Erev Yom Kippur - Kol Nidre - Iyunnim - 5780
Welcome & Tone Setting: Kindness and the Balance of our Deeds
A bookstore worker recently wrote this Facebook post describing an encounter with a “little old lady” who shocked everyone at the register. The post has since gone viral, and for good reason. The subject posted:
I work in a decent sized, local, indie bookstore. It’s a great job 99% of the time and a lot of our customers are pretty neat people. Anywho, middle of the day this little old lady comes up. She’s lovably kooky. She effuses how much she loves the store and how she wishes she could spend more time in it but her husband is waiting in the car ‘OH! I BETTER BUY HIM SOME CHOCOLATE!’ She piles a bunch of art supplies on the counter and then stops and tells me how my bangs are beautiful and remind her of the ocean (‘Wooooosh’ she says, making a wave gesture with her hand.
Ok. I think to myself. Awesomely happy, weird little old ladies are my favorite kind of customer. They’re thrilled about everything and they’re comfortably bananas. I can have a good time with this one. So we chat and it’s nice.
Then this kid, who’s been up my counter a few times to gather his school textbooks, comes up in line behind her (we’re connected to a major university in the city so we have a lot of harried students pass through). She turns around to him and, out of nowhere, demands that he put his textbooks on the counter. He’s confused but she explains that she’s going to buy his textbooks.
He goes sheetrock white. He refuses and adamantly insists that she can’t do that. It’s like, $400 worth of textbooks. She, this tiny old woman, boldly takes them out of his hands, throws them on the counter and turns to me with an intense stare and tells me to put them on her bill. The kid at this point is practically in tears. He’s confused and shocked and grateful. Then she turns to him and says ‘you need chocolate.’ She starts grabbing handfuls of chocolates and putting them in her pile.
He keeps asking her ‘why are you doing this?’ She responds ‘Do you like Harry Potter?’ and throws a copy of the new Cursed Child on the pile too.
Finally she’s done and I ring her up for a crazy amount of money. She pays and asks me to please give the kid a few bags for his stuff. While I’m bagging up her merchandise the kid hugs her. We’re both telling her how amazing she is and what an awesome thing she’s done. She turns to both of us and says probably one of the most profound, unscripted things I’ve ever had someone say: ‘It’s important to be kind. You can’t know all the times that you’ve hurt people in tiny, significant ways. It’s easy to be cruel without meaning to be. There’s nothing you can do about that. But you can choose to be kind. Be kind.’
The kid thanks her again and leaves. I tell her again how awesome she is. She’s staring out the door after him and says to me: ‘My son is a homeless meth addict. I don’t know what I did. I see that boy and I see the man my son could have been if someone had chosen to be kind to him at just the right time.’
I’ve bagged up all her stuff and at this point am super awkward and feel like I should say something but I don’t know what. Then she turns to me and says: ‘I wish I could have bangs like that but my darn hair is just too curly.’ And leaves. And that is the story of the best customer I’ve ever had. Be kind to somebody today. You never know how your actions may affect others around you, so you might as well be kind to all.
Benediction
In the days leading to this season, the High Holy Days, the Hebrew month of Elul engages us in spiritual preparation. Among the practices, we are inspired to recite twice daily the words of Psalm 27. Embedded in this poem, we sing out: Achat Sha’alti - One thing I ask of Adonai, and the one that I seek is to dwell in the house of Adonai all the days of my life and to gaze upon the sweetness of Adonai and frequent God’s Temple.
May each of us, on this Yom Kippur, and all days of this New Year, merit to dwell in the house of Adonai and to gaze upon God’s sweetness. May we see the spark of the Divine in every other being so that we see their sweetness, and dwell together in blessing, joy, harmony and Shalom and Shleimut - Peace and Wholeness - Amen.
Tuesday, October 8, 2019
Monday, September 30, 2019
Rosh Hashanah Morning - Study Page 116
Having shared the b’racha - the blessing for Torah study, let us consider verse 18 of Psalm 118:
פִּתְחוּ־לִ֥י שַׁעֲרֵי־צֶ֑דֶק אָֽבֹא־בָ֝ם אוֹדֶ֥ה יָֽהּ׃
Open the gates of victory for me that I may enter them and praise the LORD.
We often consider this as a petition to the Divine, to God, to the Mystery of Creation to open those gates for us. Yet, when we explore the Hebrew of this verb, to “open”, it is a request to a plural, and our commentators teach us that at its origin this was a request to the gatekeepers of the ancient Temple. Having transcended the ancient reality that atonement was found only in the ancient Temple, to the realization that atonement is found in our own acts, behaviors and choices as well as those of community surrounding us, here and wider, we see this verse having a deeper meaning. It is our request to all of those around us for a shared journey of seeking the righteous path. May we all find ways in this season to discover, working hand in hand, the Gates of Righteousness, and know we can travel that path together. Shanah Tovah!
~~~~~~~~~~
Rosh Hashanah Morning - Intro to the Amidah
As we prepare for the Amidah, the central portion of our Jewish prayer, we recite words from Psalm 51, verse 17:
אֲ֭דֹנָי שְׂפָתַ֣י תִּפְתָּ֑ח וּ֝פִ֗י יַגִּ֥יד תְּהִלָּתֶֽךָ׃
Adonai, open up my lips, that my mouth declare Your praise.
Malbim, a 19th century Bible commentator teaches that in this declaration, we are asking that we be open to the words that follow to show, to teach us the praises of which the Divine, the Mystery of Creation, that God is worthy of receiving. It is about being open to that which may be beyond our current understanding….the way in which we see the world through our own lens. May this Amidah lead us to greater understanding, that which is beyond ourselves at this moment…
~~~~~~
Rosh Hashanah Morning - Intro to Unetaneh Tokef
As we prepare for these challenging words, the words of Unetaneh Tokef, we often hear a fatalistic resignation, but Max Arzt former chancellor of the Jewish Theological Seminary, teaches that the poet’s intention with this words is rather quite the opposite. It is to deny that our human life is subject to an irremediable fate. Rather, the prayer, he says, reaches its climax when it assures us that it is within our power to annul an evil decree, to reopen the future, and to reclaim the initiative it gives: the quantity of our life may be in the hands of God, however the quality of our life is only in our hands as the Rabbis teach in Talmud Berakhot: Everything is in the hands of God except the fear of God. (33b) Raba, a 4th century sage remarks on this idea that these are among the questions to be asked of us in judgment:
Did you conduct your business with integrity? Did you set aside fixed times for study of Torah? Did you concern yourself with the duty of raising a family? Did you retain a confident faith in the fulfillment o the prophetic ideals of Israel’s redemption and the coming of an era of universal peace? (Shabbat 31a)
As we hear these words of Unetaneh Tokef echo through the room and the chambers of our souls, may we ask these questions and others that inspire us towards life goals. The goals of choosing life, the goals that lead to a healthy balance of self and other.
Optimism & Antisemitism: A Plan for 5780 and Beyond
Rosh Hashanah 5780
There is an anecdote told about Jews living in Germany in the 1930s. Two Jews were sitting on one of the few park benches permitted to Jews. One of them was reading one of the Jewish communal newspapers; the other, reading Der Stürmer, the virulently antisemitic Nazi publication. “Why on earth are you reading that thing?” the latter was asked. “When I read a Jewish publication,” he replied, “I hear of our woes and terrible fate. When I read Der Stürmer, I read how we control the banks, world media, international governments, and how powerful we are. I much prefer the latter.”
In her recent publication, Deborah Lipstadt, a pre-eminent scholar and professor of Modern Jewish History and Holocaust Studies, shares this as sort of a joke, albeit certainly not a laugh out loud kind of joke. In the sharing of this anecdote about an era we can all reference as perhaps the darkest hour of our collective Jewish memory, we can also recognize a sense of Jewish levity and optimism.
When we recollect the Shoah, the Holocaust, it is our tragedy. And that is our responsibility on Yom HaShoah - Holocaust Remembrance Day - to make certain Never Again. And yet, it is bigger than a tragedy that befell one group, it is also a human tragedy…it is a time in the human past that must be recognized as the darkest; it was a time when humanity chose evil over good; it was a time when annihilation was chosen rather than tolerance… But if we only see this with Jewish particularism, we lessen our ability to mold humanity with growing compassion, optimism, love and possibility.
When it comes to the past year, we can point to Pittsburgh and Poway, and to the numerous events of defacement and ridicule, as well as others unfortunately, as events that scream to our Jewish consciousness for our attention. We are uncomfortable in our seats as we recall these horrific events. These, too, are moments in our collective Jewish memory that shock. They certainly cause us all to question, to ponder…to ask: Why? …and even lead towards a lack of understanding, towards disbelief.
It is not enough to think about them, to listen to the news about these horrific moments, but we must take the time to reflect on how to respond. What can change… With all of these horrific moments we must reflect on how we respond. Oh my, another attack, a massacre… Again? Is there something to be done? What should MY response be? What does our community need to do? What is the individual, the collective response? What is the learning, is there learning?
Those two Jews sitting on the park bench in Germany paint a picture for us of the different ways we can discern the realities of our day. Lipstadt also shares in her book, and in numerous interviews since its publication a joke, again one that does not necessarily garner laughter: Who is a Jewish optimist? Someone who thinks things can’t get worse. Who is a Jewish pessimist? Someone who thinks that it can. Who is a Jewish realist? Someone who knows that they are…
So, which one is each of us? Realist? Pessimist? Optimist?
Let us choose none of the above, at least not as described in that joke. Let this moment, this New Year beginning continue to unfold as one that allows us to celebrate our treasured tradition, heritage and shared memory rather than bemoan the countless past injustices and oppressions levied against us as a people. And, let us use it to treasure the richness of all humanity and combat hatred in all its forms. But, this is hard…seemingly impossible and yet, let us allow that adage to remain as such, a not funny joke from which we can capture something to learn.
Antisemitism has been in the headlines again and again in recent years. It has been dubbed “the longest hatred” for its endurance throughout our storied history even before the term itself was coined in the latter part of the 19th century. What is it? What is antisemitism? It is hostility to, or prejudice against Jews simply because they are Jewish. Throughout its history, throughout our own history as a people it has taken numerous forms: Religious persecution and replacement theology, it has become a political argument in past eras and today and it has been about Jewish dominance. And let’s be clear: That in an ever increasingly complex world, full of grey and nuance, antisemitism is no different than any other “ism”, because its complexity and nuanced expressions have evolved as well.
We can decry the rise of it and all forms of hate. We can be the objects of this particular form of “anti” and build up our defenses. We can take active steps towards security, toward safety, we can build layers upon layers of insulation to surround us - we can build walls. Over the past year, members of our own community here at Temple Bat Yam and North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation have participated in webinars, conference calls, in person workshops focusing on the safety of our Houses of Worship. We have learned a great deal about the ways in which we can mitigate the physical threats associated with this hatred directed at us.
Yet, this is not the only way it presents itself. Take the not so funny joke at the outset, and ponder for a moment the non-sensical reality expressed therein. From one source, Jews rule and are in charge of all….from the other, we are doomed. Isn’t the simple telling of this joke a way to perpetuate these age-old myths?
