Questions

What follows are some questions from our synagogue's 5^th graders and of course my answers.  This article appeared in our congregation's January-February Newsletter.

Why do we wear yamahas in temple?

First of all we wear yarmulkes not Yamahas.  Some people actually ride Yamahas although not too many Jews.  Motorcycles are dangerous.  So don’t ride motorcycles, but if you ever do, wear protective equipment especially a helmet.  We cover our heads in synagogue not for protection but out of respect.  This custom developed at a time when covering our heads was how we showed respect rather than taking off our hats as we do today for the Star Spangled Banner.  Yarmulke is Yiddish.  The Hebrew is kippah.  It simply means “cap” or “dome.”  In fact Israel’s new, and successful, anti-missile missile system, Iron Dome, is called in Hebrew “Kipat Barzel.”  Some people wear a kippah all the time, others only when they are in synagogue.  And still others whenever they are doing something Jewish like reciting blessings or studying Torah.  It is supposed to be a reminder that we are always standing in God’s presence.  Since God is everywhere it is good to have such reminders.  Then we are more likely to be kind and respectful to others and forever thankful to God.

Why did you choose to be a rabbi?

When I was in college I had to take a Bible class.  I fell in love with studying our Bible and Jewish writings.  I always wanted to find a job in which I could help people.  Soon I realized that rabbis help people and are also supposed to keep learning, even many years after college.  Besides you get to stand up in front of people and since I seem to like that as well being a rabbi is the perfection combination of all these things.

Why do you read Hebrew backwards?

Actually English is backwards since Hebrew is an older language.  It is a matter of perspective.  I know learning Hebrew is a challenge but it is an easier language than English.  It is entirely phonetic.  In other words you can always sound out how to pronounce the words.  There are very few exceptions.  Nearly every word has a three letter root that hints at its meaning.  There are only 22 letters.  As soon as you figure out how to pronounce the letters and vowels you can read it.  Just remember to read from right to left.

Why do Iran and Syria hate Israel so much?

I wish I knew.  Not to scare you too much but they also hate the United States.  Also Syria is preoccupied right now with hating itself.  They are in the middle of a civil war.  We hope that when their president Assad is finally overthrown a new government more friendly to its neighbor Israel will replace it.  This is a long shot but still a hope.  Sometimes people, and countries, hate others because that is easier than looking at their own problems.  That is what I think is happening with Syria and Iran.  Iran also wants to take over the Middle East and they find it difficult to accept a Jewish state in the middle of the Muslim Middle East.  We have to stand together and be strong even when others hate us. 

Why does God let us have war?

God has nothing to do with wars.  Even though people sometimes say they are fighting wars for God, God does not start wars or end wars, or want us to make wars.  They are in our hands.  God made people free to choose between right and wrong.  War is a result of our choices.  It is unfortunate and sad that sometimes countries can only solve their problems by making wars.  God keeps hoping and praying that we will try to bring more peace.  We always pray for shalom, peace.

Why do you step on the glass when you get married?

A Jewish wedding is the happiest of occasions according to our tradition.  But even at this most joyful event we pause and remember that there is still sadness in our world and sometimes even in our own lives.  The saddest event in our history was the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem by the Romans in 70 C.E. That was one terrible war!  That is why this event is often mentioned when the glass is broken.  I always speak more generally before the groom breaks the glass especially because after the Holocaust I don’t think the Temple’s destruction is the saddest event in our history anymore.  We pause and remember, break the glass and then shout “Mazel tov.”

Keep asking your questions.  That is always the best way to learn.

Bo

I have been thinking about Lance Armstrong.  I know I should be spending more time thinking about Israel’s upcoming elections and gun control laws, but I remain riveted, or perhaps distracted, by the spectacle of yesterday’s hero seeking to regain the past glory that we now learn was most certainly stolen.  This evening we will be able to watch him confess to Oprah.  Such is the contemporary paradigm.  Public confessions have become the substitute for righting wrongs.

But public tears, however heartfelt (and I remain skeptical about his motivations), are only the beginning of the repairing of wrongs.  According to Moses Maimonides there is only one true measure of complete repentance and that is for a person to be in the exact same situation, tempted by the exact same sin, but this time to make a different choice and ultimately the right decision.  Rarely do we have the opportunity to test our repentance.  Rarely are we afforded the chance to see if we have indeed changed.  Most choose to avoid being tested.

Nevertheless, Judaism insists that repentance must be about deeds, about changing behaviors.  Confession is but the first step.  The more difficult work for Lance, and for us as well, is what follows.  Will he seek to mend the wrongs done to his teammates?  How will he repair the harm done to professional cycling, or even more important to the Livestrong Foundation and cancer survivors? 

Of course one could argue, it is only cycling, or baseball, or sports for that matter and we already devote too much time to following these games and their stars.  Still in a culture that venerates winners we would do well to remember that cycling with friends or throwing a baseball with a son or daughter should be reward enough.  Rather than spending our hard earned money in efforts to ride farther and faster or so that our sons and daughters might gain a scholarship to college or the dream of dreams, drafted into the pros, we might be better off slowing down and enjoying the ride and the company, especially when it is with our children. 

Confession is only the first step.  Repair and change are the necessary steps.  Yet how do we change our behavior if never again given the opportunity to repent.  A nineteenth century Hasidic master writes:

There are certain sins of which we are told, “The person is not given the opportunity to repent.”  Nevertheless, if the person really engages in serious soul-searching, realizing the abyss which stretches in front of him, and nevertheless repents, God will take pity on him and accept his repentance.  His humbleness and his subservience pave the way for his repentance, at a time when the regular path to repentance has been barred to him.   However, if “you refuse to humble yourself before Me” (Exodus 10:3) there is no way that you can possibly find an alternate path to repentance, and you will remain in a state of “not being given the opportunity to repent.”

