Foreshadowing Our Concern
Joseph’s story mirrors what will soon happen to the Israelites. Joseph is imprisoned in Egypt. The Israelites are later enslaved by Pharaoh.
The Torah offers hints of what it is to come. The Book of Genesis foretells the travails of Exodus.
When Joseph realizes that his brothers have changed and this time stand up to protect their younger brother Benjamin rather than selling him into slavery as they did to Joseph earlier, Joseph breaks down and cries. He reveals himself to his brothers, saying, “I am your brother Joseph, he whom you sold into Egypt. Now, do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me here; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you.” (Genesis 45)
The Torah relates: “His sobs were so loud that the Egyptians could hear, and so the news reached Pharaoh’s palace.” Hints appear. They point toward later events.
In Exodus we read, “The Israelites were groaning under the bondage and cried out; and their cry for help from the bondage rose up to God.” (Exodus 2)
Look at the contrast. Take note of the hints.
Pharaoh ignores Joseph’s cries. He is indifferent to the Israelites’ pain. He turns aside from the suffering and pain he causes.
God is attuned to our pain. “God looked upon the Israelites, and God took notice of them.”
The Psalmist concurs: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; those crushed in spirit God delivers.” (Psalm 34)
And I am left wondering about these hints.
Are we more like Pharaoh who turns away from the cries around us? And are we likewise responsible for a measure of this suffering?
Or are we more like God who is forever attuned to the multitude of broken hearts?
Let us turn inward and resolve. Can we become more like God? Can we become more attentive to pain?
The Torah offers hints of what it is to come. The Book of Genesis foretells the travails of Exodus.
When Joseph realizes that his brothers have changed and this time stand up to protect their younger brother Benjamin rather than selling him into slavery as they did to Joseph earlier, Joseph breaks down and cries. He reveals himself to his brothers, saying, “I am your brother Joseph, he whom you sold into Egypt. Now, do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me here; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you.” (Genesis 45)
The Torah relates: “His sobs were so loud that the Egyptians could hear, and so the news reached Pharaoh’s palace.” Hints appear. They point toward later events.
In Exodus we read, “The Israelites were groaning under the bondage and cried out; and their cry for help from the bondage rose up to God.” (Exodus 2)
Look at the contrast. Take note of the hints.
Pharaoh ignores Joseph’s cries. He is indifferent to the Israelites’ pain. He turns aside from the suffering and pain he causes.
God is attuned to our pain. “God looked upon the Israelites, and God took notice of them.”
The Psalmist concurs: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; those crushed in spirit God delivers.” (Psalm 34)
And I am left wondering about these hints.
Are we more like Pharaoh who turns away from the cries around us? And are we likewise responsible for a measure of this suffering?
Or are we more like God who is forever attuned to the multitude of broken hearts?
Let us turn inward and resolve. Can we become more like God? Can we become more attentive to pain?
Hanukkah’s Unwanted Miracles
In Israel the dreidel’s phrase shifts. One word changes from there to here. It reads “a great miracle happened here.” There creates distance. Here denotes an intimacy with the events of the past. I am wondering if this is a good thing. When it comes to miracles does being “here” become intoxicating?
I am back where it all happened. And I have returned to where it is again happening. No matter how many times I visit Israel, it is a privilege to be here. It is an unparalleled blessing to live in this age alongside the sovereign Jewish state of Israel.
And yet, I find myself worrying. Can the past overwhelm the present and begin to suffocate the future?
There is a strain of Jewish thought that was once minor that I fear is becoming major. You can hear it in the medieval thinker Yehuda Halevi who argued that there is something special in the Jewish soul and that when combined with the land of Israel results in prophecy. It flows through Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook the first chief rabbi of British controlled Palestine who saw the holiness of the land above all else.
You hear their thinking more today. It is the result of what happens when the miracles of yesterday begin to be felt today…
I am back where it all happened. And I have returned to where it is again happening. No matter how many times I visit Israel, it is a privilege to be here. It is an unparalleled blessing to live in this age alongside the sovereign Jewish state of Israel.
And yet, I find myself worrying. Can the past overwhelm the present and begin to suffocate the future?
There is a strain of Jewish thought that was once minor that I fear is becoming major. You can hear it in the medieval thinker Yehuda Halevi who argued that there is something special in the Jewish soul and that when combined with the land of Israel results in prophecy. It flows through Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook the first chief rabbi of British controlled Palestine who saw the holiness of the land above all else.
You hear their thinking more today. It is the result of what happens when the miracles of yesterday begin to be felt today…
Hanukkah's Freedoms
A great miracle happened there. These words are part of Hanukkah’s essence and the phrase the dreidel’s letters point us toward.
Thousands of years ago the Maccabees fought against oppressors who persecuted our ancestors, prohibited Jewish practice and desecrated Jerusalem’s holy Temple. When the Maccabees succeeded in their fight, they rededicated the Temple to Jewish prayer and instituted our holiday of Hanukkah.
In their eight-day long dedication ceremony, they rejoiced that Jews could once again freely acknowledge their faith. We continue to celebrate the Maccabees’ achievements and mark this holiday of Hanukkah every year with the lighting of the menorah, the playing of dreidel and the eating of latkes or sufganiyot (jelly donuts).
On each successive night we light one more candle as the miracle increases. We recall that during Hanukkah’s first celebration we did not know if the oil would last for the requisite eight days. The increasing miracle, and the growing light, dispels our worries.
Hanukkah is about the freedom to celebrate our Judaism. Is this miracle enough? This holiday reminds us that we can proudly proclaim our Jewish faith in a world where our Jewish identities are sometimes demeaned, and other times begrudged us. In the face of mounting antisemitism and hate, this year’s Hanukkah has taken on new meaning and additional import. We must take up the Maccabees’ resolve.
On Saturday, the cantor and I participated in Oyster Bay’s holiday festival. The focus of the festivities was of course the lighting of the Christmas tree and as far as the hundreds of children in attendance were concerned, Santa Claus riding in on a fire truck. And yet, I remain grateful that town officials asked us to participate and wanted to display a Hanukkah menorah alongside the tree. I am grateful that they invited me to speak and the cantor to sing.
We can dwell on the alarming increase in antisemitism, or we can focus on Saturday’s events. In Oyster Bay our neighbors go to great effort to make us feel welcome. Here we are made to feel invited. We are asked to display a menorah. We are asked to erect the symbol of our faith alongside other people’s.
Here we can proudly declare our Jewish faith to others. On this Hanukkah we celebrate the freedom to celebrate our Jewish faith. We proclaim that in this blessed place we can celebrate all faiths. And when we are not made to feel welcome or when we notice other people’s faiths cast aside, we must take up the Maccabees’ cause and fight to make sure that all can freely celebrate their faiths.
That is Hanukkah’s true essence. And that miracle remains in our hands.
Thousands of years ago the Maccabees fought against oppressors who persecuted our ancestors, prohibited Jewish practice and desecrated Jerusalem’s holy Temple. When the Maccabees succeeded in their fight, they rededicated the Temple to Jewish prayer and instituted our holiday of Hanukkah.
In their eight-day long dedication ceremony, they rejoiced that Jews could once again freely acknowledge their faith. We continue to celebrate the Maccabees’ achievements and mark this holiday of Hanukkah every year with the lighting of the menorah, the playing of dreidel and the eating of latkes or sufganiyot (jelly donuts).
On each successive night we light one more candle as the miracle increases. We recall that during Hanukkah’s first celebration we did not know if the oil would last for the requisite eight days. The increasing miracle, and the growing light, dispels our worries.
Hanukkah is about the freedom to celebrate our Judaism. Is this miracle enough? This holiday reminds us that we can proudly proclaim our Jewish faith in a world where our Jewish identities are sometimes demeaned, and other times begrudged us. In the face of mounting antisemitism and hate, this year’s Hanukkah has taken on new meaning and additional import. We must take up the Maccabees’ resolve.
On Saturday, the cantor and I participated in Oyster Bay’s holiday festival. The focus of the festivities was of course the lighting of the Christmas tree and as far as the hundreds of children in attendance were concerned, Santa Claus riding in on a fire truck. And yet, I remain grateful that town officials asked us to participate and wanted to display a Hanukkah menorah alongside the tree. I am grateful that they invited me to speak and the cantor to sing.
We can dwell on the alarming increase in antisemitism, or we can focus on Saturday’s events. In Oyster Bay our neighbors go to great effort to make us feel welcome. Here we are made to feel invited. We are asked to display a menorah. We are asked to erect the symbol of our faith alongside other people’s.
Here we can proudly declare our Jewish faith to others. On this Hanukkah we celebrate the freedom to celebrate our Jewish faith. We proclaim that in this blessed place we can celebrate all faiths. And when we are not made to feel welcome or when we notice other people’s faiths cast aside, we must take up the Maccabees’ cause and fight to make sure that all can freely celebrate their faiths.
That is Hanukkah’s true essence. And that miracle remains in our hands.
Silenced No More
Dinah, Jacob’s only daughter, never speaks.
The Torah is also silent about the meaning of her name. When a son is born, we read for example the words of Leah, “God has given me a choice gift; this time my husband will exalt me for I have borne him six sons. So she named him Zebulun.” Regarding Dinah, the Torah is succinct. “Last, Leah bore Jacob a daughter, and named her Dinah.” (Genesis 30)
Our Bible silences Dinah.
This week we read a harrowing tale. We confront the story of how Dinah is raped.
“And Shechem son of Hamor the Hivite, the prince of the land, saw Dinah; he took her and lay with her: he forced her.” (Genesis 34)
Her father, and brothers, turn away from Dinah. They are filled with rage. They suggest that Shechem can marry Dinah if he and his fellow townsmen become circumcised. Shechem agrees. The townsmen follow their prince’s lead. Then when they are recovering from their circumcisions, the brothers kill Shechem and slaughter the townsmen.
And how does Jacob respond? He says to his sons, “You have stirred up disaster for me, making me reek among the people of the land. For I am few in number; they will band together against me and strike me, and I will be wiped out, I and my household!”
Jacob does not speak with Dinah. The brothers do not try to console their sister after she is raped. Our forefathers worry more about themselves and their own reputations.
Recently I watched the movie, “She Said,” about The New York Times investigation of Harvey Weinstein. The reporters, Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey, spend considerable time and energy convincing women to speak out and share their stories of rape and sexual harassment. These women are weary and trepidatious. They are silenced.
Few want to listen. The culture urges them to keep silent. Often, they feel they are somehow to blame for what was done to them. The enablers are many and varied.
The name Dinah means judgment.
I am left wondering.
Is judgment too often silenced?
Are we complicit in this silencing?
I resolve.
We must raise our voices and ask, "How can Dinah be heard?”
The Torah is also silent about the meaning of her name. When a son is born, we read for example the words of Leah, “God has given me a choice gift; this time my husband will exalt me for I have borne him six sons. So she named him Zebulun.” Regarding Dinah, the Torah is succinct. “Last, Leah bore Jacob a daughter, and named her Dinah.” (Genesis 30)
Our Bible silences Dinah.
This week we read a harrowing tale. We confront the story of how Dinah is raped.
“And Shechem son of Hamor the Hivite, the prince of the land, saw Dinah; he took her and lay with her: he forced her.” (Genesis 34)
Her father, and brothers, turn away from Dinah. They are filled with rage. They suggest that Shechem can marry Dinah if he and his fellow townsmen become circumcised. Shechem agrees. The townsmen follow their prince’s lead. Then when they are recovering from their circumcisions, the brothers kill Shechem and slaughter the townsmen.
And how does Jacob respond? He says to his sons, “You have stirred up disaster for me, making me reek among the people of the land. For I am few in number; they will band together against me and strike me, and I will be wiped out, I and my household!”
Jacob does not speak with Dinah. The brothers do not try to console their sister after she is raped. Our forefathers worry more about themselves and their own reputations.
Recently I watched the movie, “She Said,” about The New York Times investigation of Harvey Weinstein. The reporters, Jodi Kantor and Megan Twohey, spend considerable time and energy convincing women to speak out and share their stories of rape and sexual harassment. These women are weary and trepidatious. They are silenced.
Few want to listen. The culture urges them to keep silent. Often, they feel they are somehow to blame for what was done to them. The enablers are many and varied.
The name Dinah means judgment.
I am left wondering.
Is judgment too often silenced?
Are we complicit in this silencing?
I resolve.
We must raise our voices and ask, "How can Dinah be heard?”
Journey Here, Journey Now
The poet David Whyte writes:
Pilgrim is a word that accurately describes the average human being; someone on their way somewhere else, but someone never quite knowing whether the destination or the path stands first in importance; someone who underneath it all doesn't quite understand from whence or from where their next bite of bread will come, someone dependent on help from absolute strangers and from those who travel with them. Most of all, a pilgrim is someone abroad in a world of impending revelation where something is about to happen.
Likewise, one of the Torah’s great themes is that of journeying. We are traveling to a place (the land of Israel) to which we never fully arrive. And when our patriarchs do arrive at this long sought-after destination their arrival proves only temporary.
Our arrival always remains unfulfilled. The destination remains but a dream.
This week, we discover Jacob who becomes Israel is forever journeying.
The young Jacob is now on the run after deceiving his father Isaac and tricking his brother Esau out of the birthright. He is rightly terrified Esau might kill him and so sets out on a journey to his mother’s hometown. Somewhere on his way to Haran from Beersheva, he stops for the night. God appears to him in a dream.
We do not know where Jacob stops. The Torah reports: “He came upon a certain place and stopped there for the night, for the sun had set.” (Genesis 28) And yet it is here, in this apparently nondescript place, that he experiences God and gains reassurance from God’s promise.
This place is of course not located in an ordinary place. It is found in the promised land of Israel. “The ground on which you are lying I will assign to you and to your offspring.” We do not know its GPS coordinates. We might not know where exactly Jacob rested for night and where he experienced God. We do know that it lies within the borders of the promised land.
Perhaps this place is not as nondescript as we were first led to believe.
The story concludes with the most curious of lines. “He named that site Bethel (meaning the house of God) but previously the name of the city had been Luz.”
Jacob arrived at a city? How did he not know this? Why did he sleep on the cold, desert floor when he was in fact in a city? Was he too exhausted to find lodging? Was he too distracted to search for bread from a stranger? Why is this detail only revealed in the story’s conclusion?
Did Jacob’s fear prevent him from seeing that he was within this city all along?
Perhaps the Torah’s message is that we have already arrived but don’t know it. Our fears prevent us from seeing. Again and again, we refuse to open our eyes to the revelations standing right in front of us.
Traveling is great. Our get-togethers with friends are often filled with such tales of adventure. “You have to go to Mexico City. Our trip to London was fantastic.” Often, we set out on such trips to discover meaning and find beauty.
Then again, maybe we are already where we need to travel.
Our journey is not about going somewhere. It is instead about discovering inspiration here and now.
The journey is where we stand. Now!
Our arrival always remains unfulfilled. The destination remains but a dream.
This week, we discover Jacob who becomes Israel is forever journeying.
The young Jacob is now on the run after deceiving his father Isaac and tricking his brother Esau out of the birthright. He is rightly terrified Esau might kill him and so sets out on a journey to his mother’s hometown. Somewhere on his way to Haran from Beersheva, he stops for the night. God appears to him in a dream.
We do not know where Jacob stops. The Torah reports: “He came upon a certain place and stopped there for the night, for the sun had set.” (Genesis 28) And yet it is here, in this apparently nondescript place, that he experiences God and gains reassurance from God’s promise.
