Holy Places
Our homes are called a mikdash ma’at, a small sanctuary, because this is where Judaism, and Jewish values are most lived. We can pray there. We can eat there. We can offer words of healing there. We can most importantly rejoice there. This is why as maddening as this pandemic continues to be, meeting on Zoom or livestream for what is now nearly two years, makes perfect Jewish sense.
Abraham Joshua Heschel said, we sanctify time rather than place, moments rather than even mountains. We do not urge people to pilgrimage to far off destinations but instead compel them to allow a day, the day of Shabbat, to transport them to another place.
And yet, this week we read God’s instruction, “Build for me a sanctuary that I dwell among them.” (Exodus 25) This is followed by a list of all the items the Israelites will need to build a portable tabernacle for God. It is quite an exhaustive list. Gold, silver and copper. Blue, purple and crimson yarns. Tanned ram skins and even dolphin skins.
Despite this, and despite the approximate thousand years that the temple stood in Jerusalem, Judaism, and in particular rabbinic Judaism, argued that we don’t need a special place to do Jewish rituals. All we need are ten people, some prayerbooks and of course a Torah scroll. If you have the right books and the right amount of people, it does not matter where you are. You can be at the beach, at the synagogue or as we have come to know all too well, our homes.
And yet despite the fact that this is true and philosophically sound, I find myself missing my places, and yearning for our places. It is not so much that I love the gym, and most especially the pool, but I miss the camaraderie of my fellow swimmers. I find myself missing as well not the concerts or the movies, but even, and perhaps most of all, the casual conversation struck up with strangers as we wait in line or for the gates to open.
We may not know each other but standing in those lines we know we share a love of the Blues or Bruce or likewise have a child who is crazy about Harry Styles. There are the people who were always at Starbucks at the same time or on the same train at the same hour. Familiar faces whose names you may not know but who made those places into something grand and special. And now even when we venturAe to these places, we avoid those conversations and the company of strangers. “They could have Covid,” we think to ourselves.
Perhaps place is not about the gold and silver, but about the people who likewise congregate in there. Is the synagogue the same when no one is there? Is it beautiful and majestic and most of all, holy when no one sits in its sanctuary’s pews? I think not.
This is why the Torah also declares that everyone who participates in the building of the sanctuary must have a heart who moves him or her to do so. And while these verses are clearly talking about the bringing of all the material supplies needed for building the ancient sanctuary, I would like to suggest another reading. In essence the Torah says, tell those whose heart is so inclined to bring gold, silver and copper.
Only together can we build God’s sanctuary.
The Hasidic rabbi, the Sefat Emet depicts the Shechina, the Divine presence on Earth, as a homeless wanderer. It is as if God’s presence is looking for a hot meal and a place to spend the night. Each time we welcome her in and bring her out of the darkness, we build that sanctuary anew, furnishing a comfortable and cozy room in our heart so that she may dwell within us.
What makes a place a special place is that our hearts must be united, together. What makes a place holy is that unity of purpose. It can be standing in line with other like-minded Bruce fans waiting to get into the Garden or it can be sitting beside our fellow congregants waiting to sing Lecha Dodi.
That is what transforms a place into a holy sanctuary. Of course, we can do that anywhere, but it is so much easier when you go to the same place week after week.
Entering the synagogue’s doors brings our hearts together as one.
Abraham Joshua Heschel said, we sanctify time rather than place, moments rather than even mountains. We do not urge people to pilgrimage to far off destinations but instead compel them to allow a day, the day of Shabbat, to transport them to another place.
And yet, this week we read God’s instruction, “Build for me a sanctuary that I dwell among them.” (Exodus 25) This is followed by a list of all the items the Israelites will need to build a portable tabernacle for God. It is quite an exhaustive list. Gold, silver and copper. Blue, purple and crimson yarns. Tanned ram skins and even dolphin skins.
Despite this, and despite the approximate thousand years that the temple stood in Jerusalem, Judaism, and in particular rabbinic Judaism, argued that we don’t need a special place to do Jewish rituals. All we need are ten people, some prayerbooks and of course a Torah scroll. If you have the right books and the right amount of people, it does not matter where you are. You can be at the beach, at the synagogue or as we have come to know all too well, our homes.
And yet despite the fact that this is true and philosophically sound, I find myself missing my places, and yearning for our places. It is not so much that I love the gym, and most especially the pool, but I miss the camaraderie of my fellow swimmers. I find myself missing as well not the concerts or the movies, but even, and perhaps most of all, the casual conversation struck up with strangers as we wait in line or for the gates to open.
We may not know each other but standing in those lines we know we share a love of the Blues or Bruce or likewise have a child who is crazy about Harry Styles. There are the people who were always at Starbucks at the same time or on the same train at the same hour. Familiar faces whose names you may not know but who made those places into something grand and special. And now even when we venturAe to these places, we avoid those conversations and the company of strangers. “They could have Covid,” we think to ourselves.
Perhaps place is not about the gold and silver, but about the people who likewise congregate in there. Is the synagogue the same when no one is there? Is it beautiful and majestic and most of all, holy when no one sits in its sanctuary’s pews? I think not.
This is why the Torah also declares that everyone who participates in the building of the sanctuary must have a heart who moves him or her to do so. And while these verses are clearly talking about the bringing of all the material supplies needed for building the ancient sanctuary, I would like to suggest another reading. In essence the Torah says, tell those whose heart is so inclined to bring gold, silver and copper.
Only together can we build God’s sanctuary.
The Hasidic rabbi, the Sefat Emet depicts the Shechina, the Divine presence on Earth, as a homeless wanderer. It is as if God’s presence is looking for a hot meal and a place to spend the night. Each time we welcome her in and bring her out of the darkness, we build that sanctuary anew, furnishing a comfortable and cozy room in our heart so that she may dwell within us.
What makes a place a special place is that our hearts must be united, together. What makes a place holy is that unity of purpose. It can be standing in line with other like-minded Bruce fans waiting to get into the Garden or it can be sitting beside our fellow congregants waiting to sing Lecha Dodi.
That is what transforms a place into a holy sanctuary. Of course, we can do that anywhere, but it is so much easier when you go to the same place week after week.
Entering the synagogue’s doors brings our hearts together as one.
Remember This Date
Yesterday was International Holocaust Remembrance Day. January 27th was chosen by the United Nations, in 2005 by the way, because it was on this day that Auschwitz-Birkenau was liberated.
Likewise, Israel’s Knesset chose the 27th of Nisan because it is the anniversary of the Warsaw Ghetto uprising. It is the day when Jews revolted against their Nazi oppressors. The small ragtag group of Jewish fighters held off the Nazi army longer than the Polish army was able to. It was a remarkable feat and one that continues to inspire Israel’s sense that it, and it alone, can protect Jewish lives. And no matter how small we may appear even when standing before armies with far larger numbers, we will triumph. The Knesset debated other dates—some thought Tisha B’Av would be better when every tragedy seemed to happen to us—but ultimately the 27th of Nisan was chosen in 1959. It is the day when we, as a synagogue community, remember the Holocaust.
We need such days to remember the uniqueness of the Holocaust. They remind us that the Holocaust was singular in its evil. In an age when people conjure up Holocaust comparisons to such things as mask or vaccine mandates, we really need such days. And yet no perfect day can encapsulate the evils and horrors of the Holocaust.
I have been reflecting on these days when the Jewish community and the international community focus on Holocaust remembrance and education. It seems to me that there is a danger that both days might commemorate the wrong thing. Let me explain. While January 27th does acknowledge the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau, it begs the question of how this was allowed to go on for so long. Despite the denials in the face of overwhelming evidence, 1945 is years after the world knew what was happening.
Perhaps November 9th would be a better day to commemorate the Holocaust. On this date in 1938 the world saw Kristallnacht. Photographs of burning synagogues appeared in newspapers. It should have been clear what the Nazis intended on November 9, 1938. I recognize that hindsight is crystal clear, but commemoration days are exactly that. They should say on that day we should have really known. We prefer instead to seize on a semblance of victory rather than missed opportunities.
Another date that occurs to me is January 20th. It was on this day in 1942 that Nazi leaders attended a small get together in Wannsee, Germany. While the world only found out about this event years later this occasion represents more than anything else the evil designs of Nazism. It was there in Wannsee that Nazi leaders gathered at a beautiful villa. They ate their meals on beautiful crystal and china, dined on delicious food and expensive wine all while discussing the final solution and the creation of the very camps that January 27th commemorated liberating. I still find this conference difficult to imagine. People discussed the murder of millions human beings as if it was only about how fast they can build factories and how efficiently they could transport goods and supplies over vast distances. Remember January 20th. Recall how callous, and indifferent, people can be as they chitchat and dine on fine china.
And yet, if international leaders would have consulted me, I would have said the date really should be June 6th. This is the day that the SS St Louis was turned back to Europe. The St Louis was a ship that sailed from Germany in May 1939 with some 900 Jewish refugees. It sailed to Havana, but Cuba denied entry. Despite Jewish leaders advocating for their admission, the United States also denied the refugees entry. And so, on June 6th the ship turned back to Europe. Great Britain admitted some 300 Jewish immigrants. Almost all survived the war. Of the remaining 600, approximately 350 survived the war or found other ways to flee Europe. Approximately 250 died in the Holocaust.
This date is not about those 250 Jews, and I recall it not as a condemnation of our own country, but instead to highlight the world’s indifference. Newspapers covered the story of the SS St Louis and shared details about the journey, but the world did not care. And Nazi leaders took note of this indifference. And the reason that the Holocaust happened was not so much about what a few Nazi leaders did at a villa in the German countryside, or what they perpetrated at those camps, but about what the world did not do when it could have done so much more.
Evil achieves its nefarious ends when good people turn away and say things like, “I’m too busy.” Or “Why should I help them?” Or even more likely, “I can’t help everyone.” Remember June 6th. Hold it up as a reminder that we can always do more and that we should always do more.
Of course, it is more comfortable marking the Holocaust on the 27th of Nisan and January 27th. We triumphed. We were victorious. That is not the most important message the Holocaust calls us to remember. It is instead that far too frequently we choose to remain silent.
Most people were not members of the SS. They were not those who carried out the evil deeds at Auschwitz-Birkenau. Most were not as well soldiers who fought and died to defeat the Nazis. Most people, especially those in the United States, just read their morning paper while eating their breakfast. They just carried on with their everyday. Perhaps they worried about soldiers they knew, or family members still trapped in Europe. But on most days, the fate of the Jews was a distant problem. The horrors that other people experienced were too far away and too far removed to occupy their attention.
June 6th is when the world effectively said, “We don’t care.” Perhaps, I admit, it would be too painful a day to remember the Holocaust. But it most certainly would be a day that reminds us to take “Never again” truly to heart.
On January 27, 1945, the international community brought the horrors of the Holocaust to an end. That of course is not entirely true. It took nearly three more, grueling and deadly months before all the camps were liberated. It was not until May 8, 1945, when Nazi Germany was defeated and in fact not until the following day that the last camp was liberated. And yet Auschwitz-Birkenau represents the massiveness of the destruction of European Jewry and the evil of the Nazis. It was there that one million Jews were murdered. Still, I think January 27th was chosen because it represents the day the world defeated the Nazi death machine.
Likewise, Israel’s Knesset chose the 27th of Nisan because it is the anniversary of the Warsaw Ghetto uprising. It is the day when Jews revolted against their Nazi oppressors. The small ragtag group of Jewish fighters held off the Nazi army longer than the Polish army was able to. It was a remarkable feat and one that continues to inspire Israel’s sense that it, and it alone, can protect Jewish lives. And no matter how small we may appear even when standing before armies with far larger numbers, we will triumph. The Knesset debated other dates—some thought Tisha B’Av would be better when every tragedy seemed to happen to us—but ultimately the 27th of Nisan was chosen in 1959. It is the day when we, as a synagogue community, remember the Holocaust.