God may indeed accept the wrenching confession we will soon witness.  It will take much longer to rectify matters with friends and family, competitors and teammates.  I have always believed that it is the people with whom we surround ourselves who matter most.  I prefer struggling to right matters with those people rather devoting myself to beseeching God.  Only when turning to God helps us turn toward others do I find strength in such devotions.

That is what Lance forgot.  That is what Pharaoh never understood.

The Torah declares: “So Moses and Aaron went to Pharaoh and said to him, ‘Thus says the Lord, the God of the Hebrews, ‘How long will you refuse to humble yourself before Me?” (Exodus 10:3)

Vaera Sermon

We begin our story with an angry Pharaoh.  The Jewish people are suffering more and more under his oppressive bondage.  God hears their cries.  So, as everyone knows, God sends Moses.  Moses worries that Pharaoh will not listen to him.  The Jewish people, he complains, have not been such good listeners.  Why would Pharaoh listen?

Moses really does not want the job.  One of the characteristics of our biblical heroes, especially those called prophets, is that they do not want the job.  They do not feel they are qualified or even worthy.  God quells his worries by promising to send his brother Aaron with him and of course arms him with a few tricks, for example a staff that magically turns into a serpent. 

Moses appears before Pharaoh and says, “Let My people go that they may serve Me.”  This phrase is often misquoted as “Let My people go” but the second part is perhaps the more significant. The purpose of their freedom is so that they may serve God.  For the Bible freedom is meaningless if not wedded to something greater.  It is not freedom to do whatever the Jewish people want but instead the ability to worship God in freedom.  We replace servitude to Pharaoh with that of service to God.  Our Shabbat kiddush reminds us of this.  In that prayer we remind ourselves that Shabbat is a reminder of the exodus from Egypt.  Only a free people can set a day aside and do no work.  Shabbat is not just a recollection of God resting on the seventh day of creation but a weekly reminder that we are free.  Passover comes once a year.  Shabbat arrives every week.  How can we then forget our freedom? 

God also helps Moses make his case to Pharaoh by bringing down the familiar plagues on Egypt. There is 1) blood, 2) frogs, 3) lice, 4) wild beasts, 5) cattle plague, 6) boils, 7) hail and in next week’s portion 8) locusts, 9) darkness, and 10) the death of the first born.  The plagues raise difficult theological dilemmas.  Is the purpose of these plagues to convince Pharaoh to let the people of Israel go or instead to convince the Israelites of God’s mighty power?  The refrain that God hardens Pharaoh’s heart would suggest that the larger purpose is to convince the Israelites.  That such suffering was necessary to wed the people of Israel to God is disturbing.  The Jewish tradition counsels that we must continue to be saddened and mourn the deaths of the Egyptians.  We take out a drop of wine at our Seder tables to demonstrate that our joy is mitigated.  The midrash tells us that the angels were silenced when celebrating the Egyptians suffering in the Sea of Reeds.  God chastises them with the words, “My children are drowning!”

Regardless of our viewpoint, we read that Pharaoh keeps saying no.  Why do all the Egyptians have to suffer because of his stubbornness?  One answer is that people often suffer because of a leader’s choices.  That of course takes me into politics.  (These details I have expanded in the sermon’s written form.)  Even in our own modern age, there are dictators who behave like the ancient Pharaoh.  There is Assad, the current embattled Syrian president, who continues to slaughter his own people so that he can remain in power.  To date at least 60,000 Syrians have been killed.  Could there be a more fitting example of a modern ruler with a hardened heart?

There is a world of difference but even in democracies leaders too often choose what is best for them rather than what is best for the people they lead.  We could cite examples of President Obama who for example looked away from gun violence for nearly four years because he did not want to expend precious political capital on a difficult issue.  I imagine he feared losing standing, but in the end he failed to lead.  And people suffered.  In Israel Prime Minister Netanyahu called for early elections because the timing, prior to a budget vote, served his political interests.  Or I could talk about Congress.  Here the level of ideological vitriol has reached new and extraordinary levels. Lead.  Do what is best for the people you serve rather than the small interests who support your re-election campaigns!  Politics of course demand compromise, but more importantly they demand that leaders recall what is in the best interests of those they serve.

The point is that Pharaoh and sometimes our own leaders are so selfish or stubborn that they bring suffering to the people they are supposed to serve.  Pharaoh had it exactly backwards.  He thought leadership was about being served rather than about service to others.  That is why he brought the plagues down on Egypt.  Leadership is never supposed to be about the leader.  It must always be about those being led. In our stubbornness and hardening of hearts we forget the purpose of our mission to lead.  We forget that freedom is about service.  And then our forgetfulness leads to our punishments.  And that becomes the plague of our own generation.

Vaera

What takes God so long? After 400 years of slavery God responds to the Israelites’ suffering. God says to Moses, “I have now heard the moaning of the Israelites because the Egyptians are holding them in bondage, and I have remembered My covenant.” (Exodus 6:5) 400 years!

Why now? Why wait for the Israelites to suffer for so many years? Did the slavery become that much worse? Was God indifferent to their pain? Impossible! Still the question remains.

Interestingly God’s response to the Israelites’ suffering mirrors Pharaoh’s daughter’s response to the infant Moses. In last week’s portion she hears the cries of Moses. “When she opened the basket, she saw that it was a child, a boy crying. She took pity on it and said, ‘This must be a Hebrew child.’” (Exodus 2:6) My newfound hero, the unnamed Pharaoh’s daughter, is the first to show compassion to the Israelites.

