Terumah

Following the revelation at Mount Sinai we first encounter laws of how to order a just society. These are the details of last week’s portion, Mishpatim. In this week’s reading, Terumah, we learn of how to construct a sanctuary and thereby bring God to earth.  We read chapters and verses containing inordinate details of how to construct the tabernacle and its furnishings.

The portion begins: “The Lord spoke to Moses, saying, ‘Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts (terumah); you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart so moves him…  And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.’” (Exodus 25:1-8)

But how can God dwell on earth?  How can people believe that any building they construct would house God or even befit God?  King Solomon responds in the words offered at the dedication ceremony of the First Temple.  “But will God really dwell on earth?  Even the heavens to their uttermost reaches cannot contain You, how much less this House that I have built!”  (I Kings 8:27)

The Rabbis disagree, arguing that God wants to dwell on earth.  It is like, they say, a king who says to his daughter on the day she marries a prince from a distant country.  “Sweetheart (ok, I added that) I cannot prevent you from moving away with your new husband, but it saddens me to think of you living so far away from me.  Do me this favor.  Wherever you live, build an apartment for me so that I can come and visit you.”  Similarly God says to Israel, “Wherever you travel, build a sanctuary for Me so that I may dwell among you.”  (Exodus Rabbah 33:1)

I think that we often place too much importance in such buildings.  We place more faith in buildings than in the people who dwell there.  This was the cause of our economy’s recent downfall.  Buildings are but means to an end.  Their purpose is not found in their structures.  Their purpose must always be in the people who gather there.

Sometimes when the flowers are blooming on my front yard (may that day be very soon!) and my house is awash in their colors, I think to myself how fortunate I am to have such a beautiful home.  Then I remind myself that the purpose of my home extends beyond its landscaping, decorations and rooms.  Its purpose extends even beyond keeping my family warm and safe.  The purpose of a home is only realized when it brings a family closer together.  The purpose of a home is found in the people who gather there.

Even the sanctuary that we dream of one day building is but a means to an end.  All buildings are to help us sanctify our lives and cherish our relationships.  I stand with King Solomon.  No place can contain God.  Every building is for us.

When God commanded the Israelites to build a sanctuary God understood that all its details were for the people.  Perhaps the Israelites had to believe that it could contain God in order for their hearts to be moved to give.  I imagine that God’s most fervent prayer was that the people’s hearts might be joined together and thereby inspired to build a better community.  Every sanctuary is so that we might turn towards each other.  

That is why the instructions for building a just society precede the instructions for building a sanctuary.  It is always about the people.  It is first about the community.

Mishpatim Sermon

Following the revelation at Mount Sinai we move to a detailed listing of laws.  Here are a few of the many laws and mitzvot listed in this week’s parsha.  Some make sense and others appear outdates.  There are the logical and the mysterious.  Most of the laws fall into the category of mishpatim, laws whose reasons are obvious as opposed to hukkim, laws whose reasons are mysterious.

The portion begins with laws concerning the treatment of slaves.  We begin with the outdated.  Then there are laws about manslaughter and murder.  The Torah establishes asylum for a person who accidentally kills another so as to prevent the seeking of vengeance.  The death penalty is prescribed if you hit or insult your parents.  Perhaps the parent of a teenager wrote this one.  We also find here some of the basis for our own contemporary laws.  For example if you cause injury to a person Jewish law states that you are responsible for five types of restitution: for injury, for pain, for medical expenses, for absence from work, and for humiliation and mental anguish.  How progressive!  If you cause a miscarriage then you are required to make restitution as well.  This is the context for an eye and for an eye which mandates fair and equitable restitution not as commonly understood vengeance.

My favorite is the law of the goring ox.  The owner must make restitution only if the ox is in the habit of goring and he did not guard against this happening.  Similarly you are liable if you leave a pit uncovered and an animal or person falls in.  There is a fundamental tenet here of our responsibility to others.  You must make restitution if you start a fire or steal a neighbor’s livestock.  If you lose something that someone asked you to keep, even if it was stolen, you are responsible for it.  You shall not wrong the stranger, orphan or widow.  You must not take bribes.  Many of these laws were constructed to help build a just society.  The Torah is not just worried about how we approach God but also about building a community that cares for one another.

There are laws regarding the lending of money and charging interest.  Another one of my favorites, you have to stop and help your enemy’s ox—if it is lost or if it is struggling under its burden.  Observe Passover, Shavuot and Sukkot.  Leave the gleanings of the field for the poor.   Let the field lie fallow on the seventh year.  And now to some that are more difficult to understand.  Get rid of all the Hivites, Hittites, Canaanites, Amorites, Perizzites and Jebusites.  Don’t offer the blood of the sacrifice with anything leavened.

And finally, you shall not a boil a kid in its mother’s milk.  This is one of the classic examples of those laws called hukkim, laws whose reasons are mysterious.  There are many attempts to explain this law.  Most likely it was an ancient Canaanite practice that the Israelites found abhorrent.  If you have to get rid of all these peoples then you also have to get rid of all their abhorrent practices.

This verse is obviously the basis for the prohibition regarding the mixing of milk and meat.  The most common explanation for this observance is that we must not mix what gives life with the life that was taken.  Not mixing milk and meat is a discipline that brings Jewish consciousness to the everyday.  It makes you think about your Jewishness even when you are preparing food.

The early Reform rabbis rejected kashrut because they found such practices that regulated dress and diet to be for a different age.  But what was really going on was that the early Reform rabbis had great faith in reason.  If the reason was mysterious and did not fit with their modern sensibilities then they rejected the practice.  But post Holocaust and now because of post-modernism we have come to doubt reason.  And if we don’t doubt it we should.  We should not have complete faith in reason.  The Holocaust not only destroyed six million Jews and millions more it also destroyed our faith in reason.  Here was a country, namely Germany, at the height of culture, science and philosophy that used all of these and reason to evil ends.  

So it can’t all be about what our minds are capable of. It can’t all be what our heads can explain or reason can fathom.  Dr. Micah Goodman in his new book talks about redemptive perplexity.  I like this notion that there is a redemptive quality to not having it all figured out.  That is what he argues is the point of Maimonides’ "Guide of the Perplexed.”

And so I have come to think that we must recover mystery.  That is what not mixing milk and meat is about.  It is a daily affirmation of the fact that sometimes we must do things that cannot be adequately explained. Mystery must be a part of our lives—just as much as reason.  Wondering why must always be a part of our Jewish lives.

I am not suggesting that everyone must practice as I do.  Or that everyone should even keep kosher.  But I do believe that we must recover mystery.  Not every Jewish thing that we do can be explained by reason.

One more example.  I have been thinking about snow lately.  I am sure it is clear why this has been on my mind.  It is hard to see beauty in 18 inches of snow and the piles that tower over my head.  But you have to admit if you don’t have to get anywhere the snow is beautiful.  Moreover snow has a teaching in its accumulation.

All plans come to a crashing halt.  You can plan and schedule all you want.  But we don’t control everything.  We don’t understand everything.  Some things are just beyond our control.

Jewish tradition suggests that the highest reason for doing a mitzvah is not for a promise of reward or even because you find its reasons compelling, but instead because it is God given.  Because the reason is beyond our understanding we do the mitzvah for its own sake.