As Jews in America we have been blessed with unprecedented freedoms and opportunities. Yet, we are discovering, whether it be attributed to new or growing threats or the result of complacency, this age old and baseless hatred towards Jews as Jews is alive. It feels so foreign, yet so familiar. For many of us, the echoes reverberating around us ring of a time we recall living through and hearing in countless stories from our parents, from our grandparents. For others, being hated simply for being a Jew is foreign, for we have been blessed to live now, at this time, at least as some call it: Before Pittsburgh. Are things different now? New security measures, re-formulated education of our community and strengthened awareness are all called for. With antisemitism on the rise, with hate defining our identities, either as the object or even the subject, we increasingly see the world through a lens of what we are “anti”, what we are against. And so, we insulate ourselves and our communities.
But can’t we see these events, the uptick in acts of hate as a blip, an aberration for we do live in America, blessed with unprecedented freedoms and opportunities. Over the last fifty years, we, the Jewish people, have attained so much. Some call it assimilation, but others integration - being a part of the promise of a better tomorrow for everyone. Sure, we should be aware and watchful, we ought to pay attention to this virulent hatred, but more so to all hatred, to the baseless claims against any group as a group mis-characterized in disgusting ways.
The statistics may certainly be cause enough to maybe not sound the alarm, but certainly know where the panic button is located. But I am not sure that is the only way to view this new reality: After Pittsburgh. In a poignant moment of her book, Deborah Lipstadt makes a claim that it is not about the numbers, the data, the statistics. She writes, “…numbers should not be what drives us. What should alarm us is that humans continue to believe in conspiracy that demonizes.”
Dr. Kenneth Stern, who currently serves as the Director of the new Center for the Study of Hate at Bard College, has served as director on antisemitism, hate studies and extremism for the American Jewish Committee, recently presented to a group of rabbis in a talk entitled: Old Fears, New Fears: How to Discuss Today’s Antisemitism. He taught about how hate has always been part of the human condition. Understanding this phenomenon is crucial in connecting the dots between these old and new fears. His work presents the reality that our brains, our human psyche identifies a reality about how we see the world often as “us” versus “them” and that antisemitism plays best in this binary world, a world in which sentiment foments an “us” versus “them” attitude.
This leads us to define ourselves dominantly by what we are not, what we are “anti”. It begs us to consider the countless ways identification into one of these groups, the “us” and “them” categorizes, and perpetuates the Old Fears and morphs them into New Fears. “What should alarm us is that humans continue to believe in conspiracy that demonizes.”
In the early 1970s, a teenage boy in a small town in northern Wisconsin had recently been confirmed by his Lutheran Church. About the same time one of his older brothers met a Jewish woman while studying at the University of Wisconsin. Over the following years, this older brother brought his new love home, the first Jew, they believed, to ever visit their home town. Later, that older brother chose Judaism and engaged in a journey of gerut, of conversion. This younger brother, molded by if not a hatred or dislike of Jews, certainly a wariness, he could not make sense of this new reality: A Jewish brother? Some time later, this younger teenage brother was playing pool and drinking beer in the local bar when he heard someone utter the common castigation: Don’t Jew me down! Somewhat surprisingly, especially to himself, this youngster turned around and stood in that other’s face: Don’t say that! It means nothing! Some of my best brothers are Jewish!
That young teenager was my Uncle Mark of blessed memory, and one of his “best brothers”, that is my father.
The evolution from unknown, baseless dislike, maybe even hatred towards Jews in this tiny town in northern Wisconsin needed to be addressed. Yet, it could not have been done if we insulate our communities and only build barriers. Quite the opposite is what allowed that to change…for that town to have welcomed one of its grandson’s, a rabbi, home to eulogize his grandmother.
It is about understanding that these conspiracies, the baseless hatreds, what our tradition calls sinat chinam - must be unraveled and we can only do that through relationship, through connection and through building bridges - whether between “us” - Jews and “them” - non-Jews, or across countless other boundaries, across cultural, ethnic and religious differences. We must discover ways for “us” and “them” NOT “us” versus “them” and this is not only on “them” to reach over those barriers, it lies with “us” too!
Sure, we must still take measures, and we have and continue to, in order to ensure our safety, personally and communally. Yet, it cannot, it must not stop there. There is a different response that is possible in 5780 than we have ever experienced. Because of countless stories like my Uncle Mark’s we know that exponentially more relationships exist between Jews and non-Jews than arguably ever before in history. And, it must step beyond this paradigm of and through only the lens of antisemitism. It must, and is upon us to recognize the human tragedy that hate creates again and again. We must understand ever more the realities of the rise of antisemitism AND THE RISE OF HATE IN GENERAL. We must understand that there are real and present dangers tearing at the fabric of our humanity and we have a responsibility, informed by our Jewish identity, to every other being. Last year at this time, I spoke about overcoming “otherness”, and that work may not be realized in our time, but we must try.
In June of this year, when antisemitic graffiti was discovered under a bridge in South Lake Tahoe we could have insulated ourselves, we could have asked for the scourge to be cleaned up and moved on. But, this would likely have been another moment of raising those barriers. So, rather than this route, we chose something different. We engaged in the bridges that had already been built and stood in solidarity to say Not In Our Town, Not in Lake Tahoe. With clergy of all stripes, with elected officials and educators, with business and non-profit leaders, we stood together against this blatant antisemitism, but not only as antisemitism, but as hatred. It was more, though. It was not so much about what we were “anti”, it was about what we stood for as human beings sharing this world. In that moment, we stood in celebration of all that we are: A rich tapestry of cultural, religious and ethnic identities.
In 1946, the German Lutheran Pastor Martin Niemöller made a confession which has become a call to all humanity to recognize what may set us apart and use it to bring us to a common fate, that of human:
First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out —
Because I was not a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out —
Because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out —
Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me — and there was no one left to speak for me.
Sure, we must recognize and identify that antisemitism is alive and therefore we must take steps to counter. Yet, IT CANNOT STOP THERE. It is our Jewish, and even better, our human responsibility to recognize hatred in all its forms, and to stand up to the “conspiracy that demonizes.” Let us live Pastor Niemöller’s words differently:
When she is denied respect because she is a she —
Let us make sure she is given a podium.
When our neighbor is slandered because they do not look like us —
Let us set the record straight and make them whole.
When our fellow is demonized for his beliefs —
Let us show the world his humanity.
Then, just maybe then, our tapestry of what makes us human will be displayed in all its brilliance.
I am a Jewish optimist. Not because I don’t believe it can get any worse. Nor because I am blind to this wave of antisemitism. But, I am a Jewish optimist because I am Jewish and because I know that we have a rich heritage that guides us to believe that we can continue the work before us. That we can strengthen the relationships that link us to those around us.
Following Pittsburgh, my friend and colleague Rabbi Micah Lapidus penned a powerful blog post entitled: An American Pogrom: An American Response. No he does not equate the events of recent years to the state sponsored pogroms of Eastern Europe. Rather, he is arguing that these antisemitic acts of hate require a response borne out of our American Jewish reality, identity and existence and one that is correctly situated for this time, now in our world. He argues that we must continue the work of interfaith solidarity and action to bolster and lengthen the reach of our communities. We must engage in Jewish solidarity and action to ensure that we convey to our children, and to one another, the unique value of Jewish teaching and tradition. It is incumbent upon us to raise the Jewish Voice in American Life because Judaism, he says, is a tradition founded upon a belief in human dignity. And we must teach, model and show our children that they can be kind to one another and they can make an effort to get to know people who are different from them.
To Rabbi Lapidus’ words, I would add that we also need to discover the American Jewish Response. This begins with us. It begins by looking in the mirror. As our religious school students have experienced and explored in recent years, the mirror is one layer of looking at ourselves.
Hold Up the Mirror! And you may notice upon this mirror are words scribbled to inspire.. It says: Kindness, compassion, love, care for our world….
There is more to each of us than what is reflected in this simple glass. There are layers to our character… what do we want to write on these mirrors to remind us of our aspirational selves - the person we want to continue becoming.
We must ask ourselves in what ways do we perpetuate these myths? What “jokes” do we tell that open the doors for others to continue these baseless hatreds and keep them on the human psyche?
As we look in this mirror, we also know that there are others standing with and behind and around us. There is more to combating “conspiracy that demonizes” and we must reach out to build those relationships so that we no longer build tribes of insularity, but rather a growing tribe of humanity, and one that celebrates the richness of the human tapestry
May we all experience a year of health and growing humanity. May we write on our mirrors the character we aim to see in ourselves, be part of others journey towards the same and may it lead to a Good Year and Good Years ahead. Shanah Tovah!
Rosh Hashanah 5780
There is an anecdote told about Jews living in Germany in the 1930s. Two Jews were sitting on one of the few park benches permitted to Jews. One of them was reading one of the Jewish communal newspapers; the other, reading Der Stürmer, the virulently antisemitic Nazi publication. “Why on earth are you reading that thing?” the latter was asked. “When I read a Jewish publication,” he replied, “I hear of our woes and terrible fate. When I read Der Stürmer, I read how we control the banks, world media, international governments, and how powerful we are. I much prefer the latter.”
In her recent publication, Deborah Lipstadt, a pre-eminent scholar and professor of Modern Jewish History and Holocaust Studies, shares this as sort of a joke, albeit certainly not a laugh out loud kind of joke. In the sharing of this anecdote about an era we can all reference as perhaps the darkest hour of our collective Jewish memory, we can also recognize a sense of Jewish levity and optimism.
When we recollect the Shoah, the Holocaust, it is our tragedy. And that is our responsibility on Yom HaShoah - Holocaust Remembrance Day - to make certain Never Again. And yet, it is bigger than a tragedy that befell one group, it is also a human tragedy…it is a time in the human past that must be recognized as the darkest; it was a time when humanity chose evil over good; it was a time when annihilation was chosen rather than tolerance… But if we only see this with Jewish particularism, we lessen our ability to mold humanity with growing compassion, optimism, love and possibility.
When it comes to the past year, we can point to Pittsburgh and Poway, and to the numerous events of defacement and ridicule, as well as others unfortunately, as events that scream to our Jewish consciousness for our attention. We are uncomfortable in our seats as we recall these horrific events. These, too, are moments in our collective Jewish memory that shock. They certainly cause us all to question, to ponder…to ask: Why? …and even lead towards a lack of understanding, towards disbelief.
It is not enough to think about them, to listen to the news about these horrific moments, but we must take the time to reflect on how to respond. What can change… With all of these horrific moments we must reflect on how we respond. Oh my, another attack, a massacre… Again? Is there something to be done? What should MY response be? What does our community need to do? What is the individual, the collective response? What is the learning, is there learning?
Those two Jews sitting on the park bench in Germany paint a picture for us of the different ways we can discern the realities of our day. Lipstadt also shares in her book, and in numerous interviews since its publication a joke, again one that does not necessarily garner laughter: Who is a Jewish optimist? Someone who thinks things can’t get worse. Who is a Jewish pessimist? Someone who thinks that it can. Who is a Jewish realist? Someone who knows that they are…
So, which one is each of us? Realist? Pessimist? Optimist?
Let us choose none of the above, at least not as described in that joke. Let this moment, this New Year beginning continue to unfold as one that allows us to celebrate our treasured tradition, heritage and shared memory rather than bemoan the countless past injustices and oppressions levied against us as a people. And, let us use it to treasure the richness of all humanity and combat hatred in all its forms. But, this is hard…seemingly impossible and yet, let us allow that adage to remain as such, a not funny joke from which we can capture something to learn.
Antisemitism has been in the headlines again and again in recent years. It has been dubbed “the longest hatred” for its endurance throughout our storied history even before the term itself was coined in the latter part of the 19th century. What is it? What is antisemitism? It is hostility to, or prejudice against Jews simply because they are Jewish. Throughout its history, throughout our own history as a people it has taken numerous forms: Religious persecution and replacement theology, it has become a political argument in past eras and today and it has been about Jewish dominance. And let’s be clear: That in an ever increasingly complex world, full of grey and nuance, antisemitism is no different than any other “ism”, because its complexity and nuanced expressions have evolved as well.