Perhaps this is what God was waiting for. God waits for us. There are other traditions that suggest as well that God waits for human beings to act before responding. The most famous of these is the story of Nachshon who according to legend jumps into the Sea of Reeds thereby prompting divine involvement and concern. When the waters reach his neck and he is about to drown God splits the sea. Others suggest that the messiah sits at the gates of Rome bandaging the sores and wounds of lepers. The messiah waits by performing compassionate acts. There he waits for God to send him to redeem the world. These traditions suggest that God is not the first to act but instead waits for our compassion. God’s compassionate concern is not in response to suffering but instead in response to our concern.

In our Torah portion God appears to respond to Pharaoh’s daughter. Not only does she not have a name but she is also not Jewish. Moreover she is the daughter of the story’s arch enemy. The Rabbis ask why she would go to the Nile to bathe herself. She could have sent her slaves. The Talmud suggests that she opposed her father’s policies from the start and went to the river to purify herself of her father’s sins. It was there that her heart was stirred to rescue Moses thus leading to the redemption of an entire people. According to legend she also accompanied the Israelites when they left Egypt. In that moment Pharaoh’s daughter left the trappings of the palace and forever pledged herself to the fate of the Jewish people.

Is it possible that her heart awakened God’s concern?

Recently a number of us volunteered with Nechama, a Jewish organization dedicated to helping communities rebuild after natural disasters. We ventured to the South Shore to help a family tear out their water soaked dry wall and wood flooring. There we met other volunteers. One volunteer left a deep impression. He was a young man from Wisconsin who gave up his week long vacation. He drove here following Hurricane Sandy to help out. He slept most nights in his car. Here was a Christian man from the Midwest helping out Jewish New Yorkers.

Compassion comes from unexpected places. It often does not even bear a name. Nonetheless my hope and prayer remains the same. May our compassionate acts stir God’s concern. May they awaken God’s compassionate heart.

And even if God fails to respond, the wounds will remain bandaged and the homes will soon be repaired.

Shemot Sermon

Jewish tradition has some very strong opinions about naming. In Ashkenazi circles it is a strongly ingrained custom to name a child for a family member who died, in particular someone who recently died. In Sephardi homes naming follows a more prescribed order, typically first child for father’s father whether living or not, second for mother’s father and so on. Parents spend considerable hours, days, weeks and even months discussing and debating their future child’s name. There is also a custom, or perhaps better called, a superstition, of renaming a sick child so as to trick the angel of death. Many of those of older generations named Hayim or Haya are often called these names for this reason.

All of this is by way of introducing this week’s Torah portion, Shemot—Names. First we read the names of Jacob’s sons who find their way into Egypt and of course settle there, ultimately leading to our slavery and eventual freedom. In chapter two we first meet Moses. Curiously no one in this story is named until Moses is rescued by Pharaoh’s daughter and finally named by her. It is a fascinating story and begs the question why would the Torah not name its greatest hero immediately? Why do we hear so little of his lineage? It is as if the Torah says, “Somebody married somebody else and gave birth to a beautiful baby boy.”

In Pirke Avot we read: "Rabbi Shimon said, there are three crowns: the crown of Torah, the crown of priesthood, and the crown of kingship. But the crown of a good name is superior to them all." The most important name is that name we earn. It is not what we are given by our parents. As much as these names may symbolize our connection to the past, what others call us because of the good we do are our most important names.

The Hebrew poet Zelda wrote a beautiful poem about names:
Each of us has a name
given by God
and given by our parents
Each of us has a name
given by our stature and our smile
and given by what we wear
Each of us has a name
given by the mountains
and given by our walls
Each of us has a name
given by the stars
and given by our neighbors
Each of us has a name
given by our sins
and given by our longing
Each of us has a name
given by our enemies
and given by our love
Each of us has a name
given by our celebrations
and given by our work
Each of us has a name
given by the seasons
and given by our blindness
Each of us has a name
given by the sea
and given by
our death.

That is the lesson of Moses’ name. Here was a man who changed history. He was not born into a famous family. In fact his birth was not the most significant event of his life. His parents did not even name him. His story instead began when he was pulled from the water by a complete stranger. He earns his name! It is what others call him.

He began from the humblest of beginnings. He was born to an ordinary family. And then changed history and rescued his people. And that of course is our task—to earn a good name. No matter our beginnings, it never beyond any of us to save others. A good name is within our own hands.

Shemot

Parents deliberate for months the names that they select for their children. For whom should they name their child? What if the baby is a girl? A boy? What should be the child’s Hebrew name? Do the origins of the name matter? Will the name influence their child’s future character?

The most significant book of the Torah begins in a similar fashion. “These are the names of the sons of Israel who came to Egypt with Jacob, each coming with his household: Reuben, Simeon, Levi, and Judah; Issachar, Zebulun, and Benjamin; Dan and Naphtali, Gad and Asher…” (Exodus 1:1-4)

And yet the story of the most significant person in the Torah begins without naming a single person. Listen to how the Torah frames our hero’s beginnings.