We need such days to remember the uniqueness of the Holocaust. They remind us that the Holocaust was singular in its evil. In an age when people conjure up Holocaust comparisons to such things as mask or vaccine mandates, we really need such days. And yet no perfect day can encapsulate the evils and horrors of the Holocaust.
I have been reflecting on these days when the Jewish community and the international community focus on Holocaust remembrance and education. It seems to me that there is a danger that both days might commemorate the wrong thing. Let me explain. While January 27th does acknowledge the liberation of Auschwitz-Birkenau, it begs the question of how this was allowed to go on for so long. Despite the denials in the face of overwhelming evidence, 1945 is years after the world knew what was happening.
Perhaps November 9th would be a better day to commemorate the Holocaust. On this date in 1938 the world saw Kristallnacht. Photographs of burning synagogues appeared in newspapers. It should have been clear what the Nazis intended on November 9, 1938. I recognize that hindsight is crystal clear, but commemoration days are exactly that. They should say on that day we should have really known. We prefer instead to seize on a semblance of victory rather than missed opportunities.
Another date that occurs to me is January 20th. It was on this day in 1942 that Nazi leaders attended a small get together in Wannsee, Germany. While the world only found out about this event years later this occasion represents more than anything else the evil designs of Nazism. It was there in Wannsee that Nazi leaders gathered at a beautiful villa. They ate their meals on beautiful crystal and china, dined on delicious food and expensive wine all while discussing the final solution and the creation of the very camps that January 27th commemorated liberating. I still find this conference difficult to imagine. People discussed the murder of millions human beings as if it was only about how fast they can build factories and how efficiently they could transport goods and supplies over vast distances. Remember January 20th. Recall how callous, and indifferent, people can be as they chitchat and dine on fine china.
And yet, if international leaders would have consulted me, I would have said the date really should be June 6th. This is the day that the SS St Louis was turned back to Europe. The St Louis was a ship that sailed from Germany in May 1939 with some 900 Jewish refugees. It sailed to Havana, but Cuba denied entry. Despite Jewish leaders advocating for their admission, the United States also denied the refugees entry. And so, on June 6th the ship turned back to Europe. Great Britain admitted some 300 Jewish immigrants. Almost all survived the war. Of the remaining 600, approximately 350 survived the war or found other ways to flee Europe. Approximately 250 died in the Holocaust.
This date is not about those 250 Jews, and I recall it not as a condemnation of our own country, but instead to highlight the world’s indifference. Newspapers covered the story of the SS St Louis and shared details about the journey, but the world did not care. And Nazi leaders took note of this indifference. And the reason that the Holocaust happened was not so much about what a few Nazi leaders did at a villa in the German countryside, or what they perpetrated at those camps, but about what the world did not do when it could have done so much more.
Evil achieves its nefarious ends when good people turn away and say things like, “I’m too busy.” Or “Why should I help them?” Or even more likely, “I can’t help everyone.” Remember June 6th. Hold it up as a reminder that we can always do more and that we should always do more.
Of course, it is more comfortable marking the Holocaust on the 27th of Nisan and January 27th. We triumphed. We were victorious. That is not the most important message the Holocaust calls us to remember. It is instead that far too frequently we choose to remain silent.
Most people were not members of the SS. They were not those who carried out the evil deeds at Auschwitz-Birkenau. Most were not as well soldiers who fought and died to defeat the Nazis. Most people, especially those in the United States, just read their morning paper while eating their breakfast. They just carried on with their everyday. Perhaps they worried about soldiers they knew, or family members still trapped in Europe. But on most days, the fate of the Jews was a distant problem. The horrors that other people experienced were too far away and too far removed to occupy their attention.
June 6th is when the world effectively said, “We don’t care.” Perhaps, I admit, it would be too painful a day to remember the Holocaust. But it most certainly would be a day that reminds us to take “Never again” truly to heart.
Repro Shabbat
Judaism constructs its value system around phrases inscribed in its sacred texts.
It begins with verses from the Torah and traverses through words written by rabbis who lived during its formative stages. It walks from what we call the written Torah, revealed at Sinai, through the oral Torah, revealed in rabbinic debates throughout the ages, until arriving at today.
And so, when we ask what wisdom Judaism has to offer about abortion rights, we first turn back to yesterday. Why are we again talking about abortion rights?
The reason so many synagogues are asking this question on this Shabbat has nothing to do with the fact that Justice Stephen Breyer is retiring from the Supreme Court or that this court seems poised to roll back the rights enshrined in Roe v. Wade, but instead because the first verse alluding to abortion rights occurs in this week’s Torah portion. This is why many Jews are observing what the National Council of Jewish Women has called Repro Shabbat.
The Torah proclaims: “When men fight, and one of them pushes a pregnant woman and a miscarriage results, but no other damage ensues, the one responsible shall be fined according as the woman’s husband may exact from him, the payment to be based on reckoning.” (Exodus 21) We learn from these sacred words that the fetus is not considered a life. A miscarriage is about damages. It is not a capital offense. The fetus is not accorded the same value as the mother’s life.
We then turn to the Mishnah, the first layer of rabbinic writings, codified around the year 200 C.E. This text makes the Torah’s implication crystal clear. “If a woman is having difficulty in giving birth, one cuts up the fetus within her womb and extracts it limb by limb, because her life takes precedence over that of the fetus. But if the greater part was already born, one may not touch it, for one may not set aside one person’s life for that of another.” (Mishnah Oholot 7)
The rabbis are definitive in their judgment. The mother’s life takes precedence. A potential life is not the same as a life. And while Jewish authorities continue to argue about what constitutes a threat to the mother’s life, all agree that it takes precedence over that of the fetus.
Jews continue to argue as well over who has authority to make that determination. A more traditional Jew insists that a rabbi, in consultation with doctors, would make such a decision. A more liberal Jew, like myself, insists that the mother should be empowered, and supported, to make such a weighty decision about the life forming within her body. Only she knows best what constitutes a threat.
In the maelstrom that is the contemporary debate about abortion rights, I wish my fellow Americans who follow different beliefs, and whose tradition suggests that the fetus is a life rather than a potential life, would respect my tradition’s voice and its approach to this moral question. Each of us must rely on our tradition’s road map and the hierarchy of values it elucidates.
I also wish my fellow Jews would look to the Jewish tradition’s words for guidance and strength. It is not as simple or as straightforward as saying, “I know what’s right.”
We pick up bits of wisdom and glimmers of fortitude when we start walking from Sinai rather than just thinking the path begins here and now and within the recesses of our own hearts.
It begins with verses from the Torah and traverses through words written by rabbis who lived during its formative stages. It walks from what we call the written Torah, revealed at Sinai, through the oral Torah, revealed in rabbinic debates throughout the ages, until arriving at today.
And so, when we ask what wisdom Judaism has to offer about abortion rights, we first turn back to yesterday. Why are we again talking about abortion rights?
The reason so many synagogues are asking this question on this Shabbat has nothing to do with the fact that Justice Stephen Breyer is retiring from the Supreme Court or that this court seems poised to roll back the rights enshrined in Roe v. Wade, but instead because the first verse alluding to abortion rights occurs in this week’s Torah portion. This is why many Jews are observing what the National Council of Jewish Women has called Repro Shabbat.
The Torah proclaims: “When men fight, and one of them pushes a pregnant woman and a miscarriage results, but no other damage ensues, the one responsible shall be fined according as the woman’s husband may exact from him, the payment to be based on reckoning.” (Exodus 21) We learn from these sacred words that the fetus is not considered a life. A miscarriage is about damages. It is not a capital offense. The fetus is not accorded the same value as the mother’s life.
We then turn to the Mishnah, the first layer of rabbinic writings, codified around the year 200 C.E. This text makes the Torah’s implication crystal clear. “If a woman is having difficulty in giving birth, one cuts up the fetus within her womb and extracts it limb by limb, because her life takes precedence over that of the fetus. But if the greater part was already born, one may not touch it, for one may not set aside one person’s life for that of another.” (Mishnah Oholot 7)
The rabbis are definitive in their judgment. The mother’s life takes precedence. A potential life is not the same as a life. And while Jewish authorities continue to argue about what constitutes a threat to the mother’s life, all agree that it takes precedence over that of the fetus.
Jews continue to argue as well over who has authority to make that determination. A more traditional Jew insists that a rabbi, in consultation with doctors, would make such a decision. A more liberal Jew, like myself, insists that the mother should be empowered, and supported, to make such a weighty decision about the life forming within her body. Only she knows best what constitutes a threat.
In the maelstrom that is the contemporary debate about abortion rights, I wish my fellow Americans who follow different beliefs, and whose tradition suggests that the fetus is a life rather than a potential life, would respect my tradition’s voice and its approach to this moral question. Each of us must rely on our tradition’s road map and the hierarchy of values it elucidates.
I also wish my fellow Jews would look to the Jewish tradition’s words for guidance and strength. It is not as simple or as straightforward as saying, “I know what’s right.”
We pick up bits of wisdom and glimmers of fortitude when we start walking from Sinai rather than just thinking the path begins here and now and within the recesses of our own hearts.
Antisemitism Is Here to Stay
When I spoke with my mother this week she remarked, “I never imagined that you and your brother Michael, who is also a rabbi, are in a dangerous profession.” Now even though my mom can sometimes be overly dramatic and does tend to personalize even the most distant of world events (I come by these traits naturally), her comments do on this occasion deserve unpacking rather than the usual brushing away. Moms often verbalize fears and, on this occasion, the singular fear that has entered the sacred space of our synagogue sanctuaries.
My Christian friends do not have security guards at their church’s doors. Their congregants do not receive emails detailing new security protocols. What was once only the purview of synagogues in Europe or common in Israel where every gathering place has a guard, has now become normative in our own beloved country.
For obvious reasons I am not going to publicly discuss what security enhancements we are putting in place and we are working on. Rest assured our synagogue will always be safe and secure.
Most mornings I say the blessing, “Baruch Atah…matir asurim. Blessed are You Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, who frees the captive.” To be honest, this was always said as just one among many in that long list of morning blessings. Sometimes I thought to myself, “That was for a different age and a different time.” Never before did I think I would see these words come to life in my own age and that my blessing would be realized by a fellow Reform rabbi and his congregants. On Saturday evening, I felt as if a miracle came to be and then I thought, “Being Jewish, praying in synagogue and just being rescued from murder should not be a miracle.” Being a living Jew should not be dependent on heroics.
Most of my friends who follow the words and traditions of other faiths do not understand or appreciate what I felt this past weekend or for that matter, what we are now feeling.
I had this sense that for those harrowing eleven hours we were one people...
My Christian friends do not have security guards at their church’s doors. Their congregants do not receive emails detailing new security protocols. What was once only the purview of synagogues in Europe or common in Israel where every gathering place has a guard, has now become normative in our own beloved country.
For obvious reasons I am not going to publicly discuss what security enhancements we are putting in place and we are working on. Rest assured our synagogue will always be safe and secure.
Most mornings I say the blessing, “Baruch Atah…matir asurim. Blessed are You Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, who frees the captive.” To be honest, this was always said as just one among many in that long list of morning blessings. Sometimes I thought to myself, “That was for a different age and a different time.” Never before did I think I would see these words come to life in my own age and that my blessing would be realized by a fellow Reform rabbi and his congregants. On Saturday evening, I felt as if a miracle came to be and then I thought, “Being Jewish, praying in synagogue and just being rescued from murder should not be a miracle.” Being a living Jew should not be dependent on heroics.