We can decry the rise of it and all forms of hate. We can be the objects of this particular form of “anti” and build up our defenses. We can take active steps towards security, toward safety, we can build layers upon layers of insulation to surround us - we can build walls. Over the past year, members of our own community here at Temple Bat Yam and North Tahoe Hebrew Congregation have participated in webinars, conference calls, in person workshops focusing on the safety of our Houses of Worship. We have learned a great deal about the ways in which we can mitigate the physical threats associated with this hatred directed at us.
Yet, this is not the only way it presents itself. Take the not so funny joke at the outset, and ponder for a moment the non-sensical reality expressed therein. From one source, Jews rule and are in charge of all….from the other, we are doomed. Isn’t the simple telling of this joke a way to perpetuate these age-old myths?
As Jews in America we have been blessed with unprecedented freedoms and opportunities. Yet, we are discovering, whether it be attributed to new or growing threats or the result of complacency, this age old and baseless hatred towards Jews as Jews is alive. It feels so foreign, yet so familiar. For many of us, the echoes reverberating around us ring of a time we recall living through and hearing in countless stories from our parents, from our grandparents. For others, being hated simply for being a Jew is foreign, for we have been blessed to live now, at this time, at least as some call it: Before Pittsburgh. Are things different now? New security measures, re-formulated education of our community and strengthened awareness are all called for. With antisemitism on the rise, with hate defining our identities, either as the object or even the subject, we increasingly see the world through a lens of what we are “anti”, what we are against. And so, we insulate ourselves and our communities.
But can’t we see these events, the uptick in acts of hate as a blip, an aberration for we do live in America, blessed with unprecedented freedoms and opportunities. Over the last fifty years, we, the Jewish people, have attained so much. Some call it assimilation, but others integration - being a part of the promise of a better tomorrow for everyone. Sure, we should be aware and watchful, we ought to pay attention to this virulent hatred, but more so to all hatred, to the baseless claims against any group as a group mis-characterized in disgusting ways.
The statistics may certainly be cause enough to maybe not sound the alarm, but certainly know where the panic button is located. But I am not sure that is the only way to view this new reality: After Pittsburgh. In a poignant moment of her book, Deborah Lipstadt makes a claim that it is not about the numbers, the data, the statistics. She writes, “…numbers should not be what drives us. What should alarm us is that humans continue to believe in conspiracy that demonizes.”
Dr. Kenneth Stern, who currently serves as the Director of the new Center for the Study of Hate at Bard College, has served as director on antisemitism, hate studies and extremism for the American Jewish Committee, recently presented to a group of rabbis in a talk entitled: Old Fears, New Fears: How to Discuss Today’s Antisemitism. He taught about how hate has always been part of the human condition. Understanding this phenomenon is crucial in connecting the dots between these old and new fears. His work presents the reality that our brains, our human psyche identifies a reality about how we see the world often as “us” versus “them” and that antisemitism plays best in this binary world, a world in which sentiment foments an “us” versus “them” attitude.
This leads us to define ourselves dominantly by what we are not, what we are “anti”. It begs us to consider the countless ways identification into one of these groups, the “us” and “them” categorizes, and perpetuates the Old Fears and morphs them into New Fears. “What should alarm us is that humans continue to believe in conspiracy that demonizes.”
In the early 1970s, a teenage boy in a small town in northern Wisconsin had recently been confirmed by his Lutheran Church. About the same time one of his older brothers met a Jewish woman while studying at the University of Wisconsin. Over the following years, this older brother brought his new love home, the first Jew, they believed, to ever visit their home town. Later, that older brother chose Judaism and engaged in a journey of gerut, of conversion. This younger brother, molded by if not a hatred or dislike of Jews, certainly a wariness, he could not make sense of this new reality: A Jewish brother? Some time later, this younger teenage brother was playing pool and drinking beer in the local bar when he heard someone utter the common castigation: Don’t Jew me down! Somewhat surprisingly, especially to himself, this youngster turned around and stood in that other’s face: Don’t say that! It means nothing! Some of my best brothers are Jewish!
That young teenager was my Uncle Mark of blessed memory, and one of his “best brothers”, that is my father.
The evolution from unknown, baseless dislike, maybe even hatred towards Jews in this tiny town in northern Wisconsin needed to be addressed. Yet, it could not have been done if we insulate our communities and only build barriers. Quite the opposite is what allowed that to change…for that town to have welcomed one of its grandson’s, a rabbi, home to eulogize his grandmother.
It is about understanding that these conspiracies, the baseless hatreds, what our tradition calls sinat chinam - must be unraveled and we can only do that through relationship, through connection and through building bridges - whether between “us” - Jews and “them” - non-Jews, or across countless other boundaries, across cultural, ethnic and religious differences. We must discover ways for “us” and “them” NOT “us” versus “them” and this is not only on “them” to reach over those barriers, it lies with “us” too!
Sure, we must still take measures, and we have and continue to, in order to ensure our safety, personally and communally. Yet, it cannot, it must not stop there. There is a different response that is possible in 5780 than we have ever experienced. Because of countless stories like my Uncle Mark’s we know that exponentially more relationships exist between Jews and non-Jews than arguably ever before in history. And, it must step beyond this paradigm of and through only the lens of antisemitism. It must, and is upon us to recognize the human tragedy that hate creates again and again. We must understand ever more the realities of the rise of antisemitism AND THE RISE OF HATE IN GENERAL. We must understand that there are real and present dangers tearing at the fabric of our humanity and we have a responsibility, informed by our Jewish identity, to every other being. Last year at this time, I spoke about overcoming “otherness”, and that work may not be realized in our time, but we must try.
In June of this year, when antisemitic graffiti was discovered under a bridge in South Lake Tahoe we could have insulated ourselves, we could have asked for the scourge to be cleaned up and moved on. But, this would likely have been another moment of raising those barriers. So, rather than this route, we chose something different. We engaged in the bridges that had already been built and stood in solidarity to say Not In Our Town, Not in Lake Tahoe. With clergy of all stripes, with elected officials and educators, with business and non-profit leaders, we stood together against this blatant antisemitism, but not only as antisemitism, but as hatred. It was more, though. It was not so much about what we were “anti”, it was about what we stood for as human beings sharing this world. In that moment, we stood in celebration of all that we are: A rich tapestry of cultural, religious and ethnic identities.
In 1946, the German Lutheran Pastor Martin Niemöller made a confession which has become a call to all humanity to recognize what may set us apart and use it to bring us to a common fate, that of human:
First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out —
Because I was not a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out —
Because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out —
Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me — and there was no one left to speak for me.
Sure, we must recognize and identify that antisemitism is alive and therefore we must take steps to counter. Yet, IT CANNOT STOP THERE. It is our Jewish, and even better, our human responsibility to recognize hatred in all its forms, and to stand up to the “conspiracy that demonizes.” Let us live Pastor Niemöller’s words differently:
When she is denied respect because she is a she —
Let us make sure she is given a podium.
When our neighbor is slandered because they do not look like us —
Let us set the record straight and make them whole.
When our fellow is demonized for his beliefs —
Let us show the world his humanity.
Then, just maybe then, our tapestry of what makes us human will be displayed in all its brilliance.
I am a Jewish optimist. Not because I don’t believe it can get any worse. Nor because I am blind to this wave of antisemitism. But, I am a Jewish optimist because I am Jewish and because I know that we have a rich heritage that guides us to believe that we can continue the work before us. That we can strengthen the relationships that link us to those around us.
Following Pittsburgh, my friend and colleague Rabbi Micah Lapidus penned a powerful blog post entitled: An American Pogrom: An American Response. No he does not equate the events of recent years to the state sponsored pogroms of Eastern Europe. Rather, he is arguing that these antisemitic acts of hate require a response borne out of our American Jewish reality, identity and existence and one that is correctly situated for this time, now in our world. He argues that we must continue the work of interfaith solidarity and action to bolster and lengthen the reach of our communities. We must engage in Jewish solidarity and action to ensure that we convey to our children, and to one another, the unique value of Jewish teaching and tradition. It is incumbent upon us to raise the Jewish Voice in American Life because Judaism, he says, is a tradition founded upon a belief in human dignity. And we must teach, model and show our children that they can be kind to one another and they can make an effort to get to know people who are different from them.
To Rabbi Lapidus’ words, I would add that we also need to discover the American Jewish Response. This begins with us. It begins by looking in the mirror. As our religious school students have experienced and explored in recent years, the mirror is one layer of looking at ourselves.
Hold Up the Mirror! And you may notice upon this mirror are words scribbled to inspire.. It says: Kindness, compassion, love, care for our world….
There is more to each of us than what is reflected in this simple glass. There are layers to our character… what do we want to write on these mirrors to remind us of our aspirational selves - the person we want to continue becoming.
We must ask ourselves in what ways do we perpetuate these myths? What “jokes” do we tell that open the doors for others to continue these baseless hatreds and keep them on the human psyche?
As we look in this mirror, we also know that there are others standing with and behind and around us. There is more to combating “conspiracy that demonizes” and we must reach out to build those relationships so that we no longer build tribes of insularity, but rather a growing tribe of humanity, and one that celebrates the richness of the human tapestry
May we all experience a year of health and growing humanity. May we write on our mirrors the character we aim to see in ourselves, be part of others journey towards the same and may it lead to a Good Year and Good Years ahead. Shanah Tovah!
Sunday, September 29, 2019
Erev Rosh Hashanah - Welcome & Explanations
Shanah Tovah! For some of us, the roller coaster of the Yamim Noraim - Days of Awe - has been guiding us for the month of Elul, and for others it begins in earnest this day - Yom Teruah - the Day of the Blast. We celebrate as we welcome the year 5780 and we also know that the deep introspective work of these Days of Awe will carry us towards Yom Kippur. This is not always easy, I would contend it is not meant to be easy, for reckoning for ourselves, our deeds, our behaviors and choices over the past year can often lead us deep within… Let this celebration of Rosh Hashanah, this engagement with this time of year, lead us to places unknown within ourselves and may it also lead us towards the recognition of our humanity - yes full of foibles, but also capable of glimpsing perfection, within ourselves, others and our world. May those glimpses guide us to being our best selves, to support others on their journeys and in that way, those shadows of perfection begin to become illuminated. Shanah Tovah!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Erev Rosh Hashanah - Drash on Light - Before Candle Lighting
With these lights, We welcome Rosh Hashanah. In their glow of contrasting colors, we discern the light and dark of our days; We recall all the disappointments and joys we have shared, all the hopes and intentions we now nurture for the New Year.
In Psalm 27, read each day for a month leading to this day, we recite: Adonai is my light and my help; whom should I fear? Adonai is the stronghold of my life, whom should I dread? From this we discover an inspiration that the Divine, the Mystery of Creation, Adonai - whatever it is we hold in belief - illuminates that which may cause us pause, fear or anxiety and we know that through working to continuing becoming ourselves, as individuals and as a community, the path becomes illuminated for us. May the coming year be one of growing light, for us, for our community and for our world. ~Amen
~~~~~~~~~
Erev Rosh Hashanah - Drash for Hineni - How Do We Present Ourselves
There is a fellow who owns a jewelry store in Israel. One day a nine year old girl walked into the store and said, “I am here to buy a bracelet.” She looked through the glass cases and pointed to a bracelet that was $3,000. The man behind the counter asked her, “You want to buy that bracelet?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“Wow, you have very good taste. Who do you want to buy it for?”