This place is of course not located in an ordinary place. It is found in the promised land of Israel. “The ground on which you are lying I will assign to you and to your offspring.” We do not know its GPS coordinates. We might not know where exactly Jacob rested for night and where he experienced God. We do know that it lies within the borders of the promised land.
Perhaps this place is not as nondescript as we were first led to believe.
The story concludes with the most curious of lines. “He named that site Bethel (meaning the house of God) but previously the name of the city had been Luz.”
Jacob arrived at a city? How did he not know this? Why did he sleep on the cold, desert floor when he was in fact in a city? Was he too exhausted to find lodging? Was he too distracted to search for bread from a stranger? Why is this detail only revealed in the story’s conclusion?
Did Jacob’s fear prevent him from seeing that he was within this city all along?
Perhaps the Torah’s message is that we have already arrived but don’t know it. Our fears prevent us from seeing. Again and again, we refuse to open our eyes to the revelations standing right in front of us.
Traveling is great. Our get-togethers with friends are often filled with such tales of adventure. “You have to go to Mexico City. Our trip to London was fantastic.” Often, we set out on such trips to discover meaning and find beauty.
Then again, maybe we are already where we need to travel.
Our journey is not about going somewhere. It is instead about discovering inspiration here and now.
The journey is where we stand. Now!
The Question Is the Sermon
The Hebrew word for sermon is drasha. It is derived from “l’drosh” meaning “to inquire” or “to expound.”
The Torah relates: “The children struggled in Rebekah’s womb, and she said, “If so, why do I exist? She went to inquire (l’drosh) of the Lord.” (Genesis 25)
Like Sarah before her and Rachel after her, Rebekah faces difficulty conceiving a child. God likewise intervenes and she miraculously becomes pregnant. Rebekah carries twin boys: Jacob and Esau. Their struggles, and battles, with each other begin before they are even born. And this causes their mother pain.
Is her distress physical or emotional?
I wonder. Why is pain the motivation for Rebekah’s question? Why does her struggle turn her towards God? Why does pain send us searching for answers from an unknowable being? Why do our struggles make us question our existence?
God responds to her inquiry: “Two nations are in your womb, two separate peoples shall issue from your body; one people shall be mightier than the other, and the older shall serve the younger.”
I remain perplexed. This is an answer to her pain? This justifies the struggle between Jacob and Esau? How can Rebekah’s torment ever be assuaged?
We pine after answers that cannot, and will not, arrive. And yet we must continue the inquiry. The question is the essence of who we are. The asking is what defines us.
Peter Cole, observes in his poem, “Notes on Bewilderment”:
At the heart of every sermon is a question. The beginning of learning is asking, “Why?”
Indeed! Why do I exist?
The Torah relates: “The children struggled in Rebekah’s womb, and she said, “If so, why do I exist? She went to inquire (l’drosh) of the Lord.” (Genesis 25)
Like Sarah before her and Rachel after her, Rebekah faces difficulty conceiving a child. God likewise intervenes and she miraculously becomes pregnant. Rebekah carries twin boys: Jacob and Esau. Their struggles, and battles, with each other begin before they are even born. And this causes their mother pain.
Is her distress physical or emotional?
I wonder. Why is pain the motivation for Rebekah’s question? Why does her struggle turn her towards God? Why does pain send us searching for answers from an unknowable being? Why do our struggles make us question our existence?
God responds to her inquiry: “Two nations are in your womb, two separate peoples shall issue from your body; one people shall be mightier than the other, and the older shall serve the younger.”
I remain perplexed. This is an answer to her pain? This justifies the struggle between Jacob and Esau? How can Rebekah’s torment ever be assuaged?
We pine after answers that cannot, and will not, arrive. And yet we must continue the inquiry. The question is the essence of who we are. The asking is what defines us.
Peter Cole, observes in his poem, “Notes on Bewilderment”:
Lord, goes the prayer, keep me from delusion.We pretend that God answers. We speak with far too many exclamation points. We would be better served by concluding with question marks.
Which really means allow my mind to be open
to all that comes my way, without bringing
ruin upon me—through fusion of things that are
distinct at heart. Keep me from conclusion.
At the heart of every sermon is a question. The beginning of learning is asking, “Why?”
Indeed! Why do I exist?
Don't Ask Google, Ask Grandma
Rabbi Ben Zoma asks, “Who is wise?” He answers his own question and responds. “The person who learns from every human being.” (Avot 4)
I am thinking about Ben Zoma and his teaching these days. Every day we read about the arrogance of tech wizards. Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg, to name but two, seem to believe that the unparalleled successes of Tesla and Facebook make them experts in every manner of things.
Will they learn? There is something to be said for leaning into the expertise of others. No one is expert in everything. Even starting a phenomenal company does not mean you can take over and improve another. Even creating a platform for over a billion users does not mean it will be used for good or that people will prefer the metaverse over the real world.
Experience matters. Years and years of living, and working, offer wisdom. There is something to be said for leaning into the experience of those older than us.
That is our tradition’s posture. Consult first what was said, and taught, long ago.
This week we read about Abraham and Sarah’s deaths. Sarah dies at 127 years and Abraham at the age of 175. He is called zakein which is usually translated as old. That makes sense because 175 is old by anyone’s measure. The rabbis, however, suggest that the Hebrew letters spelling out zakein, namely zayin, koof and nun point to an acronym, zeh kanah hokhmah—this one has acquired wisdom. In our tradition’s view old is synonymous with wise.
The older the book the better. The older the person the more wise.
I love gadgets and technology, but they are not wise. Even the smartest of gadgets is rendered stupid if there is no power or internet.
Soon we will be gathering around our Thanksgiving tables. Rather than scrolling through the latest TikTok videos or Instagram posts, perhaps we should drink in the wisdom of those gathered around us. Instead of asking Google to solve a debate swirling around our tables. Ask an elder. Listen to others.
Who is wise? The person who learns from every human being.
I am thinking about Ben Zoma and his teaching these days. Every day we read about the arrogance of tech wizards. Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg, to name but two, seem to believe that the unparalleled successes of Tesla and Facebook make them experts in every manner of things.
Will they learn? There is something to be said for leaning into the expertise of others. No one is expert in everything. Even starting a phenomenal company does not mean you can take over and improve another. Even creating a platform for over a billion users does not mean it will be used for good or that people will prefer the metaverse over the real world.
Experience matters. Years and years of living, and working, offer wisdom. There is something to be said for leaning into the experience of those older than us.
That is our tradition’s posture. Consult first what was said, and taught, long ago.
This week we read about Abraham and Sarah’s deaths. Sarah dies at 127 years and Abraham at the age of 175. He is called zakein which is usually translated as old. That makes sense because 175 is old by anyone’s measure. The rabbis, however, suggest that the Hebrew letters spelling out zakein, namely zayin, koof and nun point to an acronym, zeh kanah hokhmah—this one has acquired wisdom. In our tradition’s view old is synonymous with wise.
The older the book the better. The older the person the more wise.
I love gadgets and technology, but they are not wise. Even the smartest of gadgets is rendered stupid if there is no power or internet.
Soon we will be gathering around our Thanksgiving tables. Rather than scrolling through the latest TikTok videos or Instagram posts, perhaps we should drink in the wisdom of those gathered around us. Instead of asking Google to solve a debate swirling around our tables. Ask an elder. Listen to others.
Who is wise? The person who learns from every human being.
Bringing Justice and Healing
There are no parallels in ancient near eastern literature to the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. The Bible’s tale stands apart. Moreover, this episode in which these sinful cities are completely destroyed is referenced not only in this week’s portion but in several other instances in the Torah.
Rabbi Gunther Plaut (1912-2012), a Reform rabbi and author of an exhaustive commentary, argues that “only a historic cataclysm of startling proportions could have impressed itself so deeply on popular memory.” These cities were situated at the southern end of the Dead Sea. There, even the air is thick with the smell of salt and sulfur from its mineral deposits and formations. Listen to the tale. “The Lord rained upon Sodom and Gomorrah sulfurous fire.”
In addition, a fault line runs through this area, extending from Armenia to Central Africa. Scholars suggest, the rift valley is the result of a catastrophic earthquake. If its magnitude was significant, the earthquake could have raised the Dead Sea’s waters and flooded the valley, including the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah.
Perhaps there are natural explanations for this story. That is not, however, how the Torah frames this tale. Instead, it offers two related lessons. On the one hand, it is an illustration of the closeness of Abraham and God’s relationship. God thinks, “Shall I hide from Abraham what I am about to do since Abraham is to become a great and populous nation and all the nations of the earth are to bless themselves by him?” (Genesis 18) Abraham and God are partners. God does not wish to do much without conferring with him (and his descendants).
On the other hand, the Torah emphasizes that God’s justice is exacting. Abraham asks, “Far be it from You to do such a thing, to bring death upon the innocent as well as the guilty, so that innocent and guilty fare alike. Far be it from You! Shall not the Judge of all the earth deal justly?” Thus, the only reason why these cities were destroyed is because every single resident town is bent on evil. All try to accost (rape!) the messengers who have taken up shelter in Abraham’s nephew Lot’s home.
I wonder. Was this story written to justify a Pompei-like destruction of these biblical cities? To the Bible’s authors only one thing could justify the utter destruction they witnessed or were told about. All were sinners. If God’s justice is exacting and perfect, then read the signs. The cities were destroyed. Blame its residents! Only those who are deserving receive such punishment—unless, and only if, God’s mercy intervenes. Or, as in the case of Jonah and Nineveh, the people repent of their evil ways.
And yet, life does not follow such neat categorizations. It is easy to point fingers at others and say, “They must have deserved such punishment.” But I want no part of such finger pointing and casting judgment on others. Life, with its ups and downs, pains and sufferings, successes and even rewards, are not evidence of God’s love or God’s perfect justice.
Life is uneven. Pain cannot be justified.
The Torah is not about earthquakes. Our faith cannot, and should not, seek to justify hurricanes. Instead, it teaches that if we want justice (or something approaching perfection) we must partner with God. We must be open to this conversation.
Like Abraham we must listen for God’s call to “do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with God.” (Micah)
It might look like God’s punishment. One might be tempted to say, “They must have deserved this.” Instead, we must avoid such temptations. We must be open to asking, “How can I partner with God and bring God’s healing to the pain I see raining down.”
It was up to Abraham. It is up to us.
Rabbi Gunther Plaut (1912-2012), a Reform rabbi and author of an exhaustive commentary, argues that “only a historic cataclysm of startling proportions could have impressed itself so deeply on popular memory.” These cities were situated at the southern end of the Dead Sea. There, even the air is thick with the smell of salt and sulfur from its mineral deposits and formations. Listen to the tale. “The Lord rained upon Sodom and Gomorrah sulfurous fire.”
In addition, a fault line runs through this area, extending from Armenia to Central Africa. Scholars suggest, the rift valley is the result of a catastrophic earthquake. If its magnitude was significant, the earthquake could have raised the Dead Sea’s waters and flooded the valley, including the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah.
Perhaps there are natural explanations for this story. That is not, however, how the Torah frames this tale. Instead, it offers two related lessons. On the one hand, it is an illustration of the closeness of Abraham and God’s relationship. God thinks, “Shall I hide from Abraham what I am about to do since Abraham is to become a great and populous nation and all the nations of the earth are to bless themselves by him?” (Genesis 18) Abraham and God are partners. God does not wish to do much without conferring with him (and his descendants).
On the other hand, the Torah emphasizes that God’s justice is exacting. Abraham asks, “Far be it from You to do such a thing, to bring death upon the innocent as well as the guilty, so that innocent and guilty fare alike. Far be it from You! Shall not the Judge of all the earth deal justly?” Thus, the only reason why these cities were destroyed is because every single resident town is bent on evil. All try to accost (rape!) the messengers who have taken up shelter in Abraham’s nephew Lot’s home.
I wonder. Was this story written to justify a Pompei-like destruction of these biblical cities? To the Bible’s authors only one thing could justify the utter destruction they witnessed or were told about. All were sinners. If God’s justice is exacting and perfect, then read the signs. The cities were destroyed. Blame its residents! Only those who are deserving receive such punishment—unless, and only if, God’s mercy intervenes. Or, as in the case of Jonah and Nineveh, the people repent of their evil ways.
And yet, life does not follow such neat categorizations. It is easy to point fingers at others and say, “They must have deserved such punishment.” But I want no part of such finger pointing and casting judgment on others. Life, with its ups and downs, pains and sufferings, successes and even rewards, are not evidence of God’s love or God’s perfect justice.
Life is uneven. Pain cannot be justified.
The Torah is not about earthquakes. Our faith cannot, and should not, seek to justify hurricanes. Instead, it teaches that if we want justice (or something approaching perfection) we must partner with God. We must be open to this conversation.
Like Abraham we must listen for God’s call to “do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with God.” (Micah)
It might look like God’s punishment. One might be tempted to say, “They must have deserved this.” Instead, we must avoid such temptations. We must be open to asking, “How can I partner with God and bring God’s healing to the pain I see raining down.”
It was up to Abraham. It is up to us.
Who Is (Really) Rich
My brother called me and excitedly screamed. “Steve, I bought a lottery ticket. It’s up to 1.2 billion dollars!” “That’s great,” I said. “I am sure if you win, you will share it with your brother.” He retorted, “No can do. I already promised to buy the cashier a new car with my winnings.”
Rabbi ben Zoma taught: “Who is rich? Those who are happy with their portion.” (Pirke Avot) For the ancient rabbis wealth is about perspective. Happiness is not a matter of winning the lottery. It is instead about being content with one’s lot. It is about not pining after what others have.
To be fair. My brother has not lost perspective. His heart is truly filled with gratitude. I have great admiration for how hope rules his thoughts (and guides many of his sermons). Even 300 million to one odds will not deter him!
The Torah calls to Abraham, “Lech lecha. Go forth from your native land.” (Genesis 12). It goes on to describes our forefather as wealthy. “Now Abram was very rich in cattle, silver and gold.” (The Hebrew uses a curious phrase. “Avram kaved maod…” A literal rendition might instead read: Abram was very heavy with cattle, silver and gold. The Hebrew adds a layer of meaning. It suggests he was weighed down by his riches.
The plain meaning is clear. The journey on which God sends Abraham is difficult not only because he must leave his ancestral home but also because of all the riches he must carry with him. It is not easy to travel across the desert with so many belongings. It is not easy to shepherd a flock across the wilderness. Better to travel light. Abraham is unable to do so. And thus, he travels in stages. “And he proceeded by stages from the Negev as far as Bethel.”
Perhaps there is an even greater truth hidden within this verse. How do our riches weigh us down? How do they prevent us from seeing beyond ourselves?
Holocaust survivors tend to accumulate portable wealth. Some lack faith in financial institutions. Many do not purchase valuable paintings and sculptures. Instead, they buy jewelry and watches. Such items can be carried on a person if one is forced to flee. Jewels can be sewed into jacket liners if one needs to secret a family across borders. Such are the scars that survivors carry. They are always ready to escape.
And yet wealth can often be a stumbling block to change. We do not march forward for fear that we might lose our precious possessions. We worry how each and every decision might effect our riches.
Wealth is a matter of a perspective. Who is rich? Those who are happy with their portion.
Abraham is called righteous. Why? Because his accumulated wealth does not prevent him changing. It does not stand in the way of leaving his home and answering God’s call. All the riches in the world do not deter him from setting out on the journey that forever defines the Jewish people.