We do things for the sake of mystery.   On this Shabbat I would like us to work to restore mystery to our lives. The search for answers and reasons must always continue.  But unresolved questions do not mean giving up the quest.   It means instead affirming the mystery of our lives.  It means praising the mystery in our lives.

Amidst all of these laws in this week’s portion we find of course the quest for a just society but also this affirmation of mystery.  And with such mystery comes peace and contentment.

Mishpatim

The Zionist thinker, Berl Katznelson, wrote: “When I see a person walk among us as though he has solved all riddles and conundrums, or as one for whom a new ‘Guide of the Perplexed’ has been written…or one who really doesn’t need any such guidance at all, since his mind is clear and relaxed and he has never known any sort of confusion, I think of him as someone who lives in another world, beyond the reversals, torments and hopes of our own muddled world, or perhaps someone who has solved all problems by chewing some magical cud.  As for myself, I’m happy with my confused, uneasy soul…”

This week’s Torah portion, Mishpatim, elaborates many laws and introduces the Jewish notion called by its name.  According to tradition it is these mishpatim, laws, for which there are rational explanations.  An example: “When a person’s ox injures his neighbor’s ox and it dies, they shall sell the live ox and divide its price; they shall also divide the dead animal.  If, however, it is known that the ox was in the habit of goring, and its owner failed to guard against this, he must restore ox for ox, but he can keep the dead animal.”  (Exodus 21:35-36)

There are certain laws by which a just society is built.  How can you build any community where people do not take responsibility for each other?  How can you build a society where people murder?  Or where people steal?  Or for that matter, where people do not prevent their animals from injuring others?  The reasons for these laws are obvious.  They are mishpatim.

If you know that your ox (perhaps your dog or then again, your car) is a menace then you must guard against it injuring others.  Perhaps we should understand this law to mean, if you know a friend is a dangerous or reckless driver then you have a God given responsibility to keep them from harming others.  In the Torah there is no such notion as “It is none of my business.”  Everyone is responsible for building a just society.  The mishpatim, laws, detailed in this week’s portion are where we begin.  They are our society’s foundation.  They are the building blocks of any community.

There is another category of rules, however, called hukkim, for which there are no rational explanations.  Our Torah portion provides another example.  “You shall not boil a kid in its mother’s milk.” (Exodus 23:19)  This verse, repeated three times in the Torah, is the basis for the kosher dietary laws preventing the mixing of milk and meat.  According to the rabbis even this repetition has meaning.  One must not eat milk and meat, cook this mixture or even derive any benefit from it. 

Also according to the rabbis the rationale for this rule remains obscure.  There are many interpretations justifying this observance of not mixing meat and milk but all are mere attempts to explain what will forever remain mysterious.  This law remains part of the group of laws whose reasons remain obscure, perplexing and mysterious. 

Let us be honest.  Observing the dietary laws does not help build a just society.  Instead refraining from eating milk and meat together affirms mystery.  Too often we think that all problems can be solved, all questions answered.  Sometimes we even think that we control every aspect of our lives, that all is in our hands.  This is not the case.  Not everything has a reason.  Not everything can be explained.  Doing things whose reasons are mysterious does not make them irrational.  It makes them only unexplainable.  Just as mystery is part of lives so too must hukkim be part of our lives.    

I too am happy with my confused, uneasy soul.  And every time I pause to think, “Do I use the meat or milk utensil?” I am reminded that even the most ordinary of act of eating can sometimes affirm the mystery and give voice to what might forever remain my many, unanswered questions.

An Infant Dies, and a Jewish Ritual of Birth Begins

An Infant Dies, and a Jewish Ritual of Birth Begins - NYTimes.com
Read this!  Nothing more need be said.  Every word of mine might undermine the article's power.  It should simply be read and appreciated.

Yitro Sermon

In this week’s Torah portion the Ten Commandments are revealed.   Rather than focus on their familiar words I prefer to focus on the verse that follows.  “And the people saw the thunder—ro-eem et hakolot.”  How could they see the thunder?

There are two possible explanations.  1. Anything is possible because the Mount Sinai experience is a miracle.  But this is too easy an explanation.  And besides, there would not be much to discuss if I followed this line of reasoning.  2. In such an extraordinary experience the senses are overwhelmed and play tricks on you.  This is analogous to smells that sometimes awaken long since suppressed memories.

Neither of these reasons explore the meaning of seeing the thunder.  A Hasidic teaching suggests a better line of reasoning:  “What they heard on Mount Sinai they later saw translated into action in their homes, in the way they lived and in their behavior.  What they heard they later saw: the spirit of the Sabbath, the spirit of kosher food, the spirit of purity. They saw the sound.  Often, sound remains that and no more.  There are people who hear but never see; there is nothing in their daily behavior which gives evidence of the Torah which they heard.”

This is a beautiful explanation.  We must make what we hear, seen.  In other words, taking a teaching to heart is to make it visible.  It is to translate a teaching into action.

Judaism is skeptical about feelings.  This does not mean that it dislikes feelings.  Love is of course a very good thing, and its opposite, coveting is bad.  But Judaism refuses to rely on feelings.  It trusts instead actions.  It relies on what can be seen, not what is felt.

This is why “You shall not covet” is transformed into “Don’t steal.”  This is also why the tradition frames love within the holiness of marriage.  We build laws of actions around feelings.  We wrap our feelings with to do lists.

This is also why Judaism does not believe that a gift is tainted even if it is given for the wrong reason.  Tzedakah is not always given with a full heart.  It could be given because of a tax break or even to accumulate prestige.  The issue is not the feeling of the giver but the needs of the recipient.

Recently I asked my students these questions.  Who does the better act?  Two people of equal means are asked for a tzedakah donation of $200.  The beggar explains that it is for the purpose of buying winter coats so his family might better survive winter’s cold.  One person is moved to tears and gives $100.  The other is gruff and angry but grudgingly gives $200.  Who does the better act?  Our tradition says that the person who gave $200 does the better act.  Our students always answer that it is the person who gives with a full heart.  But it is about the needs of the recipient.  It is not about the feelings of the giver.

The ideal of course is to give the right amount with the right feeling.  But if you have to choose between feelings and actions, Judaism always chooses actions.  It trusts what can be seen, not what is felt.

Here is one of my favorite questions to ask our students.  I first learned it from Dennis Prager.  Your pet dog is drowning in a lake.  A complete stranger is also drowning there.  You can only save one.  Who do you save?  The Jewish answer is that you save the person, even if he or she is a stranger.

Our students always answer, “My dog,” after they first try to change the scenario.  “I would jump in and throw a life jacket to the other at the same time.”  When I say that most people don’t usually carry a life jacket with them and insist that they make a choice, they say, “My dog because my dog is a part of my family.”  One student recently added, “Maybe the person is really mean.”  In this student’s world, dogs are always nice—and I presume, people are unfortunately mean.

I understand our students’ responses.  Their world is built on relationships and family.  But Judaism believes that human life is more sacred than animals’.  So if you have to choose between the two you save the human life.  That is all there is to it.

And this is why feelings are not to be trusted.  We rely on actions.  You can accumulate many positive and altruistic feelings during a lifetime but to be righteous is a matter of piling up positive actions.

In next week’s Torah portion we read something that adds more force to this week’s and our current discussion.  The people respond to God’s commandments on Mount Sinai with the words, “Naaseh v’nishmah—All that God has said we will do and we will hear.”  First we do then we hear.