“For my older sister.”
“Oh that is so nice!” the storekeeper replied. “Why do you want to buy your older sister this bracelet?”
“Because I don’t have a mother or father,” the little girl said, “and my older sister takes care of us. So we want to buy her a present, and I’m willing to pay for it.” She pulled out of her pocket a whole bunch of coins that totaled just under eight shekels, a little less than two dollars.
The fellow says, “Wow! That’s exactly what the bracelet costs!” While wrapping up the bracelet he said to the girl, “You write a card to your sister while I wrap the bracelet.” He finished wrapping the bracelet, wiped away his tears, and handed the little girl the bracelet.
A few hours later the older sister entered the store. “I’m terribly embarrassed,” she said. “My sister should not have come here. She shouldn’t have taken it without paying.” “What are you talking about?” the storekeeper asked.
“What do you mean? This bracelet costs thousands of dollars. My little sister doesn’t have thousands of dollars – she doesn’t even have ten dollars! Obviously she didn’t pay for it.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong,” the storekeeper replied. “She paid me in full. She paid seven shekel, eighty agurot, and a broken heart. I want to tell you something. I am a widower. I lost my wife a number of years ago. People come into my store every single day. They come in and buy expensive pieces of jewelry, and all these people can afford it.
When your sister walked in, for the first time in so very long since my wife had died, I once again felt what love means.”
He gave her the bracelet and wished her well.
During the High Holy Days, we come to the Almighty and we want to buy something very expensive. We want to buy life. But we cannot afford it. We don’t have enough money to pay for it. We don’t have the merits.
So we come to the Almighty and we empty out our pockets, giving him whatever merits we have plus promises for the future. I’ll pick up the phone and call someone who is lonely, I will learn an extra five minutes of Torah, I will be kind and I will be scrupulous about not speaking lashon hara (gossip) for one hour a day.
The Almighty says, “You don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve felt what love means.” He sees how much we love Him and how much we yearn to improve, and He says, “You know what? You have touched my heart. Here it is, paid in full.”
The story was told over by Rabbi Go’el Elkarif who said he heard it from the person himself
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Erev Rosh Hashanah - Drash on the Miraculous - Before Mi Chamocha
The Baal Shem Tov taught: “If we were to walk in the woods and a spring appeared just when we became thirsty, we would call it a miracle. And if on a second walk, if we became thirsty at just that point again, and again the spring appeared, we would remark on the coincidence. But if that spring were there always, we would take it for granted and cease to notice it. Yet is that not more miraculous still?”
As we prepare for this moment recalling our redemption as a people with Mi Chamocha, what are the miracles for which we are grateful? And as we consider the miracles that fill our daily lives, may we all be thirsty for them and make sure our souls are focused to recognize them, to be grateful for them and be open to helping others continue to discover them too!
Shanah Tovah! For some of us, the roller coaster of the Yamim Noraim - Days of Awe - has been guiding us for the month of Elul, and for others it begins in earnest this day - Yom Teruah - the Day of the Blast. We celebrate as we welcome the year 5780 and we also know that the deep introspective work of these Days of Awe will carry us towards Yom Kippur. This is not always easy, I would contend it is not meant to be easy, for reckoning for ourselves, our deeds, our behaviors and choices over the past year can often lead us deep within… Let this celebration of Rosh Hashanah, this engagement with this time of year, lead us to places unknown within ourselves and may it also lead us towards the recognition of our humanity - yes full of foibles, but also capable of glimpsing perfection, within ourselves, others and our world. May those glimpses guide us to being our best selves, to support others on their journeys and in that way, those shadows of perfection begin to become illuminated. Shanah Tovah!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Erev Rosh Hashanah - Drash on Light - Before Candle Lighting
With these lights, We welcome Rosh Hashanah. In their glow of contrasting colors, we discern the light and dark of our days; We recall all the disappointments and joys we have shared, all the hopes and intentions we now nurture for the New Year.
In Psalm 27, read each day for a month leading to this day, we recite: Adonai is my light and my help; whom should I fear? Adonai is the stronghold of my life, whom should I dread? From this we discover an inspiration that the Divine, the Mystery of Creation, Adonai - whatever it is we hold in belief - illuminates that which may cause us pause, fear or anxiety and we know that through working to continuing becoming ourselves, as individuals and as a community, the path becomes illuminated for us. May the coming year be one of growing light, for us, for our community and for our world. ~Amen
~~~~~~~~~
Erev Rosh Hashanah - Drash for Hineni - How Do We Present Ourselves
There is a fellow who owns a jewelry store in Israel. One day a nine year old girl walked into the store and said, “I am here to buy a bracelet.” She looked through the glass cases and pointed to a bracelet that was $3,000. The man behind the counter asked her, “You want to buy that bracelet?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“Wow, you have very good taste. Who do you want to buy it for?”
“For my older sister.”
“Oh that is so nice!” the storekeeper replied. “Why do you want to buy your older sister this bracelet?”
“Because I don’t have a mother or father,” the little girl said, “and my older sister takes care of us. So we want to buy her a present, and I’m willing to pay for it.” She pulled out of her pocket a whole bunch of coins that totaled just under eight shekels, a little less than two dollars.
The fellow says, “Wow! That’s exactly what the bracelet costs!” While wrapping up the bracelet he said to the girl, “You write a card to your sister while I wrap the bracelet.” He finished wrapping the bracelet, wiped away his tears, and handed the little girl the bracelet.
A few hours later the older sister entered the store. “I’m terribly embarrassed,” she said. “My sister should not have come here. She shouldn’t have taken it without paying.” “What are you talking about?” the storekeeper asked.
“What do you mean? This bracelet costs thousands of dollars. My little sister doesn’t have thousands of dollars – she doesn’t even have ten dollars! Obviously she didn’t pay for it.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong,” the storekeeper replied. “She paid me in full. She paid seven shekel, eighty agurot, and a broken heart. I want to tell you something. I am a widower. I lost my wife a number of years ago. People come into my store every single day. They come in and buy expensive pieces of jewelry, and all these people can afford it.
When your sister walked in, for the first time in so very long since my wife had died, I once again felt what love means.”
He gave her the bracelet and wished her well.
During the High Holy Days, we come to the Almighty and we want to buy something very expensive. We want to buy life. But we cannot afford it. We don’t have enough money to pay for it. We don’t have the merits.
So we come to the Almighty and we empty out our pockets, giving him whatever merits we have plus promises for the future. I’ll pick up the phone and call someone who is lonely, I will learn an extra five minutes of Torah, I will be kind and I will be scrupulous about not speaking lashon hara (gossip) for one hour a day.
The Almighty says, “You don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve felt what love means.” He sees how much we love Him and how much we yearn to improve, and He says, “You know what? You have touched my heart. Here it is, paid in full.”
The story was told over by Rabbi Go’el Elkarif who said he heard it from the person himself
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Erev Rosh Hashanah - Drash on the Miraculous - Before Mi Chamocha
The Baal Shem Tov taught: “If we were to walk in the woods and a spring appeared just when we became thirsty, we would call it a miracle. And if on a second walk, if we became thirsty at just that point again, and again the spring appeared, we would remark on the coincidence. But if that spring were there always, we would take it for granted and cease to notice it. Yet is that not more miraculous still?”
As we prepare for this moment recalling our redemption as a people with Mi Chamocha, what are the miracles for which we are grateful? And as we consider the miracles that fill our daily lives, may we all be thirsty for them and make sure our souls are focused to recognize them, to be grateful for them and be open to helping others continue to discover them too!
Tuesday, June 18, 2019
Traveling to Israel, taking the boys for their first trip!
Reflection on Our June 2019 Trip to Israel
Shabbat June 15, as the adventure begins in earnest it is hard to balance the excitement with the realities of my wonderful boys. They are excited and they are anxious for the unknown. I could not imagine a better destination for this first overseas trip for our family. Israel is a people and a place that has and continues to enrich Rachel and my life. There are certainly realities that continue to challenge both of us in regard to Israel, yet being ohavei Yisrael - lovers of Israel - is part of our beings. Sitting on the plane and waiting to take off has finally allowed the reality of returning to Israel with my family for the first time sink in in earnest.
Hopes abound for the experience at hand. I am dreaming first about moments of realization for Caleb and for Jonah. I am dreaming that their minds will seize the connections between being Jewish and being Jewish. And what I mean by that is the hope that their identity as Jews - a minority in Tahoe - will connect with the identity of Jews as majority in Israel. This is something that must just happen for them and no matter how hard I may try I cannot manufacture it for them.
I pray that our days are each filled with such unique gifts that both boys continue to unpack them throughout their lifetimes. In that, I am also praying that these twelve days leave indelible and positive experiences that our family grows in our love of Israel and continues to struggle alongside her in reaching for Israel’s potential.
Shabbat June 15, as the adventure begins in earnest it is hard to balance the excitement with the realities of my wonderful boys. They are excited and they are anxious for the unknown. I could not imagine a better destination for this first overseas trip for our family. Israel is a people and a place that has and continues to enrich Rachel and my life. There are certainly realities that continue to challenge both of us in regard to Israel, yet being ohavei Yisrael - lovers of Israel - is part of our beings. Sitting on the plane and waiting to take off has finally allowed the reality of returning to Israel with my family for the first time sink in in earnest.
Hopes abound for the experience at hand. I am dreaming first about moments of realization for Caleb and for Jonah. I am dreaming that their minds will seize the connections between being Jewish and being Jewish. And what I mean by that is the hope that their identity as Jews - a minority in Tahoe - will connect with the identity of Jews as majority in Israel. This is something that must just happen for them and no matter how hard I may try I cannot manufacture it for them.
I pray that our days are each filled with such unique gifts that both boys continue to unpack them throughout their lifetimes. In that, I am also praying that these twelve days leave indelible and positive experiences that our family grows in our love of Israel and continues to struggle alongside her in reaching for Israel’s potential.
Wednesday, September 19, 2018
Why? To Belong, To Do What We Do & To Be Community
Yom Kippur 5779
Imagine for a moment that you were not here, not sitting in this sacred space, in those seats, next to these people, on this Yom Kippur day, the holiest day in our Jewish calendar. Where would you be? What would you be thinking… watching… doing? Now, considering these fresh ideas and thought experiment in your mind, and ask yourself why you are here? Why have you chosen to be here? In this place? At this moment? Ponder the motivations, the inspiration and the drive for being here, in this sacred space, at this exact moment during the Jewish calendar.
When was the last time you shared that with someone? When, if ever, have you explored with others, Jews and non-Jews, the why of your Jewish identity and participation?
In asking this question, the why, we are searching for reason and purpose. The spiritual drive to plan our Fall Season with these Yamim Noraim - Days of Awe - as the anchor is for some a function of not being able to imagine being anywhere else. For others it is the realization that our heritage, our identity calls to us from deep within to be Here…Now. Maybe it is about striving to learn something new, about ourselves, about our world….about Judaism.