Most of my friends who follow the words and traditions of other faiths do not understand or appreciate what I felt this past weekend or for that matter, what we are now feeling.
I had this sense that for those harrowing eleven hours we were one people...
Fears That Really Matter
We remain grateful that the rabbi and congregants of Congregation Beth Israel in Colleyville who had gathered for Shabbat morning services were rescued. I am sure that many of us spent anxious hours waiting on Saturday for word of how this might end and were relieved that this hostage crisis did not conclude in tragedy.
Our thoughts now turn to the increasing scourge of antisemitism. Tomorrow evening I will devote my remarks to this plague and how Colleyville fits into a worrisome pattern and a growing worry.
At this moment, I want to focus on the fear many of us are feeling. Rest assured we are redoubling our attention to security at our synagogue. And yet, no matter how many security measures we take, and how many changes we institute, these can never allay the fear that so many of us now feel.
Security is about prudent measures an institution can, and should, take. It is about what steps individuals can choose so that they avoid dangers.
Fear is more a matter of the heart.
When it comes to the heart, I thought I knew it well. I used to think that all I have to do is work to banish fear. I would say to myself, “Just sing.” Singing, even poorly, helps to drive fear away. Or I would think, “Get back on that bicycle and go for a ride on that same road you got hit on.” And even though I rode much more slowly, the fear no longer accompanies me. True, it sometimes finds its way into my thoughts, but pedaling seems to drive it away.
Or in the past, I could be heard saying, “Get on that plane and go to Israel because your love of Medinat Yisrael (the state of Israel) and Am Yisrael (the people of Israel) are more important than all the bombs they are throwing at us.” And away I went. Such sentiments continue to work for me—most of the time. On these occasions, I am (mostly) successful in making sure that my loves overwhelm my fears.
Yesterday, I read the words of Amanda Gorman, the extraordinary young poet who spoke at President Biden’s inauguration. I was surprised to learn that the poet who exhibited so much poise last year, almost did not appear on the dais. She writes:
Fear is evidence of love. It is not its opposite. It points to the things we worry about losing. It suggests what we value and hold most dear.
The Torah suggests that fear is the most important motivator for action. It is the primary emotion God calls upon to compel us to observe the commandments. Following the giving of the Ten Commandments, God states: “Be not afraid; for God has come only in order to test you, and in order that the fear of God may be ever with you, so that you do not go astray.” (Exodus 20)
In the same verse that God tells us not be afraid God also tells us to fear God. It is if to say, there is one fear that should remain in our hearts, always. And that is fear of God.
I have often bristled at these words. I don’t want my faith to be filled with fear. I don’t want to be motivated by fear. Then again, perhaps fearing God is evidence of loving God.
On this day, and after this harrowing weekend, I am going to hold on to that fear. Perhaps yirat hashamayim, fear of heaven, is the answer I have been seeking. It, and it alone, can assuage the trembling heart.
Our thoughts now turn to the increasing scourge of antisemitism. Tomorrow evening I will devote my remarks to this plague and how Colleyville fits into a worrisome pattern and a growing worry.
At this moment, I want to focus on the fear many of us are feeling. Rest assured we are redoubling our attention to security at our synagogue. And yet, no matter how many security measures we take, and how many changes we institute, these can never allay the fear that so many of us now feel.
Security is about prudent measures an institution can, and should, take. It is about what steps individuals can choose so that they avoid dangers.
Fear is more a matter of the heart.
When it comes to the heart, I thought I knew it well. I used to think that all I have to do is work to banish fear. I would say to myself, “Just sing.” Singing, even poorly, helps to drive fear away. Or I would think, “Get back on that bicycle and go for a ride on that same road you got hit on.” And even though I rode much more slowly, the fear no longer accompanies me. True, it sometimes finds its way into my thoughts, but pedaling seems to drive it away.
Or in the past, I could be heard saying, “Get on that plane and go to Israel because your love of Medinat Yisrael (the state of Israel) and Am Yisrael (the people of Israel) are more important than all the bombs they are throwing at us.” And away I went. Such sentiments continue to work for me—most of the time. On these occasions, I am (mostly) successful in making sure that my loves overwhelm my fears.
Yesterday, I read the words of Amanda Gorman, the extraordinary young poet who spoke at President Biden’s inauguration. I was surprised to learn that the poet who exhibited so much poise last year, almost did not appear on the dais. She writes:
I’m a firm believer that often terror is trying to tell us of a force far greater than despair. In this way, I look at fear not as cowardice, but as a call forward, a summons to fight for what we hold dear. And now more than ever, we have every right to be affected, afflicted, affronted. If you’re alive, you’re afraid. If you’re not afraid, then you’re not paying attention. The only thing we have to fear is having no fear itself — having no feeling on behalf of whom and what we’ve lost, whom and what we love.Her words appeared revelatory. “If you’re alive, you’re afraid.” And this week, I would add, “If you’re a Jew, you’re afraid.”
Fear is evidence of love. It is not its opposite. It points to the things we worry about losing. It suggests what we value and hold most dear.
The Torah suggests that fear is the most important motivator for action. It is the primary emotion God calls upon to compel us to observe the commandments. Following the giving of the Ten Commandments, God states: “Be not afraid; for God has come only in order to test you, and in order that the fear of God may be ever with you, so that you do not go astray.” (Exodus 20)
In the same verse that God tells us not be afraid God also tells us to fear God. It is if to say, there is one fear that should remain in our hearts, always. And that is fear of God.
I have often bristled at these words. I don’t want my faith to be filled with fear. I don’t want to be motivated by fear. Then again, perhaps fearing God is evidence of loving God.
On this day, and after this harrowing weekend, I am going to hold on to that fear. Perhaps yirat hashamayim, fear of heaven, is the answer I have been seeking. It, and it alone, can assuage the trembling heart.
Uncertainty and Its Roundabout Path
At the last Shabbat evening services on Friday night, the camera did not work properly. No matter how emphatically I pressed the buttons on the app, the camera remained frozen on the Shabbat candles and then when it did respond, zoomed in on my bald head. I was finally able to get it set to the default position and left it there for the remainder of the service.
I am sure others have had similar frustrating experiences when attending Zoom meetings or online conferences. At that point all we can do, or should do, is laugh.
Despite our increasing dependence on technology, it is as imperfect as the human beings who design it. Nothing ever works perfectly or even runs exactly according to plan. A smart home is rendered quite dumb when power is lost or the internet is down and even then, sometimes one app stops talking to another, and the newest smart TV will not show the latest movie everyone is talking about.
Don’t get me wrong. Technology is great. It allows us to do things that were once unimaginable. People can attend services no matter where they are. They can find meaning in our Shabbat prayers and songs whenever they choose. And this is very good.
But technology offers the illusion of perfection. It looks so neat and tidy that we start thinking it’s perfect. Likewise, we think that science can offer certainties and these days we seem to expect that scientists can offer perfect advice. They speak in the language of exactitudes, but science is filled with educated guesses.
The Webb telescope that recently blasted off to outer space is a technological marvel, but it is also an illustration of how much science does not know. We are spending billions of dollars in the quest to answer questions that have captivated astrophysicists. As soon as this telescope discovers the answers to these questions it will crack open the door to heretofore unknown questions. With every answer comes even more questions.
Certainty evades us. One can trust scientific experts—I recognize that there are astrophysicists who know more about the cosmos than I and epidemiologists who understand far more about COVID-19 than I—and yet accept the uncertainty of science. I do not expect scientists to have exact answers to questions they started wrestling with two years ago or even to agree with each other.
I do expect them to keep asking questions. I also expect them to try their best to figure out some answers.
Certainty and exactitudes will always elude us. Technological wonders will never confer perfection. I recognize the frustration and exhaustion we feel.
And this is why I keep returning to the Torah’s words, “And God led the people roundabout…” (Exodus 13) Of course, I would prefer if the direction was straightforward and exact; I would very much like it if it was perfect and straight. The Torah offers us a truth about how things go rather than how we would prefer them to be.
I affirm the uncertainty and its roundabout path.
Never give up on the quest for answers. Expect more and more questions around every bend.
I am sure others have had similar frustrating experiences when attending Zoom meetings or online conferences. At that point all we can do, or should do, is laugh.
Despite our increasing dependence on technology, it is as imperfect as the human beings who design it. Nothing ever works perfectly or even runs exactly according to plan. A smart home is rendered quite dumb when power is lost or the internet is down and even then, sometimes one app stops talking to another, and the newest smart TV will not show the latest movie everyone is talking about.
Don’t get me wrong. Technology is great. It allows us to do things that were once unimaginable. People can attend services no matter where they are. They can find meaning in our Shabbat prayers and songs whenever they choose. And this is very good.
But technology offers the illusion of perfection. It looks so neat and tidy that we start thinking it’s perfect. Likewise, we think that science can offer certainties and these days we seem to expect that scientists can offer perfect advice. They speak in the language of exactitudes, but science is filled with educated guesses.
The Webb telescope that recently blasted off to outer space is a technological marvel, but it is also an illustration of how much science does not know. We are spending billions of dollars in the quest to answer questions that have captivated astrophysicists. As soon as this telescope discovers the answers to these questions it will crack open the door to heretofore unknown questions. With every answer comes even more questions.
Certainty evades us. One can trust scientific experts—I recognize that there are astrophysicists who know more about the cosmos than I and epidemiologists who understand far more about COVID-19 than I—and yet accept the uncertainty of science. I do not expect scientists to have exact answers to questions they started wrestling with two years ago or even to agree with each other.
I do expect them to keep asking questions. I also expect them to try their best to figure out some answers.
Certainty and exactitudes will always elude us. Technological wonders will never confer perfection. I recognize the frustration and exhaustion we feel.
And this is why I keep returning to the Torah’s words, “And God led the people roundabout…” (Exodus 13) Of course, I would prefer if the direction was straightforward and exact; I would very much like it if it was perfect and straight. The Torah offers us a truth about how things go rather than how we would prefer them to be.
I affirm the uncertainty and its roundabout path.
Never give up on the quest for answers. Expect more and more questions around every bend.
Lightning and Truth
I opened the Torah to this week’s portion somewhat apprehensive that I would have to once again read about the final three plagues visited upon the Egyptians. (These days I don’t need any more plagues!) I would not have to justify the Egyptian’s pain as the price for our freedom and as a necessity to demonstrate God’s power to our people. That was not where my heart can be found.
My Hasidic commentaries rescued me. I scanned the words of the Baal Shem Tov, the founder of the movement and Menahem Mendl of Kotzk. Menahem Mendl, the Kotzker rebbe, offered me a path away from the plagues. He did not even make it past the first word. He never made it to locusts or the death of the first born.
He asks, “Why does the portion begin with the word bo? Why does the verse say the following: “And God said to Moses, ‘Come to Pharaoh?’” This makes no sense. It should say instead, “Go to Pharaoh.” The Kotzker rebbe responds, “The Torah does not say, lekh—go—to Pharaoh, but bo—come. The reason for this wording is because one cannot go from God; one cannot move away from God because God is everywhere. Therefore, God told Moses, “Come,” or in other words, “Come with Me, for I will be with you wherever you are.”
His interpretation was revelatory. It hit me like lightning. And so, at first, I thought the Kotzker rebbe had redeemed the portion and its plagues. I would not have to talk about darkness again. I would not have to wrestle with the dilemma of why God made Pharaoh so stubborn. The first word tells us all we need to know. Bo. God is everywhere. I delved into the Kotzker rebbe’s life. I followed his teachings and asked where they might lead me.
