson Station for that aborted transport.  In the end Winton saved 669 children.  Their parents, as well as the majority of their families, were among the six million Jews murdered by the Nazis.

I have been thinking about this story for many reasons.  It is remarkable that Winton, a Christian, was so moved by Jewish suffering that he almost single handedly saved so many lives.  It is a heroic story of what one person can do when confronted with unspeakable evil.  All agree.  Winton is a hero. 

This morning I wish to meditate on history and heroism.  How does our view of it color our judgment of contemporary events?  We are commanded: zachor—remember!  We tell the stories of our suffering.  Every year we read the megillah and tell our children about the wicked Haman.  We recall tales of heroism.  Every year we sing of the bravery of the Maccabees.  We teach our children about the Holocaust.  Why?  We must always remember.  We must forever learn how to discern evil when it once again blossoms.  That is why the US Holocaust Museum charts emerging genocides.  Antisemitism and demonic hate flourishes once again.  It can be found among ISIS.  It can be heard coming from the mouths of Iran’s leaders. 

So let me offer some words about the deal now concluded with the Iranian regime.  Despite the potential for controversy I hope this sermon serves as a starting point for our discussions and debates, that my words might make us think a little bit harder about our firmly held positions and our pre-conceived ideas.  So let me state this clearly at the outset.  The deal now concluded with Iran is a bad deal.  I am not going to get into the details.  I am not a security expert.  For that you can read any number of articles.  In a nutshell here is my judgment. I do not trust Iran’s intentions.  I worry about what will happen when Iran and its proxies get their hands on even a fraction of the $150 billion of sanction relief.  By the way I continue to worry about the billions that Saudi Arabia funnels to terrorist groups. 

President Obama appears naïve about the intentions of those bent on our destruction.  I have often said this and I will continue to say so.  History teaches us that we must take antisemites at their word.  When they rise up and agitate for our destruction we must not excuse their words.  They mean what they say.  President Obama on the other hand seems to believe that history is a great weight that must be overthrown, that can be overcome.  Leon Wieseltier writes: “The president said many times that he is willing to step out of the rut of history… It is a phrase worth pondering. It expresses a deep scorn for the past, a zeal for newness and rupture, an arrogance about old struggles and old accomplishments, a hastiness with inherited precedents and circumstances, a superstition about the magical powers of the present.” (The Atlantic, July 27, 2015)

By contrast I am a Jew.  I relish in the past.  I retell our stories year after year.  History defines me.  It animates me.  Past sufferings instruct me.  They continue to guide my responses to today’s challenges. 

I believe there could have been a better deal.  Now, however, that the deal is concluded, this is an argument for historians.  I am left to respond to present circumstances.

There are number of things we can offer about the present.  For all my worries about the deal and Iran’s intentions I worry as well about how we argue about the deal’s flaws and merits.  There are serious and committed Jews who do not share my views.  There are educated leaders, and security experts, who have offered different judgments.  Our tendency to listen only to those who reinforce our own opinions is one of the great failures of our present culture.  It is made exponentially worse by the desire to accumulate Facebook likes and the unwillingness to sit and debate with those who sit across the table from us.  We are also a people animated by debate.  We are made better by sitting at the same table with those with whom we disagree.  We are made worse by sitting by ourselves across from our computer screens.  We are strengthened by loving disagreement. Argument is not a sign of weakness.  In fact the opposite is true.  Unity of opinion, and the hewing to talking points, does not strengthen us but instead weakens us.  Neither side in this great debate can be called traitors.    

Of course I worry about Israel’s security.  Of course I worry about threats to the United States.  But I also worry about the growing divide among Jews.  We are fractured.  Love of Israel once united us.  It was once understood that love could come with critique.  Now love appears to mean unquestioning loyalty to Israel’s current political leadership.  There is far more disagreement within Israel’s Knesset than appears permitted among American Jews.  My friends it is not 1938 and President Obama is not Neville Chamberlain.  It is not 1938 for one simple reason.  There is a modern State of Israel, a sovereign Jewish state, with a powerful and formidable army.  The world is different today than it was then.  Today the Jewish people can defend themselves.

The modern State of Israel represents the attempt to transcend the narrative of Jewish victimhood.  This does not mitigate my worries about the deal.  Israel in particular faces many threats but it is not forever nearing a precipice.  I have come to know a different Israel. I have fallen in love with the thriving and tumultuous, and often boisterous, Jewish and democratic state, clamoring for our involvement and engagement. I have faith in our survival.  The Jewish people will defend themselves.  Am Yisrael chai! 

I worry about the growing divide between the United States and Israel.  I blame both Obama and Netanyahu for this failure.  We are united by shared values.  We must redouble our efforts to mend this divide.  We have many enemies and fewer friends.  We should draw near to our friends.  And I remain deeply concerned about the growing rift between American Jews and Israel.  With each conflict we appear more and more distant.  If you think that Israel’s continued occupation of the West Bank does not distance many of our young people from Israel then you are mistaken.  Take note of the over 3000 young Jews who attended JStreet’s recent conference.  Their voices must be embraced as part of how one can love Israel.  Our children’s love of Israel might look different than our own.  I hope my children share my passions.  I pray my children share my loves.  I don’t expect, or even want, my children to think like me.  Tomorrow must be different than yesterday.  I expect my children, I expect our children, to participate in that transformation.

I seek to be informed by history but not so scarred and bruised by it that I remain forever wedded to it.  I seek to learn from history but not live within its confines.  What then is the heroic response to present evils?

I turned to some of my teachers for answers.  In this regard some of you are my teachers.  I turned to Annie, a Holocaust survivor, a woman who stands taller than just about any person I know, a woman who survived a year in Auschwitz.  As I spoke to her on the phone you could almost hear her waving her finger at me when she said, “Rabbi, I have seen evil with my own eyes.  You cannot make a deal with people who say ‘Death to the Jews.  Death to Israel.  Death to America.’  They really mean to kill us.”    

Then I called a newfound teacher and also a member of our holy congregation. Arthur is a combat veteran who served in the US Army during World War II and fought in Germany.  He said, “Rabbi, I have seen horror.  I don’t want anyone to see that again.  I don’t want any young kid to have to fight in a war again.  Anything that delays war is a good thing.  This deal makes war less likely. I am in favor of it.”