When we do, we hear.  You can only see the thunder when you transform your feelings into action. That is the meaning of the people seeing the thunder.

And so I resolve to leave fewer ideas locked in my heart.  I resolve to bring as much as possible to my hands.  It is in the doing that miracles are to be found.

Yitro

This week’s Torah portion, Yitro, details the revelation at Mount Sinai and the giving of the Torah, including the Ten Commandments.  It is these words that are emblazoned on the walls of many sanctuaries. 

“I am the Lord your God.  You shall have no other gods beside Me.  You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain.  Remember the Sabbath day.  Honor your father and mother.  You shall not murder.  You shall not commit adultery.  You shall not steal.   You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.  You shall not covet your neighbor’s house.”  (Exodus 20)

The most interesting of verses however, immediately follows the Ten Comandments: “All the people saw the thunder and lighting, the blare of the horn and the mountain smoking; and when the people saw it, they fell back and stood at a distance.”  The revelation at Mount Sinai was accompanied by many miracles and wonders. 

But how could the people see thunder?  The first answer is that the event was so miraculous that the revelation defied reason.  God could make the people see what is normally only heard.  A second explanation is that the experience overwhelmed human senses.  A powerful experience sometimes confuses the senses in the same way that a smell can trigger a memory and bring tears.  Still I question: what is the meaning of seeing thunder?

Rabbi Shmuel Yaakov Rubinstein, a 20^th century Hasidic rabbi, writes: “What they heard on Mount Sinai they later saw translated into action in their homes, in the way they lived and in their behavior.  What they heard they later saw: the spirit of the Sabbath, the spirit of kosher food, the spirit of purity. They saw the sound.  Often, sound remains that that and no more.  There are people who hear but never see; there is nothing in their daily behavior which gives evidence of the Torah which they heard.”

Every time we live by the words of our tradition, every time we live by the words of the Torah, we see the thunder.  The miraculous is in our hands!  Miracles are not about quaking mountains and booming voices.  They are instead within our grasp.  It is as simple as transforming feelings into action.

Judaism often, if not always, seeks to translate feelings into action.  In fact the Ten Commandment’s coveting is understood by the tradition as stealing property.  Commandment eight is then re-imagined as stealing a person, namely kidnapping.  Our tradition measures people by what they do rather than what they profess, what they perform rather than what they feel.  Judaism is uncomfortable with feelings.  It is skeptical about the heart.  It chooses instead to rely on the hands.

I wonder how many feelings and promises have failed to reach my hands.  How many good intentions have never worked their way out of my heart?  How many remain locked within?  And so I resolve—again and again, if Judaism is to be a force for good then it must leave the heart and reach out to the world!  Let us not be “people who hear but never see.”  Thunder can in fact be seen—each and every day, in each and every one of our lives.

Psalms 22-24

22. My God, my God

Why have You abandoned me;

why so far from delivering me

and from my anguished roaring?

My God,

I cry by day—You answer not;

by night, and have no respite.

According to the New Testament (Mark 15:34) Jesus invoked this opening verse when crucified on the cross.  It is a powerful opening for a prayer.  Anyone could have mouthed such words from the midst of their anguish and pain.  The psalmist often opens with such words but then concludes with words of praise.  The psalms open with pain and conclude with faith.  This psalm however is far longer on pain.  It concluding words are as follows:

Let all the end of the earth pay heed and turn

to the Lord,

and the peoples of all nations prostrate themselves before You;

for kingship is the Lord’s

and He rules the nations.

But the psalm began on a personal note of pain: why have You abandoned me?  It concludes with an impersonal note of faith.  Has faith indeed been restored?  Earlier the psalmist writes:

Because of You I offer praise in the great congregation;

I pay my vows in the presence of His worshippers.

Let the lowly eat and be satisfied;

let all who seek the Lord praise Him.

Always be of good cheer.

What began on a personal note concludes in a rather formulaic manner.  Again and again I find the psalmist speaking from the depths of personal trial and pain and then repeating rather mantra like statements of faith.  Yehuda Amichai writes of “the precision of pain and the blurriness of joy.”  Is pain indeed easier to speak about than joy?  Is faith more elusive than struggles and trials?

23. The most famous of all psalms.  I turn to Robert Alter’s new translation.  It is quoted here in full.

A David psalm.

The Lord is my shepherd,

I shall not want.

In grass meadows He makes me lie down,

by quiet waters guides me.

My life He brings back.

He leads me on pathways of justice

for His names’ sake.

Though I walk in the vale of death’s shadows,

I fear no harm,

for You are with me.

Your rod and Your staff—

it is they that console me.

You set out a table before me

in the face of my foes.

You moisten my head with oil.

my cup overflows.

It is difficult to interpret this psalm for it has a resonance beyond its exact translation and meaning.  How many times have we recited this at a funeral or shiva?  Here Alter translates the most famous of lines: “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for Thou art with me…” differently.  I prefer his translation of the Hebrew.  A vale of death seems more apt than a valley of death, although the Hebrew is usually translated as valley and might be more fitting to the metaphor of God as a shepherd.  Regardless many people are attached to the King James translation.  There is a certain majesty found in the old English.  There is a certain comfort in reciting words that one memorized in grade school.  At funerals I notice a divide between the generations.  When there are many people in their seventies, educated in American schools in the 1950’s, I can invite the assembled crowd to recite the 23^rd psalm in English.  The group will then recite the old English from memory.  There is great comfort in hearing the group reciting these words in unison.  Maybe we should teach our children to memorize this psalm as well.  Then they would be able to call upon it when they face loss.  But how many of those who recite these words from memory think of the meaning of the words?  There is a rhythm and music to the words.  Yet notice the faith of the psalm.  God is our shepherd.  Our greatest heroes like Moses and David were shepherds because shepherds tend to their flock but also know where the errant sheep wanders.  The shepherd cares for the flock as well as the individual.  God cares for the people and the individual in pain.  We march through the valley.  We do not remain there.  And one day our eyes will not be moistened by tears but our head by oil.  Redemption is our hope and prayer.  We will fill our cups and they will be brimming with joy.  Such is the faith of this most famous of psalms.  Again note how the pain is personal but the faith is in the impersonal third person.

24. The earth is the Lord’s and all that it holds,

The world and its inhabitants….

Who may ascend the mountain of the Lord?

Who may stand in His holy place?—

God is so high and mighty and lofty then no one can possibly stand near.  Such is the sense created by this opening.  But then we learn it is not beyond our reach.  It is as simple as living an honest life.  To live the ethical life is to ascend God’s holy mountain.

He who has clean hands a pure heart,

who has not taken a false oath by My life

or sworn deceitfully.

Beshalach

This week’s Torah portion, Beshalach, marks the beginning of the journey that will define the remainder of the Torah.  “So God led the people roundabout, by way of the wilderness at the Sea of Reeds.”  (Exodus 13:18) The wandering begins.  The journey through the wilderness starts this week.

As the week draws to a close I want to reflect on the journey of Jews in America.  I am given to reflect about two Jewish women.  One brought the contemporary to Judaism.  The other brought Judaism to the contemporary.

On Sunday the great Jewish singer and songwriter, Debbie Friedman, died.  Debbie composed the Mi Shebeirach prayer for healing that we sing each and every Friday night.  She wrote countless other prayers that we sing.  So many of her tunes have become a part of the American Jewish prayer experience that we often fail to acknowledge her authorship. 