Earlier this month, Jack Wertheimer, a professor at the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York, wrote a piece published in the Wall Street Journal. It was titled: Why Go to Synagogue Once a Year? The tag line of the title: Some Jews only show up for the High Holy Days. They’re still getting a lot out of it. He shares varied responses about people’s motivations. Like, “A nagging sense of obligation…”, or “…they renew their ties to family,” he reported. He was clear to point out the motivations of different age groups writing that, “Millennials who normally value their independence seem to relish the opportunity to sit in the same row of the synagogue with their parents like they did as children. For older Jews whose parents may no longer be alive, the familiar melodies of the High Holy Day liturgy and the unique rituals of the services may evoke memories of childhood.” Wertheimer shares a number of perceived benefits felt by many attending these Holy Day services. Yet, it is something in the comments that truly caught my attention. One respondent shared the following:
When I was a little girl I went to services with my dad every Shabbos. We belonged to a Conservative shul and he was their sole Torah reader. One Rosh Hashanah I noticed a larger crowd than we normally see and tugged on my dad’s Tallis. I asked, “Dad who are all these people?”
We all join in this ritual of these special days for our own reasons, for our own purposes. Some come to connect with an ancient tradition, seeking a space in time to reflect and consider. Others are here to be with you, to be with each other - our Temple family. Still others seek to carry on and perpetuate this ancient gift of our Jewish heritage. And some even are here because that God idea of a Divinity sitting in judgment on this day, however far off from our daily understanding of the world it may be, urges us to be present and live out this ritual.
So, I have to wonder what this respondent’s father said in return. Did he engage in a conversation about “why” we come to this place, these synagogues? Or perhaps this father took his daughter around to meet those she did not recognize, encouraging her to learn from them about their motivations, their ‘why’s.
I remember vividly my first high holy days away from home. In college, in Madison, WI, we had an amazing resource in our Hillel House. Yet, after that first Rosh Hashanah away from what I knew, I immediately booked a bus ticket to Chicago for the following week. I went to join my grandparents, may their memories be for a blessing, to be with them on Yom Kippur. That following week, I found myself not in the familiar confines of my home congregation, but rather seated in the second row, on the rabbi’s side - because that’s where we sat since the building was built - with my grandparents and my aunt. The magnetic pull to this place, not the physical structure of the Temple, but to being with family, in the familiar embrace of loved ones, was strong.
For many of us, the sense of community is the answer to ‘why’ we are here. We are drawn by the familiar embrace. It is the community, the prayers themselves, the words of Torah we will hear that pulls us at this time of year. It is a search for meaning, a spiritual connection to what these holy days offer us that brings us to this moment. It is the connection to the person on your left, to the person on your right - take a moment now, acknowledge those share this moment with them.
When we speak about community we recognize it as a noun. It is a ‘thing’, it is a collection of individuals with shard values, purpose, perhaps even mission. Yet, in Hebrew we can use the word for community - קהילה - as a verb too. In the Book of Exodus, as Moses is shepherding us out of Egypt, Torah teaches us that - ויקהל משה - that Moses communitied the community. When we ask the question as to ‘why’ we are here, what draws us not just at this time, but throughout the year to connect with our Jewish identity, it is a verb - it is active - we are doing community.
Engaging in this exercise of these High Holy Days is not only about reciting these ancient words and living out the rituals; it is not only about the reflection and introspection demanded of us at this time of year; it is not only about seeking meaning, spirituality and connection. This is also about our sense of belonging, about a passion we have for being a part of this people. In my mother’s words, we are in search of a self-identifiable sense of belonging. Mom, I asked, what does that mean? It is, she said, the drive within us to self identify as a Jew by experiencing, by experimenting with rituals, with values and with the relationships that bind us to this people.
Sure, we can explore this on our own. Many of us do. There are many here who frequent this space and engage in Jewish life, learning and practice on a regular basis. There are others who spend most of their time in other communities, like our own, engaged in our treasured Judaism. And, there are still others, who are like those flocks of people that Wertheimer is referring to in his article who come once, or a few times a year. This is not at all a condemnation of our individual choices. Let me be clear, and let me say this positively. I am honored, I am delighted, better - we are honored and delighted that each and every one of you is here, in this moment. And, I hope we’re all asking ourselves this question about why we are here, now.
When we ask this question of ‘why’, when each and every one of us asks this question we sensitize ourselves to the reality of community, to our longing for belonging. Dr. Kenneth Pelletier of the Stanford Center for Research and Disease Prevention writes, “A sense of belonging appears to be a basic human need - as basic as food and shelter. In fact, social support may be one of the critical elements distinguishing those who remain healthy from those who become ill.” The response to the why for many of us just might be this sense of belonging. We are here to be connected, to embrace and be embraced by those around us because it feels good to know we belong. We all know the entirely cliche idea of being a member of the tribe. Yet, this kind of tribe, so long as it does not breed isolation, builds us up with confidence in who each of us is as an individual, as part of a people and as part of humanity.
At the risk of breaking out in song, “Sometimes you want to go, Where everybody knows your name.” This time of year, this space, draws us to belong, to check in so that the knots holding us together are checked, tightened and re-tied. When we stand for the Kol Nidre, we do so as a community. We know that our individual moments of misdeed and wrongdoing are before us to remedy, yet we are built up even strengthened by navigating this reality with those around us, a community, a people to whom we belong. During the Vidui, our liturgical confession, we utter words in the first person plural - V’al Chet She’Chatanu - for the sin WE have committed. This is a communal, people-hood action. The exercise of these days is done in the circles of community to which we belong. Perhaps, the why for our presence here and now is because we belong.
Often, and perhaps this is many of us here now, we as Jews express our reason, our purpose for being here, engaged in this ancient, even archaic series of rituals is because it is what we Jews do. We cannot imagine being anywhere else on this Day of Atonement. This is born out of the shared history of our people and the heritage of our faith. Even more, it is the memory that is collectively ours that stirs our neshama - Jewish soul - during this extended moment of the High Holy Days.
There is a concept in our Judaism of the shalshelet hakabbalah - the chain of tradition. When we return at this time of year, when we celebrate Jewishly the cycles of life, when we study Torah, when the Jewish calendar is lived through and by us, we are solidifying our link in that chain. In his recent book, A Passion for a People, Avraham Infeld, a renowned Jewish Educator, author and thinker shares a story about this link and what binds us together through our shared story. He writes about his arrival on the campus of Hebrew University in Jerusalem to begin his studies in Physics:
On the first day of school, I was walking towards the physics department, and all of a sudden I saw an extremely beautiful young lady walking toward the history department…. so I decided to major in Jewish history instead… and today, she is the great-grandmother of my great grandchildren! I just had to explain the change of plan to my father. I sent him a letter and, in those pre-digital days, I got a telex back, greatly annoyed. Not with me, but with the Hebrew University. “What??” he wrote, “the Hebrew University has a department of Jewish history! Are they crazy! There is no such thing as Jewish history! Jews don’t have history. We Jews have memory!”
Infeld went on writing: Today I know that my father was 100% correct. Memory and history are related but not the same, and memory is the base of Jewish identity…A Jew is a person who remembers what happened to the Jewish People in the past; a Jew is a person who is strictly forbidden from suffering long-term memory loss!
What Infeld teaches with this insight, is that we are not able to unlink that chain. While many stray from the rituals, the rites and even the visible testaments to our place in that chain, we are part of it. When we ask the question of reason and purpose, the why about our engagement in this treasured heritage, for some, the answer is: Because we remember it is our shared memory, our shared past and honor it by ensuring our link is strong.
Whether it is belonging or the simplistic response of because we are supposed to be here that draws us in and embraces us, there is more. Judaism represents for us, also, the possibility of learning, growing and becoming through our presence. Not only on these High Holy Days, but by plugging into Jewish life. This tradition of ours provides us an array of tools, of practices and even beliefs that when engaged with, can enhance our quality of life.
When we are open, and willing to explore the sense of community, the feeling of belonging, the collective memory we answer this question of why. We can eat challah and light the Hannukiyah, we can ask the Four Questions and donate to Jewish organizations. And these are crucial to this Jewish people’s existence. Yet, when we learn and engage, when we create and evolve our Judaism through our own learning we expand that answer too. We cannot only light those lights and recite those words because we belong to a people who does this and does that. We must not only taste the foods that bring a sense of nostalgia and support Jewish causes because it makes us feel we belong. We must also ask the why during those moments too. In this way, in the exploration of why, we have the potential for Judaism to not only survive but also thrive.
Simon Sinek, the personality behind the third most watched Ted Talk, provides us a paradigm shift. He explores the idea of asking this crucial question of: Why. He teaches that every organization, each person perhaps, operates on three levels: What we do, How we do it and why we do it. We are really good at knowing the what and the how, he says. What do we do? We celebrate Jewish holidays, prepare our children for B’nai Mitzvah, support one another and celebrate together. How do we do it? We have rituals and cultural foods, we use the Hebrew language to prepare our young people and we mark time and lives with celebration and support in times of grief and mourning.
Why?
Because we belong? Because its what Jews do? Yes…and there is more. If we can learn, if we can explore and if we can respond to this question on ever deeper levels, we can discover greater meaning in our Judaism.
On Rosh Hashanah, Rabbi Alan Rabishaw reminded his congregation: That call to Abraham to go forth was a challenge of faith that inspired him to pursue a faith we now call Judaism—a faith in which God actually needs human beings to create a world where elevating others is at the heart of life’s purpose. Torah, God, sacred journey must lead us to love each other, or it leads nowhere at all.
When Torah teaches us that Abraham and Sarah, and those inspired by their message will be a blessing, we discover part of our Why. We learn that we are to be blessings in what we do and how we do it. Using and engaging with Judaism and Jewish life enables us to realize our ‘why’ of being blessing. Rabbi Jonathan Blake wrote in a D’var Torah about the meaning of Synagogue: God migrates to and from the world of human affairs in accordance with our ethical attentiveness or inattentiveness. Behavior matters more than a building. Indeed, the fulfillment of mitzvot on behalf of others, compassionate action for people in pain, and tzedakah for people in need can all make God's Presence more noticeable in the world. And the synagogue is the primary Jewish engine for organizing people into communities of caring.
This place, the physical space we felt compelled to enter on this Holy Day is the “engine for organizing” us, the Jewish people, so that we can care…so that we can study and learn, live and celebrate, share and teach our Judaism. When we ask the question of “Why” we enable ourselves to be open to all of our possible responses. In asking others about their “Why”, we can discover what drives us forward as community, as a people. When belonging is expressed and felt, when we do Jewish because it is just what we do we are beginning to own our reason and purpose as members of this collective memory some call Jewish history.
When our ranks swell at this time of year, we recognize there are many answers to this question of “why” and something about this time of year, this particular ritual of the High Holy Days illicit such a response. Maybe it is belonging. Perhaps it is just what we do. May we allow this space, the literal space of the synagogue and the spiritual space of community and peoplehood, stir us to answer this question of why. May we respond by learning more an more to be blessing and elevate others. May we answer that call to be communitied as a community of caring. May whatever led us here, today, continue to lead us to cherish this treasured heritage to continue the journey of being the Jewish people.
G’mar Chatimah Tovah - May We all be Sealed for a Good Year
Good Yontif and Shanah Tovah
Yom Kippur 5779
Imagine for a moment that you were not here, not sitting in this sacred space, in those seats, next to these people, on this Yom Kippur day, the holiest day in our Jewish calendar. Where would you be? What would you be thinking… watching… doing? Now, considering these fresh ideas and thought experiment in your mind, and ask yourself why you are here? Why have you chosen to be here? In this place? At this moment? Ponder the motivations, the inspiration and the drive for being here, in this sacred space, at this exact moment during the Jewish calendar.
When was the last time you shared that with someone? When, if ever, have you explored with others, Jews and non-Jews, the why of your Jewish identity and participation?