Is one Jew’s experience of history more authentic than another’s?  Is one person’s pain and suffering more telling than another’s?  History is far more confusing than our narratives suggest.  History, as my professor once taught, is messy.  We tell the stories that justify our opinions.  It is not nearly as black and white as our tales imply.    

There are those who accuse President Obama of appeasement and the Jews who support his decision as collaborators.  History does not speak with an unwavering, certain voice. There are lessons to be learned from history.  Certainties elude us. 

And so I offer another story.  It comes from the same time period that informs our current debate.  This story is less familiar than the tale of Winton.  It is the story of Reszo Israel Kastner.  Kastner was a Zionist leader in Hungary and in particular a member of the Budapest Aid and Rescue Committee.  Hungary was then, as it has become now, an escape route for refugees fleeing from the East.  Then it was Jews who were running from the Nazi onslaught in Poland.  Today it is Syrians fleeing from ISIS.  In March 1944 the Nazis invaded Hungary. Jews were then deported to Auschwitz’s gas chambers at a rate of 12,000 per day.  Kastner took it upon himself to save those he could. 

What did he do?  He went directly to Adolf Eichmann and negotiated for the safe passage of 1,685 Jews to travel to Switzerland.  He paid in money, gold and diamonds.  After a number of meetings he negotiated the price of $1000 per life.  Imagine this.  Kastner, a Jew and a Zionist, sat across from Eichmann to negotiate for these Jewish lives. He even traveled to Germany to conduct some of these meetings.  In an effort to raise the extraordinary sum he auctioned off seats to wealthy Jews for $25,000 per person.  Among those on Kastner’s train as it later became known, were his own family members and the rabidly anti-Zionist Satmar rebbe, Joel Teitelbaum.  Kastner also developed a working relationship with other SS officers, in particular Kurt Becher.  Some claim that Kastner leveraged these relationships to help save over 10,000 more Jews.  And what did Kastner offer in addition to gold?  He promised that if there were a trial he would testify in behalf of these SS officers.  Being a man of his word, Kastner traveled to the Nuremberg war crimes trial following the war and offered testimony in behalf of Kurt Becher and two other SS officers.  He was first and foremost a man of his word.

What defines a hero?  Do we elevate Winton to the status of hero because he was not a Jew?  Because he was an ordinary man who we would have expected to feel distant from Jewish suffering and pain but whose vacation was derailed by a heartfelt moral imperative?  Do we denigrate Kastner because he was a Jew who failed to even warn his fellow Jews of the murderous deaths that he absolutely knew awaited them?  There are those who believe as well that it was Kastner who turned Hannah Senesh and her fellow paratroopers into the Germans.  The timing of their ill-fated rescue attempt could have derailed Kastner’s plan to rescue the 1,685 Jews he had negotiated so hard for so long to save.  Do we wish to forget his acts because he exchanged money for lives?  And yet the history is clear.  He saved 1,685 Jewish lives.  Then again history also offers muddy conclusions.  Still his story does not end there.

Following the war Kastner made his way to Palestine.  He became active in Mapai, David ben Gurion’s party.  He never gained a Knesset seat but by 1952 became spokesman for the Ministry of Trade and Industry.  And that is when the story gets really interesting.  Malchiel Gruenweld remembered Kastner from the war and believed he had betrayed the Jewish people in wartime Budapest.  He published a pamphlet accusing Kastner of collaborating with the Nazis, enabling the mass murder of Hungarian Jewry, partnering with Nazi officer Kurt Becher in the theft of Jewish assets, and saving Becher from punishment after the war.  And so what did Kastner do in response to these accusations?  He, and the nascent State of Israel, sued Gruenweld for libel.  The lower court found in favor of Gruenwald and accused Kastner of selling his soul to the devil. 

The State decided to appeal the decision to the Supreme Court.  And this decision led to the collapse of the ruling coalition and the call for new elections.  Have we ever retold this story?  We don’t learn this history.  We tell tales of the Wintons.  They are ennobling.  They are clarifying.  They are neat and tidy.  Here is good.  There was evil.  We push away the stories of the Kastners.  They are complicated.  They tend not to fit with our squared narratives of good and evil.  During the Shoah people were forced to make terrible, and unimaginable, choices.  Saving lives did not always emerge from altruistic motives.  Schindler, we learned, was a flawed man.  In 1958 Israel’s Supreme Court ruled in favor of Kastner.  Kastner however never lived to see his name cleared.  He was assassinated a year earlier by a right wing Jewish hit squad.

And then three years ago his granddaughter, Meirav Michaeli, rose before the Knesset as a member of the Zionist-Labor party, and said in her first speech before her fellow Knesset members the following: “On Wednesday morning, July 3^rd 1944, a Zionist Jew stood in a suit in Adolf Eichmann’s Budapest office.  Your nerves seem tattered said Eichmann to the man.  Maybe I will send you on a vacation to Auschwitz.  The Zionist Jew who stood before him remained unfazed.  That man was Dr. Israel Kastner.  The reason why he was in the room was to negotiate with Eichmann and other Nazi officers in order to save tens of thousands of Jews from extermination.  Reszo Kastner hu haya hasabba sheli.  Reszo Kastner was my grandfather,” she exclaimed.

For the granddaughter the grandfather is a hero.

Back to Winton.  It was not until years later, in 1988 that the world learned of his heroism.  His wife discovered a trove of documents in a suitcase in his attic.  These documents detailed the names of all the children that Winton was able to save.  He only wished he could save more.  Documentaries were produced.  He was knighted by the British government.  He became Sir Winton.  A statue of Winton carrying a child in his arms was erected in Prague’s train station. 

Back to Kastner.  He is buried in an ordinary cemetery.  A documentary about him was produced as well. It is entitled, “Killing Kastner.”  And to this day you could search near and far but you will never find a street in any Israeli city named for Israel Kastner.  In Jerusalem, you can find a street named for Yohanan ben Zakkai, the rabbi who betrayed those zealots made famous by the stories we tell on Masada but you will not find Rehov Kastner.  Every attempt to name a street for him still meets with fierce resistance.  We name the streets we want to walk.  We write the stories we want to hear.