A certain man of the house of Levi went and married a Levite woman. The woman conceived and bore a son; and when she saw how beautiful he was, she hid him for three months. When she could hide him no longer, she got a wicker basket for him and caulked it with bitumen and pitch. She put the child into it and placed it among the reeds by the bank of the Nile. And his sister stationed herself at a distance, to learn what would befall him. The daughter of Pharaoh came down to bathe in the Nile, while her maidens walked along the Nile. 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 it and said, “This must be a Hebrew child.” Then his sister said to Pharaoh’s daughter, “Shall I go and get you a Hebrew nurse to suckle the child for you?” And Pharaoh’s daughter answered, “Yes.” So the girl went and called the child’s mother. And Pharaoh’s daughter said to her, “Take this child and nurse it for me, and I will pay your wages.” So the woman took the child and nursed it. When the child grew up, she brought him to Pharaoh’s daughter, who made him her son. She named him Moses, explaining, “I drew him out of the water.” (Exodus 2:1-10)

No one is named in this entire story until its conclusion. The Torah records no names for our actors until this brave young woman gives it to our hero. Moses is named not by his mother or even his father. Instead he is named by Pharaoh’s daughter. Imagine that! The daughter of the very man who sets in motion the need to hide Moses in a basket so that he will not be killed by Pharaoh’s henchman not only saves Moses but names him. (By the way Pharaoh is a title not a name. It is most akin to when we hear “The White House said…” The house of Levi is a tribe.)

The Book that begins with names and is in fact called in Hebrew “Shemot—Names” introduces its greatest hero with the words “A certain somebody from an important tribe married a female somebody from the same community and then gave birth to a beautiful boy…” I find this remarkable! And so the question remains: why would the Torah that will later be called “The Five Books of Moses” introduce its hero in this way? Why would it want his beginnings not to be based on lineage?

It is because his story must instead be based on merit, on actions, on his accomplishments. Moses’ name in fact suggests the first of many such actions. The Torah suggests that it comes from the Egyptian meaning “to draw out.” He will of course later become the man who draws the Israelites out of Egypt.

Thus we learn that our most important names are not those that are given to us by our parents. They are always those we earn throughout our lives. In fact those must be the names that others call us by.

Vayechi

This week we conclude the Book of Genesis.  Jacob blesses his children.  He then dies and is brought from Egypt to be buried in the land of Israel.  Before dying he exacts a promise from his favored son, Joseph.   “And when the time approached for Israel [Jacob] to die, he summoned his son Joseph and said to him, ‘Do me this favor, place your hand under my thigh as a pledge of your steadfast loyalty: please do not bury me in Egypt.  When I lie down with my fathers, take me up from Egypt and bury me in their burial place.’” (Genesis 47:29-30)

In ancient times an agreement was often sealed by placing one’s hand under another’s thigh.  Times have of course changed!  Nonetheless important agreements are often sealed by a handshake or a verbal pledge.  Often the most important agreements are not memorialized in writing but by these informal gestures. 

In particular acts of hesed, of lovingkindness, are those that are done without even a pledge.  Interestingly the Hebrew for “steadfast loyalty” is hesed v’emet and can also be translated as true kindness.  Jewish tradition defines such acts as those for which no ulterior motive can be found and in particular where no reciprocal favor can even be anticipated.  Tending to the needs of the dead is chief among these acts.  It is a commandment, a mitzvot.  In this case especially we cannot reasonably expect something in return.

According to tradition we must tend to the burial of our own loved ones ourselves.  We place the shovel full of dirt into the grave, performing this final act of love for those who were dearest to us.  In doing so, Judaism insists that we not pretend the loss is anything but what it is.  We respond to death by taking a shovel and lifting the earth into the grave ourselves.  Our loved one returns to the earth from which we are each fashioned and is covered by a blanket of earth wrapped by our own hands.

In this way we face death with lovingkindness.  We do not look away.  We grab hold of the shovel.  We hold the hesed v’emet in our hands.  And that remains our steadfast loyalty—forever.

Vayigash Sermon

This Shabbat we discussed forgiveness given the extraordinary example of Joseph found in the portion.  Joseph forgives his brothers even though some wanted to kill him and all ended up selling him into slavery.  Interestingly we do no read if their father Jacob forgives the brothers.  Nonetheless Joseph serves as a model of forgiveness and an entry for our discussion.  We examined Moses Maimonides insights from the Mishneh Torah.  Here is that text:

Repentance and Yom Kippur only atone for sins between man and God; for example, a person who ate a forbidden food or engaged in forbidden sexual relations, and the like. However, sins between man and man; for example, someone who injures a colleague, curses a colleague, steals from him, or the like will never be forgiven until he gives his colleague what he owes him and appeases him.

[It must be emphasized that] even if a person restores the money that he owes [the person he wronged], he must appease him and ask him to forgive him. Even if a person only upset a colleague by saying [certain] things, he must appease him and approach him [repeatedly] until he forgives him.

If his colleague does not desire to forgive him, he should bring a group of three of his friends and approach him with them and request [forgiveness]. If [the wronged party] is not appeased, he should repeat the process a second and third time. If he [still] does not want [to forgive him], he may let him alone and need not pursue [the matter further]. On the contrary, the person who refuses to grant forgiveness is the one considered as the sinner.

[The above does not apply] if [the wronged party] was one's teacher. [In that instance,] a person should continue seeking his forgiveness, even a thousand times, until he forgives him. (Mishneh Torah, Repentance 2:9)

Although forgiveness is difficult to grant it is required to sustain our relationships, especially long term relationships.  Judaism insists that it is demanded and even commanded.  Granting forgiveness is a mitzvah.  Withholding forgiveness is therefore a sin.  Only forgiveness can liberate us from the despair of holding a grudge.  Anger corrodes the soul.  Forgiveness redeems.  It rescues relationships.  Redemption begins with "I'm sorry."

We Need Some More Anger

India Gang Rape Sparks Mass Protests But Newtown Shooting Only Sparks Mourning | The New Republic:

Mark Lilla is correct in his observations.  We could use some more anger.  Justice might be served by our angry protests.