In asking this question, the why, we are searching for reason and purpose. The spiritual drive to plan our Fall Season with these Yamim Noraim - Days of Awe - as the anchor is for some a function of not being able to imagine being anywhere else. For others it is the realization that our heritage, our identity calls to us from deep within to be Here…Now. Maybe it is about striving to learn something new, about ourselves, about our world….about Judaism.
Earlier this month, Jack Wertheimer, a professor at the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York, wrote a piece published in the Wall Street Journal. It was titled: Why Go to Synagogue Once a Year? The tag line of the title: Some Jews only show up for the High Holy Days. They’re still getting a lot out of it. He shares varied responses about people’s motivations. Like, “A nagging sense of obligation…”, or “…they renew their ties to family,” he reported. He was clear to point out the motivations of different age groups writing that, “Millennials who normally value their independence seem to relish the opportunity to sit in the same row of the synagogue with their parents like they did as children. For older Jews whose parents may no longer be alive, the familiar melodies of the High Holy Day liturgy and the unique rituals of the services may evoke memories of childhood.” Wertheimer shares a number of perceived benefits felt by many attending these Holy Day services. Yet, it is something in the comments that truly caught my attention. One respondent shared the following:
When I was a little girl I went to services with my dad every Shabbos. We belonged to a Conservative shul and he was their sole Torah reader. One Rosh Hashanah I noticed a larger crowd than we normally see and tugged on my dad’s Tallis. I asked, “Dad who are all these people?”
We all join in this ritual of these special days for our own reasons, for our own purposes. Some come to connect with an ancient tradition, seeking a space in time to reflect and consider. Others are here to be with you, to be with each other - our Temple family. Still others seek to carry on and perpetuate this ancient gift of our Jewish heritage. And some even are here because that God idea of a Divinity sitting in judgment on this day, however far off from our daily understanding of the world it may be, urges us to be present and live out this ritual.
So, I have to wonder what this respondent’s father said in return. Did he engage in a conversation about “why” we come to this place, these synagogues? Or perhaps this father took his daughter around to meet those she did not recognize, encouraging her to learn from them about their motivations, their ‘why’s.
I remember vividly my first high holy days away from home. In college, in Madison, WI, we had an amazing resource in our Hillel House. Yet, after that first Rosh Hashanah away from what I knew, I immediately booked a bus ticket to Chicago for the following week. I went to join my grandparents, may their memories be for a blessing, to be with them on Yom Kippur. That following week, I found myself not in the familiar confines of my home congregation, but rather seated in the second row, on the rabbi’s side - because that’s where we sat since the building was built - with my grandparents and my aunt. The magnetic pull to this place, not the physical structure of the Temple, but to being with family, in the familiar embrace of loved ones, was strong.
For many of us, the sense of community is the answer to ‘why’ we are here. We are drawn by the familiar embrace. It is the community, the prayers themselves, the words of Torah we will hear that pulls us at this time of year. It is a search for meaning, a spiritual connection to what these holy days offer us that brings us to this moment. It is the connection to the person on your left, to the person on your right - take a moment now, acknowledge those share this moment with them.
When we speak about community we recognize it as a noun. It is a ‘thing’, it is a collection of individuals with shard values, purpose, perhaps even mission. Yet, in Hebrew we can use the word for community - קהילה - as a verb too. In the Book of Exodus, as Moses is shepherding us out of Egypt, Torah teaches us that - ויקהל משה - that Moses communitied the community. When we ask the question as to ‘why’ we are here, what draws us not just at this time, but throughout the year to connect with our Jewish identity, it is a verb - it is active - we are doing community.
Engaging in this exercise of these High Holy Days is not only about reciting these ancient words and living out the rituals; it is not only about the reflection and introspection demanded of us at this time of year; it is not only about seeking meaning, spirituality and connection. This is also about our sense of belonging, about a passion we have for being a part of this people. In my mother’s words, we are in search of a self-identifiable sense of belonging. Mom, I asked, what does that mean? It is, she said, the drive within us to self identify as a Jew by experiencing, by experimenting with rituals, with values and with the relationships that bind us to this people.
Sure, we can explore this on our own. Many of us do. There are many here who frequent this space and engage in Jewish life, learning and practice on a regular basis. There are others who spend most of their time in other communities, like our own, engaged in our treasured Judaism. And, there are still others, who are like those flocks of people that Wertheimer is referring to in his article who come once, or a few times a year. This is not at all a condemnation of our individual choices. Let me be clear, and let me say this positively. I am honored, I am delighted, better - we are honored and delighted that each and every one of you is here, in this moment. And, I hope we’re all asking ourselves this question about why we are here, now.
When we ask this question of ‘why’, when each and every one of us asks this question we sensitize ourselves to the reality of community, to our longing for belonging. Dr. Kenneth Pelletier of the Stanford Center for Research and Disease Prevention writes, “A sense of belonging appears to be a basic human need - as basic as food and shelter. In fact, social support may be one of the critical elements distinguishing those who remain healthy from those who become ill.” The response to the why for many of us just might be this sense of belonging. We are here to be connected, to embrace and be embraced by those around us because it feels good to know we belong. We all know the entirely cliche idea of being a member of the tribe. Yet, this kind of tribe, so long as it does not breed isolation, builds us up with confidence in who each of us is as an individual, as part of a people and as part of humanity.
At the risk of breaking out in song, “Sometimes you want to go, Where everybody knows your name.” This time of year, this space, draws us to belong, to check in so that the knots holding us together are checked, tightened and re-tied. When we stand for the Kol Nidre, we do so as a community. We know that our individual moments of misdeed and wrongdoing are before us to remedy, yet we are built up even strengthened by navigating this reality with those around us, a community, a people to whom we belong. During the Vidui, our liturgical confession, we utter words in the first person plural - V’al Chet She’Chatanu - for the sin WE have committed. This is a communal, people-hood action. The exercise of these days is done in the circles of community to which we belong. Perhaps, the why for our presence here and now is because we belong.
Often, and perhaps this is many of us here now, we as Jews express our reason, our purpose for being here, engaged in this ancient, even archaic series of rituals is because it is what we Jews do. We cannot imagine being anywhere else on this Day of Atonement. This is born out of the shared history of our people and the heritage of our faith. Even more, it is the memory that is collectively ours that stirs our neshama - Jewish soul - during this extended moment of the High Holy Days.
There is a concept in our Judaism of the shalshelet hakabbalah - the chain of tradition. When we return at this time of year, when we celebrate Jewishly the cycles of life, when we study Torah, when the Jewish calendar is lived through and by us, we are solidifying our link in that chain. In his recent book, A Passion for a People, Avraham Infeld, a renowned Jewish Educator, author and thinker shares a story about this link and what binds us together through our shared story. He writes about his arrival on the campus of Hebrew University in Jerusalem to begin his studies in Physics:
On the first day of school, I was walking towards the physics department, and all of a sudden I saw an extremely beautiful young lady walking toward the history department…. so I decided to major in Jewish history instead… and today, she is the great-grandmother of my great grandchildren! I just had to explain the change of plan to my father. I sent him a letter and, in those pre-digital days, I got a telex back, greatly annoyed. Not with me, but with the Hebrew University. “What??” he wrote, “the Hebrew University has a department of Jewish history! Are they crazy! There is no such thing as Jewish history! Jews don’t have history. We Jews have memory!”
Infeld went on writing: Today I know that my father was 100% correct. Memory and history are related but not the same, and memory is the base of Jewish identity…A Jew is a person who remembers what happened to the Jewish People in the past; a Jew is a person who is strictly forbidden from suffering long-term memory loss!
What Infeld teaches with this insight, is that we are not able to unlink that chain. While many stray from the rituals, the rites and even the visible testaments to our place in that chain, we are part of it. When we ask the question of reason and purpose, the why about our engagement in this treasured heritage, for some, the answer is: Because we remember it is our shared memory, our shared past and honor it by ensuring our link is strong.
Whether it is belonging or the simplistic response of because we are supposed to be here that draws us in and embraces us, there is more. Judaism represents for us, also, the possibility of learning, growing and becoming through our presence. Not only on these High Holy Days, but by plugging into Jewish life. This tradition of ours provides us an array of tools, of practices and even beliefs that when engaged with, can enhance our quality of life.
When we are open, and willing to explore the sense of community, the feeling of belonging, the collective memory we answer this question of why. We can eat challah and light the Hannukiyah, we can ask the Four Questions and donate to Jewish organizations. And these are crucial to this Jewish people’s existence. Yet, when we learn and engage, when we create and evolve our Judaism through our own learning we expand that answer too. We cannot only light those lights and recite those words because we belong to a people who does this and does that. We must not only taste the foods that bring a sense of nostalgia and support Jewish causes because it makes us feel we belong. We must also ask the why during those moments too. In this way, in the exploration of why, we have the potential for Judaism to not only survive but also thrive.
Simon Sinek, the personality behind the third most watched Ted Talk, provides us a paradigm shift. He explores the idea of asking this crucial question of: Why. He teaches that every organization, each person perhaps, operates on three levels: What we do, How we do it and why we do it. We are really good at knowing the what and the how, he says. What do we do? We celebrate Jewish holidays, prepare our children for B’nai Mitzvah, support one another and celebrate together. How do we do it? We have rituals and cultural foods, we use the Hebrew language to prepare our young people and we mark time and lives with celebration and support in times of grief and mourning.
Why?
Because we belong? Because its what Jews do? Yes…and there is more. If we can learn, if we can explore and if we can respond to this question on ever deeper levels, we can discover greater meaning in our Judaism.
On Rosh Hashanah, Rabbi Alan Rabishaw reminded his congregation: That call to Abraham to go forth was a challenge of faith that inspired him to pursue a faith we now call Judaism—a faith in which God actually needs human beings to create a world where elevating others is at the heart of life’s purpose. Torah, God, sacred journey must lead us to love each other, or it leads nowhere at all.
When Torah teaches us that Abraham and Sarah, and those inspired by their message will be a blessing, we discover part of our Why. We learn that we are to be blessings in what we do and how we do it. Using and engaging with Judaism and Jewish life enables us to realize our ‘why’ of being blessing. Rabbi Jonathan Blake wrote in a D’var Torah about the meaning of Synagogue: God migrates to and from the world of human affairs in accordance with our ethical attentiveness or inattentiveness. Behavior matters more than a building. Indeed, the fulfillment of mitzvot on behalf of others, compassionate action for people in pain, and tzedakah for people in need can all make God's Presence more noticeable in the world. And the synagogue is the primary Jewish engine for organizing people into communities of caring.
This place, the physical space we felt compelled to enter on this Holy Day is the “engine for organizing” us, the Jewish people, so that we can care…so that we can study and learn, live and celebrate, share and teach our Judaism. When we ask the question of “Why” we enable ourselves to be open to all of our possible responses. In asking others about their “Why”, we can discover what drives us forward as community, as a people. When belonging is expressed and felt, when we do Jewish because it is just what we do we are beginning to own our reason and purpose as members of this collective memory some call Jewish history.
When our ranks swell at this time of year, we recognize there are many answers to this question of “why” and something about this time of year, this particular ritual of the High Holy Days illicit such a response. Maybe it is belonging. Perhaps it is just what we do. May we allow this space, the literal space of the synagogue and the spiritual space of community and peoplehood, stir us to answer this question of why. May we respond by learning more an more to be blessing and elevate others. May we answer that call to be communitied as a community of caring. May whatever led us here, today, continue to lead us to cherish this treasured heritage to continue the journey of being the Jewish people.