And so here is my judgment about the history we retell.  It does not offer the certainties that politicians, and rabbis, too often suggest.  It grants lessons.  But its road is not straight.  History’s deals are imperfect.

Back to Winton and Kastner.  We can deduce this math.  The hero saved 669 souls.  The traitor, as some would still call him, saved 1,650 and probably far, far more.

For all my misgivings about the Iran deal and my judgments about its failures and my fears about where it might lead, I have to admit that historical certainties belong to the prophets alone.  I have to admit that when future generations look back the math might tip against my view and in favor of those now accused of collaboration and treason.  The truth might be the following.  The messy history that real people live could end up saving more lives than the stories I prefer to tell.

That, I now realize, leads me to my prayer.  May my fears prove unfounded and the hopes of others prove true.  And may 5776 offer the world an increased measure of peace.

I am thankful to my teacher, Dr. Rachel Korazim, with whom I learn at the Shalom Hartman Institute, and who first taught me about Israel Kastner's life.

911 Memorial Prayer

The following is the invocation I offered at Oyster Bay's 9-11 memorial ceremony organized by Senator Carl Marcellino.

In this age of terror the ordinary and everyday can become terrifying. Going to work. Traveling on a plane. Walking through Times Square can instill fear rather than offer the revelry for which it should only be known. This of course is the very goal of the terrorists who are bent on murder and destruction.

Those we mourn on this day were murdered not on battlefields in far away places but here in our city when sitting at their desks or walking to their offices or running to save their fellow Americans. They set out on that day with ordinary intentions and everyday concerns. And so fourteen years later the ordinary and everyday remain fraught with terror.

We have therefore but two responses. They are both located in the heart. They are both to be discovered in faith.

First, we remember. Our tears are a reminder of our loves. Our cries are a testimony to the values we continue to hold in our hearts. When we remember and mourn we give life to the memories of those we lost.

And second, we must forever summon the courage to continue with the everyday. Terrorism is defeated in our hearts. Fear can be banished by faith. Terror can be exiled by a strengthened heart and renewed spirit.

I pray. May the memories of those we mourn continue to live on in our hearts. And may we find the courage to march forward with hearts filled with faith and with love.

I rely on the words of Rebbe Nachman.
Kol ha-olam kulo gesher tzar maod, v’ha-ikar lo l’fached klal.  The whole world is a narrow bridge, but the essence is never to be afraid.

And we say, Amen.

Darkened Skies, Blue Skies

Below is my article that appeared today on ReformJudaism.org: Darkened Skies, Blue Skies: A September 11th Reflection.

It was a beautiful August morning, the temperature a comfortable 70 degrees. I was riding on my favorite flat, a road that extends for miles along the shoreline. My legs felt strong, and despite the gusting head wind, I was setting a fast pace. The dune grass blew in the breeze, the waves lapped at the expanse of sand, and when I looked up at the blue sky, I found it absent of clouds.

It was a perfect day. I could focus on my riding. I could contemplate the beauty of the moment.

And then it happened.

The perfect sky – nearly as deep and blue as a September day – reminded me not of the grandeur of God’s creation, but of a morning nearly 14 years earlier. Without warning, the perfect moment was gone, stolen. I was taken back to an earlier day’s blue sky, one that ended in darkness and clouds of smoke and ash. Memories of that terror-stricken day filled my thoughts.

Fourteen years ago, on what began as a glorious fall morning, I was driving to my office. I looked to the sky, appreciating the extraordinary day. There were no clouds, only the clear blue sky. I silently offered praise to God for this beautiful creation – and then I turned on the radio, only to hear reports of the first plane striking the North Tower. Soon I was headed home, driving east on the Long Island Expressway, the west-bound lanes eerily empty save the occasional emergency vehicle careening toward the city.

I lost no family members or friends that day, and thankfully not even one member of the synagogue I served, and yet I remain wounded. Fourteen years later, time has moved forward. Eight-year-olds have become 22-year-olds, college graduates on the brink of careers and the rest of their lives.

Time has moved backward, too. Years later, moments are too often stolen. Terror still finds its way into my soul. The sky stands as a silent reminder of that day. A perfect blue sky and a favorite morning bike ride turn into the drive back to our house after collecting my children from school, and my feeble attempts to explain to them – an 8-year-old and 5-year-old – what happened to our city. As I drove my children home that day, I knew the world they were born into had been forever changed. Fourteen years later, I still do not know exactly how.

Yizkor. We remember.

I cannot escape the memories. Years later, tears interrupt mundane activities, tinging them with longing. I eye my mother’s favorite Passover candy in the supermarket. I recall my father’s long-ago advice about driving. I am haunted by melancholy as the skies remind me of yesterday, silently asking: Are they still near?

Judaism counsels that even at a wedding – the most joyous of occasions – we break a glass 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 event that forever transformed us from a people whose lives revolved around one Temple to a people dispersed and oriented toward many temples, from a people devoted to sacrifices to one devoted to prayer, Torah study, and acts of lovingkindness. Although the memory of that searing day is distant, its import is clear.

By contrast, although the memory of September 11th is clear, its meaning remains unimaginable. We have not yet figured out what this day might mean, for us or for future generations. We do not yet know if we should – or even if we can – break a glass in remembrance.

Nonetheless, we have come to understand this: The best of moments are still unexpectedly stolen and transformed into moments of sadness and pain. Blue skies can be darkened by memories, and ordinary moments can return us to tears of yesterday.

And yet on my return home, I am still pedaling. The wind, however, is now at my back, and the joy of riding into the future has found its way back into my heart.

Rosh Hashanah and Traveling Through Mud

A Hasidic story.

Reb Meir of Premishlan and Reb Yisreal of Ruzhin were the best of friends, yet no two people could be more different. Reb Meir lived in great poverty. In fact he would often give his few remaining pennies to the poor. Reb Yisrael, a generous and respected man, on the other hand, lived like a king.

These two friends once met as each was preparing to leave on a journey. Reb Meir was sitting on a simple cart drawn by one scrawny horse. Reb Yisrael was atop a beautiful coach pulled by four powerful stallions.