The rabbis teach. Righteousness is when wealth is transformed into obligation. For the righteous, wealth is indeed weighty. It is a call to use our riches for others and not just ourselves.
Wealth is not a privilege. It is instead a challenge. It is a call. “Lech lecha—Go forth!”
And may the lottery winner shower the world with riches.
Rabbi ben Zoma taught: “Who is rich? Those who are happy with their portion.” (Pirke Avot) For the ancient rabbis wealth is about perspective. Happiness is not a matter of winning the lottery. It is instead about being content with one’s lot. It is about not pining after what others have.
To be fair. My brother has not lost perspective. His heart is truly filled with gratitude. I have great admiration for how hope rules his thoughts (and guides many of his sermons). Even 300 million to one odds will not deter him!
The Torah calls to Abraham, “Lech lecha. Go forth from your native land.” (Genesis 12). It goes on to describes our forefather as wealthy. “Now Abram was very rich in cattle, silver and gold.” (The Hebrew uses a curious phrase. “Avram kaved maod…” A literal rendition might instead read: Abram was very heavy with cattle, silver and gold. The Hebrew adds a layer of meaning. It suggests he was weighed down by his riches.
The plain meaning is clear. The journey on which God sends Abraham is difficult not only because he must leave his ancestral home but also because of all the riches he must carry with him. It is not easy to travel across the desert with so many belongings. It is not easy to shepherd a flock across the wilderness. Better to travel light. Abraham is unable to do so. And thus, he travels in stages. “And he proceeded by stages from the Negev as far as Bethel.”
Perhaps there is an even greater truth hidden within this verse. How do our riches weigh us down? How do they prevent us from seeing beyond ourselves?
Holocaust survivors tend to accumulate portable wealth. Some lack faith in financial institutions. Many do not purchase valuable paintings and sculptures. Instead, they buy jewelry and watches. Such items can be carried on a person if one is forced to flee. Jewels can be sewed into jacket liners if one needs to secret a family across borders. Such are the scars that survivors carry. They are always ready to escape.
And yet wealth can often be a stumbling block to change. We do not march forward for fear that we might lose our precious possessions. We worry how each and every decision might effect our riches.
Wealth is a matter of a perspective. Who is rich? Those who are happy with their portion.
Abraham is called righteous. Why? Because his accumulated wealth does not prevent him changing. It does not stand in the way of leaving his home and answering God’s call. All the riches in the world do not deter him from setting out on the journey that forever defines the Jewish people.
The rabbis teach. Righteousness is when wealth is transformed into obligation. For the righteous, wealth is indeed weighty. It is a call to use our riches for others and not just ourselves.
Wealth is not a privilege. It is instead a challenge. It is a call. “Lech lecha—Go forth!”
And may the lottery winner shower the world with riches.
Don't Let Antisemitism Define Us
My sermon about the rise of antisemitic hate and how best to respond.
Four years ago, the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh was attacked and eleven of its members were murdered. In January members of a Colleyville synagogue were held hostage. Thankfully none of the hostages were killed or even seriously injured. And over the past several weeks, Kanye West has been spewing hatred towards Jews and Judaism to his 30 million followers. And while the motivations for each of these attacks—let’s be clear words can be just as dangerous as bullets and guns—might be slightly different, they are connected by the thick thread of antisemitism. Let us reflect on this rising tide of antisemitism and our response—or better yet, our responses—to it.
First of all, let me state this sad but obvious truth. Antisemitism is never going away. My grandparents who experienced first-hand the murderous antisemitic hatred of the Cossacks and the antisemitic barriers suburban America presented them they were right and my twenty-five-year-old self who experienced perhaps one or two anti-Jewish jokes was wrong. It has been here since ancient times. It exists in countries where there are few if any Jews. It will always be with us. It morphs depending on time and circumstance. Sometimes it metastasizes into something even more lethal. Yet, each passing century has demonstrated that antisemitism remains stubborn and enduring.
Second, today there are three basic forms of antisemitism, and it is important that we understand their differences because the tools we use to fight against these different types should not always be the same. On the one hand there is the antisemitism of the far right. These are groups such as neo-Nazis (although I object to the term neo-Nazi because there is nothing new about it), the Ku Klux Klan and white nationalists. Such groups have been active on our very own Long Island since at least the 1930’s. And such groups inspired the Tree of Life synagogue murderer. On the other hand, there is the antisemitism of Islamist groups like Hamas. Again, there is a direct line between the hostage taker in Colleyville and the antisemitic screeds that are part and parcel to Islamist teachings. (Let me be clear I am talking about Islamist not Islamic.) Take even a cursory look at the Hamas charter if you want to find evidence of such thinking. In these two instances the tools of law enforcement are most effective at combating these threats.
And finally, there is the antisemitism of the far left. In this case people often find this more difficult to identify and label as antisemitism because it is frequently wrapped in the veil of progressive politics. And so, combating hateful words such as Zionism is a colonial, racist and oppressive force requires not forbidding such speech or outlawing campus groups but emboldening our Jewish students to engage in painful debates, while remaining forever awakened to the dangers of such speech. Let me again be clear. It is but a small step from these hateful words to attacks on Jewish diners in Los Angeles. And yet, in the case of antisemitism coming from leftist college groups, our response requires more finesse. We must be simultaneously proud of being Jews and Zionists, courageous in the face of hurtful and hateful speech while remaining vigilant and on guard against the potential for such speech to become dangerous. It is indeed a dangerous world, and this requires fortifying our souls as much as our institutions. Outlawing speech is not going to fix this problem. Emboldening our students and better educating our youth are the best answers.
And this brings me to our responses. By all means we should continue our investments in security. By all means we should continue our donations to defense organizations such as the American Jewish Committee who work tirelessly to name and call it out antisemitic incidents. It should be relatively simple to identify an attack as antisemitic. And yet even here we saw difficulty when many people seemed pained to identify the Colleyville attacker as antisemitic. This is one reason why we need defense organizations: to name antisemitism when others shy away from calling it out.
We also need them to identify antisemitic groups and most importantly to name antisemitic speech. Here we tend to trip over ourselves. Calling out antisemitic speech too often becomes wrapped up in our political leanings. We hesitate to criticize when such speech comes from our own political corner. We privately worry about helping to defeat someone who we might otherwise support and so we turn away. The opposite should be the case. If we are Democrats, then we have an added responsibility to criticize and shine a light on Democrats who speak with antisemitic tropes. If we are Republicans, then we have an equal obligation to name and castigate Republicans who invoke anti-Jewish hatreds. Let us not excuse the antisemitism that comes from our own political camp or perhaps even worse, exaggerate the antisemitism that comes from our political opponents. An opponent’s antisemitism should not be used for political gain. Instead, it must be called out. It must be named first and foremost from the politician’s own camp.
Back to Kanye for whom I hesitate to provide any oxygen. It is worrisome that he can reach millions of people with the ease of typing a hundred letters on an iPhone. And yet this week provided an encouraging sign. Look at Adidas’ decision. This is to be commended. We should not dismiss this act or even what too often do, seek to diminish it. It is evidence that Holocaust education works, that the conferences we organize about the dangers of antisemitism can offer positive results. That our investments in museums and curricula and perhaps even the groundbreaking rapprochement between Germany and Israel brokered by Ben Gurion in the 1950’s, and especially the repentance that many German youth now express can have lasting impact and important results. Let us not forget, let us never forget, that having a sovereign Jewish state makes a profound difference here and for us. There was no such state when my grandmother ran from the Cossacks that could help to bolster her resolve. I can tell you this as well with certainty. My grandparents would never have believed that a company would make a decision that might cost it billions of dollars! So, we can fixate on Kanye, or we can highlight Adidas.
And this brings me to my final point. In this place and in this sanctuary even when I talk about contemporary events I am always thinking about our souls. This is my worry. As antisemitism increases—and it most certainly is, and it is coming at us from three sides simultaneously—we will start to make it our only story. Of course, it is part of the Jewish story but it’s not the only story and it must never become the whole story. Antisemitism must not define us.
I take my cue from Noah. This week we read the story of Noah and the flood. Although this makes for great children’s books because you get to have pictures of two of every kind of animal, it is a harrowing tale. God destroys the world because it is filled with lawlessness and violence. After the flood Noah sends a dove out to see if the waters have receded. It returns with that familiar sign of peace, an olive branch in its mouth. Noah then emerges from the Ark. What is the first thing he does?
He offers a sacrifice. He gives thanks. It is a spontaneous prayer. God does not command it. I have often found this striking. Noah could have only seen the destruction. I would have understood it if this is all he could see. Nearly everyone he ever knew and certainly most of everything that ever lived except pairs of animals and his family were gone. We could have forgiven him if he could only see what he had lost. But he instead sees the receding waters and the dry land. He sees the rainbow. You can call him naïve. But the Torah calls him righteous.
Prayer is about perspective. And being a Jew is about having hope. We can perseverate about Kanye, we can dwell on Colleyville, we can become depressed about the lives lost at the Tree of Life Synagogue. And this would all be understandable. We must never forget those who were murdered because of antisemitic hate in Pittsburgh and in far too many places we have called home. But this is not our only story. Their deaths were not their entire stories. Those eleven who died at the Tree of Life synagogue died while affirming this day. And Shabbat is about restoring hope. It is about saying this week can be different and creation can be renewed, and the world can be remade.
Let us be courageous. Let us remain proud of our Jewish identities and bold about our Jewish faith. Let us never shy away from calling out antisemitic hate. Let us not allow antisemites to define who we are or what we are to become. There always remains the possibility that we can make this world into the beautiful while broken place that Noah saw when he emerged from the ark. That is what being a Jew means first and foremost. It is about that perspective.
Never lose hope. Tomorrow can be made better.
First of all, let me state this sad but obvious truth. Antisemitism is never going away. My grandparents who experienced first-hand the murderous antisemitic hatred of the Cossacks and the antisemitic barriers suburban America presented them they were right and my twenty-five-year-old self who experienced perhaps one or two anti-Jewish jokes was wrong. It has been here since ancient times. It exists in countries where there are few if any Jews. It will always be with us. It morphs depending on time and circumstance. Sometimes it metastasizes into something even more lethal. Yet, each passing century has demonstrated that antisemitism remains stubborn and enduring.
Second, today there are three basic forms of antisemitism, and it is important that we understand their differences because the tools we use to fight against these different types should not always be the same. On the one hand there is the antisemitism of the far right. These are groups such as neo-Nazis (although I object to the term neo-Nazi because there is nothing new about it), the Ku Klux Klan and white nationalists. Such groups have been active on our very own Long Island since at least the 1930’s. And such groups inspired the Tree of Life synagogue murderer. On the other hand, there is the antisemitism of Islamist groups like Hamas. Again, there is a direct line between the hostage taker in Colleyville and the antisemitic screeds that are part and parcel to Islamist teachings. (Let me be clear I am talking about Islamist not Islamic.) Take even a cursory look at the Hamas charter if you want to find evidence of such thinking. In these two instances the tools of law enforcement are most effective at combating these threats.
And finally, there is the antisemitism of the far left. In this case people often find this more difficult to identify and label as antisemitism because it is frequently wrapped in the veil of progressive politics. And so, combating hateful words such as Zionism is a colonial, racist and oppressive force requires not forbidding such speech or outlawing campus groups but emboldening our Jewish students to engage in painful debates, while remaining forever awakened to the dangers of such speech. Let me again be clear. It is but a small step from these hateful words to attacks on Jewish diners in Los Angeles. And yet, in the case of antisemitism coming from leftist college groups, our response requires more finesse. We must be simultaneously proud of being Jews and Zionists, courageous in the face of hurtful and hateful speech while remaining vigilant and on guard against the potential for such speech to become dangerous. It is indeed a dangerous world, and this requires fortifying our souls as much as our institutions. Outlawing speech is not going to fix this problem. Emboldening our students and better educating our youth are the best answers.
And this brings me to our responses. By all means we should continue our investments in security. By all means we should continue our donations to defense organizations such as the American Jewish Committee who work tirelessly to name and call it out antisemitic incidents. It should be relatively simple to identify an attack as antisemitic. And yet even here we saw difficulty when many people seemed pained to identify the Colleyville attacker as antisemitic. This is one reason why we need defense organizations: to name antisemitism when others shy away from calling it out.
We also need them to identify antisemitic groups and most importantly to name antisemitic speech. Here we tend to trip over ourselves. Calling out antisemitic speech too often becomes wrapped up in our political leanings. We hesitate to criticize when such speech comes from our own political corner. We privately worry about helping to defeat someone who we might otherwise support and so we turn away. The opposite should be the case. If we are Democrats, then we have an added responsibility to criticize and shine a light on Democrats who speak with antisemitic tropes. If we are Republicans, then we have an equal obligation to name and castigate Republicans who invoke anti-Jewish hatreds. Let us not excuse the antisemitism that comes from our own political camp or perhaps even worse, exaggerate the antisemitism that comes from our political opponents. An opponent’s antisemitism should not be used for political gain. Instead, it must be called out. It must be named first and foremost from the politician’s own camp.
Back to Kanye for whom I hesitate to provide any oxygen. It is worrisome that he can reach millions of people with the ease of typing a hundred letters on an iPhone. And yet this week provided an encouraging sign. Look at Adidas’ decision. This is to be commended. We should not dismiss this act or even what too often do, seek to diminish it. It is evidence that Holocaust education works, that the conferences we organize about the dangers of antisemitism can offer positive results. That our investments in museums and curricula and perhaps even the groundbreaking rapprochement between Germany and Israel brokered by Ben Gurion in the 1950’s, and especially the repentance that many German youth now express can have lasting impact and important results. Let us not forget, let us never forget, that having a sovereign Jewish state makes a profound difference here and for us. There was no such state when my grandmother ran from the Cossacks that could help to bolster her resolve. I can tell you this as well with certainty. My grandparents would never have believed that a company would make a decision that might cost it billions of dollars! So, we can fixate on Kanye, or we can highlight Adidas.
And this brings me to my final point. In this place and in this sanctuary even when I talk about contemporary events I am always thinking about our souls. This is my worry. As antisemitism increases—and it most certainly is, and it is coming at us from three sides simultaneously—we will start to make it our only story. Of course, it is part of the Jewish story but it’s not the only story and it must never become the whole story. Antisemitism must not define us.
I take my cue from Noah. This week we read the story of Noah and the flood. Although this makes for great children’s books because you get to have pictures of two of every kind of animal, it is a harrowing tale. God destroys the world because it is filled with lawlessness and violence. After the flood Noah sends a dove out to see if the waters have receded. It returns with that familiar sign of peace, an olive branch in its mouth. Noah then emerges from the Ark. What is the first thing he does?
He offers a sacrifice. He gives thanks. It is a spontaneous prayer. God does not command it. I have often found this striking. Noah could have only seen the destruction. I would have understood it if this is all he could see. Nearly everyone he ever knew and certainly most of everything that ever lived except pairs of animals and his family were gone. We could have forgiven him if he could only see what he had lost. But he instead sees the receding waters and the dry land. He sees the rainbow. You can call him naïve. But the Torah calls him righteous.
Prayer is about perspective. And being a Jew is about having hope. We can perseverate about Kanye, we can dwell on Colleyville, we can become depressed about the lives lost at the Tree of Life Synagogue. And this would all be understandable. We must never forget those who were murdered because of antisemitic hate in Pittsburgh and in far too many places we have called home. But this is not our only story. Their deaths were not their entire stories. Those eleven who died at the Tree of Life synagogue died while affirming this day. And Shabbat is about restoring hope. It is about saying this week can be different and creation can be renewed, and the world can be remade.