Menahem Mendl was brilliant, but troubled. Darkness hovered over his life. He was exacting and controversial. Some report that one year he did not even show up for High Holiday services. Imagine that! And yet it makes sense when you think about the Kotzker’s life. He was so committed to truth and authenticity that if he did not feel he could lead the congregation or that his heart was not fully committed to the awesomeness of Yom Kippur then he should not be there.
Clearly Menahem Mendl was not a people-person. Instead, he was obsessed with truth. He was blinded by right and wrong. He raged against the world. He called out others for being inauthentic. He dreamed of raising up a few disciples. But in the end found none who he thought worthy. People always fall short. (I don’t mean that literally of course.) I mean that people are imperfect, that we never do everything we promise to do or all we are called to do. We always fall short of the demands placed upon us—the demands of others, the demands of God, the demands of ourselves.
If you are like the Kotzker you end up only seeing disappointment around you. Your world becomes darkened. Menahem Mendl chased away those who considered themselves disciples. He burned up almost everything he ever wrote. The Kotzker rebbe lived out the last twenty years of his life in seclusion. This is where fully embracing his life inevitably leads. It leads only to the solitude of the self.
Is such the plague of the religious life? Is this the darkness that accompanies people who are so God intoxicated? They can only see God’s demands. They are blinded by truth. People get driven away when forgiveness is exiled, when the commitment to the perfect inner life becomes so all consuming.
That’s why we need another Hasidic master to guide us. You can’t be all Kotzker. It will burn you up. You need the Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Hasidism who embraced everyone and who saw joy in even the most ordinary of circumstances. Abraham Joshua Heschel writes: “The Baal Shem dwelled in my life like a lamp, while the Kotzker struck like lightning. To be sure, lightning is more authentic. Yet one can trust a lamp, put confidence in it; one can live in peace with a lamp.”
Lightning is natural, but dangerous. A lamp is made by human hands. And yet it is comforting. We need flashes of the Kotzker but the calming influence of the Baal Shem. A God who is everywhere, who strikes with the ferocity of lightning each and every minute, is overwhelming. A God who is everywhere but who is sometimes a dim light is consoling. The question is when do we need the lightning and when the lamp.
The Kotzker plagues us with fits of despair. There is disorder all around us. (Just read the news.). He causes us to grow silent. The Baal Shem teaches us to sing and dance. Who does not love to sing and dance? But you can’t do that all the time either. Sometimes the world requires that blazing truth of which the Kotzker dreams.
It begins with one simple word. And this is what this one word asks of each of us on this cold January day. God says to us, “Come with Me, for I will be with you wherever you are.” It is not always the comforting lamp. Sometimes it is so demanding that we are overwhelmed like a lighting a bolt. “Come with Me, for I will be with you wherever you are.”
Which light do you choose?
My Hasidic commentaries rescued me. I scanned the words of the Baal Shem Tov, the founder of the movement and Menahem Mendl of Kotzk. Menahem Mendl, the Kotzker rebbe, offered me a path away from the plagues. He did not even make it past the first word. He never made it to locusts or the death of the first born.
He asks, “Why does the portion begin with the word bo? Why does the verse say the following: “And God said to Moses, ‘Come to Pharaoh?’” This makes no sense. It should say instead, “Go to Pharaoh.” The Kotzker rebbe responds, “The Torah does not say, lekh—go—to Pharaoh, but bo—come. The reason for this wording is because one cannot go from God; one cannot move away from God because God is everywhere. Therefore, God told Moses, “Come,” or in other words, “Come with Me, for I will be with you wherever you are.”
His interpretation was revelatory. It hit me like lightning. And so, at first, I thought the Kotzker rebbe had redeemed the portion and its plagues. I would not have to talk about darkness again. I would not have to wrestle with the dilemma of why God made Pharaoh so stubborn. The first word tells us all we need to know. Bo. God is everywhere. I delved into the Kotzker rebbe’s life. I followed his teachings and asked where they might lead me.
Menahem Mendl was brilliant, but troubled. Darkness hovered over his life. He was exacting and controversial. Some report that one year he did not even show up for High Holiday services. Imagine that! And yet it makes sense when you think about the Kotzker’s life. He was so committed to truth and authenticity that if he did not feel he could lead the congregation or that his heart was not fully committed to the awesomeness of Yom Kippur then he should not be there.
Clearly Menahem Mendl was not a people-person. Instead, he was obsessed with truth. He was blinded by right and wrong. He raged against the world. He called out others for being inauthentic. He dreamed of raising up a few disciples. But in the end found none who he thought worthy. People always fall short. (I don’t mean that literally of course.) I mean that people are imperfect, that we never do everything we promise to do or all we are called to do. We always fall short of the demands placed upon us—the demands of others, the demands of God, the demands of ourselves.
If you are like the Kotzker you end up only seeing disappointment around you. Your world becomes darkened. Menahem Mendl chased away those who considered themselves disciples. He burned up almost everything he ever wrote. The Kotzker rebbe lived out the last twenty years of his life in seclusion. This is where fully embracing his life inevitably leads. It leads only to the solitude of the self.
Is such the plague of the religious life? Is this the darkness that accompanies people who are so God intoxicated? They can only see God’s demands. They are blinded by truth. People get driven away when forgiveness is exiled, when the commitment to the perfect inner life becomes so all consuming.
That’s why we need another Hasidic master to guide us. You can’t be all Kotzker. It will burn you up. You need the Baal Shem Tov, the founder of Hasidism who embraced everyone and who saw joy in even the most ordinary of circumstances. Abraham Joshua Heschel writes: “The Baal Shem dwelled in my life like a lamp, while the Kotzker struck like lightning. To be sure, lightning is more authentic. Yet one can trust a lamp, put confidence in it; one can live in peace with a lamp.”
Lightning is natural, but dangerous. A lamp is made by human hands. And yet it is comforting. We need flashes of the Kotzker but the calming influence of the Baal Shem. A God who is everywhere, who strikes with the ferocity of lightning each and every minute, is overwhelming. A God who is everywhere but who is sometimes a dim light is consoling. The question is when do we need the lightning and when the lamp.
The Kotzker plagues us with fits of despair. There is disorder all around us. (Just read the news.). He causes us to grow silent. The Baal Shem teaches us to sing and dance. Who does not love to sing and dance? But you can’t do that all the time either. Sometimes the world requires that blazing truth of which the Kotzker dreams.
It begins with one simple word. And this is what this one word asks of each of us on this cold January day. God says to us, “Come with Me, for I will be with you wherever you are.” It is not always the comforting lamp. Sometimes it is so demanding that we are overwhelmed like a lighting a bolt. “Come with Me, for I will be with you wherever you are.”
Which light do you choose?
Don't Walk Away from the Heart
Joan Didion writes: “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.”
The Talmud reports: “Rav and Shmuel disagree about the interpretation of the verse, ‘And there arose a new king over Egypt who knew not Joseph.’ One says this means he was actually a new king, and one says this means that his decrees were transformed as if he were a new king.” (Sotah 11a)
It is a fascinating disagreement. One rabbi believes, as I had always thought, that it was in fact a new king who did not know about all the good Joseph did for Egypt. Perhaps he was not told. Or perhaps so many generations passed since Joseph’s death that the stories about his ingenuity were lost to Egyptian storytellers.
The other rabbi suggests that it was not so much about the forgetting of history, or more precisely the failure to teach history, but instead about the king’s character. The king, as rulers so often do, became enamored with his power, and grew more and more callous towards his subjects.
This disagreement makes all the difference in the world regarding how we view God. If it was a new king, and many years had passed, then one wonders why God waited hundreds of years to respond to the Israelites’ suffering. If it was the same king, then God did not wait but responded, more or less, as soon as the Israelites’ cries reached heaven.
This debate follows us into our own day. It may seem like God waits generations to respond to our suffering. In fact, God is waiting for the callousness to be removed from our hearts. God cries out, “I have now heard the moaning of the Israelites because the Egyptians are holding them in bondage, and I have remembered My covenant.” (Exodus 6)
Once again, we gain insights about a person’s character. Each of us has the tendency to forget the good others do for us. Our hearts can become hardened towards others.
It is easier to imagine it was a new king who was never taught the good Joseph did. It is far more challenging to think that each of our hearts can turn as callous as Pharaoh’s.
Joan Didion again: “You have to pick the places you don’t walk away from.”
My destination will always be our Torah. My path will always involve trying to figure out what these ancient words mean.
Our hearts are the places we dare not walk away from.
The Talmud reports: “Rav and Shmuel disagree about the interpretation of the verse, ‘And there arose a new king over Egypt who knew not Joseph.’ One says this means he was actually a new king, and one says this means that his decrees were transformed as if he were a new king.” (Sotah 11a)
It is a fascinating disagreement. One rabbi believes, as I had always thought, that it was in fact a new king who did not know about all the good Joseph did for Egypt. Perhaps he was not told. Or perhaps so many generations passed since Joseph’s death that the stories about his ingenuity were lost to Egyptian storytellers.
The other rabbi suggests that it was not so much about the forgetting of history, or more precisely the failure to teach history, but instead about the king’s character. The king, as rulers so often do, became enamored with his power, and grew more and more callous towards his subjects.
This disagreement makes all the difference in the world regarding how we view God. If it was a new king, and many years had passed, then one wonders why God waited hundreds of years to respond to the Israelites’ suffering. If it was the same king, then God did not wait but responded, more or less, as soon as the Israelites’ cries reached heaven.
This debate follows us into our own day. It may seem like God waits generations to respond to our suffering. In fact, God is waiting for the callousness to be removed from our hearts. God cries out, “I have now heard the moaning of the Israelites because the Egyptians are holding them in bondage, and I have remembered My covenant.” (Exodus 6)
Once again, we gain insights about a person’s character. Each of us has the tendency to forget the good others do for us. Our hearts can become hardened towards others.
It is easier to imagine it was a new king who was never taught the good Joseph did. It is far more challenging to think that each of our hearts can turn as callous as Pharaoh’s.
Joan Didion again: “You have to pick the places you don’t walk away from.”
My destination will always be our Torah. My path will always involve trying to figure out what these ancient words mean.
Our hearts are the places we dare not walk away from.
Merry Christmas!
What follows is my brief message from December 24th Shabbat evening services.
This week we read the opening chapters in the Book of Exodus. Our stay in Egypt, which began with Joseph and his brothers, turns ugly and turns into the slavery that we retell at our Passover seders. There is one reason why a new Pharaoh enslaves us. It is because he forgets. His failure to remember all the good Joseph and his descendants did for prior generations of Egyptians is what makes him grow afraid of the Israelites. It is his forgetting that leads to our suffering. The Torah states: “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.”
Knowing what matters to our neighbors, to those among whom we live, makes all the difference in the world. Knowledge suggests intimacy. It means knowing what your friends like and dislike. It means knowing what is important to your neighbors. It means knowing what they believe and having enough confidence in our faith, and our Jewish holidays, to wish our friends on this evening, a holiday filled with Christian meaning.
And while Happy Holidays is the invention of those who do not wish to offend, or those who wish to place Christmas in the same box as New Years, Merry Christmas is a greeting that matters to those who believe in Christianity and who find Christmas deeply meaningful.
While many of our friends, and neighbors, are Christian more and more are Muslim or Hindu or Chinese and so that means learning how to say, Ramadan Mubarak—a blessed Ramadan or Happy Diwali or Happy Chinese New Year. Ramadan begins on April 2 by the way, and the Chinese New Year the beginning of February. Diwali was last month so you will have to save up that greeting for next year. We should promise ourselves that we can do better and need to learn even more meaningful greetings.