Reb Yisrael walked over to the horse hitched to Reb Meir’s wagon. With mocking concern, he inspected the horse with great care. Then he turned to his friend and with barely concealed mock and disdain said to him, “I always travel with four strong horses. In this way, if my coach becomes stuck in the mud my strong stallions will be able to free it quickly. I can see, however, that your horse barely seems able to carry you and your wagon on a dry and hard-packed road. There is bound to be mud on your travels. Why do you take such risks?”

Reb Meir stepped down from his wagon and walked over to his friend, who was still standing next to Reb Meir’s horse. Placing his arms around his beloved old horse’s neck, Reb Meir said softly, “The risk, I think is yours. Because I travel with this one horse that in no way can free this wagon from the mud, I am especially careful to avoid the mud in the first place. You, my friend, are certain you can get free if you get stuck in the mud and thus do not look where you are going.” (Adapted from Rabbi Rami Shapiro, Hasidic Tales)

On Rosh Hashanah it does not really matter what car we drive or even what clothes we wear. It is instead about looking at the path we are traveling and determining where we are going. It is about finding again the right path. The High Holidays are all about rediscovering this road.

Everything depends on choosing our path. The travels are within our hands.

Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur provide us with the opportunity to renew our choices and redirect our journey.

And if we find that we are stuck in the mud, then may these days, and the prayers we sing, and the community with which we join, help us to find our way out.

Selichot, Strength and Forgiveness

Typically Selichot is assigned to the Saturday evening immediately prior to Rosh Hashanah. This year, however, the Selichot service is pushed back a week. A mere twenty four hours before Rosh Hashanah would not provide enough time to ready our spirits for the High Holidays. Thus we find ourselves observing Selichot during the last weekend of summer when the final tugs of the beach continue to beckon us, when perhaps a weekend of golf invites our participation or a myriad of other activities call to us.

And so I offer this suggestion. Wherever you might find yourselves on this glorious weekend (I continue to hope it might include Saturday evening at the synagogue) take a few moments to turn inward, take a few precious moments to examine your life and look at your choices. This is the essence of the Selichot observance. We recite prayers reminding us of God’s forgiveness. We meditate on Psalm 27.

We pray: “O Lord, I seek Your presence; do not hide Your face from me.”

As we draw near to Rosh Hashanah this continues to be our most fervent prayer. As we approach Yom Kippur this thought remains in our hearts. Whatever our failings, whatever our flaws, whatever our missteps, God strengthens our hands so that we might mend our wrongs. We need only seek out those we have hurt and those we have wronged. Our prayers strengthen our resolve. Our Selichot observance sends us out with a renewed spirit, a heart filled with the strength and courage to correct our failings.

We look back on past years. What might I have done differently? What words do I regret? Which friend did I neglect? Where have I failed? How might I better my life? How might I bring healing to my world?

This week as well the noted neurologist, Oliver Sacks, died. Only a few weeks earlier he wrote:

And now, weak, short of breath, my once-firm muscles melted away by cancer, I find my thoughts, increasingly, not on the supernatural or spiritual, but on what is meant by living a good and worthwhile life — achieving a sense of peace within oneself. I find my thoughts drifting to the Sabbath, the day of rest, the seventh day of the week, and perhaps the seventh day of one’s life as well, when one can feel that one’s work is done, and one may, in good conscience, rest. (Oliver Sacks: Sabbath)

We look forward to the future. We find hope in our capacity to turn.

“Hope in the Lord; your heart is filled with strength and courage; look to the Lord.” (Psalm 27)

Ki Tetze, Good Deeds and Responsibilities

Many people think that a mitzvah is a good deed. Jewish tradition however understands this term to mean a God given commandment, a sacred responsibility. According to the tradition there are 613 mitzvot gleaned from the Torah.

There is the familiar, “Be fruitful and multiply,” and the obscure, “You shall not wear a mixture of wool and linen.” There are ethical mitzvot and ritual. There are positive and negative. There are laws that are dependent on the ancient sacrificial cult and therefore no longer applicable and there are other laws that are only incumbent upon those living in the land of Israel.

Genesis gives rise to only three commandments. Exodus provides us with the familiar commandments to observe Passover and Shabbat as well as the demand that we not oppress the stranger. Leviticus gives us the laws of keeping kosher and those surrounding the incomprehensible sacrifice of animals. Numbers commands us to wear a tallis and Deuteronomy to give tzedakah and recite the Shema.

Deuteronomy provides us with the most commandments, 200 of the 613. In this week’s Torah portion we find 72, far more than any other portion. There are many interesting commands detailed here. “If you chance upon a bird’s nest with fledglings or eggs and the mother sitting over them, do not take the mother with her young. If you see your fellow’s donkey or ox fallen on the road, do not ignore it. When you gather the grapes of your vineyard, do not pick it over again; that shall go to the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow.”

Most interesting is the following: “When you build a new house, you shall make a parapet for your roof, so that you do not bring blood guilt on your house if anyone should fall from it.” On Long Island we don’t have too many homes with rooftop parapets. And so I wondered, to what can this apply? I began thinking about fences. But here on Long Island we build fences for privacy rather than protection. We build them to keep the neighbors out rather than to protect our neighbors from harm.

The Biblical ethos is instead that each of us is responsible for our neighbors. The parapet is akin to pool fences. We have an obligation to protect our neighbors. In our culture we remain fixated on the rights of privacy and shielding our lives from our neighbors. The Bible insists that we must not remain indifferent to our neighbors.

All of the Torah is built on the idea that we are responsible for others. It is not constructed around our rights and privileges but rather around our duties and obligations, most especially to our neighbors.

The required list may no longer be 613 items long but the point is the same. Our neighbors are not to be ignored. The fences we build should not be about keeping our lives to ourselves. They must instead be about our responsibility to others.

That is the essence of the mitzvot.

Shoftim, Justice and Peace

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 too often 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. We continue to witness simmering racial tensions explode into view. 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 still far too many without adequate jobs. We must create more employment opportunities. These are but a few examples of the many challenges our society faces. 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 and our community. 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. Hillel said: “Be among the disciples of Aaron, loving peace and pursuing peace.” (Avot 1:12) 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 at large. Pursue peace for family and friends. As the High Holidays approach I pledge to seek justice for our society, and make peace among family and friends.

Elul and Preparing for Change

Saturday begins the Hebrew month of Elul and therefore the start of the High Holiday season. Below you will find my article, recently published by Reform Judaism, reflecting on this moment: How the Torah Sets the Stage for Real-Life Struggle.