Let us be courageous. Let us remain proud of our Jewish identities and bold about our Jewish faith. Let us never shy away from calling out antisemitic hate. Let us not allow antisemites to define who we are or what we are to become. There always remains the possibility that we can make this world into the beautiful while broken place that Noah saw when he emerged from the ark. That is what being a Jew means first and foremost. It is about that perspective.
Never lose hope. Tomorrow can be made better.
Listen to the World's Languages, Hearken to the World
The Basque language is unique. It is what scholars call a language isolate and is unrelated to any other existing language. It stands apart from every other European language. Some scholars date its origins to the days when cave dwellers first formulated spoken languages nearly 7000 years ago.
Today it is spoken by some 750,000 people who live primarily in the Basque region, an area that straddles the border of Spain and France on the Atlantic coastline. I became somewhat fascinated by this region when we visited our son Ari who was working at a farm in the Northern Basque region and where I discovered a newfound passion for hard cider, although much to our host’s bewilderment, not his homemade jamon. We travelled throughout the area, moving effortlessly across the French-Spanish border. Throughout our travels we heard Spanish and French but became particularly attuned to the sounds of Basque.
I continue to wonder. How is it that this language remains isolated and unrelated to all others?
The Torah teaches: “Everyone on earth had the same language and the same words.” (Genesis 11) And then they built the Tower of Babel with its top reaching into the heavens so that they could make a name for themselves. God punished them, scattering the people throughout the world and making it impossible for everyone to understand each other. “That is why it was called Babel because there the Lord confounded the speech of the whole earth.”
To this day, we remain confounded by the earth’s myriad of languages.
And yet, even though I do not know a single word of Basque, I find our intricate web of languages a blessing and its nuances an occasion for learning.
It often rains in the Basque country, and more than frequently lightly mists, and so its language has a unique word for what we might term mild rain. Languages are often the products of their homes and reflect the climates and geographies of the areas in which they are born. In Basque one can often see the ocean’s Bay of Biscay, or at least feel its saltiness in the air, and marvel at mountaintops of the grand Pyrenees.
The Basque poet, Kirmen Uribe writes:
Yiddish as well has many unique words. And yet these are less about place (I wonder if this is because of our countless forced wanderings!) and more about people and relationships. Many are familiar with the term “kvetch,” a complainer or “mensch,” a morally upstanding person. My favorite is “mekhutonim,” the term used to describe the relationship of one married partner’s parents to the other parents. English has no such term to describe this relationship. It is almost as if to suggest it is of little consequence. Or to say, “I don’t want to deal with it.”
Yiddish, however, and the Hebrew from which it derives, thought this relationship to be of great importance or at the very least to be significant enough that we better have a name for it. We better know what to call these people because whether they love each other or not, they are going to be spending a lot of time together and let’s hope doing plenty of shepping naches.
Look at the lessons Yiddish offers. Look at how Hebrew reminds us of our connection to the land of Israel. Look at how a language that few people speak can awaken within us our dependency on climate and our ties to geography.
The richness of the world’s languages is an unrivaled blessing. Our understanding gains refinement and nuance the more we are willing to open our ears, the more we listen to how others speak.
And while it can be frustrating when we to communicate across language barriers, I continue to find our babbling less confounding and instead enriching. Each language has the potential to ennoble our understanding of the word’s diversity of riches. Every language offers us the possibility of learning something new about ourselves. Every word affords us the opportunity to order our world anew.
All we need to do is listen.
Today it is spoken by some 750,000 people who live primarily in the Basque region, an area that straddles the border of Spain and France on the Atlantic coastline. I became somewhat fascinated by this region when we visited our son Ari who was working at a farm in the Northern Basque region and where I discovered a newfound passion for hard cider, although much to our host’s bewilderment, not his homemade jamon. We travelled throughout the area, moving effortlessly across the French-Spanish border. Throughout our travels we heard Spanish and French but became particularly attuned to the sounds of Basque.
I continue to wonder. How is it that this language remains isolated and unrelated to all others?
The Torah teaches: “Everyone on earth had the same language and the same words.” (Genesis 11) And then they built the Tower of Babel with its top reaching into the heavens so that they could make a name for themselves. God punished them, scattering the people throughout the world and making it impossible for everyone to understand each other. “That is why it was called Babel because there the Lord confounded the speech of the whole earth.”
To this day, we remain confounded by the earth’s myriad of languages.
And yet, even though I do not know a single word of Basque, I find our intricate web of languages a blessing and its nuances an occasion for learning.
It often rains in the Basque country, and more than frequently lightly mists, and so its language has a unique word for what we might term mild rain. Languages are often the products of their homes and reflect the climates and geographies of the areas in which they are born. In Basque one can often see the ocean’s Bay of Biscay, or at least feel its saltiness in the air, and marvel at mountaintops of the grand Pyrenees.
The Basque poet, Kirmen Uribe writes:
Don’t make me chooseHebrew too reflects its attachment to a place, in particular the land of Israel. Although not as common in modern Hebrew, in biblical Hebrew when our ancestors said, “toward the west,” they would say, “yamah” which literally means “toward the Sea” and southward was said “negbah” which means “toward the Negev.” Even one of the names for God, Shechinah, suggests a place. When in Israel I can sometimes hear the cadence of God’s mysterious presence when someone says, “neighborhood.”
Between the Sea and Dry Land.
I know my residence is a fine line of thread,
But I’d be lost with only the Sea,
Drown with Dry Land.
Don’t make it a choice. I am going to stay here.
Between the green waves and the blue mountains.
Yiddish as well has many unique words. And yet these are less about place (I wonder if this is because of our countless forced wanderings!) and more about people and relationships. Many are familiar with the term “kvetch,” a complainer or “mensch,” a morally upstanding person. My favorite is “mekhutonim,” the term used to describe the relationship of one married partner’s parents to the other parents. English has no such term to describe this relationship. It is almost as if to suggest it is of little consequence. Or to say, “I don’t want to deal with it.”
Yiddish, however, and the Hebrew from which it derives, thought this relationship to be of great importance or at the very least to be significant enough that we better have a name for it. We better know what to call these people because whether they love each other or not, they are going to be spending a lot of time together and let’s hope doing plenty of shepping naches.
Look at the lessons Yiddish offers. Look at how Hebrew reminds us of our connection to the land of Israel. Look at how a language that few people speak can awaken within us our dependency on climate and our ties to geography.
The richness of the world’s languages is an unrivaled blessing. Our understanding gains refinement and nuance the more we are willing to open our ears, the more we listen to how others speak.
And while it can be frustrating when we to communicate across language barriers, I continue to find our babbling less confounding and instead enriching. Each language has the potential to ennoble our understanding of the word’s diversity of riches. Every language offers us the possibility of learning something new about ourselves. Every word affords us the opportunity to order our world anew.
All we need to do is listen.
The Power of Naming
One of the most challenging, and profound, decisions new parents make is what to name their children. They often worry how others might perceive the names they choose. Will others like the names? Will children embrace their parent’s choice? How will these names frame their identities?
The Torah states: “And God formed out of the earth all the wild beasts and all the birds of the sky, and brought them to the Human to see what he would call them; and whatever the Human called each living creature, that would be its names.” (Genesis 2)
The medieval commentator, Rabbi David Kimhi, suggests that the first human being could recognize the essence of every animal and name it accordingly. I wonder. Does the name given to each of us become our essence? Does one’s character emerge immediately? And how is this connected to our names?
The power to name is unrivaled.
The Torah opens with the creation of the world. In its first lines we read, “God called the light Day and called the darkness Night.” (Genesis 1) God names.
The power to name is God like.
And God gives this power to humanity. Throughout our lives we name.
Often friends give each other nicknames. (Rabbi David Kimhi is called the Radak.). On sport teams players give each other names. These suggest privileged knowledge. Couples give each other private names. These suggest intimacy. Naming defines relationships.
It is unique to humans. It is shared with God alone.
Other times we use the power of naming to push people away. Look at the discussion surrounding immigration as but one example. When we call immigrants “illegals,” we turn our backs to their plight. We define human beings as other. Then again, even when we use the term “refugee” we place others in a category deserving of our benevolence.
There is only one proper way to call another human being. That is by the name they were given or perhaps by the name they have earned. To name is God like.
Learn their names!
Too often language is coarse and hurtful. Instead, it can be holy. Naming can be an instrument of God’s compassion.
When we name, we have the power to do God’s work.
The Torah states: “And God formed out of the earth all the wild beasts and all the birds of the sky, and brought them to the Human to see what he would call them; and whatever the Human called each living creature, that would be its names.” (Genesis 2)
The medieval commentator, Rabbi David Kimhi, suggests that the first human being could recognize the essence of every animal and name it accordingly. I wonder. Does the name given to each of us become our essence? Does one’s character emerge immediately? And how is this connected to our names?
The power to name is unrivaled.
The Torah opens with the creation of the world. In its first lines we read, “God called the light Day and called the darkness Night.” (Genesis 1) God names.
The power to name is God like.
And God gives this power to humanity. Throughout our lives we name.
Often friends give each other nicknames. (Rabbi David Kimhi is called the Radak.). On sport teams players give each other names. These suggest privileged knowledge. Couples give each other private names. These suggest intimacy. Naming defines relationships.
It is unique to humans. It is shared with God alone.
Other times we use the power of naming to push people away. Look at the discussion surrounding immigration as but one example. When we call immigrants “illegals,” we turn our backs to their plight. We define human beings as other. Then again, even when we use the term “refugee” we place others in a category deserving of our benevolence.
There is only one proper way to call another human being. That is by the name they were given or perhaps by the name they have earned. To name is God like.
Learn their names!
Too often language is coarse and hurtful. Instead, it can be holy. Naming can be an instrument of God’s compassion.
When we name, we have the power to do God’s work.
I Am Going to Keep Dancing (and Like This)
I have a confession to make. I cannot sit still. (Are you surprised?) I marvel at those who can sit in a chair for hours while reading a book. I, on the other hand, shift and fidget. After fifteen minutes I am propelled to get up and walk around.
Movement is part of what defines me. It’s why I love cycling, running and swimming. It is why I love dancing. It does not matter that I am not the best dancer in the room or that I never even took a dance class.
I love dancing. And I love being on the move.
Dancing is what makes a simcha feel like a simcha. When we dance at a party (or on the bima!) it is as if our entire being is rejoicing.
Movement helps to exile darkness.
Rebbe Nachman of Breslov agrees. He writes: “Get into the habit of dancing. It will displace depression and dispel hardship.” When you feel depressed—and Rebbe Nachman was given to fits of sadness and despair—get up and go for a walk or even start tapping your feet. Get moving. And leave those dark thoughts behind.
Movement not only propels us forward but moves us to give thanks. Instilling a sense of gratitude is the essence of prayer.
And there is nothing quite like the praying and singing and dancing of Simhat Torah. On this day we celebrate the opportunity to read, and study, the Torah again. We rejoice that we can move to the rhythms of the Torah.
Rebbe Nachman offers this prayer:
Or as David Byrne sings (and not in the early 1980’s but more recently in “American Utopia”):
Movement is part of what defines me. It’s why I love cycling, running and swimming. It is why I love dancing. It does not matter that I am not the best dancer in the room or that I never even took a dance class.
I love dancing. And I love being on the move.
Dancing is what makes a simcha feel like a simcha. When we dance at a party (or on the bima!) it is as if our entire being is rejoicing.
Movement helps to exile darkness.
Rebbe Nachman of Breslov agrees. He writes: “Get into the habit of dancing. It will displace depression and dispel hardship.” When you feel depressed—and Rebbe Nachman was given to fits of sadness and despair—get up and go for a walk or even start tapping your feet. Get moving. And leave those dark thoughts behind.
Movement not only propels us forward but moves us to give thanks. Instilling a sense of gratitude is the essence of prayer.
And there is nothing quite like the praying and singing and dancing of Simhat Torah. On this day we celebrate the opportunity to read, and study, the Torah again. We rejoice that we can move to the rhythms of the Torah.
Rebbe Nachman offers this prayer:
Dear God,And I would add, may we find the strength to dance. May we let go of the worries of how we might look or even how silly our dance steps might appear. Just dance.
if only my heart would be
straight with You all the time,
I would be filled with joy.
And that joy would spread all the way
down to my feet,
and uplift them in dance.
Please, never let my feet falter,
release them from their heavy bonds,
and give me the strength
to dance, dance, dance.
Or as David Byrne sings (and not in the early 1980’s but more recently in “American Utopia”):
We dance like thisMay our feet continue to move. Let our steps lead us to happiness. Let our dancing fill our hearts with gratitude and joy.
Because it feels so damn good
If we could dance better
Well you know that we would
Invitations Are the Holiday's Secret
The Jewish calendar does not let up in the month of Tishrei. After the whirlwind of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur we immediately launch into Sukkot and then conclude with Simhat Torah when we celebrate the renewal of the Torah reading cycle.
Sukkot begins in a few short days. On Sunday evening, the tradition urges us to leave our homes and spend as much as time as possible in temporary shelters (sukkot). The most important requirement of these sukkot is that their roofs be porous enough to allow us to see the stars in the nighttime sky. The sukkah must also not be so sturdy, keeping the wind and rain out.
Its defining character is its flimsiness. It is not a house. A sukkah is a flawed structure.
The sukkah reminds us of the frailty of nature. It represents the booths in which the Israelites lived during their wanderings from Egypt to Sinai. Some suggest it symbolizes God’s presence in our lives.
Given that we just spent hours in synagogue we think that the Yom Kippur holiday better represents our connection to God. Sukkot, however, is the more representative of our holidays. It is about bringing God’s presence to the earth. Literally! We build these booths to remind us that God’s presence, while seemingly temporary and even fleeting, can be brought to this world with our own hands.
That is what we are building as we put up the boards of our sukkot.
On Sukkot we are supposed to invite as many guests as possible to share meals with us. On Shabbat evening we pray that God might protect us with a sukkat shalom—a sukkah of peace, but in truth we are supposed to create that very sukkah here and now. It is defined not by the flimsy walls surrounding us but instead by the friends we gather within our sukkah and then in the weeks that follow, in our warm and comfortable homes.
In fact, there is a custom that we invite ushpizin, honored and imaginary guests, to dine with us on this holiday. The tradition suggests seven for each of the holiday’s days: Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, Aaron, Joseph and David. Egalitarian versions often add: Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, Ruth, Esther, Miriam and Deborah to the Kabbalist’s mystical list. We invite our biblical ancestors and hope that their qualities will add to our celebrations.
We welcome Abraham and call to mind his compassion. We invite Isaac and pray that his strength might accompany us throughout the coming year.
As we approach yet another holiday, let us ask ourselves these questions. Who would I like to invite? Who among our ancestors would I like to welcome to my holiday meal? What questions were left unanswered? What teachings were left unsaid?
Who will receive this year’s invitation?
The essence of this holiday is the invitation. Even if you don’t build a sukkah this year, invite a friend over even if it is only for a cup of coffee or perhaps a cocktail. (Personally, I am uncorking some Finger Lake ciders.) Make this year’s holiday about welcoming others into your home.
Toast l’chaim. Wish each other chag samayach. Embrace family and friends.
That is the essential message of the holiday of Sukkot. We can build a sukkat shalom, a sukkah of peace, by wrapping our arms around each other. It begins with something as simple as an invitation.