G’mar Chatimah Tovah - May We all be Sealed for a Good Year
Good Yontif and Shanah Tovah
Monday, September 10, 2018
The Share in our Human Story Because of our Fundamental Dignities:
Overcoming ‘Other-ness’ — Rosh Hashanah 5779
Rabbi Evon J. Yakar
While some of this may be apocryphal, the gist of the story remains. That is the story of how the United States Information Agency decided to send a theater production to other nations in the late 1960s choosing a show that most represented American values and beliefs. One piece, it is told, debuted in Russia, was show cased in Germany, Austria and its tour concluded in Japan. This production, this musical, was none other than Fiddler on the Roof. Following the debut, a Tokyo theater critic wrote, “Still not quite sure why this would be so popular in America.” Following this, he continued to write, “Because the story is so Japanese!”
Stories often have a life of their own. From one perspective, the tale of Fiddler is one of old and new country, it is a tale of minority and majority. Yet, it is also a tale of family, a family drama that is, apparently, ubiquitous across cultural divides and one that bridges over language barriers. Story telling is, while not uniquely so, a fundamental Jewish activity. It is through stories, those from our Torah to those of our lives, that we embrace important values and are embraced by their plot. We are embraced because when we hear them, and perhaps when we tell them too, we feel a part of the story, we envision ourselves as part of them, as one of the roles, perhaps more than one of the roles throughout our lives, over our life span.
Since last December, a youth opera program wrote and ran multiple showings of “Moses.” An opera based on “The Story of Moses.” It is the story we know well of slavery and freedom, of oppressor and oppressed of refugee and the search for home. This national epic of ours holds various perspectives and engages its readers, in this case the audiences, in recognizing that these perspectives can be viewed as our own OR belonging to others. Yet, without the whole story, without each role following its script, the story fails, it comes apart at the seams. Without Pharaoh as head taskmaster and without God hardening his heart a stitch comes loose. Without Moses demanding a shift of paradigm, of power and of control the threads come further undone. Without a promised destination of a better tomorrow, yet another stitch comes loose. The story of Moses works precisely because it can be told from all of these perspectives. The sense of “other-ness” is a reality in the tale and yet only once that other-ness fades, and each player recognizes each other player as human, as valuable, as honorable, as unique can that promised destination of a better tomorrow come into view.
I read about this opera last month in the New York Times. While it may come as a surprise, it is from the Bavarian State Opera’s youth program in Munich. It is a production embracing the stories of born and raised Bavarians as well as the Kurdish, Greek, French and Arabic speaking refugees and immigrants. These youth actors embrace this production and the roles they play in the story because, as they say in their own words, “We tell the story of Moses because it is actually our story.” And others chimed in: “The story of Moses is also my story,” echoing in their various mother tongues.
For some of us when we heard about what we may view as the co-opting of our Moses, our Exodus, our national origin story, we may distance ourselves, we may create division and other-ness. In Germany, of all places, where we, the Jews, were distinguished as so much of an ‘other’ this opera was written, produced and show-cased. Even more, the realities of the embattled international debate surrounding refugees, immigration and residents around the globe being exposed through our story may make it even harder to embrace. Yet, this is just the purpose of such an exercise, of art imitating life. It is in the sharing of the story, the stories we hold and the stories our lives create that other-ness can be supplanted by same-ness. We can share the story by telling our own and listening to others’. Yet we can go even further in sharing of the stories themselves; sharing especially the human story, a story that belongs to each and every one of us. Regardless of race, religion or ethnicity, of gender, nationality or value perspective we are all part of the creation we celebrate on this Rosh Hashanah, we are all included when our ancient rabbis command us Kavod HaBriot - to Honor all Creations. We are all included when we say that humans are B’Tzelem Elohim - created in the image of God. And from these Rabbi Yitz Greenberg points out the way our Jewish tradition argues that every human being is endowed with the same three fundamental dignities of infinite value, equal value and infinite uniqueness.
Uniqueness, however, does not mean separate. When we separate ourselves with walls rather than link with bridges, when we focus on us and them and when we fail in sharing our stories we remain as eternally other rather than knowing that we are empowered by what ties us together. On this Rosh Hashanah, we must use the words our tradition provides us and the texts before us to honor all others, to treasure the divine spark in each other and to notice these fundamental dignities.
In the beginning of our story, in the stories of Abraham we know well the model of hospitality our ancestor creates for us. At the moment of his vulnerability, after his own brit milah, Abraham runs out from his tent to greet three seeming wanderers in the desert. From this our tradition codifies a blueprint for how we ought to engage with others. Abraham and Sarah are consummate hosts as they wash their guests’ feet, feed them and provide a place to rest. Yet, these wanderers share in this story because we can understand the tale as guests too. Our recent guest Rabbi Rick Jacobs, the president of the Union for Reform Judaism, points out in his time on the podcast Judaism Unbound that Abraham in that moment didn’t even realize they were bringing something to him. From his perspective, he was bringing warmth and welcome, yet as it turns out, as the story unfolds they were coming to change his life. In this story of hospitality we can recognize overcoming that sense of ‘other-ness’ and embracing all others as valued creations; we discover it is a two way process. Jacobs illustrates for us the Reform Jewish principle of Audacious Hospitality with this Torah story. He goes on to teach us that when we embrace others and share in the experience, as Abraham did, we also welcome their ideas, even their agitation, their insights and their love. This is sharing in the story of being alive - the human story. This sharing is a way of honoring both our part and that of others in our world. This is what our rabbis strove for with this principle of Kavod HaBriot - Honoring all Creations. This ideal is borne out of our deeply held belief that we are all B’tzelem Elohim - created in the image of the Divine.
We each hold within that divine spark and for that reason alone each and every person is more than ‘other’, we are in a way, the same. The unfolding story of human life and experience must include the ways we share in the inheritance of being in God’s image. It cannot stop at that wall, that barrier of being ‘other’.
Rabbi Arnold Eisen, Chancellor of the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York City, recently wrote an important piece charging us to overcome this inclination of ‘other-ness’. In the context of opining our obligations to others - to strangers, refugees, neighbors, to the world he wrote:
The tradition teaches that Jews bear special responsibilities to those nearest to us—family, community, and the “stranger within your gates”—and have obligations as well to all human beings, every one of whom is created in the image of God. Identity in this vision of the self is not a zero-sum game: me versus you or the group, our group versus all others. The human heart has many chambers. Our minds are enriched from multiple sources. So too our souls.
The complexity of being Jewish demands of us an allegiance to our peoplehood, and we surely treasure this connection. Rabbi Eisen also argued that we are part of larger wholes: Our city, our country, humanity, our world. He puts before us the balance we must discover between our identity as part of the Jewish people and our identities connecting us to the wider community and beyond. This balance is one way we honor all creations. We fail when we act cruelly, when we degrade the other. Not only is this a diminishment of the divinity of our neighbors, it is a degradation of our own selves too. It diminishes our humanity as the opposite of the example Abraham and Sarah provide us. In not acting to honor all others and recognize this spark we lose the opportunity to gain their ideas, their agitation, their insights and their love.
In our own time, this is even more consequential. In our charged reality of division, of walls and tribal-like identities, we are quick to distinguish and point out ‘other-ness’ in place of the possibility of connection. Our obligations to all human beings begins with Kavod - honor, it grows from recognizing the reality of B’Tzelem Elohim - being created in the image of God, and demands of us a different strategy than this label of other. Even in argument and debate, we have something to gain by striving for sameness, for connection rather than ‘other-ness’. When we focus on what divides it is difficult, if not impossible, to discern positive and healthy ways forward. Yet, in the sharing of our human experience, our shared story, we can gain more and more clarity of that promised destination of a better tomorrow. Our Jewish tradition teaches us with the instruction that the angel of victory and the angel of learning cannot be in the same room at the same time. Our rabbis are cautioning us to strive towards learning, to leave behind the drive to win, to be right. When we engage with our neighbors, our fellow human beings for the sake of understanding, for truth, for learning we all gain. As the sage Rabbenu Yona teaches: If I argue for the sake of truth, then if I win, I win. But if I lose, I also win, because being defeated by the truth is the only defeat that is also a victory. I am enlarged. I learn something I did not know before. When we acknowledge and embrace the possibility that we share with others and overcome that sense of ‘other-ness’ we engage in that two way process Rabbi Jacobs teaches, and as Eisen writes, we are enriched from multiple sources, and so too our souls.
This is difficult, and often seems impossible. We are challenged when our neighbors, those we often see as ‘other’, come with different perspectives, alternative views and values. Yet, as Jews, we are moored to first principles that guide our decision making, and our approach to how we honor creations, how we recognize the divinity within all human beings. Rabbi Yitz Greenberg is a modern authored rabbi whose storied career includes bridging the divide between Judaism and Christianity. Much of his teachings rest on the concept that every human being, every soul has three fundamental dignities. Drawing on our sacred Torah and ancient texts, Rabbi Yitz Greenberg contends that Judaism endows each soul with three fundamental dignities. We are all of infinite value. We are all of equal value. We are all infinitely unique.
From this premise, it must be recognized that bridges are better than walls; that same-ness overcomes ‘other-ness’ and it must be that we have a share in the same story. It is not far off from the insight offered to us from the late Senator John McCain when he wrote: We weaken our greatness when we confuse our patriotism with tribal rivalries that have sown resentment and hatred and violence in all the corners of the globe. We weaken it when we hide behind walls, rather than tear them down; when we doubt the power of our ideals, rather than trust them to be the great force for change they have always been.
This is certainly no easy charge. That of Senator McCain, nor the demand of our Jewish tradition as Rabbi Greenberg elucidates to see past the ‘other-ness’ and recognize the infinite and equal value as well as uniqueness of all. When confronted with human beings that cause us to raise our guard against the other, we must find, or better we must create the way around that divide. It is not only the responsibility of our neighbors to come towards us as the desert wanderers in the Abrahamic story, but also upon us to, like Abraham, rush out to meet them. When contention enters our sphere of life, we must use the many chambers of our human heart that Rabbi Eisen reminds us reside within. It is upon each and every one of us to mine within ourselves our innate ability to uphold these fundamental dignities, to see the divine in all and to honor.
On Rosh Hashanah and during these Days of Awe we are given this gift of renewal, of re-adjustment and a time to focus inward so that we may rise to build those bridges and honor those connections we share in our human story. If we leave this place unchanged, or unready for it, or if we come back next year at this time unchanged, unable to overcome, just a little bit, our anxieties of ‘other’ then this, not my words, but this work of these High Holy Days, has not worked. We must work for that promised destination of a better tomorrow.
We do this when we hold fast to our values, our beliefs and stand up for them, while opening our hearts to learning from all - even others. For that is the path to overcoming that ‘other-ness’. This challenging task is possible when we know that our story of Moses, our people’s origin story is one holding many perspectives that ought be recognized and treasured and shared. Our sages ask the question in the Mishnah of ‘Who is wise?’ And to this they respond, ‘הלומד מכל אדם’ - the one who learns from everyone - not just from every Jew, not just from every one with whom we agree, but every one. It is so, because of the infinite and equal value of all and the uniqueness of all. So, as we turn the page in the Book of Life into this new year of 5779, it is upon us to respond, not with apathy, with disconnection nor with ‘other-ness’; but rather with connection, with an extension of heart to share our story, the story of being human so that we may recognize what is possible, that another’s ideas are gifts that enrich. May we overcome the sense of ‘other-ness’ that divides so that we may all be strengthened and so too our world. May we return to this place next year changed because we have learned from those who were once other.