[In India] theirs is a democratic anger.  There is, I’m told, a background to all this: frustration with rising crime rates, especially in Delhi, rampant police corruption and arbitrariness, and the pettiness of parliamentary politics when India faces significant domestic challenges. But whatever fuel was there to be sparked, it is bracing to see people take to the streets, not to defend narrow interests or ideological obsessions, but to defend the public good. The land of Gandhi has not lost its willingness to mobilize and put pressure on those in authority, even when it sometimes makes the country nearly ungovernable. The same cannot be said of the land of Martin Luther King. I would be surprised to learn on my return that a mass demonstration is being planned on the Washington Mall; that’s no longer how we deal with issues like this. We light candles, we hug (lots of hugging on CNN), we pray. We triple-lock ourselves into our homes or gated communities, accompany our kids to schools they could easily walk to, and load them down with helmets, and knee and elbow pads, before taking a bike ride. Yet when they do manage to get out, they find themselves in places where adults openly display their handguns in holsters. 

Save the children? No, we prefer to mourn them. We are as resigned to the status quo as thesadhus of Benares are to the cycle of birth and death before they reach moksha. Contemporary Indians apparently have a very different idea of what it means to be a citizen.

Citizenry demands our righteous indignation.

Vayigash

I am not in a very forgiving mood.

Joseph, by contrast, demonstrates extraordinary forgiveness. Some of his brothers want to kill him. Others decide to sell him into slavery and then tell their father that Joseph was killed by wild beasts. All throw him into a pit and then callously sit down to a meal while Joseph suffers in the darkened pit. Now, in this week’s portion, Joseph is given the opportunity to exact revenge. His brothers stand before him begging for food. There is a famine in the land of Canaan but the Egyptians, because of Joseph’s capable leadership, have ample food.

Instead Joseph forgives his brothers.

It is a remarkable moment. Joseph says, “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…. With that he embraced his brother Benjamin around the neck and wept, and Benjamin wept on his neck. He kissed all his brothers and wept upon them…” (Genesis 45:5, 14-15)

Too often we do not follow Joseph’s example. We remain angry at family. We harbor a grudge against brothers.

In contrast, we quickly forget atrocities. How many mass killings will our nation suffer before we pledge never to forget? Months ago there was Aurora and now most recently Newtown. But in order to move forward and return to the normalcy of our lives we push such unspeakable evils far away. Soon we forget.

Atrocities are often pushed aside. We fill our hearts with anger at family. We have it reversed. Instead we should forgive the wrongs committed against us by family. And remain angry at the gun violence that happens too often in our country. We should allow the tragedy in Newtown to forever burn in our hearts.

That is the only way we might affect some measure of change. Anger has a purpose. When it spurs us to action it serves a greater good. When it pushes brothers away from each other it creates a lasting emptiness. We need to hold family close. There are bonds that only family share. Joseph understood this. He forgave. He forgot. He redeemed his brothers’ evil and rescued their atrocities.

For Newtown, however, and for all the other victims of senseless violence my heart continues to burn with anger. For too long I looked aside. I did not get involved. I reasoned that our political system is too broken and the second amendment too ingrained for there to be effective change. Never again!

We must change. We cannot prevent all gun violence. We cannot write laws that will prevent all atrocities, but we can change. We can do a better job of protecting ourselves and our children. There are limits that can be enacted. There are background checks that can be made.

If one more life is saved then perhaps, like Joseph, we can redeem evil and give the deaths of these precious young lives lasting meaning. Perhaps their deaths can save others. Perhaps they can make our country safer.

The Talmud teaches that if you have the ability to prevent a wrong from being committed and refrain from getting involved, then you are complicit in the offense. I will not stand guilty again. I pledge to remain angry!

My hope and prayer is that this is the moment. Newtown’s tragedy will become the event that history later records was the earth shattering occasion when ordinary Americans became so enraged that our country finally changed, that the political order was at last shaken and the right to bear arms gained some sensible limits. And then everyone remained safer.

End Gun Violence Now Petition

Join me in signing the below petition sponsored by the Jewish Council for Public Affairs.  Sign here.

On Friday December 14, a gunman armed with three high-powered firearms and high-capacity magazines walked into Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. Hundreds of shots were fired and twenty first-graders, ages six and seven, and six educators were killed.

This violent and horrific event aimed at children shocks our conscience and country. Our hearts are broken, our souls weep, and our arms are outstretched to the families of the victims, the survivors, the first responders, and the entire community of Newtown, Connecticut. In just the last few months, we have seen shootings at schools, malls, theaters, and houses of worship. We are pained and dismayed by the pandemic of gun violence, far exceeding other western nations, and we will not accept it.

Our tradition teaches us of the sanctity of life and how each and every person is created in the divine image. We must directly confront gun violence so that our nation is not marked nor the years measured by senseless massacres. We will not allow the intense emotion we feel now to return to a place of complacency where we become desensitized to the atrocities that unfold around us daily. We must come together to build a society worthy of those lost and a culture that represents our best virtues.

We stand committed to working with our local, state, and national leaders to squarely address these issues and honor the victims, survivors, and their families. We recognize the right of Americans to own guns, but we do not accept the current state of affairs. We stand united and call on our leaders to support comprehensive action, including meaningful legislation to limit access to assault weapons and high capacity ammunition magazines, aggressive enforcement of firearm regulations, robust efforts to ensure that every person in need has access to quality mental health care, and a serious national conversation about violence in media and games.

We, the undersigned, ask that President Obama, Congress, and every citizen to take direct and unequivocal action to stop the outrageous and unacceptable violence that is destroying the fabric of our society.