Let’s be honest. All these greetings are somewhat cursory and do not really show that I know much about my neighbor’s holidays, especially those whose faith lies in Eastern traditions, but I want to know, and I really want to learn much more. Because knowing suggests friendship. Knowing means true neighborliness. Knowing leads to salvation.
After Pharaoh’s fears grows and he set taskmasters over the Israelites to oppress them, they cried out in pain. God hears their groans. The Torah reports: “God heard their moaning, and God remembered the covenant with Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. God looked upon the Israelites, and God took notice of them.” These last words, “va-yei-dah Elohim,” should be translated differently. It does not say, God took notice, but instead “And God knows.”
Knowing can really save us. So Merry Christmas. Ramadan Mubarak, Happy Diwali. Happy Chinese New Year. And most important of all, Shabbat Shalom. Because even the simplest of greetings can lead to shalom, peace.
Curse the Alphabet, Bless the Air
The Book of Exodus begins, “These are the names…” And yet my thoughts gravitate not towards the children of Israel listed in that opening chapter but the Greek letters that have become part and parcel of our everyday conversations.
Delta and Omicron, Zeta and Iota.
I was not in a fraternity, so I never learned the Greek alphabet. I sometimes struggle to pronounce our most recent dreaded name. And here is my latest realization. I don’t very much like these letters. Their names instill fear.
Between the named hurricanes that enter our vocabulary when the weather whips past the letter Z to this most recent Covid-19 variant that upends our lives, and our plans, in a matter of days, I am starting to recoil before this Greek heritage. All I can think about is Sisyphus and that cursed boulder. When will this cycle ever end?
I understand why the Greeks held on to that myth. It feels like the push-ups will never let up. Then again there is much in Greek philosophy that captures my heart and mind. I remain grateful for their notions of democracy. I really like Aristotle’s ideas, especially as they are distilled through Moses Maimonides’ writing.
We don’t believe in a never-ending cycle of despair. Our God does not curse us. God does not damn us to perform fruitless endeavors. It sure feels otherwise these days. We feel trapped going up and going down. I am tempted by the myth. One of my seventh graders said, when we recently discussed what we believe God does and does not do, “I do not know.”
That seems a better answer than giving in to despair.
In his magnificent, but unimaginably difficult, work, The Guide of the Perplexed,
Maimonides struggles to resolve such perplexities and square Jewish and Greek thought. Among its pages are gems of understanding about God’s role in the world. He writes, “The more urgently a thing is needed by living beings, the more abundantly, and cheaply, it is found.” Thus, the very air we breathe is a sign of God’s goodness.
Maimonides had every reason to think otherwise. He lost his brother years earlier in a shipwreck. He almost never recovered from the depression that followed. And yet, one day, albeit nearly a year after his brother’s death, he dragged himself out of bed and I imagine, went outside and breathed in the air and said, “God is good.”
He knew despair but found hope.
Curse the Greek alphabet if need be. Always remember, we are not cursed.
Despair is all too convenient. Don’t give in.
Building hope requires effort and work. We have agency!
Breathe in the air even if it freezes your nostrils during what promises to be the difficult days that lie ahead.
We are not trapped. We are not cursed, pushing some unimaginably heavy boulder up a mountain that has no summit.
Know this. Even when we can’t change the world, or others for that matter, we can change our perspective.
Breathe in the air. And banish those names if not from your consciousness then at least from your souls.
Bless Your Kids
When our children were young, and now when they return home for Shabbat and holidays, we place our hands on their heads and offer the tradition’s blessing:
May God make you like Ephraim and Manashe. (Genesis 48)
May God make you like Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah.
May God bless you and guard you.
May God’s face shine on you and be gracious to you.
May God’s face smile at you and grant you peace.
And here is my confession. The first time, and even the second and third times, we offered this blessing, it felt unnatural and awkward. We did not grow up in homes in which our parents recited these words. Of course, our parents hugged us. Of course, they wrapped their arms around us and said, “We love you.”
This ritual formulation, however, was foreign. And so, when I began saying it, I felt like an interloper. “Who am I to say these words?” I thought. It all felt so strange.
Our children also sometimes protested. They shouted that I was hugging them too tightly. Or that I was messing up their hair. Or as they grew older, they fidgeted suggesting that they were in a rush to go out with their friends. But we persisted. And over time, the tradition’s formula became our words. The ritual became our own.
And here is my worry. People appear to think that saying the tradition’s words or offering such a ritual formulation is what rabbis or cantors are supposed do. It’s not what “regular” people do. Rabbis, and cantors, believe every single word of the prayerbook they read and sing. They feel it in their bones every time they chant “Oseh Shalom.” Of course, they are going to bless their kids! Of course, they are going do what the tradition says they are supposed to do.
This priestly benediction is not just mine. It is yours. It belongs to all of us.
And so here is some advice. There is no perfect way to say it or even do it. There is no perfect way of placing your hands on your children’s heads. There is not a right way and a wrong way. Don’t worry so much about if you are doing it exactly as Jacob did or if you are pronouncing the words correctly.
It is important to have a ritual framework to express love. It is wonderful for children to feel our loving hands on their heads. It is good to do so at least once a week. Make that moment Shabbat evening.
Let go of the worry. Grab hold of the tradition. Make it your own. It may not feel right at first, but over time it may very well become your own.
May God make you like Ephraim and Manashe. (Genesis 48)
May God make you like Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah.
May God bless you and guard you.
May God’s face shine on you and be gracious to you.
May God’s face smile at you and grant you peace.
And here is my confession. The first time, and even the second and third times, we offered this blessing, it felt unnatural and awkward. We did not grow up in homes in which our parents recited these words. Of course, our parents hugged us. Of course, they wrapped their arms around us and said, “We love you.”
This ritual formulation, however, was foreign. And so, when I began saying it, I felt like an interloper. “Who am I to say these words?” I thought. It all felt so strange.
Our children also sometimes protested. They shouted that I was hugging them too tightly. Or that I was messing up their hair. Or as they grew older, they fidgeted suggesting that they were in a rush to go out with their friends. But we persisted. And over time, the tradition’s formula became our words. The ritual became our own.
And here is my worry. People appear to think that saying the tradition’s words or offering such a ritual formulation is what rabbis or cantors are supposed do. It’s not what “regular” people do. Rabbis, and cantors, believe every single word of the prayerbook they read and sing. They feel it in their bones every time they chant “Oseh Shalom.” Of course, they are going to bless their kids! Of course, they are going do what the tradition says they are supposed to do.
This priestly benediction is not just mine. It is yours. It belongs to all of us.
And so here is some advice. There is no perfect way to say it or even do it. There is no perfect way of placing your hands on your children’s heads. There is not a right way and a wrong way. Don’t worry so much about if you are doing it exactly as Jacob did or if you are pronouncing the words correctly.
It is important to have a ritual framework to express love. It is wonderful for children to feel our loving hands on their heads. It is good to do so at least once a week. Make that moment Shabbat evening.
Let go of the worry. Grab hold of the tradition. Make it your own. It may not feel right at first, but over time it may very well become your own.
Change Is Who We Are
I often hear people say that the Orthodox way of life guarantees Judaism’s survival. I hear this argument from all manners of Jews, from Reform, Conservative and Orthodox Jews. The notion is that only strict observance and inviolability guarantees the Jewish future. This is false.
I understand when I hear this argument from Orthodox Jews because it makes sense that they would believe their commitments are the true path. It saddens me when I hear this from fellow Reform Jews because it suggests a lack of faith in our own chosen path.
This week we conclude the story of Joseph and his brothers. Joseph has framed his brothers by hiding a goblet in his brother Benjamin’s bag. Joseph accuses the brothers of thievery and threatens to jail Benjamin. Rather than allowing Benjamin to be carted away and made a slave, as they did to Joseph so many years ago, Judah draws near to Joseph and begs that his younger brother be spared.
Judah pleads, “Therefore, please let your servant remain as a slave to my lord instead of the boy, and let the boy go back with his brothers. For how can I go back to my father unless the boy is with me? Let me not be witness to the woe that would overtake my father!” (Genesis 44) In that moment Joseph realizes his brothers have indeed changed.
The rabbis are forgiving of Joseph’s machinations. They believe he devised a legitmate test of his brothers. Given the opportunity, would they once again get rid of their father’s favorite son or this time, make a different choice? Would they defend Benjamin even though years earlier they had betrayed Joseph? The only true test of teshuvah shleymah, complete repentance, is to find oneself in the exact same situation and make a different choice.
This is how Joseph discovers that his brothers have made done the hard work of repentance. The Torah states, “And Judah drew near.” Judah has changed.
It is instructive that Judah is the spokesman for the brothers. It was he who had earlier suggested that they sell Joseph into slavery rather than killing him. Years later, Judah has become a different man.
Change is central to his character. It should also be defining of our own. In fact, it is from the name Judah that the term Jew derives. The origin of the term Jew is one who descends from the tribe of Judah. Why then do we not see change as the defining characteristic of a Jew? Why do we believe that never changing is what guarantees a Jewish future?
Change is part of our DNA. It is what guarantees the survival of Jacob and his descendants. Judah’s repentance is what ensures that he and his extended family will survive the famine now plaguing the area.
And yet most people remain afraid of change. We want it to remain like yesterday. We mythologize the past. We bristle at change and demonize the future.
How long will we for example pretend that online praying and singing is no longer just a temporary fix but a fixture of our future? I understand. While we might recognize that individuals change, we are reticent to believe that the institutions around which we build our lives must also adapt. We say, “Let my synagogue be just as I remember it. Let my children’s Judaism be just as I learned it in Hebrew School.”
Such thoughts are fantasy. Nothing is really as we remember it. We prefer to pretend and imagine that we live in a never changing present.
Let us look to Judah for inspiration. Let us embrace change and gain solace from the strength of character it requires.
Change is who we are. It is our very name.
I understand when I hear this argument from Orthodox Jews because it makes sense that they would believe their commitments are the true path. It saddens me when I hear this from fellow Reform Jews because it suggests a lack of faith in our own chosen path.
This week we conclude the story of Joseph and his brothers. Joseph has framed his brothers by hiding a goblet in his brother Benjamin’s bag. Joseph accuses the brothers of thievery and threatens to jail Benjamin. Rather than allowing Benjamin to be carted away and made a slave, as they did to Joseph so many years ago, Judah draws near to Joseph and begs that his younger brother be spared.
Judah pleads, “Therefore, please let your servant remain as a slave to my lord instead of the boy, and let the boy go back with his brothers. For how can I go back to my father unless the boy is with me? Let me not be witness to the woe that would overtake my father!” (Genesis 44) In that moment Joseph realizes his brothers have indeed changed.
The rabbis are forgiving of Joseph’s machinations. They believe he devised a legitmate test of his brothers. Given the opportunity, would they once again get rid of their father’s favorite son or this time, make a different choice? Would they defend Benjamin even though years earlier they had betrayed Joseph? The only true test of teshuvah shleymah, complete repentance, is to find oneself in the exact same situation and make a different choice.
This is how Joseph discovers that his brothers have made done the hard work of repentance. The Torah states, “And Judah drew near.” Judah has changed.
It is instructive that Judah is the spokesman for the brothers. It was he who had earlier suggested that they sell Joseph into slavery rather than killing him. Years later, Judah has become a different man.
Change is central to his character. It should also be defining of our own. In fact, it is from the name Judah that the term Jew derives. The origin of the term Jew is one who descends from the tribe of Judah. Why then do we not see change as the defining characteristic of a Jew? Why do we believe that never changing is what guarantees a Jewish future?