Shanah Tovah U’Mitukah
Overcoming ‘Other-ness’ — Rosh Hashanah 5779
Rabbi Evon J. Yakar
While some of this may be apocryphal, the gist of the story remains. That is the story of how the United States Information Agency decided to send a theater production to other nations in the late 1960s choosing a show that most represented American values and beliefs. One piece, it is told, debuted in Russia, was show cased in Germany, Austria and its tour concluded in Japan. This production, this musical, was none other than Fiddler on the Roof. Following the debut, a Tokyo theater critic wrote, “Still not quite sure why this would be so popular in America.” Following this, he continued to write, “Because the story is so Japanese!”
Stories often have a life of their own. From one perspective, the tale of Fiddler is one of old and new country, it is a tale of minority and majority. Yet, it is also a tale of family, a family drama that is, apparently, ubiquitous across cultural divides and one that bridges over language barriers. Story telling is, while not uniquely so, a fundamental Jewish activity. It is through stories, those from our Torah to those of our lives, that we embrace important values and are embraced by their plot. We are embraced because when we hear them, and perhaps when we tell them too, we feel a part of the story, we envision ourselves as part of them, as one of the roles, perhaps more than one of the roles throughout our lives, over our life span.
Since last December, a youth opera program wrote and ran multiple showings of “Moses.” An opera based on “The Story of Moses.” It is the story we know well of slavery and freedom, of oppressor and oppressed of refugee and the search for home. This national epic of ours holds various perspectives and engages its readers, in this case the audiences, in recognizing that these perspectives can be viewed as our own OR belonging to others. Yet, without the whole story, without each role following its script, the story fails, it comes apart at the seams. Without Pharaoh as head taskmaster and without God hardening his heart a stitch comes loose. Without Moses demanding a shift of paradigm, of power and of control the threads come further undone. Without a promised destination of a better tomorrow, yet another stitch comes loose. The story of Moses works precisely because it can be told from all of these perspectives. The sense of “other-ness” is a reality in the tale and yet only once that other-ness fades, and each player recognizes each other player as human, as valuable, as honorable, as unique can that promised destination of a better tomorrow come into view.
I read about this opera last month in the New York Times. While it may come as a surprise, it is from the Bavarian State Opera’s youth program in Munich. It is a production embracing the stories of born and raised Bavarians as well as the Kurdish, Greek, French and Arabic speaking refugees and immigrants. These youth actors embrace this production and the roles they play in the story because, as they say in their own words, “We tell the story of Moses because it is actually our story.” And others chimed in: “The story of Moses is also my story,” echoing in their various mother tongues.
For some of us when we heard about what we may view as the co-opting of our Moses, our Exodus, our national origin story, we may distance ourselves, we may create division and other-ness. In Germany, of all places, where we, the Jews, were distinguished as so much of an ‘other’ this opera was written, produced and show-cased. Even more, the realities of the embattled international debate surrounding refugees, immigration and residents around the globe being exposed through our story may make it even harder to embrace. Yet, this is just the purpose of such an exercise, of art imitating life. It is in the sharing of the story, the stories we hold and the stories our lives create that other-ness can be supplanted by same-ness. We can share the story by telling our own and listening to others’. Yet we can go even further in sharing of the stories themselves; sharing especially the human story, a story that belongs to each and every one of us. Regardless of race, religion or ethnicity, of gender, nationality or value perspective we are all part of the creation we celebrate on this Rosh Hashanah, we are all included when our ancient rabbis command us Kavod HaBriot - to Honor all Creations. We are all included when we say that humans are B’Tzelem Elohim - created in the image of God. And from these Rabbi Yitz Greenberg points out the way our Jewish tradition argues that every human being is endowed with the same three fundamental dignities of infinite value, equal value and infinite uniqueness.
Uniqueness, however, does not mean separate. When we separate ourselves with walls rather than link with bridges, when we focus on us and them and when we fail in sharing our stories we remain as eternally other rather than knowing that we are empowered by what ties us together. On this Rosh Hashanah, we must use the words our tradition provides us and the texts before us to honor all others, to treasure the divine spark in each other and to notice these fundamental dignities.
In the beginning of our story, in the stories of Abraham we know well the model of hospitality our ancestor creates for us. At the moment of his vulnerability, after his own brit milah, Abraham runs out from his tent to greet three seeming wanderers in the desert. From this our tradition codifies a blueprint for how we ought to engage with others. Abraham and Sarah are consummate hosts as they wash their guests’ feet, feed them and provide a place to rest. Yet, these wanderers share in this story because we can understand the tale as guests too. Our recent guest Rabbi Rick Jacobs, the president of the Union for Reform Judaism, points out in his time on the podcast Judaism Unbound that Abraham in that moment didn’t even realize they were bringing something to him. From his perspective, he was bringing warmth and welcome, yet as it turns out, as the story unfolds they were coming to change his life. In this story of hospitality we can recognize overcoming that sense of ‘other-ness’ and embracing all others as valued creations; we discover it is a two way process. Jacobs illustrates for us the Reform Jewish principle of Audacious Hospitality with this Torah story. He goes on to teach us that when we embrace others and share in the experience, as Abraham did, we also welcome their ideas, even their agitation, their insights and their love. This is sharing in the story of being alive - the human story. This sharing is a way of honoring both our part and that of others in our world. This is what our rabbis strove for with this principle of Kavod HaBriot - Honoring all Creations. This ideal is borne out of our deeply held belief that we are all B’tzelem Elohim - created in the image of the Divine.
We each hold within that divine spark and for that reason alone each and every person is more than ‘other’, we are in a way, the same. The unfolding story of human life and experience must include the ways we share in the inheritance of being in God’s image. It cannot stop at that wall, that barrier of being ‘other’.
Rabbi Arnold Eisen, Chancellor of the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York City, recently wrote an important piece charging us to overcome this inclination of ‘other-ness’. In the context of opining our obligations to others - to strangers, refugees, neighbors, to the world he wrote:
The tradition teaches that Jews bear special responsibilities to those nearest to us—family, community, and the “stranger within your gates”—and have obligations as well to all human beings, every one of whom is created in the image of God. Identity in this vision of the self is not a zero-sum game: me versus you or the group, our group versus all others. The human heart has many chambers. Our minds are enriched from multiple sources. So too our souls.
The complexity of being Jewish demands of us an allegiance to our peoplehood, and we surely treasure this connection. Rabbi Eisen also argued that we are part of larger wholes: Our city, our country, humanity, our world. He puts before us the balance we must discover between our identity as part of the Jewish people and our identities connecting us to the wider community and beyond. This balance is one way we honor all creations. We fail when we act cruelly, when we degrade the other. Not only is this a diminishment of the divinity of our neighbors, it is a degradation of our own selves too. It diminishes our humanity as the opposite of the example Abraham and Sarah provide us. In not acting to honor all others and recognize this spark we lose the opportunity to gain their ideas, their agitation, their insights and their love.
In our own time, this is even more consequential. In our charged reality of division, of walls and tribal-like identities, we are quick to distinguish and point out ‘other-ness’ in place of the possibility of connection. Our obligations to all human beings begins with Kavod - honor, it grows from recognizing the reality of B’Tzelem Elohim - being created in the image of God, and demands of us a different strategy than this label of other. Even in argument and debate, we have something to gain by striving for sameness, for connection rather than ‘other-ness’. When we focus on what divides it is difficult, if not impossible, to discern positive and healthy ways forward. Yet, in the sharing of our human experience, our shared story, we can gain more and more clarity of that promised destination of a better tomorrow. Our Jewish tradition teaches us with the instruction that the angel of victory and the angel of learning cannot be in the same room at the same time. Our rabbis are cautioning us to strive towards learning, to leave behind the drive to win, to be right. When we engage with our neighbors, our fellow human beings for the sake of understanding, for truth, for learning we all gain. As the sage Rabbenu Yona teaches: If I argue for the sake of truth, then if I win, I win. But if I lose, I also win, because being defeated by the truth is the only defeat that is also a victory. I am enlarged. I learn something I did not know before. When we acknowledge and embrace the possibility that we share with others and overcome that sense of ‘other-ness’ we engage in that two way process Rabbi Jacobs teaches, and as Eisen writes, we are enriched from multiple sources, and so too our souls.
This is difficult, and often seems impossible. We are challenged when our neighbors, those we often see as ‘other’, come with different perspectives, alternative views and values. Yet, as Jews, we are moored to first principles that guide our decision making, and our approach to how we honor creations, how we recognize the divinity within all human beings. Rabbi Yitz Greenberg is a modern authored rabbi whose storied career includes bridging the divide between Judaism and Christianity. Much of his teachings rest on the concept that every human being, every soul has three fundamental dignities. Drawing on our sacred Torah and ancient texts, Rabbi Yitz Greenberg contends that Judaism endows each soul with three fundamental dignities. We are all of infinite value. We are all of equal value. We are all infinitely unique.
From this premise, it must be recognized that bridges are better than walls; that same-ness overcomes ‘other-ness’ and it must be that we have a share in the same story. It is not far off from the insight offered to us from the late Senator John McCain when he wrote: We weaken our greatness when we confuse our patriotism with tribal rivalries that have sown resentment and hatred and violence in all the corners of the globe. We weaken it when we hide behind walls, rather than tear them down; when we doubt the power of our ideals, rather than trust them to be the great force for change they have always been.
This is certainly no easy charge. That of Senator McCain, nor the demand of our Jewish tradition as Rabbi Greenberg elucidates to see past the ‘other-ness’ and recognize the infinite and equal value as well as uniqueness of all. When confronted with human beings that cause us to raise our guard against the other, we must find, or better we must create the way around that divide. It is not only the responsibility of our neighbors to come towards us as the desert wanderers in the Abrahamic story, but also upon us to, like Abraham, rush out to meet them. When contention enters our sphere of life, we must use the many chambers of our human heart that Rabbi Eisen reminds us reside within. It is upon each and every one of us to mine within ourselves our innate ability to uphold these fundamental dignities, to see the divine in all and to honor.
On Rosh Hashanah and during these Days of Awe we are given this gift of renewal, of re-adjustment and a time to focus inward so that we may rise to build those bridges and honor those connections we share in our human story. If we leave this place unchanged, or unready for it, or if we come back next year at this time unchanged, unable to overcome, just a little bit, our anxieties of ‘other’ then this, not my words, but this work of these High Holy Days, has not worked. We must work for that promised destination of a better tomorrow.
We do this when we hold fast to our values, our beliefs and stand up for them, while opening our hearts to learning from all - even others. For that is the path to overcoming that ‘other-ness’. This challenging task is possible when we know that our story of Moses, our people’s origin story is one holding many perspectives that ought be recognized and treasured and shared. Our sages ask the question in the Mishnah of ‘Who is wise?’ And to this they respond, ‘הלומד מכל אדם’ - the one who learns from everyone - not just from every Jew, not just from every one with whom we agree, but every one. It is so, because of the infinite and equal value of all and the uniqueness of all. So, as we turn the page in the Book of Life into this new year of 5779, it is upon us to respond, not with apathy, with disconnection nor with ‘other-ness’; but rather with connection, with an extension of heart to share our story, the story of being human so that we may recognize what is possible, that another’s ideas are gifts that enrich. May we overcome the sense of ‘other-ness’ that divides so that we may all be strengthened and so too our world. May we return to this place next year changed because we have learned from those who were once other.
Shanah Tovah U’Mitukah
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