Another Tragedy

Why is the killer included in the death toll?  “Killer Also Dies in Connecticut, Leaving a Toll of 28.”  It seems unfitting that he is placed alongside those he murdered.  Judaism offers this teaching instead, Y’mach sh’mo—may his name be blotted out.  That seems more appropriate.  May we never read of his name again!  Amen Selah!   And may his young, innocent victims rest in peace.  May we forever recount their names.  May their memories inspire us for some measure of good.  And may we one day rid the world of senseless violence.   Or at the very least make it impossibly difficult for deranged people to get their hands on weapons.  No more schools, or movie theatres, or malls, or street corners should again be the site of such bloodshed.  That is my prayer.  And after I read the stories of the brief lives of those murdered, and make room for their memories in my hearts, that is all I wish to read about.  An end to this violence made far too easy by guns.  Amen!  Selah!

Hanukkah Sermon

The story of Hanukkah in Billings, Montana continues to inspire.  Here is that story.



Tammie Schnitzer remarked, "I have to make sure my kids are proud of themselves and never have to hide who they are.  Yes, I'm afraid.  But I know that if something happened again, the community would respond."  A Christian neighbor, Becky Thomas said, "We saved our menorah, and it's going in our window again.  We need to show commitment for a lifetime."  The heroics of this story are that a community came together to banish the darkness of hatred, prejudice and discrimination.

Hanukkah is indeed about standing up to be different!   And we have now learned, it is also about fighting for others to be different!  That must be the light of Hanukkah.

Miketz

“There’s nothing to eat!” my son would often exclaim as he would stare into a refrigerator filled with food.  The freezer was as well stocked with frozen goodies.  I soon realized that his statements were not about reality but instead about desire.  What he wanted to eat, what he imagined savoring, was not to be found in the refrigerator.  Now, even weeks after Hurricane Sandy, such exclamations have disappeared.  The freezer is only partially restocked.  The refrigerator is once again filled.

For weeks we stared into an empty refrigerator.  We were forced to throw out the defrosted food.  We cooked what we could heat up on the gas stove.  We were happy to have the meal.  We were confident that the lack of electricity was only a temporary frustration.  Others were worse off.  There was still plenty to eat, just far too often not what we wanted to eat.  Now, we no longer stare into the refrigerator searching only for what we desire.  Sandy cast such feelings aside.  Now we are happy to have its light illumine whatever food might be on the shelves.

When Jacob saw that there were food rations to be had in Egypt, he said to his sons, “Why do you keep looking at one another?...  Go down and procure rations for us there, that we may live and not die.”  (Genesis 41:1-2)  This week we read that our forefather, Jacob, is confronted with a famine in the land of Israel.  He is unable to provide for his family. He instructs his sons to go to Egypt where unbeknownst to him, his son Joseph has stored plenty of food.  In an extraordinary measure of foresight and leadership Joseph stockpiled food throughout the seven years of plenty.  Now, during the seven years of famine, everyone is coming to him to procure food. 

The Midrash relates: You may learn from the story of Jacob that it is a man’s worst trial to have his children ask him for food when he has nothing to give. 

Imagine how difficult this trial was for Jacob.  He had nurtured his children throughout their years and sustained them on God’s dream.  They would settle in the Promised Land, the land of Israel, and their descendants would number as the stars in the night’s sky.  Instead they had only known struggle and hardship, favoritism and envy.

And now they know hunger. 

The scars remain.  

Vayeshev Sermon

This week’s Torah portion offers a disturbing story.  Joseph’s brothers first try to kill him and then settle on selling him into slavery after throwing him in a pit.  The Torah emphasizes that there was no water in the pit.  Imagine how he cried out to his brothers from the darkened pit as they sat down to a meal.

Often we read stories in our Torah about the worst of human tendencies.  The saga of brothers of course begins with Cain killing Abel.  Jacob and Esau are little better.  Joseph and his brothers begin a torturous relationship but are ultimately reconciled.  Three weeks from now Joseph will demonstrate an extraordinary gesture of forgiveness, but this week we are left wondering about our forefathers’ example.  Is this how we are supposed to behave?

In a word, the answer is no.  Torah is not always about how we are supposed to act.  Instead it is Torah because this is what happens all the time.  We see ourselves in the brothers’ envy or perhaps in Joseph’s pomposity.   Too often human beings behave in this way.  This is what makes these stories Torah. We can see ourselves in its painful ordinariness.

So how do we learn what we are supposed to do?  For that we turn not to such examples, but instead to the mitzvot, the commandments contained in the Torah.  They offer us guidance.  We learn for example “To love your neighbor as yourself.”  Imagine if this mitzvah was our first thought rather than those feelings of jealousy and envy that too often creep into our hearts.

Abraham Joshua Heschel counseled that the deed is wiser than the heart.  When we follow the heart we too often end up like Joseph or worse, his brothers.  When we follow our hands, the world around us becomes transformed.  That is Judaism’s wisdom.

Hanukkah

This evening begins the third night of Hanukkah.

Many are celebrating with the giving of presents and the eating of latkes (or perhaps sufganiyot).  Some are also enjoying the playing of dreidle.  The tradition requires only the lighting of the Hanukkah menorah preceded by the appropriate blessings.  The lights are placed in the window to proclaim the miracle of Hanukkah for all to see.

For centuries this holiday was downplayed.  It was simple in its observance.  Yet it was profound in its message.  Hanukkah reminds us that hope is always possible.  The lighting of the Hanukkah candles are about adding light during the darkest times of the year, and throughout the darkest moments of our history. 

In the Talmud two great rabbis argue about how best to light the Hanukkah lights.  Rabbi Shammai believes that our ritual should mirror the actual miracle.  Millenia, ago after the Maccabees’ struggled with the Syrian Greeks and recaptured the Temple, their dedication ceremony was nearly stymied because of the lack of holy oil.  Miraculously the oil lasted not the expected one night but eight. The light was therefore brighter on the first day when there was more oil.  Shammai taught that we should light eight candles on the first night and one on the last night.  Hillel, with whom Jewish law later sided, argued that the lighting should reflect not what actually happened but our hope in the future.  With each passing night, the light should increase to illustrate that the future can always be brighter than the past.