Beginning in the 1970’s Debbie Friedman rewrote the music of traditional prayers, accompanying them to contemporary sounds.  She started what we now call Jewish prayer music.  Before her it never occurred to anyone to accompany our praying with the contemporary sounds of folk and rock.  I grew up singing her songs and still remember standing arm in arm with my youth group friends singing her version of the V’Ahavta.  She revolutionized Jewish prayer.  We owe her a great deal for beginning the journey we continue, of bringing the contemporary into our Jewish practice.

The other woman is Representative Gabrielle Giffords who remains in a coma after barely surviving an assassination attempt.  Our hearts are joined in reciting the Mi Shebeirach prayer for the wounded, especially those injured in the shooting, and for the families of those murdered: Federal District Judge John McCarthy Roll; Gabe Zimmerman, a young staff member of Giffords who was recently engaged, Christina Taylor Green, a nine year old born on 9-11, Dorwin Stoddard, Dorthy Murray and Phyllis Scheck.

Congresswoman Giffords is Jewish.   I suspect her Judaism played a part in the murderer’s motivation.  He for example listed antisemitic books and organizations as among his favorites.  Many people are not aware that Gifford’s Judaism figured prominently in her world outlook and approach to issues.  She once remarked:  “If you want something done, your best bet is to ask a Jewish woman to do it.  Jewish women — by our tradition and by the way we were raised — have an ability to cut through all the reasons why something should, shouldn’t or can’t be done and pull people together to be successful.” 

On the issue of immigration and in particular migrant workers she was said to balance the need for security with the Torah’s teachings about reaching out to the stranger.  A trip to Israel in 2001 cemented her commitment to Judaism and Israel.  She said, “Religion means different things to different people. It provides me with grounding, a better understanding of who I came from."

Born to a Jewish father and a Christian Scientist mother she would not be considered Jewish by traditional authorities.  But she brought Jewish sensibilities and teachings to contemporary concerns.  She found meaning in her Jewish faith.  For traditional authorities as well Debbie Friedman’s prayers would not be recognized as Jewish.  In my mind both women are shining of examples of what it means to be both Jewish and American, contemporary and informed by our tradition and faith.

In this week’s portion we also read the Song at the Sea, the beautiful poem sung after the Israelites crossed the Sea of Reeds.  The Mi Chamocha prayer is taken from its verses.  There we read of the achievements of women and in particular an early leader.  “Then Miriam the prophetess… took a timbrel in her hand, all the women went out after her in dance with timbrels.   And Miriam chanted for them: ‘Sing to the Lord, for He has triumphed gloriously; horse and driver He has hurled into the sea.’” (Exodus 15:20-21)

We will continue singing.  We will continue wandering between the contemporary and our tradition.  Our journey never ends.  In two women we find guidance and inspiration.

May the memory and songs of Debbie Friedman continue to find their way into our hearts.  May Representative Gabrielle Giffords be blessed with refuah shleymah, complete healing, and may we continue to learn from her example.

Derekh Eretz

Founder of 'Civility Project' Calls It Quits - NYTimes.com
The way of the land, a euphemism for proper manners, has fallen out of practice in many circles.  Today's Times reports that the recent Civility Project is a bust.  The project was started last year by Mark DeMoss and Lanny Davis, a Republican and Democrat.  Last year they asked all governors, senators and representatives to sign the following pledge:

I will be civil in my public discourse and behavior.
I will be respectful of others whether or not I agree with them.
I will stand against incivility when I see it.

Only three signed the pledge: Senator Joseph Lieberman, independent of Connecticut; Representative Frank Wolfe, Republican of Virginia; and Representative Sue Myrick, Republican of North Carolina.  DeMoss remarked:  "Whether or not there’s violence, whether or not incivility today is worse than it’s been in history, it’s all immaterial. It’s worse than it ought to be."  That is exactly the point.  Our uncivil discourse is not the cause of the near assassination of Representative Gabrielle Giffords (may she soon be granted refuah shleymah) and the murder of six others (may their memories serve as a blessing).  The cause of this heinous act is Jared Lee Loughner and his ideology of hate and violence.  There are far too many in this world who believe that murder and terrorism are the answers.  If we can't keep such people from finding inspiration on the internet we certainly should keep them from too easily finding the tools of violence, in particular automatic weapons and explosives.  (I am thinking here of Timothy McVeigh y"s as well.)

On the other hand our inability to debate and disagree with each other leads only to our current inability to accomplish anything meaningful.  Republicans and Democrats are more interested in seeing each other fail than seeing America succeed.  Once we stop relishing in the failure of others and working instead towards our community's success will we achieve greatness.  Until then we will continue screaming at each other and every two years or four grabbing power from each other.  This nation's success is in the hands of all.

Bo Sermon

This Torah portion concludes the telling of the ten plagues.  The first seven are delineated in the previous portion: blood, frogs, lice, wild beasts, cattle disease, boils and hail.  In this week we read of locusts, darkness and the killing of the first born.  It is interesting and perhaps curious why the plagues are divided in this manner, but in doing so the rabbis certainly guaranteed that we would return to hear this week’s resounding conclusion.

There is also much discussion as to the purpose of the plagues.  Nowhere do we read that their purpose is to punish the Egyptians.  It is instead to motivate the Egyptians to let the Israelites go free.  In some commentaries we read that their purpose is to demonstrate God’s power to the Israelites.  But I don’t very much like this explanation.  Why would God want other human beings to suffer so that Israel can learn of God’s might?

Regardless our tradition has tempered the force of the plagues by insisting that whenever we retell them we lesson our joy.  In other words at every seder we remove a drop of wine from our kiddush cups so as to remove a measure of happiness.  In the most famous of retellings the midrash recounts how the angels sang and danced when the Egyptians were later drowned in the sea.  God silences their shouting of halleluyah with the exhortation: “My children are drowning!  How dare you sing praises!”

As I shared in my weekly email, the telling of the plagues is punctuated by the phrase, “And God hardened Pharaoh’s heart.”  Pharaoh wavers back and forth between letting the people go and hardening his heart and not allowing the Israelites to go free.  I am not going to here explore the question of why God hardens Pharaoh’s heart but instead the meaning of this phrase.  What does it mean to harden our hearts?  To what do we harden our hearts?

The most obvious answer is that sometimes we harden our hearts to others.  We do so to strangers and even to those we love.  Everyone stands guilty of doing this.  Sometimes we become so wrapped up in our own lives and our own concerns that we forget others.  We harden our hearts to their needs, to their pains and even to their joys.  Sometimes we are unable to celebrate others joys and successes because we are so hardened by our own failings and trials. 

I think especially of the homeless who we often confront living in New York.  Do we walk by them in Times Square?  Do we step over them as we rush to catch the subway?  I remember once when we learned from a homeless person.  He was actually no longer homeless and working for an advocacy group.  When we asked him, “What was the worst part about being homeless?” he answered, “To be ignored.”  He could deal with the physical challenges of being hungry and even the cold, but the emotional was far more difficult.  People used to walk by him as if he was invisible, as if he did not exist.  This was the most difficult.  And this is hardening of the heart.