Why We Need Israel (and Zionism)
My Yom Kippur morning sermon about why American Jews need to reexamine the meaning of Zionism and Israel. He argues that we need Israel as much as Israel needs us.
Several years ago, Yotam was working on a Greek island when Syrian refugees were struggling to escape from Assad’s murderous regime. When a boat capsized near the shore and a young child was unable to swim, Yotam rushed into the ocean to carry her to shore. Her father was able to swim and was greeted on the beach by other Israelis who welcomed him with blankets and fluent Arabic. The little girl was reunited with her father and when he realized that his daughter’s rescuer as well as everyone else who lined that beach were Israeli, he said, “My own people and the people who are supposed to protect me are chasing me away while my worst enemy has become my greatest friend.”
This summer I met Yotam. I was in Israel attending the Shalom Hartman Institute’s rabbinic convention. It had been three years since my last visit. I did not realize how much I missed being there and the inspiration I would find there among Israelis. I wish to explore what I rediscovered there. I wish to ponder why we need to revisit the meaning of Israel in our own day and why we need to reassess the import of Zionism for our own age. Jewish leaders spend considerable effort talking about why Israel needs us. Let’s instead take a step back. Let us reexamine why we need Israel. First some background.
Zionism, and the nationalisms to which it is related, have become dirty words...
This summer I met Yotam. I was in Israel attending the Shalom Hartman Institute’s rabbinic convention. It had been three years since my last visit. I did not realize how much I missed being there and the inspiration I would find there among Israelis. I wish to explore what I rediscovered there. I wish to ponder why we need to revisit the meaning of Israel in our own day and why we need to reassess the import of Zionism for our own age. Jewish leaders spend considerable effort talking about why Israel needs us. Let’s instead take a step back. Let us reexamine why we need Israel. First some background.
Zionism, and the nationalisms to which it is related, have become dirty words...
Piles of Memories, Piles of Stones
My Yizkor memorial service meditation about the meaning of bringing stones when visiting graves and the new ritual we created from an ancient custom.
When visiting the graves of loved ones, we leave a stone. This tradition dates back to biblical times when grave markers were piles of stones. Most Jews do not observe the custom of bringing flowers. These wither and can rarely withstand nature’s surprising, and oftentimes unpredictable, temperament. Stones offer permanence. Although they are smoothed by the weather’s steady drumbeat, they remain unmoved. In addition, rocks remind us of one of the tradition’s many names for God: Tzur Yisrael—Rock of Israel. God stands against life’s precariousness. God stands above life’s vicissitudes.
Leaving a stone is a beautiful custom. It can be as small as a pebble or as large as the palm of a hand. We walk to the footstone and bend over, placing the stone on its corner, or we approach the headstone, often reaching over the bushes and then find a comfortable resting place for the pebble or rock. And there they sit for months and perhaps even years, unmoved by wind and rains, unmoved by how often we visit or if we only choose to light a candle in the quiet of our homes. There they sit reminding others who might visit of our remembrances. Over the years, the piles accumulate into memories.
I have often encouraged families to invite young children to write thoughts or wishes on these stones with permanent markers. And then, even after many months one can still decipher the scrawl of “I love you grandpa. Or I miss your matzah balls, grandma.” I also urge people to collect stones on their travels. And while our biblical ancestors never piled seashells atop a grave marker, we can. When you pick up a perfectly smoothed stone at the beach and bring it to the cemetery you connect your loved one to your travels. Often when returning from a trip you want to call and share your adventures with the mother or father, sister or brother with whom you talked about everything. Or when enjoying a peaceful stroll on the beach you find yourself dreaming about the time you walked there with your spouse.
In that moment, reach down and find a stone. Save it. Hold on to it. Add it to the piles of stones accumulating on the grave. Add it to the memories piling up within your soul.
The strange thing about mourning is that years later you can be in the most mundane of places like walking along any beach, shopping in the supermarket or even driving in the car, thinking that you have no more tears left, but then you hear the music of the Beatles or see a box of kasha or are awed by the sight of the waves lapping on the shore, and you find yourself overwhelmed by a flood of tears. This was her most cherished song! This was his favorite dish! This was their beloved place! The memories accumulate like an endless stream of pebbles churning at the edge of the seashore.
Find a stone. Let memories accumulate into piles.
This year, we are adding a new ritual to our Yizkor service. In a moment, I will invite you to form a line in the sanctuary’s center aisle and place a stone or stones, if you prefer, on the table in front of the bima. Take a quiet moment when placing this stone. Listen to the music and be alone with your thoughts and memories.
Let our memories then accumulate into piles. And let this be our Yom Kippur prayer. May our shared remembrances give us strength and comfort.
When visiting the graves of loved ones, we leave a stone. This tradition dates back to biblical times when grave markers were piles of stones. Most Jews do not observe the custom of bringing flowers. These wither and can rarely withstand nature’s surprising, and oftentimes unpredictable, temperament. Stones offer permanence. Although they are smoothed by the weather’s steady drumbeat, they remain unmoved. In addition, rocks remind us of one of the tradition’s many names for God: Tzur Yisrael—Rock of Israel. God stands against life’s precariousness. God stands above life’s vicissitudes.
Leaving a stone is a beautiful custom. It can be as small as a pebble or as large as the palm of a hand. We walk to the footstone and bend over, placing the stone on its corner, or we approach the headstone, often reaching over the bushes and then find a comfortable resting place for the pebble or rock. And there they sit for months and perhaps even years, unmoved by wind and rains, unmoved by how often we visit or if we only choose to light a candle in the quiet of our homes. There they sit reminding others who might visit of our remembrances. Over the years, the piles accumulate into memories.
I have often encouraged families to invite young children to write thoughts or wishes on these stones with permanent markers. And then, even after many months one can still decipher the scrawl of “I love you grandpa. Or I miss your matzah balls, grandma.” I also urge people to collect stones on their travels. And while our biblical ancestors never piled seashells atop a grave marker, we can. When you pick up a perfectly smoothed stone at the beach and bring it to the cemetery you connect your loved one to your travels. Often when returning from a trip you want to call and share your adventures with the mother or father, sister or brother with whom you talked about everything. Or when enjoying a peaceful stroll on the beach you find yourself dreaming about the time you walked there with your spouse.
In that moment, reach down and find a stone. Save it. Hold on to it. Add it to the piles of stones accumulating on the grave. Add it to the memories piling up within your soul.
The strange thing about mourning is that years later you can be in the most mundane of places like walking along any beach, shopping in the supermarket or even driving in the car, thinking that you have no more tears left, but then you hear the music of the Beatles or see a box of kasha or are awed by the sight of the waves lapping on the shore, and you find yourself overwhelmed by a flood of tears. This was her most cherished song! This was his favorite dish! This was their beloved place! The memories accumulate like an endless stream of pebbles churning at the edge of the seashore.
Find a stone. Let memories accumulate into piles.
This year, we are adding a new ritual to our Yizkor service. In a moment, I will invite you to form a line in the sanctuary’s center aisle and place a stone or stones, if you prefer, on the table in front of the bima. Take a quiet moment when placing this stone. Listen to the music and be alone with your thoughts and memories.
Let our memories then accumulate into piles. And let this be our Yom Kippur prayer. May our shared remembrances give us strength and comfort.
Give Some More Peace
My Yom Kippur evening sermon about about the importance of making peace with those closest to us. Pursuing peace is not so much about nations but instead about us.
John Lennon sings, “All we are saying is give peace a chance.” I prefer Elvis Costello’s “What’s so funny ‘bout peace, love and understanding.” And every Shabbat we pray, “Shalom rav—grant abundant peace” and “Oseh Shalom—may the One who creates peace on high, bring peace to us.” The examples are endless. Peace is the stuff of countless songs. Shalom is one of our prayerbook’s favorite words. Peace is elusive. It often appears distant. Our longing for it persists. And so, peace constitutes are most fervent, and frequent, prayers. And it obviously makes for some of our best songs.
Back to Costello. “As I walk through this wicked world/ Searchin' for light in the darkness of insanity/ I ask myself, is all hope lost?/ Is there only pain and hatred, and misery?/ And each time I feel like this inside/ There's one thing I wanna know/ What's so funny 'bout peace, love and understanding?” Aside from the discovery that your rabbi’s musical tastes are stuck in the early 80’s (“Same as it ever was”), why is it that every generation who has ever lived pines after peace but never fully experiences it? Why is peace so fleeting? Why is shalom so seemingly unattainable?
All around us are examples of its absence. Every day we are barraged by news of violence and war. Take the war in Ukraine as but one example. Let us pause and take note. Praise is due to the Ukrainians for fighting for democracy and against the tyranny of Russia. Who would have expected that a Jewish comedian named Volodymyr Zelensky would have rallied his citizens as well as much of the world against Vladimir Putin’s onslaught. He is deserving of unending praise. Accolades are also due to President Biden and our own country for helping to lead the world in its support of Ukraine’s noble fight. There is no question who is right and who is wrong. Ukraine is on the side of right. And Russia wrong.
There should be little doubt whose victory we should be praying for and who our nation must continue to support. Leon Wieseltier offers these words: “The most consequential event of our time, I pray, will be the heroism of the Ukrainians. Here are men and women fighting and dying for liberal democracy. It was beginning to seem as if such a thing were no longer possible. Worse, no longer desirable.” The Ukrainians are fighting for everything we believe in. They are fighting against those who disparage the freedoms we cherish and the democracy to which we must continually aspire. Praise to Zelensky who seems to know better the true meaning of courage and the real meaning of democracy and that most of all, such ideals are worth defending and fighting for. I pray that President Biden finds the strength to do even more in support of Ukraine.
Do I pray for peace for Ukraine? Yes. Do I also pray not just for the cessation of this war and the realization of the Ukrainian people’s aspiration to become a full-fledged democracy? Also, yes. You can be a peacenik and support a just war and such a righteous struggle. Our tradition is not absolutist. Sometimes our ideals prevent us from making peace or even delay us in negotiating peace deals. I continue to wonder. Is this what stops us from realizing our millennial hope of shalom?
The Israeli poet, Yehudah Amichai writes: “Not the peace of a cease-fire,/ not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb,/ but rather/ as in the heart when the excitement is over/ and you can talk only about a great weariness….Let [peace] come/ like wildflowers,/ suddenly, because the field/ must have it: wildpeace.” I have often found comfort in this poem. It placates my fervent hope, and prayers, for peace while also upholding the devastating necessity of waging war in defense of our ideals or taking up arms to better guarantee our security. Amichai, like most Israelis of his generation, fought in far too many wars. In addition to fighting alongside the British against the Nazis, he fought in Israel’s War of Independence and the Yom Kippur War. Many of his poems struggle with the terrible costs of war. He writes: “God has pity on kindergarten children,/ He pities school children — less./ But adults he pities not at all./ He abandons them,/ And sometimes they have to crawl on all fours/ In the scorching sand/ To reach the first aid station,/ Streaming with blood.”
How can you not read this poem and not scream with passion, “Oseh shalom!” The prayer’s words are as if to say, “Oh God, You make peace in the heavens, please make peace for us down here.” Right now! Or to paraphrase Amichai, “Let peace sprout from the ground and grow naturally.” I understand the prayer. I hear the poet’s lament. In fact, Amichai read “God has pity on kindergarten children” after the signing of the Oslo Accords when peace between Israelis and Palestinians briefly appeared nearer. Peace remains so very distant. Perhaps even more so for the soldier who bleeds for his or her nation.
The prophets take up the cause. Isaiah writes in the eighth century BCE: “Lo yisa goi el goi cherev, v’lo yilm’du od milchamah. Nation shall not take up sword against nation; they shall never again know war.” (Isaiah 2) The prophet also experienced war and hoped for its eradication. It is unfortunate that his words are often translated as “never again know war.” The Hebrew is clear. Isaiah hopes that we will never even have the need to learn about war. His vision is grander than most translations suggest. We will have little need for an army. We will never even have to teach people how to use weapons or even instruct them in how to defend themselves. It is a messianic dream that war colleges will be dismantled and that the tools of war will be refashioned into everyday items like farming utensils.
It is of course a distant dream. This peace thing is far, far off. It remains the stuff of prayers and songs. That is what makes it a really good prayer and why shalom appears so many times in our prayerbook. Prayer is not meant, however, as a cure all. It does not magically create peace. It points us toward a better tomorrow. Perhaps it inspires us to action. Perhaps it goads us to do more. Then again, we are not diplomats who can broker peace treaties. We are left to pray for our nation and world and leave the peace-making to professionals. But why can’t we be peacemakers as well? Why is peace only for the Shimon Peres’s and Anwar Sadat’s of the world? Why is it not about each and every one of us?
Perhaps the problem is that we think peace only has to do with nations. Our tradition offers insights. Our rabbis offer us practical advice. They teach. Maybe we can’t heal the world, so let’s make peace in our families, let’s heal our friendships, let’s heal ourselves. Let’s make peace where we can actually and readily make peace. It’s the same insight that drives the rabbis to insist we should only pray for rain in the rainy season. We do not pray for rain during the land of Israel’s dry summer months but in the winter when we expect nature to provide it. Look again to our prayers. Oseh Shalom and Shalom Rav say nothing about war. It is just that when we hear the word peace, we think about it only in reference to its opposite. Maybe that’s the problem. Our prayers may be meant to turn us inward and focus energies on ourselves rather than toward nations and toward things about which we have little control. Our prayers are meant to inspire us to act on our own souls.
The word shalom comes from the root meaning complete or whole. In the Torah one of the sacrifices is called “zevach shelamim.” (Leviticus 3) This is often translated as a peace offering but it would be better to understand it as sacrifice of well-being. Shalom can mean wholeness, happiness or even health. The root implies “to repay or make good.” In fact, one of the hallmarks of this sacrifice is that it was shared with others. Unlike other sacrifices portions of the zevach shelamim were given to friends and guests. A portion was offered on the altar, another portion was given to the priest and the remainder was shared with friends and family. Zevach shelamim is shared. We make good on our obligation to others. The meaning of shalom can then be understood as to share with others, to bring others into your circle, to make good on our commitment to the world at large by beginning with the world nearby.
That is one of the main goals of our Torah. It is about inculcating a sense that we are in fact our brother’s keepers, that we have a shared responsibility for our neighbors and friends. The Torah begins with this message. Don’t behave like Cain who when God asked, “Where is your brother Abel?” thought it legitimate to say, “I do not know. Am I my brother’s keeper?” (Genesis 4)
We have likewise lost our sense of responsibility to others. We have lost our devotion to the meaning of the public square that is defined by sharing and where we care for one another. Instead of asking ourselves, “How might my actions impact others?” we too often say, “What can I gain? How can I profit? How will this enable me to get ahead?” We spend our days on the internet, searching for like-minded opinions and new toys to purchase. Lewis Hyde writes, “The desire to consume is a kind of lust. But consumer goods merely bait this lust, they do not satisfy it. The consumer of commodities is invited to a meal without passion, a consumption that leads to neither satiation nor fire.” The fire of a meal is only found when it is shared. Recall, the sacrifice is about doing for others. We construct fence after fence around our homes and our lives where everything is deemed private, and nothing is shared. Doing for others is the essence of making peace. Caring for friends is what peacemaking is truly about. Opening our hearts to others—to their concerns and their pains—is the essence of shalom.