Real Torah is about preparation.

Take Moses' life as an example. First of all, Moses does not even begin his true calling until, at the age of 80, he leads the people from Egypt. We know incomparably little about his first 80 years. In fact, the majority of the Torah details his, and the people's, life from the Exodus forward. What little we do know about those years is more the stuff of legend than Torah. We do read there that Moses did not even want the job.

The 40 years of wandering and struggle are a prelude to Moses' dream of leading the people into the Promised Land - and yet he is denied this dream. Moses, who fails to achieve his lifelong ambition and singular goal, is allowed only to stand on the other side of the Jordan and glimpse the dream from afar. He is not allowed to touch the land of Israel, a privilege instead granted to his successor, Joshua.

The Torah suggests a reason for God's harsh judgment. Moses gets angry one too many times, losing his temper with the people. He smashes a rock when they complain, yet again, about the lack of water. Because of this action, his career concludes on the precipice of a dream, and his life ends with its goal unfulfilled and its ambition unrealized. He dies at the age of 120 years.

It is Joshua who leads the people into the land. We discover this not in the Torah, but instead in the Book of Joshua. The Torah concludes on the other side of the dream - in essence, on the wrong side of the river. It never fulfills its stated goal. After Moses' death, we roll it back to creation and we begin the preparation all over again.

The Torah is not about the fulfillment of dreams. It is instead about preparation - and it must therefore remain incomplete.

If we are to discover ourselves in its words and in between its lines, the Torah must never be perfectly fulfilled. This is real living. Perfection is an unrealizable ambition. Even the life of Moses, the prophet of prophets, falls short, which is why the tradition calls him not "Moses the prophet," but instead "Moses, our teacher." We learn from his life.

Perhaps the Torah's very incompleteness is a hint, then, of its perfection. It offers a perfect teaching: We wander. We struggle. And we prepare.

During the forthcoming days of the month of Elul, Jews the world over will turn inward. We will count 40 days from the first of Elul until Yom Kippur. They mirror the days Moses spent on the mountaintop communing with God. They are reminiscent of the 40 years when Moses lived Torah. Those years are, in fact, the majority of our scroll's verses.

These 40 days are intended for us to prepare for the High Holidays. We are meant to use these days to focus on repentance, change our ways, and most especially seek out those people we have wronged. We can only reach out to God if we first repair our human relationships. Yom Kippur is useless without the Torah of these 40 days of preparation, without first reaching out to others.

And yet, like the dream that Moses only sees from afar, we learn that teshuvah shleymah, complete repentance, is a distant, if not impossible, goal. According to Maimonides, such certain judgments about the mending of our ways can only be made if we find ourselves in the exact same situation, facing the exact same temptation but this time making a different decision. Even repentance is incomplete.

Still we continue to prepare. And this is where Torah is discovered.

We hold a dream in our hearts. We can improve. We can change. Friendships can be repaired. Relationships can be healed. We count our days in preparation for that dream. We wander through the Torah toward that dream.

Before we know it, our High Holiday prayers will conclude, and the gates will close.

We take comfort in the scroll that has no end. The dream seems distant. The preparations must begin again in earnest.

Our Torah is learned. The Torah is relearned.

Ekev and Feeding Compassion

The Talmud reports that Rav Yehudah said in the name of Rav: It is forbidden to eat before feeding one's animal. (Brachot 40a)

What is the import of this ruling? It would be cruel to eat in front of our hungry animals and pets. Our concern for God’s creation extends to animals as well as to humans. Compassion is taught by caring for pets. Attending to their cries, and pangs of hunger, molds a caring heart.

The rabbis derive this law from the following verse: "I will give grass in your fields for your cattle, and then, you shall eat and be satisfied." (Deuteronomy 11:15) Because the Torah speaks first about cattle and then about human beings, the rabbis rule that we must feed our animals before satisfying our own hunger.

It is fascinating that the ancient rabbis derive this teaching from the order of the verse’s words. Their reasoning reminds us that we live in a world not only where words matter but also the order of these words. They continue to teach us that compassion begins by reaching out to others first. Only then can we reach out to ourselves. Only then do we become sated.

Can compassion really be taught by sprinkling a few crumbs of food in a fish tank or by filling a dog’s or cat’s bowl with food before sitting down to our own meals? The Talmud’s answer is yes. Yes, absolutely. Before my hunger is satisfied I must first provide for others, I must first reach out to others. I must, in this case, reach down to those who cannot care for themselves, and provide for them. It begins by pausing, and noting the needs of other creatures.

Our spiritual hunger is sated when we turn to others, when we open our hands to all of God’s creatures.

Vaetchanan and Swimming Torah

This week we find the words of the V’Ahavta in the week’s portion. “And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul and with all your might. Take to heart these instructions which I charge you this day... (Deuteronomy 6:4-9)

Two words found in the V’Ahavta summarize life’s most important work: v’shinantam l’vanecha—and you shall teach them to your children. On the surface the meaning of this verse seems obvious. Parents are obligated to teach their children everything. The Talmud explores the specifics. Parents must teach their children Torah. Okay we expected that answer from the great repository of Jewish wisdom. The Talmud continues: parents are required to teach their children a craft. Why? Rabbi Judah responds: Those who do not teach them a craft teach them thievery. And some say: to teach them to swim too. Why swimming? It is because their lives may depend on it. (Kiddushin 29b)

I love that ancient rabbinic statement—and not just because I am an avid swimmer. It is instead because it encapsulates much of what I believe our tradition is supposed to represent. Judaism sees Torah not only as the imparting of values but also of providing our children with practical skills (craft) and even with survival skills (swimming). To raise up our children into independent adults they must be able to discern right from wrong on their own. They must be able to fend for themselves, facing challenges—again on their own. They must be able to survive without us—yet again, on their own.

Sure you can swim with friends but no one, not even parents, can do the swimming for you.

The teaching of values, the imparting of traditions can continue between parents and children well into adulthood but children must carve out their own path and make their own way. They must meander through life’s struggles on their own. Today it sometimes appears otherwise. Nonetheless I continue to believe that despite technological innovations, a parent might not be, and perhaps should not be, a phone call (or text) away. Let go. Let them swim into uncharted waters. Trust in your teachings. Take faith in your Torah.