And what is the cause of this hardening of our hearts?  It can be ideology.  It can even be our beliefs.  Sometimes we become convinced of the rightness of our own opinions and then the world becomes invisible.  We only see ourselves and our ideas.  We fail to see others.  And so do we choose to be right and sometimes alone, or to be surrounded by others and then often our community?

Lately I have been thinking of an even more insidious hardening of our hearts.  It is the hardening of our hearts about the future.  We read article after article about the diminishing of America.  We read of states running out of money, of services being cut, of budgets being squeezed.  And our hearts have therefore become hardened.  We have become convinced that we will never be what we once were.  It is the decline of America.

But to be Jewish is to never lose hope in the future.  Think of the seder and its retelling of the plagues.  Even more importantly think of the seder and the singing of Next Year in Jerusalem.  Think of how many thousands of years we sang this song when there was not even a glimmer of a State of Israel.  Think of Elijah and his promise of bringing the messiah.  The messianic dream means that the future will be better than the present.  As Jews we must never lose sight of this dream.

When we allow our hearts to become hardened we become like Pharaoh.  We can like Pharaoh harden our hearts to others and harden our hearts to the future.  Lately I have been thinking that the latter might indeed be the more dangerous of the two.  To believe that the future cannot be better creeps into our hearts and coarsens our souls.

Our tradition reminds us each and every Saturday evening when we sing to Elijah that the future can be better, that the future will be better. We must never allow ideology to harden our hearts to others! We must never allow circumstance to harden our hearts to the future!

Debbie Friedman z"l

The singer and songwriter, Debbie Friedman, died early yesterday morning. More than anyone else she created the genre of Jewish music. It was she who in the early 1970's began matching traditional prayers to contemporary tunes. It was she who wrote the Mi Shebeirach prayer for healing that we sing each and every Shabbat.  This new prayer and song has become so much a part of our liturgy that I dare not forget to recite it.  The Mi Shebeirach  has become so much a part of every Reform congregation's prayer service that it was included in the new siddur.  What so many of us have come to accept and expect as "normal" Jewish prayer was quite revolutionary when Debbie Friedman first began writing and singing.  Today there are many more Jewish songwriters.  Today we sing many of our prayers to contemporary tunes.  Today there are many singers and musicians who bring contemporary sounds and sensibilities to the Jewish prayer experience.  It is true that Debbie Friedman died too young.  It is also true that her legacy will continue well into the distant future.  I am grateful that she led the way in transforming our prayers.  As one of her more recent compositions, and Psalm 30, attests, "You turn my mourning into dancing..."  Kein y'hi ratzon!



To learn more about her legacy watch the below video.    



May her memory always serve as a blessing!

Bo

This week’s Torah portion, Bo, details the last three plagues brought down upon Egypt: locusts, darkness and the killing of the first born.  The first seven are described in last week’s portion.  The telling of the plagues is punctuated by an interesting, and perhaps troubling, phrase: “For I have hardened Pharaoh’s heart…” 

The drama moves back and forth.  Moses goes to Pharaoh telling him that the Jewish people must be allowed to leave.  Pharaoh refuses.  God brings a plague.  Pharaoh decides to let the Jewish people go.  Pharaoh changes his mind telling Moses the people cannot leave.  God brings another plague.  Even after the tenth plague Pharaoh again has a change of heart and pursues the Israelites to the Sea of Reeds where his army is drowned.  The Torah’s drama then moves away from Egypt to the wilderness.

Pharaoh’s change of heart is marked by the phrase “For I have hardened his heart.”  The Hebrew would be better translated as “I made his heart heavy” or perhaps “I weighed his heart down.”  What is the meaning of this unusual phrase?  What does it mean to harden our hearts?

A Hasidic master, Rebbe Eliezer Hagar of Vizhnitz (1890-1945), offers the following comment.  He begins by quoting a midrash.  This phrase is as it is written in Proverbs: “A stone is heavy and the sand weighty; but a fool’s wrath is heavier than both.”  He then goes on to interpret the rabbinic commentary with the following observation: It is hard to write on a rock, but after something is engraved on it, the writing will last forever.  In the case of sand, on the other hand, one finds it easy to write whatever he wishes, but the writing can be erased in an instant.  The difference between the two is the same as that between the person who finds it difficult to understand something, but once he understands it does not forget it, and the person who finds it easy to understand something, but soon forgets it.  Pharaoh had both disadvantages—he found it hard to understand, and he forgot easily.  Immediately after he said, “God is right,” he changed his mind and did not allow Israel to leave.

Typical of the Hasidic masters this negative notion of hardening the heart is transformed into one that has positive potential, albeit a potential that Pharaoh missed.  Had Pharaoh heeded Moses’ words he would have learned a hard and difficult lesson.  Pharaoh would have learned something that would have left an imprint for a lifetime.  He would have taken to heart the lesson that you must never harden your heart to others.  You must never harden your heart to their suffering.

At times our hearts are open.  Other times they are closed.  Sometimes our hearts are weighed down by sorrow.  And other times by pain.  Sometimes our hearts are hardened by stubbornness.  Other times by ideology.  To what do we harden our hearts?  What weighs our hearts down?  What stands in the way of our learning lessons that will last a lifetime, lessons that could be written on stone?

Vaera

This week’s Torah portion, Vaera, opens with the words: “God spoke to Moses and said to him, ‘I am Adonai.  I appeared to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob as El Shaddai, but I did not make Myself known to them by My name Y-H-V-H…”  (Exodus 6)

To Moses God offers this personal name of YHVH.  We, however, no longer know how to pronounce this name and so we say, Adonai, my Lord.  This name is related to the name revealed at the burning bush.  When Moses asks, “When I come to the Israelites and say to them, ‘The God of your fathers has sent me to you,’ and they ask me, ‘What is His name?’ what shall I say to them?’”  God responds, Eyeh Asher Eyeh, meaning “I will be what I will be.”  (Exodus 3)  YHVH is thus a form of the verb, “to be.”  What a mysterious, and wonderful, name.  The name of God means: God is.

As a consequence the Jewish tradition has many names for God.  A casual search of the prayerbook yields well over 50 different names.  Here are a few: the Teacher, the Holy One Blessed be He, the Place, Builder of Jerusalem, the Healer, God of Thanks, Lord of Wonders, our Father our King (Avinu Malkeinu), Rock of Israel and Lord of Peace.

We call God by many different names.  We find God through these many names.  The Psalmist declares, “The heavens declare God’s glory/ the sky proclaims His handiwork./  Day to day makes utterance,/ night to night speaks out/ There is no utterance,/ there are no words…” (Psalm 19)  Language is merely scratching the surface.  Our words are only glimmers of the divine.  Reaching out to God is not a perfect science.  Even our prayers are mere attempts.  Our most carefully constructed sentences and most heartfelt songs only, at best, extend upward.

My favorite poet, Denise Levertov, concurs:  “Lord, I curl in Thy grey/ gossamer hammock/ that swings by one/ elastic thread to thin/twigs that could, that should/break but don’t./  I do nothing, I give You/nothing.  Yet You hold me/ minute by minute/ from falling./  Lord, You provide.”  We stretch and weave words as if they are hammock strung between two branches.  Hammocks can be comfortable and relaxing when they envelope us, as we sit in the summer shade, yet unsteady when our weight is shifted ever so slightly. 