People often think that the central message of Yom Kippur is about drawing close to God. We attend synagogue for the better part of this day. We fast and beseech God to forgive us. And yet there is this sense that before we can even approach God, we must draw close to the people in our lives. Beginning on the first day of the month preceding this month of Tishrei we are to turn to our friends and family members, acknowledge our mistakes and ask their forgiveness. The tradition says in effect, “Don’t even bother asking God for forgiveness if you have not asked others to forgive you.” You cannot get close to God if you refuse to get close to other people. That is the central message of these High Holidays.
Even though this day of Yom Kippur is widely observed, Sukkot is probably the more emblematic Jewish holiday. On Sukkot, which begins in four days, we are supposed to spend a week in our sukkahs and invite as many guests as possible to share meals with us. On Shabbat evening we pray that God might protect us with a sukkat shalom—a sukkah of peace, but in reality we are supposed to create that very sukkah here and now. It is defined not by its flimsy walls but instead by the embrace of friends, the joy and song that accompanies sharing a meal with those you love. You make peace by sharing. You want more peace, then spend more time with others.
Sure, it can sometimes be really, really challenging, especially if you find out you disagree with them or heaven forbid, sit on the other side of the political divide from them. But when is being with other people ever been easy or effortless? We spend so much time on social media reinforcing our strongly held beliefs and tightly felt notions that we forget there are lots of people who don’t think the way we do or believe what we do. How many of us still have friends who voted for candidates whose political affiliations are not our own? I know it’s hard and sometimes uncomfortable, but who said friendship is all about comfort and agreement?
This is why the rabbis teach: “Be of the disciples of Aaron, loving peace and pursuing peace?” (Avot 1). Peace is not about nodding your head in agreement. It is not about convincing your friends of the rightness of your opinions. Shalom is instead about the embrace. It is a pursuit. Making peace is not about nations. The rabbis were thinking about us and our friends. Be prepared to run after it.
Pick up the phone and reach out to a friend who you have not spoken to in a while. (And please, speak to them. Don’t text them.) Repair the mistakes you made. Forgive the wrongs done to you. Say, “I’m sorry,” more often than you think is necessary or even required. Forgive more often than you think is deserved. That is what pursuing means. Discard the notion that compromise is a dirty word. It is not. It is the single most important act we perform to sustain relationships.
Do you know why the rabbis hold up Aaron as the model of a peacemaker? It is because he was even willing to build a Golden Calf to keep the peace. I know it is a seemingly outrageous, and even sinful, example. And yet they still hold him up as a model for us all. It is as if to say, “Be prepared to go to extraordinary, and even surprising, and yes, even radical, ends to make peace.” Why? Because friendships are worth it. Because being with other people demands it.
Asking God for forgiveness is easy compared to saying “I’m sorry” to another person. God is all forgiving, but people, well they hold grudges. They sometimes even withhold forgiveness. I admit. There are times when the compromise required to sustain a relationship means sacrificing too much of yourself and who you truly are. It is true that not all friendships are worth repairing, but I would venture this guess: more are worth preserving than you probably think. Ask yourself these simple questions. “Can I count on them? Can they count on you?” If the answers to both of those questions are “Yes” then fashion yourself into a peacemaker and start making peace with those closest and nearest to you. Pursue peace. This will make you more whole and more complete than you might imagine. This will bring you more shalom than you ever thought possible and maybe even one day, as our prophets dreamed, to the world at large.
Peace is about what we do for others. It is not for prayers alone. It is really found in how we care for those nearby, for those sitting closest to us, for those who inhabit what we erroneously call our small, private worlds. There is nothing small about our worlds. There is nothing private about our lives.
Become a peacemaker. Bring shalom into your life, into the lives of others and into our world. That peace is within your reach and within your grasp. Shalom is not so much the stuff of our prayers. It is not even about messianic dreams. Peace is instead the work of our hearts and our hands. Shalom is the pursuit we are supposed to do day in and day out.
May you be the one who makes peace if not on high, then for each and every one of us.
Back to Costello. “As I walk through this wicked world/ Searchin' for light in the darkness of insanity/ I ask myself, is all hope lost?/ Is there only pain and hatred, and misery?/ And each time I feel like this inside/ There's one thing I wanna know/ What's so funny 'bout peace, love and understanding?” Aside from the discovery that your rabbi’s musical tastes are stuck in the early 80’s (“Same as it ever was”), why is it that every generation who has ever lived pines after peace but never fully experiences it? Why is peace so fleeting? Why is shalom so seemingly unattainable?
All around us are examples of its absence. Every day we are barraged by news of violence and war. Take the war in Ukraine as but one example. Let us pause and take note. Praise is due to the Ukrainians for fighting for democracy and against the tyranny of Russia. Who would have expected that a Jewish comedian named Volodymyr Zelensky would have rallied his citizens as well as much of the world against Vladimir Putin’s onslaught. He is deserving of unending praise. Accolades are also due to President Biden and our own country for helping to lead the world in its support of Ukraine’s noble fight. There is no question who is right and who is wrong. Ukraine is on the side of right. And Russia wrong.
There should be little doubt whose victory we should be praying for and who our nation must continue to support. Leon Wieseltier offers these words: “The most consequential event of our time, I pray, will be the heroism of the Ukrainians. Here are men and women fighting and dying for liberal democracy. It was beginning to seem as if such a thing were no longer possible. Worse, no longer desirable.” The Ukrainians are fighting for everything we believe in. They are fighting against those who disparage the freedoms we cherish and the democracy to which we must continually aspire. Praise to Zelensky who seems to know better the true meaning of courage and the real meaning of democracy and that most of all, such ideals are worth defending and fighting for. I pray that President Biden finds the strength to do even more in support of Ukraine.
Do I pray for peace for Ukraine? Yes. Do I also pray not just for the cessation of this war and the realization of the Ukrainian people’s aspiration to become a full-fledged democracy? Also, yes. You can be a peacenik and support a just war and such a righteous struggle. Our tradition is not absolutist. Sometimes our ideals prevent us from making peace or even delay us in negotiating peace deals. I continue to wonder. Is this what stops us from realizing our millennial hope of shalom?
The Israeli poet, Yehudah Amichai writes: “Not the peace of a cease-fire,/ not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb,/ but rather/ as in the heart when the excitement is over/ and you can talk only about a great weariness….Let [peace] come/ like wildflowers,/ suddenly, because the field/ must have it: wildpeace.” I have often found comfort in this poem. It placates my fervent hope, and prayers, for peace while also upholding the devastating necessity of waging war in defense of our ideals or taking up arms to better guarantee our security. Amichai, like most Israelis of his generation, fought in far too many wars. In addition to fighting alongside the British against the Nazis, he fought in Israel’s War of Independence and the Yom Kippur War. Many of his poems struggle with the terrible costs of war. He writes: “God has pity on kindergarten children,/ He pities school children — less./ But adults he pities not at all./ He abandons them,/ And sometimes they have to crawl on all fours/ In the scorching sand/ To reach the first aid station,/ Streaming with blood.”
How can you not read this poem and not scream with passion, “Oseh shalom!” The prayer’s words are as if to say, “Oh God, You make peace in the heavens, please make peace for us down here.” Right now! Or to paraphrase Amichai, “Let peace sprout from the ground and grow naturally.” I understand the prayer. I hear the poet’s lament. In fact, Amichai read “God has pity on kindergarten children” after the signing of the Oslo Accords when peace between Israelis and Palestinians briefly appeared nearer. Peace remains so very distant. Perhaps even more so for the soldier who bleeds for his or her nation.
The prophets take up the cause. Isaiah writes in the eighth century BCE: “Lo yisa goi el goi cherev, v’lo yilm’du od milchamah. Nation shall not take up sword against nation; they shall never again know war.” (Isaiah 2) The prophet also experienced war and hoped for its eradication. It is unfortunate that his words are often translated as “never again know war.” The Hebrew is clear. Isaiah hopes that we will never even have the need to learn about war. His vision is grander than most translations suggest. We will have little need for an army. We will never even have to teach people how to use weapons or even instruct them in how to defend themselves. It is a messianic dream that war colleges will be dismantled and that the tools of war will be refashioned into everyday items like farming utensils.
It is of course a distant dream. This peace thing is far, far off. It remains the stuff of prayers and songs. That is what makes it a really good prayer and why shalom appears so many times in our prayerbook. Prayer is not meant, however, as a cure all. It does not magically create peace. It points us toward a better tomorrow. Perhaps it inspires us to action. Perhaps it goads us to do more. Then again, we are not diplomats who can broker peace treaties. We are left to pray for our nation and world and leave the peace-making to professionals. But why can’t we be peacemakers as well? Why is peace only for the Shimon Peres’s and Anwar Sadat’s of the world? Why is it not about each and every one of us?
Perhaps the problem is that we think peace only has to do with nations. Our tradition offers insights. Our rabbis offer us practical advice. They teach. Maybe we can’t heal the world, so let’s make peace in our families, let’s heal our friendships, let’s heal ourselves. Let’s make peace where we can actually and readily make peace. It’s the same insight that drives the rabbis to insist we should only pray for rain in the rainy season. We do not pray for rain during the land of Israel’s dry summer months but in the winter when we expect nature to provide it. Look again to our prayers. Oseh Shalom and Shalom Rav say nothing about war. It is just that when we hear the word peace, we think about it only in reference to its opposite. Maybe that’s the problem. Our prayers may be meant to turn us inward and focus energies on ourselves rather than toward nations and toward things about which we have little control. Our prayers are meant to inspire us to act on our own souls.
The word shalom comes from the root meaning complete or whole. In the Torah one of the sacrifices is called “zevach shelamim.” (Leviticus 3) This is often translated as a peace offering but it would be better to understand it as sacrifice of well-being. Shalom can mean wholeness, happiness or even health. The root implies “to repay or make good.” In fact, one of the hallmarks of this sacrifice is that it was shared with others. Unlike other sacrifices portions of the zevach shelamim were given to friends and guests. A portion was offered on the altar, another portion was given to the priest and the remainder was shared with friends and family. Zevach shelamim is shared. We make good on our obligation to others. The meaning of shalom can then be understood as to share with others, to bring others into your circle, to make good on our commitment to the world at large by beginning with the world nearby.
That is one of the main goals of our Torah. It is about inculcating a sense that we are in fact our brother’s keepers, that we have a shared responsibility for our neighbors and friends. The Torah begins with this message. Don’t behave like Cain who when God asked, “Where is your brother Abel?” thought it legitimate to say, “I do not know. Am I my brother’s keeper?” (Genesis 4)
We have likewise lost our sense of responsibility to others. We have lost our devotion to the meaning of the public square that is defined by sharing and where we care for one another. Instead of asking ourselves, “How might my actions impact others?” we too often say, “What can I gain? How can I profit? How will this enable me to get ahead?” We spend our days on the internet, searching for like-minded opinions and new toys to purchase. Lewis Hyde writes, “The desire to consume is a kind of lust. But consumer goods merely bait this lust, they do not satisfy it. The consumer of commodities is invited to a meal without passion, a consumption that leads to neither satiation nor fire.” The fire of a meal is only found when it is shared. Recall, the sacrifice is about doing for others. We construct fence after fence around our homes and our lives where everything is deemed private, and nothing is shared. Doing for others is the essence of making peace. Caring for friends is what peacemaking is truly about. Opening our hearts to others—to their concerns and their pains—is the essence of shalom.
People often think that the central message of Yom Kippur is about drawing close to God. We attend synagogue for the better part of this day. We fast and beseech God to forgive us. And yet there is this sense that before we can even approach God, we must draw close to the people in our lives. Beginning on the first day of the month preceding this month of Tishrei we are to turn to our friends and family members, acknowledge our mistakes and ask their forgiveness. The tradition says in effect, “Don’t even bother asking God for forgiveness if you have not asked others to forgive you.” You cannot get close to God if you refuse to get close to other people. That is the central message of these High Holidays.
Even though this day of Yom Kippur is widely observed, Sukkot is probably the more emblematic Jewish holiday. On Sukkot, which begins in four days, we are supposed to spend a week in our sukkahs and invite as many guests as possible to share meals with us. On Shabbat evening we pray that God might protect us with a sukkat shalom—a sukkah of peace, but in reality we are supposed to create that very sukkah here and now. It is defined not by its flimsy walls but instead by the embrace of friends, the joy and song that accompanies sharing a meal with those you love. You make peace by sharing. You want more peace, then spend more time with others.
Sure, it can sometimes be really, really challenging, especially if you find out you disagree with them or heaven forbid, sit on the other side of the political divide from them. But when is being with other people ever been easy or effortless? We spend so much time on social media reinforcing our strongly held beliefs and tightly felt notions that we forget there are lots of people who don’t think the way we do or believe what we do. How many of us still have friends who voted for candidates whose political affiliations are not our own? I know it’s hard and sometimes uncomfortable, but who said friendship is all about comfort and agreement?
This is why the rabbis teach: “Be of the disciples of Aaron, loving peace and pursuing peace?” (Avot 1). Peace is not about nodding your head in agreement. It is not about convincing your friends of the rightness of your opinions. Shalom is instead about the embrace. It is a pursuit. Making peace is not about nations. The rabbis were thinking about us and our friends. Be prepared to run after it.
Pick up the phone and reach out to a friend who you have not spoken to in a while. (And please, speak to them. Don’t text them.) Repair the mistakes you made. Forgive the wrongs done to you. Say, “I’m sorry,” more often than you think is necessary or even required. Forgive more often than you think is deserved. That is what pursuing means. Discard the notion that compromise is a dirty word. It is not. It is the single most important act we perform to sustain relationships.
Do you know why the rabbis hold up Aaron as the model of a peacemaker? It is because he was even willing to build a Golden Calf to keep the peace. I know it is a seemingly outrageous, and even sinful, example. And yet they still hold him up as a model for us all. It is as if to say, “Be prepared to go to extraordinary, and even surprising, and yes, even radical, ends to make peace.” Why? Because friendships are worth it. Because being with other people demands it.
Asking God for forgiveness is easy compared to saying “I’m sorry” to another person. God is all forgiving, but people, well they hold grudges. They sometimes even withhold forgiveness. I admit. There are times when the compromise required to sustain a relationship means sacrificing too much of yourself and who you truly are. It is true that not all friendships are worth repairing, but I would venture this guess: more are worth preserving than you probably think. Ask yourself these simple questions. “Can I count on them? Can they count on you?” If the answers to both of those questions are “Yes” then fashion yourself into a peacemaker and start making peace with those closest and nearest to you. Pursue peace. This will make you more whole and more complete than you might imagine. This will bring you more shalom than you ever thought possible and maybe even one day, as our prophets dreamed, to the world at large.
Peace is about what we do for others. It is not for prayers alone. It is really found in how we care for those nearby, for those sitting closest to us, for those who inhabit what we erroneously call our small, private worlds. There is nothing small about our worlds. There is nothing private about our lives.
Become a peacemaker. Bring shalom into your life, into the lives of others and into our world. That peace is within your reach and within your grasp. Shalom is not so much the stuff of our prayers. It is not even about messianic dreams. Peace is instead the work of our hearts and our hands. Shalom is the pursuit we are supposed to do day in and day out.
May you be the one who makes peace if not on high, then for each and every one of us.
Letting Go of Certainty
The Israeli poet, Yehuda Amichai, writes:
The only way we can grow, and learn, is to let go of certainty. We must open ourselves to others and their opinions. We must invite the possibility that we could be mistaken.
Certitudes, and the stubbornness they foster, lead us away from change.
Our tradition believes we can turn. It believes we can always do better. We can admit mistakes. We can make amends.