Curiously the Torah uses shinantam for teach rather than the more common m’lamed. This particular word derives its meaning from the Hebrew, to repeat. Why would the Torah use the word, repeat? My repeated admonitions to my children are more often than not my worst parenting moments. “Do your homework. Clean your room. Call your grandparents.” These exhortations are greeted with nonchalance and more often than not go unheeded. I am the only one who hears my repeated words. “Don’t swim so far from shore!”

Then what could the Torah intend? If repetition is the worst teaching method then what could this unusual word choice mean? An insight must be hidden in the verse’s words. The best lessons are those that our children see us do repeatedly. Those actions that they see us do are the best Torah we can offer our children. This is what will prove most lasting.

This is what the Torah portion means by its words, “Repeat them to your children.” The best teaching is what our children see us do, over and over again. If you want your children to be generous, give tzedakah. If you want your children to be learned, then let them see you read and even take classes. If you want your children to be committed to their health then let them see you exercise. If you want them to find Judaism meaningful then bring Judaism into your own lives.

Over and over, again and again, this is what our children must see us do. They discern what is most important by observing what we do over and over, again and again.

So let them see you swim.  And get them swimming on their own.

Take this to heart. Our children are supposed to swim farther and faster than we ever could have managed, and than we ever could have imagined.

Tisha B'Av, Tragedies and Celebrating

According to tradition Tisha B’Av marks far more than the destructions of the First Temple in 586 B.C.E. by the Babylonians and the Second Temple by the Romans in 70 C.E. The Mishnah adds even more calamities. On this day the ten spies returned to Moses with a negative report about the land of Israel, sowing discontent among the people and ensuring our wandering would last 40 years. On this day in 135 C.E. the Romans crushed the Bar Kokhba revolt, killing over 500,000 Jews and leveling the city of Jerusalem and its Temple Mount. In 135 our wanderings outside of the land began yet again and did not of course end until the modern era with the birth of the State of Israel.

Later tradition suggests even more tragedies occurred on Tisha B’Av. The First Crusade in which nearly one million Jews were killed in Europe began on the ninth of Av. On this day as well, the Jews were expelled from England in 1290, France in 1306 and Spain in 1492. On this day, in 1941, Heinrich Himmler (y”s) received approval for the Nazis’ murderous final solution. And in 1942 the liquidation of the Warsaw ghetto began on Tisha B’Av.

How can this be? How can all these tragedies begin on this same day? To be honest I am skeptical about the historicity of these ascriptions. It is doubtful that all these events did in fact begin on Tisha B’Av. So the question is what does this conflation of all these tragedies into one day say about our tradition. Why does our tradition fold all these calamitous events into Tisha B’Av?

Over the centuries the narrative is further enhanced. Our victimization comes to revolve around this one day. There are those who even see in these tragedies the sins of our people. Our victimization then becomes our responsibility. These tragedies become our doing. The Talmud blames the destruction of the Temple on sinat chinam, baseless hatred among Jews.

Thus Tisha B’Av is the antithesis to modernity and Zionism. We have now a sovereign nation. We have now a strong State of Israel. Of course there are threats. But with sovereignty we will no longer be victims. We are no longer at the mercy of foreign powers. It might, especially during these days, appear otherwise but Zionism teaches that history is now ours to be written. Our generation can defend ourselves like no prior generation. Zionist philosophy refuses to see the Jewish people as eternal victims. Current threats must not transform us once again into seeing ourselves as victims.

Perhaps that is the intuition of our tradition. Why one day? To suggest that one day is enough. Yes there are other days associated with historical events (Tzom Gedaliah, Tenth of Tevet and Seventeenth of Tammuz), but these are minor fast days and do not have the import of Tisha B’Av. And so this single day suggests that one day is in fact enough to beat our chests and lament our losses.

The hallmark of our tradition is that it codifies joy over mourning, celebration over tragedy. A single day is enough to mourn the many catastrophes that have befallen our people for we could in fact fill a calendar year with a list of tragedies. And so myth and memory are folded together and wrapped into the Ninth of Av. We observe all calamities on one day. The rest of the days in the calendar are reserved to affirm the present and look toward the future.

The tradition suggests that if every today becomes the eighth of Av with its trepidation and fear and every tomorrow the ninth of Av with its mourning and lament, we will be unable to celebrate, we will be unable to sing. And then we will be unable, or unwilling, to march forward toward the tenth of Av.

One day is enough to look back and cry. The remainder must be left to celebrate.

Mattot-Masei, History, Hope and Worries about Iran

On the day that images from Pluto were beamed back to earth from 3 billion miles away, we are debating the inner workings of something far closer to home, the intricacies of the human heart. It is around our view of the heart that the arguments about the recent Iran nuclear deal spin.

President Obama appears to believe that within every human being there is a seed of evil and that therefore all people are redeemable because all are sinful. It is this view that colors his foreign policy decisions and in particular his approach to Iran. Prime Minister Netanyahu by contrast believes that some are unredeemable, that there are those so inclined toward evil that we can only say, “Do not cross this line.” While hope might be on Obama’s side, history stands on Netanyahu’s.

I do not trust the intentions of Iran’s leaders...

This post continues on The Times of Israel.

Pinchas, Shas, Reform Jews and Our Inheritance

Yesterday Israel’s Religious Affairs Minister David Azoulay, from the ultra-Orthodox Shas party, suggested that Reform Jews should not be considered Jewish. He said, “Let's just say there's a problem as soon as a Reform Jew stops following the religion of Israel. I can't allow myself to say that such a person is a Jew."

This week we read about Zelophehad’s daughters. They approach Moses demanding that the law of inheritance be revised so that their father’s memory will endure. They say, “Our father died in the wilderness…. Let not our father’s name be lost to his clan just because he had no son! Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen!” (Numbers 27) Justice demands the law be changed.

Right wing parties often criticize Reform, accusing it of picking and choosing from the tradition...

This post continues on The Times of Israel.