Theodor Herzl, the architect of the modern Zionist movement, once wrote a story about Hanukkah, entitled “The Menorah”.  He concluded:

There came the eighth day, on which the entire row of lights is kindled, including the faithful ninth candle, the shammash, which otherwise serves only to light the others.  A great radiance shone forth from the menorah.  The eyes of the children sparkled.  …The occasion became a parable for the enkindling of a whole nation.  First one candle; it is still dark and the solitary light looks gloomy.  Then it finds a companion, then another, and yet another.  The darkness must retreat.  The young and the poor are the first to see the light, then the others join in, all those who love justice, truth, liberty, progress, humanity and beauty.  When all the candles are ablaze everyone must stop in amazement and rejoice at what has been wrought.  And no office is more blessed than that of a servant of light.

 Theodor Herzl died in 1904.  The modern State of Israel was established in 1948.

That is what Hanukkah is all about.  When the rest of the world says your dreams are delusions, when even friends decry your faith as fantasy, Hanukkah reminds us that the lights must always be kindled, that hope can still be kindled.  Even during the darkest days of winter and even when nations seem again arrayed against us, there is light. 

The future can indeed be brighter that the past.  

Losing Hope

Losing Hope On Israeli-Palestinian Peace | The New Republic by Leon Wieseltier

Leon Wieseltier writes:

I have been thinking about lost causes because I have concluded that one of my causes is lost. I no longer believe that peace between Israelis and Palestinians will occur in my lifetime. I have not changed my views; I have merely lost my hopes. I am still quite certain that the establishment of the state of Palestine is a condition for the survival of the state of Israel, as a Jewish state and a democratic state, and that for Israel not to be a Jewish state would be a Jewish catastrophe, and for it not to be a democratic state would be a human catastrophe; and that the only solution there has ever been to this conflict is the solution that was proposed by the Peel Commission in 1937, that is, the partition of one land into two states; and that the Jewish settlement of the West Bank was a colossal mistake, and the occupation (and the indifference to it) corrodes the decency of the occupiers; and that the Jewish state is a secular entity; and that anti-Semitism, which will never disappear, does not explain the entirety of the history of the Jews or their state, or exempt Israel from accountability for its actions. An impenitent Zionist and an impenitent dove, in sum; but to the consternation of some of my comrades, a hawkish dove, too, since I see that Israel has enemies and I believe in the ethical primacy of self-defense. I have irritated some of my comrades also with my unglowing view of the Palestinians and their inability to recognize the historical grandeur of compromise. Since 1977, and really since 1947, they have refused one proposed solution after another, as if the “unviability” of an imperfect state is not preferable to the unviability of statelessness. In recent decades they have added a new religious maximalism to an old secular maximalism. But still I concur in the necessity and the justice of their demand for a state, and still I yearn for a serious Palestinian diplomacy.

And Daniel Gordis writes in Haaretz, critiquing the naivete of too many American Jewish leaders, in particular a number of my colleagues:

Jews have always seen ourselves as citizens of the world. But key to Judaism’s survival has been an ability to couple that universal concern to a clear-eyed assessment of the challenges and dangers facing the Jewish world. The mark of great religious leadership is not simply its ability to imagine a better world, but to imagine how we might get to that world from the one that actually exists. We will know great Progressive religious leadership is emerging when we see the world that they describe bears at least some resemblance to the one in which Israel has to try to survive.

And yet I stubbornly insist on hope.  I cannot live without it.  Yes, it must be coupled with reality, but I refuse to allow even present reality to lead to fatalism or worse, a stultification of the spirit.  Zionism's revolution was, and continues to be, the belief that we must first and foremost rely on our own strength and creativity to change the course of Jewish history.  We once relied only on our prayers.  We were once subject only to foreign rulers.  Now there is more that we can do. There is far more that is within our own hands.  I.will never let go of this dream.

I do not pretend to have solutions to our current struggles.  It is true that Palestinian intransigence and terror remain the greatest obstacles to any resolution.  This does not excuse our current reluctance to change.  We can shape our future.  We can mend our ways, if for no other reason than to do what is best for the Jewish state.  Unless Israel "withdraws" from both the territory and ideology of those who want nothing to do with Israel as a Jewish democracy, the Zionist dream of being a "free people in our own land" will falter.  Yes, the creation of a Palestinian state remains within Palestinian hands (not the UN's!).  If they were to affirm the legitimate right of the Jewish people to live within the historical boundaries of the land of Israel and to do as they have done, create a vibrant Jewish state, then a Palestinian state would soon be fashioned alongside it. The future of Israel as a Jewish and democratic state, however, remains within our hands.

Vayeshev

We begin the story of Joseph and his brothers.  They do not get along very well.  Joseph is the favored son of their father Jacob.  The brothers resent this and scheme against him.  Some want to kill him.  Reuben tries to save him by convincing them to throw him into a pit.  He plans to later rescue him, but the brothers instead, on the advice of Judah, sell him into slavery.  They then tell their father that wild beasts killed Joseph.  Jacob is forever distraught.

The Torah’s language is wrenching in its starkness and simplicity.  “…And they took Joseph and cast him into the pit.  The pit was empty; there was no water in it.  Then they sat down to a meal.” (Genesis 37:24-25)

The Vilna Gaon comments: Why does it have to say “there was no water”?  After all, doesn’t “empty” imply there was no water?   The Midrash Bereshit Rabbah teaches: “Rather there was no water, but there were snakes and scorpions in it.“  The human mind abhors a vacuum.  If it is is not filled with the water of Torah, it must be filled with snakes and scorpions of other beliefs.