This is the path laid before us on the High Holidays. It is plowed by opening ourselves to doubt. It is heralded by making room for love.
Every year we are summoned to build our lives anew. We are called to rebuild what is ruined. We are roused to repair what is broken.
It begins by letting go.
Cast stubbornness aside. Banish certainty if but for a moment.
From the place where we are rightAs we approach Yom Kippur I am leaning into the poet’s words.
flowers will never grow
in the spring.
The place where we are right
is hard and trampled
like a yard.
But doubts and loves
dig up the world
like a mole, a plow.
And a whisper will be heard in the place
where the ruined
house once stood.
The only way we can grow, and learn, is to let go of certainty. We must open ourselves to others and their opinions. We must invite the possibility that we could be mistaken.
Certitudes, and the stubbornness they foster, lead us away from change.
Our tradition believes we can turn. It believes we can always do better. We can admit mistakes. We can make amends.
This is the path laid before us on the High Holidays. It is plowed by opening ourselves to doubt. It is heralded by making room for love.
Every year we are summoned to build our lives anew. We are called to rebuild what is ruined. We are roused to repair what is broken.
It begins by letting go.
Cast stubbornness aside. Banish certainty if but for a moment.
Allow a whisper of repair to enter.
Let us open ourselves to doubt. Let us take in the blossoming of love.
Let us open ourselves to doubt. Let us take in the blossoming of love.
It's All About the Kippah and Concession Speech
My Rosh Hashanah Morning sermon about how custom, rather than law, are integral to our families, community and country.
An Upper West Side synagogue recently announced that it will no longer serve lox. Can you imagine? A shanda! Its leaders argue that they wish to help reduce pollution and the environmental impact of overfishing. And while salmon farming is indeed environmentally damaging and provides eighty percent of the salmon we eat on a far too regular basis, can you envision break-fast without bagels, cream cheese and lox? The rabbis added this note to their announcement about the elimination of lox from the synagogue menu: “We know that for some this is a heretical move! We are here to support you as you process this change.” Such changes make us feel as if we are mourning the loss of something precious. Messing with we have come to know as traditional foods can be tantamount to heresy.
Our holidays seem to turn on food. And lox is right up there with the other High Holiday staples like round hallahs and apples and honey. The funny thing is that we have only been eating lox in recent years—at least if you measure time in the thousands of years that amount to Jewish history. My Nana never ate lox in the shtetl in which she was born and from which she fled. If she ate any fish, it was the less expensive carp that was ground up into gefilte fish. Claudia Roden, author of The Book of Jewish Food, writes there is no evidence that Jews ate lox in Eastern Europe. Apparently, it is an American Jewish creation and dates back about hundred years when salmon from the Pacific Northwest became available in New York thanks to the railroads. Most of the immigrant families from whom we are descended and who lived in the 1920’s and 30’s could not afford a refrigerator and so cured fish was the perfect solution. And herein is how our beloved custom was born.
The origins of customs are often mysterious. Their power, and hold, over our lives remain profound. Families are defined by them. Communities are sustained by them. Countries are upheld by them. Customs are distinct from laws. Yet they often tug at our hearts in even more telling and significant ways. This morning I wish to explore customs and their importance to us: to our community, to our families and to our country.
Let’s begin with some familiar examples: the kippah and tallis. I have often found it curious that people feel more strongly attached to the kippah or yarmulke. Its origins date back to the Talmud whereas the tallis is a mitzvah, and commandment, and found in the Torah. The tallis is law. The kippah is custom. Originally the kippah signified an extra measure of piety and was optional. It gained wider acceptance in medieval times. And now many people feel it is required. There is something about the kippah that suggests its power transcends any commandment or law. There have been many shiva minyans when I gather the group together to begin the service and people start asking me if I have kippahs. While I do have kippahs and prayerbooks in my bag, people rarely ask me for prayerbooks and only kippahs. When I was a far younger rabbi, I would cite chapter and verse suggesting that any head covering will do. It’s optional. You can wear a baseball cap, I would add. The words are far more important than a kippah. The prayers are far more significant than some silken black cloth or a felt yarmulke with a bat mitzvah date from decades ago. Or are they? My learned opinions were greeted with bewilderment.
Even that tattered kippah offers comfort that little else seems to provide. The kippah is a connection to generations gone by. It does not matter that we wear it at few other occasions than services, weddings and funerals. The kippah centers. It connects. I cannot explain it entirely. I honor the custom. I let go of trying to argue that it is less important than the legally required tallis. Customs accumulate power that laws cannot quantify. They bind us together. They define communities.
Every synagogue sings Adon Olam but very few have a cantor who sings it so magically or a rabbi so poorly while dancing so emphatically. Every synagogue recites the Shema as required by Jewish law, but some sit, and others stand. No law commands the tunes which accompany our prayers, but people are attached to some as if they were given on Mount Sinai. Every synagogue has aliyas to the Torah on Yom Kippur morning but few honor all those who were married in the past Jewish year as ours does. It is the seemingly small and even idiosyncratic customs that make our synagogue our own and Congregation L’Dor V’Dor our home.
The Jewish word for law is halachah. It derives from the Hebrew root meaning “to go or walk.” It suggests a path or better, walkway. Custom is called minhag. It is related to the word “to drive” not like Moses drove the car but as Moshe drove the flock into the wilderness. (Exodus 3). It is fascinating that both custom and law suggest movement. They are not static. They carry us through life. Just as Moses drives the flock through the wilderness, custom drives us along the path.
Many families gather for Passover seders, but over time each of them develops their own minhag and customs. There are varied observances regarding who hides the afikomen and who redeems it. When I was growing up only the child who finds the afikomen was given some coins. Today, every child receives a gift. In some families, children band together to hide the afikomen and the adults have to search for it. While this inevitably delays the start of the second half of the seder, for families who do seder in this way, they would never dream of doing Passover any differently. Their way is the only way they believe the Seder has ever been celebrated or should be celebrated.
When couples get married, they often must negotiate differing family customs. I, for example, thought it was normal for birthdays to simply be acknowledged. A card, and perhaps a check, along with a phone call is all the day demands. Saying “Happy birthday” was the essence. Susie hails from a family who believes gift giving defines not only birthdays but pretty much every day and certainly every visit, and as many occasions as possible. I have to admit I was a bit surprised to get a Valentine’s Day card from my in-laws in our first year of marriage, but I remain forever grateful for their unending love and support. Of course, in one of our first years of marriage, when I simply offered Susie “Happy birthday, sweetheart. I love you so much.” and did not accompany that with a gift or even flowers, I soon discovered that the customs with which I was raised might require some adjustment. Marriages, or any significant relationship for that matter, are about the meshing of different customs. You have to take the idiosyncrasies with which you are raised and mold them into something slightly different, while still remaining loyal to your birthright. And so, customs evolve.
Back to food. Haroset recipes are also as varied as the countries from which we fled. The familiar Ashkenazi recipe of apples, walnuts and lots of Manischewitz is often spiced up in Sephardic homes with dates, pistachios and even rose water. One year we gave our son Ari, who was then beginning his cooking adventures the opportunity to prepare the haroset. We told him the most important thing is that it just has to look like bricks. That year we ended up with bananas in our haroset. And guess what? We pretty much have had bananas in our haroset every year for the past twenty years.
What makes families our own are those small, occasionally quirky things that make them different and provide us with a private language and a comforting pattern to move us through the years. My favorite Jewish custom is the blessing of the children every Shabbat evening. Although we recite the tradition’s prescribed words, it is our opportunity to hold Shira and Ari close and kiss them on their heads. Even when our children grew older and were racing to leave the house or were worried that holding their heads would mess up their hair or now when they are only home for the holidays, this custom has become so engrained that we cannot imagine giving up the opportunity to hold them close, kiss them and bless them at least for that moment. We move through the week, often in different directions, but on Shabbat and holidays we draw close if only briefly.
Whether it is watching the Giants or Jets games every Sunday or organizing what many now see as the obligatory Friendsgiving celebration the day after Thanksgiving or the furious search for the afikomen every Passover these are the customs that define families. These are also the customs that when loved ones who have now died but, in the past, sat beside us at the table or near us on the couch, give us pangs of longing. At first, we say to ourselves, “I don’t even want to watch the game.” Or “Who I am to lead the seder?” But then when we grab hold of those family customs, they mysteriously carry us forward. Customs define families. Hold on to them. Find some new ones. Finesse the tradition’s directions and make them your own. And one day, you will look back and not even remember how they were started or when you added this or that, but you will be unable to imagine your family without them. So let me now loudly proclaim, “Happy Valentine’s Day Mom.”
There are no laws prescribing these customs. They are what make families are own. They are what define us.
Countries too have customs. If you have ever had the privilege of being in Israel for Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day, you would discover that at 10 am, the air raid sirens wail throughout the country to begin a two-minute period of silence. People stop their cars in the middle of the road and stand. Here in the United States, visit Arlington Cemetery and observe the ritual changing of the guards surrounding the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Some customs are profound. And others are mundane. Who can imagine a baseball game without the seventh inning stretch? And yet it is these customs that define our American culture. This is why people were so offended when football players kneeled for the National Anthem. There is no law mandating that we stand and take off our hats just as there is no law that every Israeli motorist stops on Yom HaShoah, but these customs seem definitional. That is of course why Colin Kaepernick’s, and other players’ protests were so effective. They goaded us to look within. They stabbed at the seemingly sacred.
The concession speech is another American ritual that makes this country a unique democracy. Again, no law demands it, but custom requires it. Just as we recognize the importance of customs to families and communities, so too we must bow before its significance to our country. The first public concession in a presidential race was delivered by telegram. In 1896, Democrat William Jennings Bryan offered these words to Republican William McKinley: "I hasten to extend my congratulations. We have submitted the issue to the American people and their will is law." I have been thinking about this custom for some time. Until recently I had not thought it to be so significant. I fear now that letting go of it may forever fray the ties that bind us together and make us one united country.
President Trump’s failure to offer even a modicum of concession continues to undermine our nation’s democratic foundations. His refusal to do so in 2020 continues to sow lingering doubts in 2022. My friends, let me be forthright. This entire fragile project is built on the supposition that our elections are fair. In the days after the polls close, Democrats and Republicans as well as Independents, must all be willing to say, “It’s over.” This is not to say that elections are perfect or that there are not mistakes here and there, but overall, we must say together, “It is over. It worked. And let’s get behind him. Or let’s try to work with her. Or even, let’s gear up for next time.” If we cannot offer simple phrases such as these, and we are not led to say such words, we are lost. Let me be crystal clear. Only unfounded theories can sustain the notion that President Biden did not win more votes in November 2020 and enough electoral votes to become our 46th president. I fear that we may be entering a period where every election result will be disputed, that Republicans and Democrats will soon both refuse to concede and that a significant percentage of voters will say in effect, “She is not my representative.” Or “He is not my senator.” Already such voices are growing louder and more menacing.
People think that victory speeches are the more significant, but I have come to believe that the concession speech is the more important. The candidate receiving the most votes makes grand promises that often go unfulfilled whereas the candidate with fewer votes doubles down on the values that hold us together. I don’t remember President Obama’s speech in 2008 but the words of Senator John McCain (zecher tzaddik l’vrachah—may the memory of the righteous be a blessing) still ring in my ears. He said, “Whatever our differences, we are fellow Americans. And please believe me when I say no association has ever meant more to me than that. It is natural to feel some disappointment, but tomorrow we must move beyond it and work together to get our country moving again. We fought—we fought as hard as we could. And though we fell short, the failure is mine, not yours.” The failure is mine.
Nothing screams the High Holidays and this day’s message more than those words. “The failure is mine.” This is the essence of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. We are imperfect creatures who create imperfect institutions, who make mistakes and miss the mark. And the only corrective is to admit such failures and move forward. Character truly shines when we are called to own our mistakes. And it is this custom of conceding election results that move us sometimes haltingly and other times grudgingly and perhaps even painfully from one election to the next. But it is this custom that drives us along the path.
I recognize that some might accuse me of being partisan. Let me acknowledge before you the successes of President Trump’s administration. He is deserving of praise for facilitating the development of the Covid vaccines that have helped pull us through this pandemic. He is deserving of unending thanks for brokering the Abraham Accords between Israel, the UAE, Bahrain, Sudan and Morocco and that have brought a new level of peace and prosperity to parts of the Middle East and especially to the Israel I cherish. In the last weeks a Jewish wedding was held in Abu Dhabi. 1500 guests attended. This is unprecedented. It is historic. My heart is filled with gratitude.
Even though I can enumerate such successes, our democratic republic only moves forward if we honor the results of our elections. It is the only way this thing works. One person has to say, “The election is over. My opponent is now my president.”
Let me also add, President Biden deserves criticism for not calling out pro-Democratic party groups who are spending millions of dollars ($40 million to date) in Republican primaries to help nominate those candidates who deny the 2020 election results. Perhaps this is good strategy and shrewd calculation to support candidates who one thinks will be easier to beat in November, but it is antithetical to what should be our shared mission of upholding the integrity of our electoral system. Shame on President Biden for not calling this out loudly and forcefully. It is not simply about winning. It is about holding the nation together and more importantly, staying true to the values that define us. We are all called to make sure everyone can participate in voting. And then, before we cast our votes we fight like mad and argue and debate the issues and candidates. But when it's all over we get behind our elected officials.
The whole American democratic project may hinge on a custom that usually goes unnoticed and unheralded except by a candidate’s most devoted followers. It does not matter that John Adams did not give a concession speech and only privately conceded to Thomas Jefferson and that this custom in its present form does not date back to our nation’s founders who dreamed up this precious but fragile American democracy. What matters is that this custom has become foundational. It is what drives us forward. I feel like with every passing month, it is as if we are trampling upon those flimsy, silken kippahs that held us together at shiva minyans when we believed our small world was falling apart.
Customs move us forward. There are no laws that demand them. Without them we cannot move through the generations. We cannot find our path. Without customs families lose connections, communities wither and countries lose their way. Families are defined by customs. Communities are sustained by them. And countries must be upheld by them. Custom moves our American democracy forward and from one generation to the next. God bless the United States of America!
Our holidays seem to turn on food. And lox is right up there with the other High Holiday staples like round hallahs and apples and honey. The funny thing is that we have only been eating lox in recent years—at least if you measure time in the thousands of years that amount to Jewish history. My Nana never ate lox in the shtetl in which she was born and from which she fled. If she ate any fish, it was the less expensive carp that was ground up into gefilte fish. Claudia Roden, author of The Book of Jewish Food, writes there is no evidence that Jews ate lox in Eastern Europe. Apparently, it is an American Jewish creation and dates back about hundred years when salmon from the Pacific Northwest became available in New York thanks to the railroads. Most of the immigrant families from whom we are descended and who lived in the 1920’s and 30’s could not afford a refrigerator and so cured fish was the perfect solution. And herein is how our beloved custom was born.
The origins of customs are often mysterious. Their power, and hold, over our lives remain profound. Families are defined by them. Communities are sustained by them. Countries are upheld by them. Customs are distinct from laws. Yet they often tug at our hearts in even more telling and significant ways. This morning I wish to explore customs and their importance to us: to our community, to our families and to our country.