Change is part of our DNA. It is what guarantees the survival of Jacob and his descendants. Judah’s repentance is what ensures that he and his extended family will survive the famine now plaguing the area.
And yet most people remain afraid of change. We want it to remain like yesterday. We mythologize the past. We bristle at change and demonize the future.
How long will we for example pretend that online praying and singing is no longer just a temporary fix but a fixture of our future? I understand. While we might recognize that individuals change, we are reticent to believe that the institutions around which we build our lives must also adapt. We say, “Let my synagogue be just as I remember it. Let my children’s Judaism be just as I learned it in Hebrew School.”
Such thoughts are fantasy. Nothing is really as we remember it. We prefer to pretend and imagine that we live in a never changing present.
Let us look to Judah for inspiration. Let us embrace change and gain solace from the strength of character it requires.
Change is who we are. It is our very name.
Our Sanctuary Dedication
What follows is my sermon and message on the occasion of dedicating our congregation's newly renovated sanctuary.
Ten years ago, this is not what anyone at the Jewish Congregation of Brookville ever imagined. Ten years ago, this is not what anyone at Oyster Bay Jewish Center ever imagined. And yet here we are and now we are Congregation L’Dor V’Dor and we must no longer look back to what we imagined long ago, but instead only forward to what I believe will be a strong future filled with much song, many celebrations, lots of lots of Jewish teaching, and plenty of spiritual uplift.
In this sanctuary, we will celebrate the milestones in our lives, we will mark the holidays of our people, we will mourn our losses, we will watch as our children hold the Torah scroll close to their hearts as grandparents shed tears in the front rows. Here we will mark our years and fill our hearts with the lessons and values we have taught for millennia. It is this place that has ensured that the teachings contained in our Torah have survived for generations. This synagogue will stand in line with every synagogue that has stood before it.
Long ago, when King Solomon offered words at the dedication ceremony of the very first Temple, finished in Jerusalem 3,000 years ago, he said, “O God, may Your eyes be open day and night toward this House, toward the place of which You have said, ‘My name shall abide there’; may You heed the prayers which Your servant will offer toward this place. And when You hear the supplications which Your servant and Your people Israel offer toward this place, give heed in Your heavenly abode.” (I Kings 8) Solomon’s prayer makes perfect sense. He said in essence, when we offer our prayers from this place, please, God, hear them.
And that is likewise our prayer about this synagogue and this sanctuary. Let our prayers be heard. Let this place work its magic on our souls. If we need uplift let us find it here. If we require rejoicing let us find it here.
Solomon actually began his dedication speech with a question. I know. How Jewish. Imagine that. Surrounded by all those who worked tirelessly to build that holy Temple, who slaved (some quite literally) to make sure the project was completed, Solomon asked, “But can God really dwell on earth? Even the heavens to their uttermost reaches cannot contain You, O God, how much less this House that I have built!” Leaving aside his preference for “I” over “we” it is a remarkable statement. His message is clear and should resound in our ears thousands of years later. No project, however beautiful, however awe-inspiring, can truly contain God’s presence. Everything we build is but a glimmer. Our best, and most beautiful, sanctuaries only offer us a glimpse of the divine. And no matter how much I, for example, may continue to fixate on the smallest of details within these walls, this beautiful sanctuary is but an approximation. It is not an end, but instead a means to an end.
This place must serve to fortify our souls so that we go out and make this world an even better place. Our blessings begin here. Our responsibilities start here. They do not end here.
The Talmud instructs us to give thanks for the good. And I know that everyone joins me in offering hearts filled with gratitude for this beautiful, newly renovated sanctuary. But even more important the rabbis of the Talmud also insisted that we offer thanks for the responsibility to fix the bad. And that blessing, and yes, burden, of fixing the bad—whether it is offering a healing prayer for those who are sick or getting out into our broken world and repairing its many cracks. The hungry in our very own town are our sacred responsibility. That is the blessing this place must serve.
It is not about assuaging our own hearts but instead about helping to soften the harshness that torments others’ hearts. If we leave here fortified to do more repair then all of our hard work, and even our years of frustration and setback, will be redeemed. May this house, may this beautiful sanctuary fortify our souls to give thanks for all the good we have received but also, and most especially the responsibility to fix the bad. May this synagogue strengthen us for many, many years to come. Amen v’Amen.
Seeing the Good in Wrong
Joseph is a stunning character. Despite adversity he achieves great renown.
His brothers first try to kill him and then sell him into slavery in Egypt. He quickly becomes Potiphar’s most trusted servant. Then when he refuses the advances of Potiphar’s wife, she becomes enraged and accuses him of trying to molest her.
Joseph is thrown into jail. There he interprets dreams, in particular those of the chief cup bearer (can someone please provide me with the job description for this position?) and chief baker. His interpretations are proven true. The chief cup bearer is restored to his position and the chief baker is executed. Lo and behold, Pharaoh is plagued (get it?) by repeated, disturbing dreams. No one can interpret them.
The chief cup bearer reports that he met this guy in jail who has a unique ability to interpret dreams. Joseph is summoned to Pharaoh’s palace. He is cleaned up and given fancy clothes. He interprets the dreams to mean that there will be seven years of plenty followed by seven years of famine. “Put someone in charge of stockpiling the food during the first seven years so that there will be enough food during the seven lean years,” Joseph suggests.
And guess what. Pharaoh puts Joseph in charge of the task. Our hero becomes the second most powerful, and influential, man in all of Egypt. Pharaoh showers Joseph with riches and gives him a bride. During the years of famine, Jacob and his children run out of food. They hear that there is food to be had in nearby Egypt and so they venture there to procure food for their large, extended family.
Joseph’s brothers appear before him and bow before him—just as he had dreamed when he was a younger man. Soon the brothers and Joseph will be reconciled. First the brothers must be tested. Will they stand up for their younger brother Benjamin and protect him? Will they behave differently towards him than they did to Joseph? Come back next week to see what they do. Or, if you prefer, read ahead.
My question at the moment is how we turn wrongs into good. Joseph is wronged by his brothers and then by Potiphar’s wife. He suffers setback after setback and yet still emerges successful.
Everyone faces setbacks. Everyone has been wronged.
Some even suffer injustices. Joseph is wrongly jailed! And yet he does not appear to dwell on these injustices and wrongs. He looks beyond these. His vision is remarkable.
Moreover, his very success is a result of the wrongs committed against him. If his brothers had not sold him into slavery, if Potiphar’s wife had not falsely accused him, he would not have been in the right place at the right time.
He harbors no bitterness. Joseph views these very wrongs as part of a divine plan whose meaning only becomes apparent when his brother appear before him. Now he is in a position to save lives. His heart is only filled with gratitude. Joseph exclaims, “Now, do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me hither; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you.” (Genesis 45)
How many people can do likewise? How many people can look past the wrongs committed against them—even, and especially, when the resulting good is not so readily apparent? Redeeming the wrongs committed against us, seeing the positive even when it remains mysterious, is the holy task Joseph’s example sets before us.
To be honest, I do not know if I can always do it. Dwelling on those wrongs often feels easier than looking past them. I do know that I am supposed to emulate Joseph
Joseph’s ability to see the good even in the bad is stunning. In the verses of the Torah, it also becomes revelatory.
His brothers first try to kill him and then sell him into slavery in Egypt. He quickly becomes Potiphar’s most trusted servant. Then when he refuses the advances of Potiphar’s wife, she becomes enraged and accuses him of trying to molest her.
Joseph is thrown into jail. There he interprets dreams, in particular those of the chief cup bearer (can someone please provide me with the job description for this position?) and chief baker. His interpretations are proven true. The chief cup bearer is restored to his position and the chief baker is executed. Lo and behold, Pharaoh is plagued (get it?) by repeated, disturbing dreams. No one can interpret them.
The chief cup bearer reports that he met this guy in jail who has a unique ability to interpret dreams. Joseph is summoned to Pharaoh’s palace. He is cleaned up and given fancy clothes. He interprets the dreams to mean that there will be seven years of plenty followed by seven years of famine. “Put someone in charge of stockpiling the food during the first seven years so that there will be enough food during the seven lean years,” Joseph suggests.
And guess what. Pharaoh puts Joseph in charge of the task. Our hero becomes the second most powerful, and influential, man in all of Egypt. Pharaoh showers Joseph with riches and gives him a bride. During the years of famine, Jacob and his children run out of food. They hear that there is food to be had in nearby Egypt and so they venture there to procure food for their large, extended family.
Joseph’s brothers appear before him and bow before him—just as he had dreamed when he was a younger man. Soon the brothers and Joseph will be reconciled. First the brothers must be tested. Will they stand up for their younger brother Benjamin and protect him? Will they behave differently towards him than they did to Joseph? Come back next week to see what they do. Or, if you prefer, read ahead.
My question at the moment is how we turn wrongs into good. Joseph is wronged by his brothers and then by Potiphar’s wife. He suffers setback after setback and yet still emerges successful.
Everyone faces setbacks. Everyone has been wronged.
Some even suffer injustices. Joseph is wrongly jailed! And yet he does not appear to dwell on these injustices and wrongs. He looks beyond these. His vision is remarkable.
Moreover, his very success is a result of the wrongs committed against him. If his brothers had not sold him into slavery, if Potiphar’s wife had not falsely accused him, he would not have been in the right place at the right time.
He harbors no bitterness. Joseph views these very wrongs as part of a divine plan whose meaning only becomes apparent when his brother appear before him. Now he is in a position to save lives. His heart is only filled with gratitude. Joseph exclaims, “Now, do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me hither; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you.” (Genesis 45)
How many people can do likewise? How many people can look past the wrongs committed against them—even, and especially, when the resulting good is not so readily apparent? Redeeming the wrongs committed against us, seeing the positive even when it remains mysterious, is the holy task Joseph’s example sets before us.
To be honest, I do not know if I can always do it. Dwelling on those wrongs often feels easier than looking past them. I do know that I am supposed to emulate Joseph
Joseph’s ability to see the good even in the bad is stunning. In the verses of the Torah, it also becomes revelatory.
Thanksgiving, Hanukkah and the Myths We Tell
It feels somewhat strange when we celebrate Hanukkah a few days after gathering for Thanksgiving. Our Jewish holidays are tied to the Hebrew calendar which operates independently from the Gregorian calendar. Occasionally however, Hanukkah finds its way into November and nears Thanksgiving.
This offers us a unique opportunity to reflect upon our dual commitments as American Jews. Interestingly both Thanksgiving and Hanukkah are built upon myths that are thinly tied to history. Let me explain.
Nowhere in the Book of Maccabees, the first written record of the events surrounding Hanukkah, is the miracle of oil mentioned. I realize this may come as a surprise given that this story forms the core of how we talk about Hanukkah. We first find the miracle story in the Talmud, a book completed nearly 700 years after the Maccabean revolt.
Did the miracle of oil really occur?
This offers us a unique opportunity to reflect upon our dual commitments as American Jews. Interestingly both Thanksgiving and Hanukkah are built upon myths that are thinly tied to history. Let me explain.
Nowhere in the Book of Maccabees, the first written record of the events surrounding Hanukkah, is the miracle of oil mentioned. I realize this may come as a surprise given that this story forms the core of how we talk about Hanukkah. We first find the miracle story in the Talmud, a book completed nearly 700 years after the Maccabean revolt.
Did the miracle of oil really occur?
Forgiveness Should Be Easier
I know I am supposed to admire Jacob and love him more than Esau. Jacob is, after all, the father of the children of Israel. He is the man through whom we trace our people’s sacred lineage. And yet, this week, I find myself looking admirably towards his brother Esau.