Words are both flimsy and secure.  Our tradition therefore offers us many different names, many different paths to reach our God.  None of them are perfect.  None of them are the final answer. Indeed the rabbis declare that there are 70 different facets of the Torah.  There is never one Jewish answer!  Not when it comes to Torah and not when it comes to naming God.

We find God through many names and many different places.  And so wherever this email find you, on a beautiful stretch of beach (Amen), on a glistening white mountain of snow (Amen), on the historic streets of a European city (Amen), in the life affirming cafes of our beloved Jerusalem (Amen), or on the quiet of our Long Island home emptied of its bustle (Amen v’Amen), I wish you a Shabbat Shalom.  May it indeed be a Sabbath of peace, quiet and relaxation.  May it indeed be a day when we hear at least one of God’s names emerge from our lips.

Psalms 19-21

19. This might be one of my favorite psalms.

The heavens declare the glory of God,

the sky proclaims His handiwork.

Day to day makes utterance,

night to night speaks out.

There is no utterance,

there are no words,

whose sound goes unheard.

There are no words.  The only fitting testimony is nature.  Have you ever walked outside and seen the leaves changing colors in the fall or the flowers first blooming in spring or the sun streaming through the clouds in summer or the snow first beginning to fall on the winter’s frozen ground?  There is no utterance.  How beautiful is God’s world!  The heavens spin story after story telling of God’s glory.

The teaching of the Lord is perfect,

reviving the soul…

The precepts of the Lord are just,

rejoicing the heart…

The fear of the Lord is pure,

abiding forever

the judgments of the Lord are true,

righteous altogether,

more desirable than gold,

than much fine gold;

sweeter than honey,

than drippings of the comb.

Just like nature, everything from God is perfect.  God’s teachings are perfect, precepts are just, and fear is pure.  To fear God is pure?  How is fear positive?  Yirat hashamayim, fear of heaven, is noble and good to the biblical mind.  Sometimes we translate yirah as awe, but that obscures its true meaning.  Fear of God is positive and sought after.  Why do we fear fear of heaven?  Sometimes we do positive things out of fear.  Fear of failure can be a powerful motivating tool.  And sometimes we rightly fear nature.  Perhaps fear is not an altogether negative emotion.  And so God’s precepts make the heart happy.  When we observe a mitzvah we rejoice.  We should celebrate doing God’s work.  All of God’s judgments, pronouncements, and commandments are finer than even gold.  They are sweeter than the sweetest honey.  I should not seek riches.  I must not long for fine wine and sweet desserts.  Instead I pine after celebrating God’s commandments.  Would that it were this easy!  God’s words drip from the honeycomb—like the morning dew on a bed of roses.

May the words of my mouth

and the prayer of my heart

be acceptable to You,

O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.

May God find my words and prayers sweet and desirable.  May my prayers reach to heaven.  This phrase has made it into our prayer service following the Amidah.  Indeed Psalm 19 is part of the Shabbat liturgy.

20. May the Lord answer you in time of trouble,

the name of Jacob’s God keep you safe.

There is the notion that we, the Jewish people, know God’s first name.  We are as it were on a first name basis.  And thus we can call out to God in times of trouble, as if reaching out to a friend.  We say Adonai heal us.  Is this why this particular psalm is part of our weekday prayers?  The work week is trouble.  Shabbat is a prayer by contrast.  It is a blessing.  Even when working, keep God’s name on your lips.

They call on chariots, they call on horses,

but we call on the name of the Lord our God.

Others call God by the wrong names.  They heap praises on the machineries of war.  We however call on Adonai, our God.  Have you ever felt that we sometimes call wrong things “our God?”  We sing praises about our fine homes, our beautiful cars.  We often direct our prayers and supplications toward the wrong desires.  Who are “they?”  It is us.

21. He asked You for life; You granted it;

a long life, everlasting….

As if it was that simple.  Ask for long life and God grants it.  Nonetheless it is my daily prayer.  Sometimes when reciting the Shehechiyanu to mark a happy occasion in a family’s life I am struck by the number of people who are not there.  Every occasion I recite this prayer I count it as a privilege.  We thank God for giving us life.  But what about those who were not granted long life? 

Be exalted, O Lord, through Your strength;

we will sing and chant the praises of Your

mighty deeds.

Keep on singing! The prayers can have a mantra like quality. Take the kaddish for example. It says in essence “God is great, God is holy…” Over and over again we intone its words. Eventually they seep into our hearts. Eventually the song finds its way into our hearts. 

100 Jewish Songs

You Questioned Our 100 Greatest Jewish Songs - by Dan Klein; Tablet Magazine
The author responds to the volume of coments about his interesting list of the top 100 Jewish songs.  He writes in part:

Why are there so many secular/Ashkenazi/American songs? 
...As for the inclusion of so many secular pop songs: I stand by all those choices. Look, people, the fact is, in historical terms—in terms of impact, influence, and global reach—American popular music is one of the greatest artistic achievements in the history of civilization. That sounds bombastic, but it’s true. What other art has reached more people, in more places, than pop and jazz and soul and rock & roll and hip-hop? (Maybe Hollywood movies—another Jewish invention.) Jews have played a disproportionate role in pop music, in both its creative and commercial spheres. I wanted the list to acknowledge that achievement.

What’s more, as I argue in the list, many of these so-called “secular” pop songs aren’t especially secular. I called “Over the Rainbow” a Jewish exilic prayer. That’s the way I hear it. Many of the pop songs on the list are, to my ears, manifestly Jewish, and not just because they’re written and performed by Jews. Listen to the Gershwin’s “Summertime”—its bluesy intervals are the same that you hear in dozens of Jewish liturgical melodies. This is true of many of Harold Arlen’s great songs, too. One of the signal accomplishments of Jews in pop music is the way they’ve smuggled Jewish culture, Jewish musical tropes, Jewish themes, into the mainstream—a stealth Semiticization of American culture.

If a non-Jew writes a Jewish themed song, shouldn’t they be included?
Yes, of course. There are a couple of examples on the list of Jewish-themed songs by non-Jews. (Madonna’s “Ray of Light” is one.) Woody Guthrie’s “Hanukkah Dance” was supposed to be on the list. It was left off because of a production error on my part. (Ooops!) There’s a long tradition of pop philosemitism, the most famous practitioner being Cole Porter, who once said he’d discovered the secret to musical greatness: “write Jewish tunes.” Porter’s “Jewish tunes” are among his most famous—songs like “Night and Day,” with its Orientalist “Jewish” sound, those brooding minor keys. I thought long and hard about including some reggae and ska—songs with biblical themes like Bob Marley’s “Exodus” or the Melodians’ “Rivers of Babylon” or Desmond Dekker’s “Israelites.” But I was concerned about construing Rastafarianism as some kind of bastardized crypto-Jewish tradition: those songs are Christian songs, Rasta songs, not Jewish songs.

The lines are not so easy to draw.  What makes a song a Jewish song?   The Jewish authorship of Christmas songs qualifies them for inclusion!?  Enough!  Regardless, all of this makes for great listening!

Shemot

A little over 400 years have passed since the conclusion of Genesis.  The memory of Joseph, his family, and in particular all of the great things Joseph did for Egypt, are no longer read in Egypt’s history books.  The new rulers only see how numerous the Israelites have become and so they enslave and oppress the Jewish people.  Pharaoh decrees that all first born sons of the Israelites must be killed.  But in one of the first acts of civil disobedience, the Hebrew midwives, Shifrah and Puah, ignore Pharaoh’s law and thwart his plan.  Pharaoh then declares that every Jewish boy shall be drowned in the Nile.