The tradition often likens Torah to water.  Like water it sustains us.  Better to fill our minds with Torah than with other beliefs.  Crowd out other ideas is the tradition’s counsel.  I have always believed that there is plenty of room in my heart for all manner of ideas.  I can love Torah while also loving modern philosophy and contemporary poetry, and even Eddie Money (Gimme Some Water!).

Then again, imagine Joseph, alone in the darkness of the pit.  Imagine how his thoughts might have tormented him.  Would the Torah that he so loved sustain him?  Would the love that his father showered on him secure his faith?  Are those snakes and scorpions at my feet? 

Perhaps the tradition is right.  When our hearts are overcome with hopelessness and despair, fill them instead with the music of our prayers.  The Psalmist can indeed sustain us.  The tradition can indeed mend broken hearts.

Such words cannot rescue Joseph.  That is dependent on our own hands.  We must reach down ourselves and rescue our brother from the pit.

Torah can give us strength and courage.  That is why we pray.  That is why we fill our hearts with its teachings.  So that when our hearts our broken we can gain sustenance.  We can then not only mend our own hearts but others as well.   

There are far too many people trapped in the pit for us not to pray, for us not to gain fortitude from the waters of Torah. Drink so that others might be rescued.  Taste so that our hearts might be healed.

Vayishlach Sermon

At Shabbat Services we discussed the story of Jacob wrestling with the angel and becoming Israel.  I concluded by sharing a teaching by the Hasidic master, Sefat Emat.  He writes:

This may be an account of Jacob’s wrestling with his conscience, torn between his human tendency to avoid an unpleasant encounter and the divine impulse in him that urges him to do the difficult but right thing.  This position may find support in the text, “you have striven with beings divine and human” which can also be translated, “you have striven with God and with men.” We can imagine Jacob saying to himself, “Until now, I have responded to difficult situations by lying and running.  I deceived my father.  I ran away from Esau.  I left Laban’s house stealthily instead of confronting him.  I hate myself for being a person who lies and runs.  But I’m afraid of facing up to the situation.”  By not defeating his conscience, Jacob wins.  He outgrows his Jacob identity as the trickster and becomes Israel, the one who contends with God and people instead of avoiding or manipulating them.  At the end of the struggle, he is physically wounded and emotionally depleted.  Nevertheless, the Torah describes him as shalem, translated as “safe” with connotations of “whole,” at peace with himself, possessing an integrity he never had before.

Struggle is what defines us.  It is what names us.  Struggle has the potential to make us great.

Vayishlach

The Jewish people trace their lineage to Abraham through Isaac and in particular Jacob. He is the father of the twelve tribes. In this week’s portion he gains the name Israel by wrestling with a divine being. His brother, Esau, is forever our enemy. According to Jewish tradition our many enemies can be traced to Isaac’s first-born son.

Esau is seen as the ancestor of the Edomites who aligned themselves with the Babylonians and destroyed the First Temple. The tradition as well sees the Romans as descendants of Esau who destroyed the Second Temple and views Jacob’s only brother as the ancestor of our later enemies, even modern European antisemites. Bereshit Rabbah comments: “We went looking for a brother, but instead found Easu, armed and hostile in a very non-brotherly manner.” All our enemies begin with Esau.

There are days when my dreams are haunted by this tradition. Must Esau forever be my enemy? The two brothers, Jacob and Esau, are indeed reconciled, but then part company and become the fathers of different nations. Will this enmity continue to be my future? Is this the history that we are condemned to live? I am a descendant of Jacob. My enemies forever bear the imprint of Esau. Our brother exclaims, “Let but the mourning period of my father come, and I will kill my brother Jacob.” (Genesis 27:41)

A few weeks following those terrible nights of Kristallnacht, in November 1938, Mahatma Gandhi wrote a disheartening article about Zionism. In it he argued that only the Arabs were the rightful inhabitants of Palestine. He viewed the Zionist settlers as colonialists. He advocated that Jewish settlers practice non-violence in order to win over the hearts of the Arabs. Ghandi also thought that the Jews of Germany should follow a similar practice in response to the then emerging Nazi onslaught.

His views were of course terribly naive. Ghandi refused to divide the world into friend and foe. Our lot, we have learned, is far different. I am Jacob. My brother, Esau.

The Jewish philosopher and founder of Hebrew University, Martin Buber, responded to Ghandi by saying that that no land belongs to any people. “The conquered land is, in my opinion, only lent even to the conqueror who has settled on it—and God waits to see what he will make of it.”

Buber, unlike the majority of Zionists, argued for a bi-national state, a state with a shared place for Jews and Palestinians. It is a vision of Zionism long since rightfully discredited by the overwhelming majority of Israelis. How could such a state then have a decidedly Jewish character? Still there must always be a place for Arabs within a Jewish and democratic state.

On this day, in 1949, the United Nations argued that there should indeed be a place for Palestinian national aspirations, not within the Jewish state, but instead alongside it. Decades of war, terrorism and bloodshed suggest this is impossible. These past weeks might have again caused our hearts to become hardened. Martin Buber refused to lose hope.

And so we continue to ask, “Even after the rockets and the public calls for our destruction, there still is hope?”

“Yes, even now.”

And Rabbi Akiva’s students asked him, “Even now?” He answered, “Yes, even now.”

We must always hope. Even now.

Always. No matter the history. Regardless of the circumstance.

Especially now.

“And Esau ran to greet Jacob. He embraced him and, falling on his neck, he kissed him; and they wept.” (Genesis 33:4)