Balak and the Eye of Faith

I am presently in Jerusalem studying at the Shalom Hartman Institute where I am once again participating in its annual conference. I feel privileged to return to this place year after year to recharge my spiritual batteries and reacquaint myself with the tradition I so love. I am surrounded by colleagues who share my love of learning, debate and even argument, as well as devotion to Israel. I remain grateful to my congregation and its leadership for allowing me this time for rejuvenation.

Given this yearly pilgrimage to Jerusalem, I realize that for the past fifteen years I have only observed July 4th from afar. Every year I have found myself here in Jerusalem for July 4th. I have also by the way marked Yom Haatzmaut, Israel’s Independence Day, in May while at home on Long Island. It occurs to me that these days look far different from a distance. I cannot of course see the fireworks from here, but I wonder is it possible that the miracles of Israel and the United States shimmer more brightly from afar? From this distance, I only see successes rather than struggles. When nearby the flames appear far more intense, and perhaps even frightening. From afar I tend only to see the glow.

Balaam looked out at Israel and rather than curse the Jewish people as his king had commanded him, offered words of blessing: “Mah tovu…

This post continues on The Times of Israel.

Hukkat, Forgiveness and Righteous Anger

The rabbis imagine King Solomon, considered the wisest figure in the Bible, saying, “I have labored to understand the word of God and have understood it all, except for the ritual of the red heifer.” (Numbers Rabbah 19:3)

I struggle to understand a great many things. In particular I labor to understand the events of this past week.

These words echo in my thoughts. “I forgive you! You took something very precious from me. I will never talk to her again. I will never, ever hold her again. But I forgive you. And have mercy on your soul.”

Nadine Collier, the daughter of 70-year-old Ethel Lance, one of the nine victims murdered at the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, uttered these words. They were said at the bond hearing of confessed murderer Dylann Roof. I find these sentiments both remarkable and incomprehensible.

Whereas forgiveness is central to Christian teachings, although the depths of such forgiveness may very well exceed that of many Christians, justice is paramount to Judaism. How can murder ever be forgiven? How can a human being offer something that belongs to God? And yet, forgiveness of another, and especially of such an egregious crime, prevents someone from wallowing in anger.

Then again, the lack of justice, and the familiar repetition of such massacres, gnaws at my soul. I turn angry. Once again the combination of guns, mental illness and racism have transformed hatreds into massacres. Add Charleston to the list of Newtown, Oak Creek and Aurora to name a few.

Forgiveness has its virtues. It is a balm for the soul. Perhaps it allows the mourners to remain closer to those they lost. Their forgiveness makes more room for their remembrances. They can remember their loved ones. They can mourn their losses rather than fixating on the justice that continues to appear ever more distant.

Commentators suggest that the bizarre sacrificial ritual of the red heifer, detailed in this week’s portion, is a method for safeguarding the ritual cleanliness of the priesthood. It guarantees that his sins might not despoil the sacrifices. We no longer offer sacrifices. We have no method for ensuring our purity. All human beings are given to wrongdoing. We cannot be rescued from our wrongs by the sprinkling of blood. Instead we must engage in repentance. The turning of the heart is within our hands. Forgiveness, however, remains in the hands of others. Forgiveness is elusive.

I return to my anger. Some, and perhaps these days we might say far too many,are given to evil.

When will we say, “Enough?” Is removing the Confederate flag enough? Symbols of hate are indeed powerful. But such hatred must be banished from the heart. How can we transform our anger into action and address the constellation of problems (and not just their symbols) that make this a recurring tale.

Even our president has been relegated to the role of chief priest. He leads us in mourning. He intones our tragedies. But such massacres are not tragedies. A tragedy is unavoidable. I remain convinced that we can do so much more to eliminate the litany of such mass murders. Let us say, “Enough!” Let us be stirred to action.

Anger has its merits. It can serve to build a better society. Let our anger be transformed into righteousness. Forgiveness remains with God.

Korah, Arguments and Disagreements

“Jane, you ignorant…” With these words Dan Aykroyd would begin his counterpoint to Jane Curtin’s point on Saturday Night Live’s Weekend Update. We of course knew this line was coming, but still we laughed. Why? Because we understood that this is not how people are supposed to argue and debate.

This week we read about Korah and his rebellion against Moses and his leadership. History deems it a rebellion rather than a revolution. Here is why. Korah’s followers exclaim, “Is it not enough that you brought us from a land flowing with milk and honey to have us die in the wilderness, that you would also lord over us?” (Numbers 16:12) They do not argue, they attack. They infer that Egypt, the land of their slavery, is the Promised Land. They lash out at Moses.

I am sure there were legitimate criticisms of Moses’ leadership style. He is overly passionate and given to fits of anger. He is hesitant to share the burden of leadership. He, and he alone, is privileged to speak face to face with God. And yet Korah does not offer such critiques. He attacks the person.

The rabbis draw from this story a lesson about arguments and disagreements. They teach that machloket l’shem shamayim, an argument for the sake of heaven, is how we uncover the truth and strengthen our commitments. “An argument for the sake of heaven will have lasting value, but an argument not for heaven’s sake will not endure. What is an example of an argument for heaven’s sake? The debates of Hillel and Shammai. What is an argument not for heaven’s sake? The rebellion of Korah and his associates.” (Avot 5:19)

Rabbis Hillel and Shammai did not agree on much. Hillel was forgiving and open-minded. Shammai was strict and demanding. The Jewish people required both rabbis. The Jewish people survived because of both of their schools of thought, the Jewish community was strengthened by their divergent interpretations. The truth was uncovered in their fiery debates and frequent disagreements. Hillel and Shammai shared a love of Torah and a devotion to the Jewish people. Both admired the other. These rabbis compromised for the sake of community.

And while I do not wish to return to my parent’s basement and what my imaginations have fashioned into a mythic past in which people only argued for heaven’s sake, I do feel that we have entered a new era in which SNL’s comedy skit has proven sadly prescient. It appears that we argue to destroy the other rather than learning from the debate and dialogue. Today it appears that ideology is more important than community, principles more important than country.

We suggest that those who sit across from us, that those who disagree with us, do not love the United States, the State of Israel or the Jewish people. How many times do we say, “If you really loved Israel then you would not vote for… If you really loved the United States then you would vote for…” Such statements are not arguments. They are attacks. Such exclamations do not lead to uncovering of truths, but instead to its unraveling.