In an effort to save the newborn Moses, his mother and sister place him in a basket in the Nile.  Thus begins one of the more interesting chapters in the Torah, Exodus 2.  It is punctuated by several acts of compassion.  The first instance is surprisingly that of Pharaoh’s daughter, an unnamed woman who notices the baby boy. “She spied the basket among the reeds and sent her slave girl to fetch it.  When she opened it, she saw that it was a child, a boy crying.  She took pity on him and said, ‘This must be a Hebrew child.’”  Remarkably she knows that the baby is a Hebrew yet she still reaches out to the endangered child, thus disobeying her father (perhaps she is a teenager, Rabbi Bar Yohai suggests).  She appoints a Hebrew woman to nurse and care for the child.  Unbeknownst to her, this woman is Moses’ mother, who is also unnamed.  Pharaoh’s daughter names the child Moses, a common Egyptian name.

Moses is raised as an Egyptian, but his awareness of the suffering of others grows.  (Does he learn compassion from his foster mother?)  In three instances Moses rushes to the defense of others.  In the first and most familiar instance, Moses witnesses an Egyptian beating a Hebrew slave.  In a fit of rage (righteous indignation?)  he kills the Egyptian and saves the Hebrew.  Later Moses sees two Hebrew slaves fighting with each other and intervenes, saying, “Why do you strike your fellow?”  Rather than offer thanks, one of the Hebrews turns on Moses and says, “Who made you chief and ruler over us?  Do you mean to kill me as you killed the Egyptian?”  Upon hearing this Moses becomes frightened and flees from Egypt.  He finds himself in Midian and of course by the well where he rescues the priest’s seven daughters from some ill-tempered shepherds.  Moses then single handedly waters their flock.

It is only after this final rescue and the accumulation of compassion acts that God takes notice of the Israelites’ suffering.  Have these acts awakened God’s compassion?  “The Israelites were groaning under their bondage and cried out; and their cry for help from the bondage rose up to God.  God heard their moaning, and God remembered His covenant with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob.  God looked upon the Israelites, and God too notice of them.”

I have often wondered.  What took God so long? Why did God wait over 400 years to rescue the Jewish people?  I continue to wonder.  What takes God so long?  What takes God so long to notice our pain and to respond to our suffering with compassion?

Throughout history we have waited for God to send the messiah to heal all wounds and address the world’s troubles.  Maimonides writes: “Even though the messiah delays, I will continue to wait.  Ani maamin, I believe.”  There are in fact many rabbinic legends about the messiah.  Rabbi Joshua ben Levi asks: “When will the messiah come?”  Elijah responds: “Go ask him yourself.  He can be found sitting at the gates of Rome, caring for the lepers, changing their bandages one at a time.”  The messiah is that person who reaches out to others in compassion.  Perhaps God is waiting for us to reach out to others in compassion.

Ponder this.  History does not record Pharaoh’s daughter’s name.  She was certainly famous in Egypt.  Everyone in Egypt, I am sure, knew her name and admired her for her fame and riches, yet history instead remembers her for reaching out to Moses.  History remembers her compassion.

The Jewish people’s history begins with the unnamed daughter of Pharaoh looking away from all of her riches and indulgences and instead with compassionate eyes, toward a baby crying in anguish.  It is those eyes that sparked God’s remembrances.  It is her compassion that awakened God’s compassion.

May it be so in our generation as well!  We never know which act of compassion will stir God’s heart.  And so to my Christian friends I say, Merry Christmas.  And to all, Shabbat Shalom!

Jewish Songs?

Songs of Songs - by Jody Rosen and Ari Y. Kelman; Tablet Magazine
Everyone seems to be thinking about the same thing! Or, are my eyes drawn to such articles because I am still thinking about these things?  Yes, I am still singing after our wonderful musical Shabbat service!   And I am still thinking about music and song, Judaism and prayer.  So here is another interesting article from Tablet Magazine about the 100 best Jewish songs. You might be surprised to see what makes it on the list. Listed are: "White Christmas," "Hound Dog" and "Over the Rainbow" (#1) as well as Adon Olam (#11 here; listen to our cantor singing this prayer to see why it really should be #1), Kol Nidre, Shema Yisrael, Avinu Malkeinu and Oseh Shalom. There are the Israeli favorites too: Yerushalayim shel Zahav, Shir LaShalom, Hatikvah, Od Yavo Shalom Aleinu (#88) and Hava Nagila (you must listen to Bob Dylan's version of this classic here!).

What makes a song Jewish?  Is it a matter of the composer's faith?  (That is the only explanation for why "White Christmas" makes it on the list.)  Is it a matter of the song's content?  (One can argue, as the authors do, that "Over the Rainbow" could make it in based on content.  But #46, "Hound Dog?")  What makes a novel Jewish for that matter?  Is it because of the author or because of what he or she writes about?  Is Portnoy's Complaint a Jewish novel?  Is Saul Bellow's Henderson the Rain King?  Or only his Herzog a Jewish novel?  Writing and music mirror the experiences of Jews living in the countries they find themselves in.  Living in the United States we sometimes exert our Jewishness.  Other times we hide it.  When do we claim our identities?  When do we hide them?  This tension as well is often the source of creativity, giving us great music, literature and art. 

Obviously I choose never to hide my identity (that would be kind of hard when most people think my name is "rabbi") and why I suspect I am so enamored of Israeli culture.  It is often Jewish without ever trying to be and sometimes even without the author or singer being aware of the fact.  I don't think most Israelis hear as I do the Jewish and Biblical resonances in their everyday Hebrew.  Take for example the contemporary songwriter Muki and his song "Elohim." "You are the earth.  You are life.  You are creation.  You are the years.  You are love drifting away....  When I breathe, when I feel, I open my eyes, I look and know.  Hear this clear truth, these words, I know You.  God.  I do not fear You.  All I want is to meet You.  I have no doubt about You.  You are with me. I am with You.  Just don't ever forget me!"  Sometimes I find myself listening to the song as if meditating in prayer.  Listen as well to the new internet radio station: Jewish Rock Radio to discover more music and songs to lift your hearts and prayers.  I am certain you will not hear "Over the Rainbow" on this station.  But perhaps you should!

Jewish Christmas Songs

Have Yourself a Jewish Little Christmas - by Marc Tracy; Tablet Magazine
Following up on the theme of Friday's sermon, here is an article about the most famous American Christmas songs, all written by Jews.  Irving Berlin's "White Christmas" is the most well known by far, but even "Santa Baby" now made famous by Taylor Swift, was composed by Joan Ellen Javits and Philip Springer.  Watch the below video for some more interesting tidbits about this remarkable cultural phenomenon.


A Fine Romance from Tablet Magazine on Vimeo.
I of course favor Bruce Springsteen's "Santa Clause is Coming to Town." I certainly don't mind listening to that on E Street Radio! At this time of year I find myself singing many of these songs. So we have a choice. Shut out the world at large. Or sing along with our neighbors. I choose to get into this holiday spirit! I love a good song, no matter who wrote it.

For those who would like more information about David Lehman's A Fine Romance: Jewish Songwriters, American Songs visit Nextbook Press.