Jacob deceived his father and stole the birthright from Esau. Jacob then runs away—Esau threatens to kill him after discovering the deception. On the run, Jacob experiences God, marries and builds a large family, experiences God some more and becomes incredibly successful.
We do not know what Esau is doing during these years. Is he nursing a grudge towards Jacob? Is he perseverating about the wrongs done to him? He has every right to be angry. It is true that Jacob lied and stole from him. We learn little about what Esau is thinking. We learn a great deal about Jacob. We read about his dreams and how he wrestles with God. We learn a great deal about his fears. They continue to plague him.
When he realizes that he will see Esau for the first time, he sends messengers ahead to greet Esau. They report that Esau has become wildly successful. Many people work for him. Jacob believes these four hundred men are not a measure of his brother’s success but instead proof that Esau wishes to attack his family and carry out his earlier threat.
Isn’t it remarkable that Esau has become so successful without the first-born blessing? Maybe he did not need the blessing after all. Maybe Jacob needed it more. After dividing his family into two camps, Jacob sends gifts to Esau in the hopes of placating him and earning his forgiveness. But Esau no longer appears angry.
Instead, he appears confident in his success.
In contrast, Jacob is still afraid. His decisions appear guided by his fears. Is he so guilt-ridden that he cannot see that his brother is no longer the dangerous and skilled hunter of their youth?
Does Esau require all these gifts? Are these what effectuate his forgiveness? Again, we do not know.
We do know what he proclaims. We do hear what he says when he and his brother are finally reunited. The first words we read since hearing his now decades old screams that he would kill Jacob are “I have enough.” After hugging and kissing Jacob, and meeting his large extended family, Esau responds to the many gifts offered to him with the words, “I have enough, my brother; let what you have remain yours.” (Genesis 33)
It appears that Esau opened his heart to his brother a long time ago. It appears that he is no longer nursing vengeance. He is overjoyed to see Jacob and meet his family.
I admire Esau because forgiveness comes so easily to him. Jacob struggles with fear. Jacob wrestles with the demons of his deceptions and trickery. These continue to define him.
Esau appears content. He forgives readily. This week he more than Jacob earns my admiration and praise.
Let’s be honest. Forgiveness is really, really hard. For whom does it come so easily?
Then again, if Esau can do it, so can we.
Jacob deceived his father and stole the birthright from Esau. Jacob then runs away—Esau threatens to kill him after discovering the deception. On the run, Jacob experiences God, marries and builds a large family, experiences God some more and becomes incredibly successful.
We do not know what Esau is doing during these years. Is he nursing a grudge towards Jacob? Is he perseverating about the wrongs done to him? He has every right to be angry. It is true that Jacob lied and stole from him. We learn little about what Esau is thinking. We learn a great deal about Jacob. We read about his dreams and how he wrestles with God. We learn a great deal about his fears. They continue to plague him.
When he realizes that he will see Esau for the first time, he sends messengers ahead to greet Esau. They report that Esau has become wildly successful. Many people work for him. Jacob believes these four hundred men are not a measure of his brother’s success but instead proof that Esau wishes to attack his family and carry out his earlier threat.
Isn’t it remarkable that Esau has become so successful without the first-born blessing? Maybe he did not need the blessing after all. Maybe Jacob needed it more. After dividing his family into two camps, Jacob sends gifts to Esau in the hopes of placating him and earning his forgiveness. But Esau no longer appears angry.
Instead, he appears confident in his success.
In contrast, Jacob is still afraid. His decisions appear guided by his fears. Is he so guilt-ridden that he cannot see that his brother is no longer the dangerous and skilled hunter of their youth?
Does Esau require all these gifts? Are these what effectuate his forgiveness? Again, we do not know.
We do know what he proclaims. We do hear what he says when he and his brother are finally reunited. The first words we read since hearing his now decades old screams that he would kill Jacob are “I have enough.” After hugging and kissing Jacob, and meeting his large extended family, Esau responds to the many gifts offered to him with the words, “I have enough, my brother; let what you have remain yours.” (Genesis 33)
It appears that Esau opened his heart to his brother a long time ago. It appears that he is no longer nursing vengeance. He is overjoyed to see Jacob and meet his family.
I admire Esau because forgiveness comes so easily to him. Jacob struggles with fear. Jacob wrestles with the demons of his deceptions and trickery. These continue to define him.
Esau appears content. He forgives readily. This week he more than Jacob earns my admiration and praise.
Let’s be honest. Forgiveness is really, really hard. For whom does it come so easily?
Then again, if Esau can do it, so can we.
Lift Up Your Legs, There Are Miracles To Be Seen
Miracles are all around us. It is not that they do not exist. It is instead that we fail to see them. That is the Torah’s perspective.
And so, we read many times, the refrain, “And he lifted up his eyes (vayisah einav).” Abraham heads out on a journey with the faith that God will direct him to a special and holy place. “On the third day, Abraham lifted up his eyes, and saw the place from afar.” (Genesis 22) Later, an angel stays Abraham’s hand as he is about to sacrifice his son, Isaac. Miraculously a ram appears, and he sacrifices it instead of his son. “And Abraham lifted up his eyes, and he saw a ram caught in the thicket by its horns.”
Did the ram appear out of nowhere? Was the place magically created out of thin air? Of course not. They were there all along. The power of miracles is held in our eyes. Miracles are all around us. It is a matter of lifting up our eyes.
And yet, this week, Jacob does not set out on a journey because God commands him like his grandfather Abraham. Instead, Jacob is on the run. After tricking his brother Esau out of the birthright, Esau threatens to kill him. Fearing for his life, Jacob runs away to his extended family’s home in Haran, the land Abraham left. As night falls, he becomes exhausted and lays down to sleep. He dreams of a ladder going up to heaven with angels going up and going down on it. He sees God standing beside him.
He awakens and proclaims, “Surely the Lord is present in this place, and I did not know it! How awesome is this place! This is none other than the abode of God.” (Genesis 28) In the most ordinary of places, there in a nondescript patch of desert, he finds God. His eyes are opened by the experience.
The Torah, however, does not use the phrase, “And he lifted up his eyes.” His eyes do not see something that was there all along. And yet, Jacob was transformed. Is his fear no more? It does not appear so. In fact, his dream fills him with awe and dread. He fears what he sees. The Hebrew of these words are connected. Awe is related to fear.
To see is to fear.
And then, after naming the place Beth-El, Jacob sets out on his journey once again.
“And Jacob lifted up his legs (vayisah raglav) and he went toward the land.” (Genesis 29) Is his heart filled with awe? Or with fear? Is the difference ever so obvious or exact? Jacob understands miracles await him. He sets out. He takes the steps. He refuses to allow fear to deter him from moving forward.
Yesterday, I set out on my bike again. It has been nearly three months since I was hit by a car. And it has been months of playing the particulars of the accident over and over again in my mind. The more time one has to perseverate over such details the more fear creeps into the soul. “I should have. I should not have. What if I? What if I did not?” And so, I decided, not only to go for a ride by myself as I did on that day in August, but also to ride on the exact street on which I was hit.
There is only one choice but to lift up your legs and ride forward.
To be consumed by awe is to be filled with fear.
Sometime later Jacob lifts up his eyes. (Genesis 33) He sees his brother Esau. His brother no longer wishes to kill him. Instead, Esau forgives him and the two are reunited.
Perhaps that is miracle enough.
It is always a matter of lifting up your eyes.
But first it is a matter of lifting up your legs.
And so, we read many times, the refrain, “And he lifted up his eyes (vayisah einav).” Abraham heads out on a journey with the faith that God will direct him to a special and holy place. “On the third day, Abraham lifted up his eyes, and saw the place from afar.” (Genesis 22) Later, an angel stays Abraham’s hand as he is about to sacrifice his son, Isaac. Miraculously a ram appears, and he sacrifices it instead of his son. “And Abraham lifted up his eyes, and he saw a ram caught in the thicket by its horns.”
Did the ram appear out of nowhere? Was the place magically created out of thin air? Of course not. They were there all along. The power of miracles is held in our eyes. Miracles are all around us. It is a matter of lifting up our eyes.
And yet, this week, Jacob does not set out on a journey because God commands him like his grandfather Abraham. Instead, Jacob is on the run. After tricking his brother Esau out of the birthright, Esau threatens to kill him. Fearing for his life, Jacob runs away to his extended family’s home in Haran, the land Abraham left. As night falls, he becomes exhausted and lays down to sleep. He dreams of a ladder going up to heaven with angels going up and going down on it. He sees God standing beside him.
He awakens and proclaims, “Surely the Lord is present in this place, and I did not know it! How awesome is this place! This is none other than the abode of God.” (Genesis 28) In the most ordinary of places, there in a nondescript patch of desert, he finds God. His eyes are opened by the experience.
The Torah, however, does not use the phrase, “And he lifted up his eyes.” His eyes do not see something that was there all along. And yet, Jacob was transformed. Is his fear no more? It does not appear so. In fact, his dream fills him with awe and dread. He fears what he sees. The Hebrew of these words are connected. Awe is related to fear.
To see is to fear.
And then, after naming the place Beth-El, Jacob sets out on his journey once again.
“And Jacob lifted up his legs (vayisah raglav) and he went toward the land.” (Genesis 29) Is his heart filled with awe? Or with fear? Is the difference ever so obvious or exact? Jacob understands miracles await him. He sets out. He takes the steps. He refuses to allow fear to deter him from moving forward.
Yesterday, I set out on my bike again. It has been nearly three months since I was hit by a car. And it has been months of playing the particulars of the accident over and over again in my mind. The more time one has to perseverate over such details the more fear creeps into the soul. “I should have. I should not have. What if I? What if I did not?” And so, I decided, not only to go for a ride by myself as I did on that day in August, but also to ride on the exact street on which I was hit.
There is only one choice but to lift up your legs and ride forward.
To be consumed by awe is to be filled with fear.
Sometime later Jacob lifts up his eyes. (Genesis 33) He sees his brother Esau. His brother no longer wishes to kill him. Instead, Esau forgives him and the two are reunited.
Perhaps that is miracle enough.
It is always a matter of lifting up your eyes.
But first it is a matter of lifting up your legs.
Waiting for Miracles
A common theme in religious literature is the miraculous birth of its heroes. The Torah is no different. Isaac is born to Abraham and Sarah after years of infertility. Sarah is in fact ninety years old when she gives birth, and Abraham, one hundred. Isaac’s birth is not only unexpected and surprising but miraculous. The Torah’s message is clear. The only way that Abraham and Sarah could have a child is by divine intervention.
Jacob and Esau are also born to Isaac and Rebekah after the Torah reports that Rebekah is barren. There is, by the way, no suggestion that their infertility is because of Isaac. The Torah’s perspective is that it must be because of Rebekah. And so, we read, “Isaac pleaded with the Lord on behalf of his wife, because she was barren; and the Lord responded to his plea, and his wife Rebekah conceived.” (Genesis 25) Still, we cannot know what causes their infertility.
We only know that they struggle to have a child. The Torah states that Isaac is sixty years old when Jacob and Esau are born. He is forty years old when they get married. Apparently, they struggled to have children for twenty years! And while it is true that oftentimes the Torah is written as if time does not exist, we frequently gloss over the significance of these intervening years. We skip over this seemingly unimportant fact because the miracle occurs. Jacob and Esau are born. God responds to Isaac’s prayers!