Let’s begin with some familiar examples: the kippah and tallis. I have often found it curious that people feel more strongly attached to the kippah or yarmulke. Its origins date back to the Talmud whereas the tallis is a mitzvah, and commandment, and found in the Torah. The tallis is law. The kippah is custom. Originally the kippah signified an extra measure of piety and was optional. It gained wider acceptance in medieval times. And now many people feel it is required. There is something about the kippah that suggests its power transcends any commandment or law. There have been many shiva minyans when I gather the group together to begin the service and people start asking me if I have kippahs. While I do have kippahs and prayerbooks in my bag, people rarely ask me for prayerbooks and only kippahs. When I was a far younger rabbi, I would cite chapter and verse suggesting that any head covering will do. It’s optional. You can wear a baseball cap, I would add. The words are far more important than a kippah. The prayers are far more significant than some silken black cloth or a felt yarmulke with a bat mitzvah date from decades ago. Or are they? My learned opinions were greeted with bewilderment.
Even that tattered kippah offers comfort that little else seems to provide. The kippah is a connection to generations gone by. It does not matter that we wear it at few other occasions than services, weddings and funerals. The kippah centers. It connects. I cannot explain it entirely. I honor the custom. I let go of trying to argue that it is less important than the legally required tallis. Customs accumulate power that laws cannot quantify. They bind us together. They define communities.
Every synagogue sings Adon Olam but very few have a cantor who sings it so magically or a rabbi so poorly while dancing so emphatically. Every synagogue recites the Shema as required by Jewish law, but some sit, and others stand. No law commands the tunes which accompany our prayers, but people are attached to some as if they were given on Mount Sinai. Every synagogue has aliyas to the Torah on Yom Kippur morning but few honor all those who were married in the past Jewish year as ours does. It is the seemingly small and even idiosyncratic customs that make our synagogue our own and Congregation L’Dor V’Dor our home.
The Jewish word for law is halachah. It derives from the Hebrew root meaning “to go or walk.” It suggests a path or better, walkway. Custom is called minhag. It is related to the word “to drive” not like Moses drove the car but as Moshe drove the flock into the wilderness. (Exodus 3). It is fascinating that both custom and law suggest movement. They are not static. They carry us through life. Just as Moses drives the flock through the wilderness, custom drives us along the path.
Many families gather for Passover seders, but over time each of them develops their own minhag and customs. There are varied observances regarding who hides the afikomen and who redeems it. When I was growing up only the child who finds the afikomen was given some coins. Today, every child receives a gift. In some families, children band together to hide the afikomen and the adults have to search for it. While this inevitably delays the start of the second half of the seder, for families who do seder in this way, they would never dream of doing Passover any differently. Their way is the only way they believe the Seder has ever been celebrated or should be celebrated.
When couples get married, they often must negotiate differing family customs. I, for example, thought it was normal for birthdays to simply be acknowledged. A card, and perhaps a check, along with a phone call is all the day demands. Saying “Happy birthday” was the essence. Susie hails from a family who believes gift giving defines not only birthdays but pretty much every day and certainly every visit, and as many occasions as possible. I have to admit I was a bit surprised to get a Valentine’s Day card from my in-laws in our first year of marriage, but I remain forever grateful for their unending love and support. Of course, in one of our first years of marriage, when I simply offered Susie “Happy birthday, sweetheart. I love you so much.” and did not accompany that with a gift or even flowers, I soon discovered that the customs with which I was raised might require some adjustment. Marriages, or any significant relationship for that matter, are about the meshing of different customs. You have to take the idiosyncrasies with which you are raised and mold them into something slightly different, while still remaining loyal to your birthright. And so, customs evolve.
Back to food. Haroset recipes are also as varied as the countries from which we fled. The familiar Ashkenazi recipe of apples, walnuts and lots of Manischewitz is often spiced up in Sephardic homes with dates, pistachios and even rose water. One year we gave our son Ari, who was then beginning his cooking adventures the opportunity to prepare the haroset. We told him the most important thing is that it just has to look like bricks. That year we ended up with bananas in our haroset. And guess what? We pretty much have had bananas in our haroset every year for the past twenty years.
What makes families our own are those small, occasionally quirky things that make them different and provide us with a private language and a comforting pattern to move us through the years. My favorite Jewish custom is the blessing of the children every Shabbat evening. Although we recite the tradition’s prescribed words, it is our opportunity to hold Shira and Ari close and kiss them on their heads. Even when our children grew older and were racing to leave the house or were worried that holding their heads would mess up their hair or now when they are only home for the holidays, this custom has become so engrained that we cannot imagine giving up the opportunity to hold them close, kiss them and bless them at least for that moment. We move through the week, often in different directions, but on Shabbat and holidays we draw close if only briefly.
Whether it is watching the Giants or Jets games every Sunday or organizing what many now see as the obligatory Friendsgiving celebration the day after Thanksgiving or the furious search for the afikomen every Passover these are the customs that define families. These are also the customs that when loved ones who have now died but, in the past, sat beside us at the table or near us on the couch, give us pangs of longing. At first, we say to ourselves, “I don’t even want to watch the game.” Or “Who I am to lead the seder?” But then when we grab hold of those family customs, they mysteriously carry us forward. Customs define families. Hold on to them. Find some new ones. Finesse the tradition’s directions and make them your own. And one day, you will look back and not even remember how they were started or when you added this or that, but you will be unable to imagine your family without them. So let me now loudly proclaim, “Happy Valentine’s Day Mom.”
There are no laws prescribing these customs. They are what make families are own. They are what define us.
Countries too have customs. If you have ever had the privilege of being in Israel for Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day, you would discover that at 10 am, the air raid sirens wail throughout the country to begin a two-minute period of silence. People stop their cars in the middle of the road and stand. Here in the United States, visit Arlington Cemetery and observe the ritual changing of the guards surrounding the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Some customs are profound. And others are mundane. Who can imagine a baseball game without the seventh inning stretch? And yet it is these customs that define our American culture. This is why people were so offended when football players kneeled for the National Anthem. There is no law mandating that we stand and take off our hats just as there is no law that every Israeli motorist stops on Yom HaShoah, but these customs seem definitional. That is of course why Colin Kaepernick’s, and other players’ protests were so effective. They goaded us to look within. They stabbed at the seemingly sacred.
The concession speech is another American ritual that makes this country a unique democracy. Again, no law demands it, but custom requires it. Just as we recognize the importance of customs to families and communities, so too we must bow before its significance to our country. The first public concession in a presidential race was delivered by telegram. In 1896, Democrat William Jennings Bryan offered these words to Republican William McKinley: "I hasten to extend my congratulations. We have submitted the issue to the American people and their will is law." I have been thinking about this custom for some time. Until recently I had not thought it to be so significant. I fear now that letting go of it may forever fray the ties that bind us together and make us one united country.
President Trump’s failure to offer even a modicum of concession continues to undermine our nation’s democratic foundations. His refusal to do so in 2020 continues to sow lingering doubts in 2022. My friends, let me be forthright. This entire fragile project is built on the supposition that our elections are fair. In the days after the polls close, Democrats and Republicans as well as Independents, must all be willing to say, “It’s over.” This is not to say that elections are perfect or that there are not mistakes here and there, but overall, we must say together, “It is over. It worked. And let’s get behind him. Or let’s try to work with her. Or even, let’s gear up for next time.” If we cannot offer simple phrases such as these, and we are not led to say such words, we are lost. Let me be crystal clear. Only unfounded theories can sustain the notion that President Biden did not win more votes in November 2020 and enough electoral votes to become our 46th president. I fear that we may be entering a period where every election result will be disputed, that Republicans and Democrats will soon both refuse to concede and that a significant percentage of voters will say in effect, “She is not my representative.” Or “He is not my senator.” Already such voices are growing louder and more menacing.
People think that victory speeches are the more significant, but I have come to believe that the concession speech is the more important. The candidate receiving the most votes makes grand promises that often go unfulfilled whereas the candidate with fewer votes doubles down on the values that hold us together. I don’t remember President Obama’s speech in 2008 but the words of Senator John McCain (zecher tzaddik l’vrachah—may the memory of the righteous be a blessing) still ring in my ears. He said, “Whatever our differences, we are fellow Americans. And please believe me when I say no association has ever meant more to me than that. It is natural to feel some disappointment, but tomorrow we must move beyond it and work together to get our country moving again. We fought—we fought as hard as we could. And though we fell short, the failure is mine, not yours.” The failure is mine.
Nothing screams the High Holidays and this day’s message more than those words. “The failure is mine.” This is the essence of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. We are imperfect creatures who create imperfect institutions, who make mistakes and miss the mark. And the only corrective is to admit such failures and move forward. Character truly shines when we are called to own our mistakes. And it is this custom of conceding election results that move us sometimes haltingly and other times grudgingly and perhaps even painfully from one election to the next. But it is this custom that drives us along the path.
I recognize that some might accuse me of being partisan. Let me acknowledge before you the successes of President Trump’s administration. He is deserving of praise for facilitating the development of the Covid vaccines that have helped pull us through this pandemic. He is deserving of unending thanks for brokering the Abraham Accords between Israel, the UAE, Bahrain, Sudan and Morocco and that have brought a new level of peace and prosperity to parts of the Middle East and especially to the Israel I cherish. In the last weeks a Jewish wedding was held in Abu Dhabi. 1500 guests attended. This is unprecedented. It is historic. My heart is filled with gratitude.
Even though I can enumerate such successes, our democratic republic only moves forward if we honor the results of our elections. It is the only way this thing works. One person has to say, “The election is over. My opponent is now my president.”
Let me also add, President Biden deserves criticism for not calling out pro-Democratic party groups who are spending millions of dollars ($40 million to date) in Republican primaries to help nominate those candidates who deny the 2020 election results. Perhaps this is good strategy and shrewd calculation to support candidates who one thinks will be easier to beat in November, but it is antithetical to what should be our shared mission of upholding the integrity of our electoral system. Shame on President Biden for not calling this out loudly and forcefully. It is not simply about winning. It is about holding the nation together and more importantly, staying true to the values that define us. We are all called to make sure everyone can participate in voting. And then, before we cast our votes we fight like mad and argue and debate the issues and candidates. But when it's all over we get behind our elected officials.
The whole American democratic project may hinge on a custom that usually goes unnoticed and unheralded except by a candidate’s most devoted followers. It does not matter that John Adams did not give a concession speech and only privately conceded to Thomas Jefferson and that this custom in its present form does not date back to our nation’s founders who dreamed up this precious but fragile American democracy. What matters is that this custom has become foundational. It is what drives us forward. I feel like with every passing month, it is as if we are trampling upon those flimsy, silken kippahs that held us together at shiva minyans when we believed our small world was falling apart.
Customs move us forward. There are no laws that demand them. Without them we cannot move through the generations. We cannot find our path. Without customs families lose connections, communities wither and countries lose their way. Families are defined by customs. Communities are sustained by them. And countries must be upheld by them. Custom moves our American democracy forward and from one generation to the next. God bless the United States of America!
Apples, Honey and the Bees
I am thinking about apples and honey.
On Rosh Hashanah we dip apples in honey. This custom originated when Jews first made their way to Europe where apples could be found in the fall. During biblical times we were more familiar with those fruits found in the Middle East such as figs and dates, and most especially pomegranates.
In fact, the pomegranate is the quintessential Jewish fruit. There is nothing quite like the sight of a pomegranate tree with its picturesque fruits hanging from its branches or its floral blooms which attract bees for pollination. According to tradition there are exactly the same number of seeds in the pomegranate as there are commandments: 613. And while I have never counted its sees, the pomegranate figures more prominently in our tradition than the apple. Some therefore add the pomegranate to their holiday meal.
In addition, even though the Bible calls the land of Israel a land flowing with milk and honey it was not bee honey to which it referred but instead date honey. And so now I found myself thinking about bees.
Many have read about the collapse of the world’s bee population. This does not have to do with honeybees who are raised, like other farm animals, for their honey and were brought from Europe to the American colonies in the seventeenth century. It does involve the ordinary bees we occasionally see buzzing around the flowers adorning our lawns. It is this indigenous bee population which is dramatically decreasing. While scientists debate the causes for this precipitous decline, there is little doubt that the numbers of native bees, as well as bumble bees is far less than it should be.
We depend on these bees to pollinate flowers and crops. Without them there will be less beauty and nourishment in our world, and maybe even less coffee. We depend on their tireless work. The bees’ work is extraordinary. A grain of pollen here or there eventually amounts to something grand. It eventually amounts to something larger and more monumental than anything we can imagine.
I look to my garden and watch as a bee flies from one flower to the next. I do not know or even see what might become its finished product. What wonder and amazement the tiniest of creatures adds to the world.
Just like the bees who fly from one pollen patch to another, so too are we expected to bring a measure of beauty and compassion to the world at large. When I taste the apple dipped in honey I am thinking about the honeybees but I am also thinking about the ordinary bees whose names I do not know, and whose names may soon be lost to extinction, and I wonder what beauty they provided for which I can now give thanks and what nourishment they sustained for which I may now want.
I do not know the work of their little wings. And yet I can imagine it, and taste it, as I recite the blessings for the new year. Perhaps it will give me strength to do more. Perhaps I can bring a small measure of compassion and sweetness to the world around me.
This new year I resolve. Let my work likewise remain hidden. Let my pursuits give flower to things as grand and beautiful, nourishing and healing, as the flowering pomegranate tree.
On Rosh Hashanah we dip apples in honey. This custom originated when Jews first made their way to Europe where apples could be found in the fall. During biblical times we were more familiar with those fruits found in the Middle East such as figs and dates, and most especially pomegranates.
In fact, the pomegranate is the quintessential Jewish fruit. There is nothing quite like the sight of a pomegranate tree with its picturesque fruits hanging from its branches or its floral blooms which attract bees for pollination. According to tradition there are exactly the same number of seeds in the pomegranate as there are commandments: 613. And while I have never counted its sees, the pomegranate figures more prominently in our tradition than the apple. Some therefore add the pomegranate to their holiday meal.
In addition, even though the Bible calls the land of Israel a land flowing with milk and honey it was not bee honey to which it referred but instead date honey. And so now I found myself thinking about bees.
Many have read about the collapse of the world’s bee population. This does not have to do with honeybees who are raised, like other farm animals, for their honey and were brought from Europe to the American colonies in the seventeenth century. It does involve the ordinary bees we occasionally see buzzing around the flowers adorning our lawns. It is this indigenous bee population which is dramatically decreasing. While scientists debate the causes for this precipitous decline, there is little doubt that the numbers of native bees, as well as bumble bees is far less than it should be.
We depend on these bees to pollinate flowers and crops. Without them there will be less beauty and nourishment in our world, and maybe even less coffee. We depend on their tireless work. The bees’ work is extraordinary. A grain of pollen here or there eventually amounts to something grand. It eventually amounts to something larger and more monumental than anything we can imagine.
I look to my garden and watch as a bee flies from one flower to the next. I do not know or even see what might become its finished product. What wonder and amazement the tiniest of creatures adds to the world.
Just like the bees who fly from one pollen patch to another, so too are we expected to bring a measure of beauty and compassion to the world at large. When I taste the apple dipped in honey I am thinking about the honeybees but I am also thinking about the ordinary bees whose names I do not know, and whose names may soon be lost to extinction, and I wonder what beauty they provided for which I can now give thanks and what nourishment they sustained for which I may now want.
I do not know the work of their little wings. And yet I can imagine it, and taste it, as I recite the blessings for the new year. Perhaps it will give me strength to do more. Perhaps I can bring a small measure of compassion and sweetness to the world around me.
This new year I resolve. Let my work likewise remain hidden. Let my pursuits give flower to things as grand and beautiful, nourishing and healing, as the flowering pomegranate tree.
I give thanks to the bees.