I hold different commitments than I did when I sat watching SNL. I have changed my views. Why? Because I was open to the opinions of others. I did not turn away from disagreement. I listened to those I love and to those who share my passions. Why is it that changing one’s mind or adapting one’s views is viewed as betrayal and disloyalty rather than the badge of honor our community and nation require?

There are many ways to love the State of Israel. There are many ways to love the United States. There are even different ways to love the Jewish community. I do not hold a cornerstone on truth. It is instead teased out in discussion and dialogue.

We have a choice to make. We can be like Korah and Moses or instead Hillel and Shammai. If we refuse to sit across the table from those with whom we passionately disagree then we cut ourselves off from learning.

Truth can only emerge through loving disagreements.

On a tragic note we join together in sadness and prayer for the community of Charleston in which a gunman murdered nine people while praying in church. We pray for those injured, murdered and grieving. We join together as well as in indignation, and even anger, that we live in an age in which schools and houses of worship are not the sanctuaries of safety and security that they should rightfully be. We must do more to safeguard our nation from such murderous hate.

Shelach Lecha, Sailing and Fear

This past Sunday I participated in the annual blessing of the fleet. The clergy from Oyster Bay each took turns blessing the boats that paraded in front of the dock. We blessed kayakers and clammers, yachts and sailboats. We offered spontaneous prayers asking God to provide first and foremost safety and protection, but also sun, wind and enjoyment. In the case of the clammer I prayed for a bountiful harvest as well. (I am sure there is a joke to be found there. Did you hear about the time the rabbi prayed for clams?) It was a beautiful afternoon. There was comradery in our prayers. There was joy on the vessels.

John Augustus Shedd, an early 20th century American author, writes: “A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.”

Setting sail presents unexpected dangers. And yet how do we forge new paths and discover new truths if we don’t set out?

Can a blessing offer protection for the journey?

The tradition prescribes the traveler’s prayer: “May it be Your will, Lord our God and God of our ancestors, to guide us in peace, sustain us in peace, to lead us to our desired destination in health and joy and peace, and to bring us home in peace. Save us from every enemy and disaster on the way, and from all calamities that threaten the world….”

Only the harbor offers protection. Only staying at home offers security.

The spies return from scouting the land of Israel with a report: “The country that we traversed and scouted is one that devours its settlers. All the people that we saw in it are men of great size… and we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them.” (Numbers 13:32)

Joshua tries to reassure the Israelites. “Caleb hushes the people.” Moses becomes disenchanted. God grows angry. The people’s fears will not be quelled.

God decrees that they must remain in the wilderness for forty years. Only those born in freedom in the wilderness will journey to the Promised Land. It appears that the heart of a slave only knows fear.

They are unable to set sail. They remain forever in the harbor. They deny themselves the blessings of this new land. They see giants. They view themselves as tiny grasshoppers. They do not take to heart “[the land] does indeed flow with milk and honey!” (Numbers 13:27) They deny themselves discoveries. They remain forever in the known. The future must be for their children to seize.

Fear paralyzes. It distorts our vision. It discolors our dreams. It dissuades us from setting out. How many remain afraid to travel to Israel today?

We remain at home. We stay within the harbor.

If only we could seize the courage to go forward. If only we had faith in the words of our prayers. “Lead us to our destination in peace.”

Peace remains in God’s hands. It remains within our grasp to lift the anchor and raise the sails.

Behaalotecha, Shepherds and Wandering

The greatest of our biblical heroes begin their careers as simple shepherds. Why? It is because shepherding demonstrates the necessary credentials to transform a group of distinct individuals into a community. Abraham, Moses and David gently guide their animals throughout the wilderness, even taking note of a stray sheep or goat. Even God is praised with the words: “The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me to still waters…” (Psalm 23:1)

And yet the people often refuse to be guided. The Book of Numbers is a record of these refusals, and rebellions. Moses struggles to lead the Jewish people forward; they over and over again wish to go backward. “The riffraff in their midst felt a gluttonous craving; and then the Israelites wept and said, ‘If only we had meat to eat! We remember the fish that we used to eat free in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic. Now our gullets are shriveled. There is nothing at all!’” (Numbers 11:4)

They would rather be penned in as slaves than wandering the wilderness free. How quickly they forget their sufferings and pains! They cling to fanciful imaginations of yesterday. This pull of a mythic past is so strong that they long for what must have been a sliver of fish and wilted leeks. They prefer the certainty of yesterday’s morsel rather than the bounty of God’s manna. Moses grows angry. He struggles to urge them forward. They only want to stay put. They wish to remain in the past.

The Book Numbers elucidates this tension. On the one hand we read of Moses urging them toward the promise and the dream, although the unfamiliar and unknown, and on the other the people clinging to their memories of the past. Memories appear more certain. How quickly yesterday’s troubles become forgotten. How quickly the imagination refashions the past. A meager ration of cucumbers and melons become a meal.

The hand of the shepherd guides them forward. They rebel. “If only we had meat to eat!”

Then again perhaps the true meaning of our heroes being shepherds is that a shepherd is first and foremost a wanderer. I admit that this may very well be my singular theme, but perhaps the spiritual message of the Torah is that God wants us to remain forever wanderers. Moses points to the future. The people look to the past. God affirms the present. Keep wandering. Keep moving, even if in circles. That of course is the Torah’s primary story line. “And whenever the cloud lifted from the Tent, the Israelites would set out on their journey accordingly…” (Numbers 9:17) The Torah is primarily a record of forty years of wandering.

God apparently does not want us to become attached to any one place or location. We remain in each encampment but a few days. The cloud of glory lifts. The people move on. In the Torah the Promised Land remains but a dream.

The dream is held at a distance. We continue to affirm the present.

Thus the defining book of the Torah is Numbers. In fact its name in Hebrew is “Bamidbar—in the wilderness.” The wilderness belongs to no nation. It belongs to no one—except God. It is as if to say the Torah is found both nowhere and anywhere.

And it is there that we must remain—forever wandering, forever moving. Our holiest of books is defined by the midbar, the wilderness. It is defined by a scrappy landscape in which animals roam free although gently guided by the hand of their shepherd.

It is also the place in which our people wander—but free.

The Torah is discovered nowhere and anywhere.  It is found instead in wandering.