There are no words indicating what transpired during these years of waiting and longing. There are no reports about what Isaac said to Rebekah or she said to her husband. There are no verses suggesting what they felt. Were they consumed with doubt? Or were they instead steadfast in their faith? I wonder. Did these twenty years strengthen their relationship or cause it irreparable pain? Do these intervening years explain that as soon as the children are born, Isaac turns his favor towards Esau and Rebekah to Jacob?
The Talmud derives a lesson from this story and states that one may wait twenty years to have children. Rabbi Nahman adds that these years convinced Isaac that it was he who was infertile. There was therefore no reason for him to marry another woman. (Yevamot 64) In the rabbinic imagination Isaac’s love for Rebekah overcomes even the most challenging of circumstances. His faith that she is his destiny remains unshakeable.
And yet I remain perplexed.
I wish our tradition offered more insights about these years of waiting. Sometimes I wish we did not focus so much on the miracle but instead on the waiting. What does it mean to wait for miracles? And isn’t this what we spend most of lives doing?
Waiting, and wading through countless years of struggle, is what tests our relationships and I hope, strengthens our resolve.
The waiting tests faith. It writes a Torah that is too often glossed over and forgotten.
I believe. The waiting can strengthen love.
Jacob and Esau are also born to Isaac and Rebekah after the Torah reports that Rebekah is barren. There is, by the way, no suggestion that their infertility is because of Isaac. The Torah’s perspective is that it must be because of Rebekah. And so, we read, “Isaac pleaded with the Lord on behalf of his wife, because she was barren; and the Lord responded to his plea, and his wife Rebekah conceived.” (Genesis 25) Still, we cannot know what causes their infertility.
We only know that they struggle to have a child. The Torah states that Isaac is sixty years old when Jacob and Esau are born. He is forty years old when they get married. Apparently, they struggled to have children for twenty years! And while it is true that oftentimes the Torah is written as if time does not exist, we frequently gloss over the significance of these intervening years. We skip over this seemingly unimportant fact because the miracle occurs. Jacob and Esau are born. God responds to Isaac’s prayers!
There are no words indicating what transpired during these years of waiting and longing. There are no reports about what Isaac said to Rebekah or she said to her husband. There are no verses suggesting what they felt. Were they consumed with doubt? Or were they instead steadfast in their faith? I wonder. Did these twenty years strengthen their relationship or cause it irreparable pain? Do these intervening years explain that as soon as the children are born, Isaac turns his favor towards Esau and Rebekah to Jacob?
The Talmud derives a lesson from this story and states that one may wait twenty years to have children. Rabbi Nahman adds that these years convinced Isaac that it was he who was infertile. There was therefore no reason for him to marry another woman. (Yevamot 64) In the rabbinic imagination Isaac’s love for Rebekah overcomes even the most challenging of circumstances. His faith that she is his destiny remains unshakeable.
And yet I remain perplexed.
I wish our tradition offered more insights about these years of waiting. Sometimes I wish we did not focus so much on the miracle but instead on the waiting. What does it mean to wait for miracles? And isn’t this what we spend most of lives doing?
Waiting, and wading through countless years of struggle, is what tests our relationships and I hope, strengthens our resolve.
The waiting tests faith. It writes a Torah that is too often glossed over and forgotten.
I believe. The waiting can strengthen love.
Antisemitism Three Years Later
One in four American Jews has been targeted by antisemitism over the past year, including 17% who were subjected to antisemitic remarks in person and 12% who experienced antisemitism online or on social media. (AJC The State of Antisemitism in America 2021) Congregants share with me more and more stories of how a longtime acquaintance blurted out antisemitic remarks.
On the right this increase in antisemitism appears to have begun with the conservative embrace of fringe groups. When political leaders fail to denounce antisemitism, or hatred of any group, most especially from within their own ranks, antisemitism flourishes. The trial now beginning in Charlottesville is an important step forward. Take away the funding of those who support violent antisemitism. Speak out against those who defend the absurd protests against mask wearing and vaccine mandates with Nazi analogies. Defend free speech but know its limits and limitations. Are we to believe free speech really means that factual inaccuracies should be allowed to flourish online?
On the left this increase in antisemitism appears to have begun with the liberal embrace of racial justice. Let’s be clear. Racial justice for African Americans is not the same as justice for Palestinians. The insistence that the sins of America’s founding—let’s be clear as great as this country is, sins were committed against Native Americans and African Americans—and yet these are not the same as the wrongs Israel committed in its founding. To be blunt, Jews were murdered by Palestinians. And Palestinians were expelled by Israelis.
I do not wish to explore the rights and wrongs committed in each of these struggles. Instead, I want to emphasize they are not the same. Academics, and American liberals, appear to insist that above every victim is an oppressor and that we can view every struggle through the prism of these archetypes. Victim and oppressor. All we have to do to figure out who is right and who wrong is assign someone to one of these categorizations. And so, in this worldview the Jew is the oppressor, and the Israeli is the same as the White police officer with his knee on George Floyd’s neck.
When fighting the antisemitism of the right, it is easier to draw a clear, bright line between right and wrong, good and evil. On the left, the fight is far more difficult and the lines blurry. How can I simultaneously support George Floyd and the countless others whose names I don’t know while also supporting Israel’s right to defend itself against the genocidal designs of Hamas and Iran? We become lost in the questioning and confusion. I can defend Israel and also fight for racial justice.
But again, make no mistake, antisemitism is antisemitism. Seeing Israel as the Jew among nations is antisemitism. Israel is powerful. Sometimes it wields its power for good. Sometimes for bad. It is like America and every other country for that matter. Nations, or at least the good among them, struggle to live up to a noble vision of themselves. They falter. They look within. They try to correct themselves. They try to do better. That is how I see America. That is how I see Israel.
The world appears to behave in a way suggesting that as long as Jews are small and not mighty, as long as we are victims, and not powerful, as long as we don’t wield our might with an army or defend ourselves by achieving political prominence, then the world is content with our place. My response to that is, no way. Zionism has taught me that it is not just about our return to the land but our return to history. It is about taking charge of our destiny and not allowing others to write our own story. Our fate is in our hands. We are not going to grovel to the whims of other rulers.
Do not think that if we were not supportive of immigration rights, or if our numbers were not so well represented in the calls for racial justice, antisemtism would cease. Do not think that if we do not wear a kippah outside or if we hide the addresses of our synagogues, antisemitism will come to an end. Theodor Herzl was right when he said that if you will it, then it is not a dream, but he was wrong that once the State of Israel was established antisemitism would dissolve into ancient history. I do not know why this hatred, why this darkness among all others, persists and defies all our attempts to stamp it out. I do know this, I will never cower. I will never be silenced. I will sing the songs of my tradition. I will shout with pride of my Jewish identity.
When I look up, when I lift up my eyes as Abraham, Isaac and Rebekah do, in this week’s portion, I cannot know what is off in the distance; I cannot know if this is once again a test, but I can know what every single one of us feels, things have changed, and we feel more tentative about our home. I resolve the following. No one can ever make me feel that this place is not my home. No one can ever make me feel that Eretz Yisrael, the land of Israel, is not our home.
Gone are the days of youthful naïveté when I thought despite my grandparents’ objections, that antisemitism no longer existed. And in their place is more pride and more resilience and an even greater sense that I will forever hold my head high and proclaim that I am proud to be a Jew. I will lift up my eyes, and see clearly that hatred lurks, and foments, even here. I will lift up my eyes with great pride that this is my tradition and that to be a Jew is a blessing and a gift.
Seeing What's Ahead
“On the third day Abraham lifted up his eyes and saw the place from afar.” (Genesis 22)
People always want to look into the future. They want to know if their decisions will prove successful. And yet, when Abraham looks at Mount Moriah from a distance, he does not know that how this journey will unfold or even that it is a test. Often, we do not see what we are meant to see when we look into the distance. We cannot know what the future holds.
When Abraham next lifts up his eyes, he sees a ram. And he turns away from slaughtering his son Isaac and understands that the intended sacrifice is different than he first believed. Was the journey for naught now that its intention has changed? What he believed the future held is far different than what transpires.
When looking from afar we often do not understand what is intended. When making decisions, we often get the distant future wrong. Our intentions are transformed when we see what is actually unfolding before our eyes—at least if we allow ourselves to be influenced by events.
“And Isaac went out walking in the field toward evening and lifted his eyes and saw camels approaching.” (Genesis 24) Riding on these camels is Rebekah who will soon become his wife. He cannot know that he will grow to love her or that her embrace will offer him comfort after his mother’s death. He sees only caravan in the distance. He does not see Rebekah.
“And Rebekah lifted her eyes and she saw Isaac.” (Does Rebekah see more clearly than her husband to be?) Even though she sees Isaac, she does not know about the life they will build with each other. She cannot know that their son Jacob will become the father of the children of Israel. Who can see that far off into the distance? Who can know what the future holds?
No one. No one except for God. We lift our eyes, but do not see. We see more clearly when looking back rather than looking ahead. Rabbi Lawrence Kushner writes: “They all see things in the distance, but there’s always more in the distance that we can discern. Something else is coming down. We only realize this in retrospect.”
No matter how powerful the lenses, no matter how extraordinary the eyesight, we cannot know what lies ahead of us. Lifting up our eyes is not the same as seeing. We only truly see, we only truly understand, when looking back. There life’s meaning, the steps and missteps, the ups and downs, become more discernible in hindsight.
We lift our eyes, like our forefathers and foremothers, in expectation. There, in the distance, mystery unfolds. And then, and there, we might be awed. In Hebrew the word for seeing is similar to that for awe. When we truly see, we open ourselves to the possibility of being awed.
Set out to the unknowing. Look back for the knowing.
Open your eyes to awe.
People always want to look into the future. They want to know if their decisions will prove successful. And yet, when Abraham looks at Mount Moriah from a distance, he does not know that how this journey will unfold or even that it is a test. Often, we do not see what we are meant to see when we look into the distance. We cannot know what the future holds.
When Abraham next lifts up his eyes, he sees a ram. And he turns away from slaughtering his son Isaac and understands that the intended sacrifice is different than he first believed. Was the journey for naught now that its intention has changed? What he believed the future held is far different than what transpires.
When looking from afar we often do not understand what is intended. When making decisions, we often get the distant future wrong. Our intentions are transformed when we see what is actually unfolding before our eyes—at least if we allow ourselves to be influenced by events.
“And Isaac went out walking in the field toward evening and lifted his eyes and saw camels approaching.” (Genesis 24) Riding on these camels is Rebekah who will soon become his wife. He cannot know that he will grow to love her or that her embrace will offer him comfort after his mother’s death. He sees only caravan in the distance. He does not see Rebekah.
“And Rebekah lifted her eyes and she saw Isaac.” (Does Rebekah see more clearly than her husband to be?) Even though she sees Isaac, she does not know about the life they will build with each other. She cannot know that their son Jacob will become the father of the children of Israel. Who can see that far off into the distance? Who can know what the future holds?
No one. No one except for God. We lift our eyes, but do not see. We see more clearly when looking back rather than looking ahead. Rabbi Lawrence Kushner writes: “They all see things in the distance, but there’s always more in the distance that we can discern. Something else is coming down. We only realize this in retrospect.”
No matter how powerful the lenses, no matter how extraordinary the eyesight, we cannot know what lies ahead of us. Lifting up our eyes is not the same as seeing. We only truly see, we only truly understand, when looking back. There life’s meaning, the steps and missteps, the ups and downs, become more discernible in hindsight.
We lift our eyes, like our forefathers and foremothers, in expectation. There, in the distance, mystery unfolds. And then, and there, we might be awed. In Hebrew the word for seeing is similar to that for awe. When we truly see, we open ourselves to the possibility of being awed.
Set out to the unknowing. Look back for the knowing.
Open your eyes to awe.