Richard Holbrooke Obituary

Richard Holbrooke Obituary By Leon Wieseltier | The New Republic
Leon Wieseltier writes eloquently, and powerfully, as he most often does, about the accomplished diplomat, Richard Holbrooke. He writes:

What [Holbrooke] believed in most of all, I think, was in the ability, and the duty, of the United States, by a variety of means, to better the world. He was, in his cast of mind, a realist, but his cast of mind was not his philosophy: this realist—the Democrats’ most accomplished Machiavellian—was always returning to first principles, to moral considerations, to the alleviation of human suffering and the spread of political liberty as goals of American statecraft. He came away from his early years in Vietnam with lessons but without a syndrome. He was unanguished about the use of American force, when it was morally justified and intelligently applied—which is to say, he was the last of the postwar liberals. Even in his most virulent criticism of what he regarded as America’s military mistakes abroad, there was not a trace of the temptation to surrender a high sense of America’s role in history. Isolationism disgusted him. He had a natural understanding, it was almost an attribute of his character, of the relationship between diplomacy and force. He had no illusions about the harshness of the world, and therefore about the toughness that is required for the creation of a world less harsh. His last assignment, the increasingly Sisyphean attempt to bring Afghanistan into the community of open and decent societies, was a bet on this sober and unsentimental optimism. He cared famously about what worked, and he could be brazen in his pragmatism, but Holbrooke’s professional life was animated by goals and concepts that no mere pragmatist could share. American interventionism, for him, was not just a policy; it was a way of existing responsibly in the world, the measure of a national (and personal) ideal, the real greatness of a great power.

It was this rare package of means and ends, of ideas and instruments, that made possible Holbrooke’s triumph at Dayton. He negotiated a peace with a villain whom he deeply despised, and thereby ended a genocide in which we, the United States, and an administration from his own party, had outrageously acquiesced. In this way he helped to restore the honor of his country after a period of disgrace. On the day that Holbrooke suffered the cataclysmic collapse from which he never recovered, The New York Times reported that Henry Kissinger—the Republicans’ most accomplished Machiavellian—remarked in 1973 that “if they put Jews into gas chambers in the Soviet Union, it is not an American concern. Maybe a humanitarian concern.” Such unforgettably filthy words would never have crossed Richard Holbrooke’s lips. In government and out, not least in his groundbreaking work at Refugees International, his career was a loud and effective refutation of that chilling “maybe.

I continue to believe as well that the alleviation of human suffering is not simply a goal, but a commandment. We dare not turn away from the troubles of the world!  Enjoying liberty and success should be more about responsibilities than luxuries.

For those who would like to learn about Holbrooke's views of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict read Dore Gold's piece in The Jerusalem Post.

Vayechi-R&B Shabbat Sermon

On Friday evening we welcomed four talented musicians to our Shabbat services.  (They were Erica von Kleist on saxophone and flute, Richie Barshay on drums, Ike Sturm on bass, and David Virelles on piano.)  To help mark this occasion I delivered the following sermon.

On this evening and this particular Shabbat I am thinking about Leonard Chess, and of course his brother Phil.  Let me tell you about the Chess brothers.  They were the founders of Chess records, one of the most, if not the most influential labels in the early Blues scene.  Leonard was born in Poland, in an area that is now Belarus, to a Jewish family.  He came to Chicago in 1928.  The family changed their name to Chess from some name that I did not have the time to check with Annie about how to accurately pronounce. (His given name was: Lejzor Czyz.)

Chess Records, memorialized in the movie "Cadillac Records," one of my favorite movies (not because it stars Beyonce or Adrien Brody but because it is all about the Blues), is responsible for giving us many Blues greats.  Here is a partial list of who they helped to discover: Muddy Waters (who wrote the song “Rollin’ Stone” that of course gave some fairly well known British group their name), Howlin Wolf (I personally like his song “Three Hundred Pounds of Heavenly Joy”), Bo Didly, Willie Dixon, Little Walter, Chuck Berry, Etta James (“At Last”), Memphis Slim and Johnny Lee Hooker to name a few.  And this in a nut shell helped to begin the rock and roll revolution that our children accept as God given and from Mount Sinai.

Now I am not thinking about Leonard Chess so that I can stand up here and say, “Well it is all because of the Jewish people that we enjoy Rock and Roll.”  That is beyond even my usual healthy dose of chutzpah.  Furthermore I don’t very much like the attempt to reclaim everything positive as our own (we have hundreds of Nobel Prize winners, invented the cell phone etc.) and distance ourselves from everything negative.  (This week’s papers were certainly a reminder that two years is not nearly enough time to forget the negative.)  I am thinking instead about Leonard Chess because I want to say something about music and Judaism. 

Everyone thinks religion and music, and Judaism and music are separate categories.  My religion belongs over here and my music belongs over there.  Music is my secular life.  It is about parties and dancing.  Religion is about services and studying.  Music is about fun.  Religion is about seriousness.  Music is new and creative.  Religion is old and traditional.  

In a word, “Wrong!”  We belong to a people who have made dancing a commandment and singing an obligation.  So why should they be separate?  Why can’t religion and music share goals?

Music has a way of touching our souls that little else can achieve.  A song can spark a tear.  A song can bring a smile.   That is the reason why every couple has a song.  Forgive me for being so blunt but I have yet to meet a couple who says that they first danced to the Torah portion Lech Lecha. 

For the past few months I have been talking about R&B Shabbat and have received more than a few quizzical looks.  But why must they be antithetical?  To my mind Shabbat has a great rhythm and even some blues.  There is the rhythm of the day and its many prayers.  And there are the blues of longing for that first Shabbat and pining after the ultimate Shabbat.

We do a disservice to ourselves and our Judaism when we struggle to maintain separate categories and spheres.  Divided selves are unhealthy and unwise. 

In this week’s Torah portion we read of Joseph and his brothers traveling to the land of Israel to bury their father Jacob.  The Torah records no details of what I imagined must have been weeks of travel.  What did they say to each other on this painful journey?

We do read of what the brothers say to Joseph immediately upon their return.  They bow before him and say, “We are prepared to be your slaves.”  Joseph responds, “Have no fear!  Am I substitute for God?  Besides, although you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about the present result—the survival of many people.”  (Genesis 50:18-21)

When Joseph and his brothers left for Israel they were a fractured family.  They were brothers who had not yet forgiven themselves for the wrong they had done to Joseph.  And there was Joseph, a man far too enamored of himself and his talents.  When they return from their journey they are shalem; they are whole; they are again a family.  Although we do not know what they said to each other, we do know that they are changed because of their journey.

Much of the time we spend worrying ourselves about how to get from A to B or how to get one kid from here and another to there.  In New York it is a pastime to debate the best routes so as to minimize time spent in traffic and the length of the trip. But journeying is about the trip more than the destination.  Journeying often ends up in places that were unintended.

When you truly listen to a song, when you open your ears and more importantly your heart, you do not know where it might take you.  That is the power of music.  That as well is the power of our Jewish faith and the journey we travel together.

So next time you are sitting in traffic, instead of yelling at other drivers or worse, each other, tell the kids to take off their wireless headphones and iPods and start singing together.  Then it will no longer be about traffic but about your family’s journey.  And then whenever you arrive at your destination will be secondary to where that journey takes you.