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Feeding the Wolf – Rosh Hashanah 5776

Every year, as I prepare for the High Holidays, I struggle with how to make our experience here together transformational in some way. Because I know that, for myself, and probably most of us, we come back year after year with mostly the same sets of issues and concerns. So I ask myself : What can I, as a Rabbi on Rosh Hashanah, say that will help us to become the human beings we would like to see ourselves as?

The great prayer which the Cantor chants during the repetition of the Musaf Amidah, Unetaneh Tokef, creates an impression of human powerlessness. We appear before God on Rosh Hashanah, described as Yom Hadin, the Day of Judgment. God is judge, prosecutor. expert, and witness. God knows all, every forgotten thing, reading it out of the Book of Remembrance. The imagery shifts, and now God is a shepherd, and we are sheep, passing underneath the staff. A final shift, and God is decreeing the fates of every living thing in the coming year.

These three scenes convey an impression of our utter lack of control. There is nothing whatsoever that we can do to determine our destiny. Everything is in the hand of God.

As frightening as this imagery might seem to many of us, it does convey a truth of human existence. So much of who we are, our personality and characteristics, are pre-determined. Whether by genetics or the family and community into which we were born, i.e. nature or nurture – we do not get to decide our core personalities, our innate strengths and weaknesses.

Even the ability to make choices is something of an illusion. Much of our mental activity takes place on a subconscious level, determined by neurohormonal loops that regulate our emotions. While it seems to us that we have free will and are making choices for ourselves, in reality the outcome is predetermined by our biochemical makeup.

Religious language that speaks of our utter lack of control over our fate and our total dependence on God would seem to reinforce this notion. Drawing upon biblical imagery, our machzor describes human life as insignificant, using terms like “a broken shard, withering grass, a shriveled flower, a passing shadow, a fading cloud, a fleeting breeze, scattered dust, and a vanishing dream,” in contrast to God, who is “the sovereign, living God, ever-present.” All that we can do is appeal to God to be loving and merciful with us.

We come into the new year wrestling with ourselves. We have spent the past month inspecting our deeds, focusing on where we have gone off course, and striving to make amends with each other, with ourselves, and with God. And it is hard work. To approach someone we have wronged with openness and honesty takes tremendous courage. Our tradition provides us this annual opportunity to face our imperfections.

However, even when we have bravely performed real teshuvah, there is little we can do to change our core personalities, to affect the neuropathways in our brains that regulate all behavior. Pathways that we have spent a lifetime establishing. It is not a simple thing to rewire the brain.

The fact that we return annually to recite the same prayers and make the same confessions would seem to reinforce the notion that from year to year, most of us are the exact same people, struggling with the exact same character flaws.

So how can we make the celebration of the new year personally transformational?

A Cherokee legend teaches of a boy who got in a fight. His parents send him to go speak with his grandfather. The two of them go for a walk on a path through the forest. The leaves of the trees and the soft breeze protect them from the heat of the noonday sun. The two walk in silence, holding hands.

After a time the grandfather interrupts the silence. “Grandson, there are two wolves fighting in my heart. One wolf is good and does no harm. He lives in harmony with all around him, and does not take offense when no offense was intended. He will only fight when it is right to do so, and in the right way. But the other wolf! Ah! He is full of anger. The littlest thing will set him into a fit of temper. He fights everyone, all the time, for no reason. He cannot think because his anger and hate are so great. It is helpless anger, for his anger will change nothing. Sometimes, it is hard to live with these two wolves inside me, for both of them try to dominate my spirit.”

Hearing the words of his grandfather the grandson is filled with fear. With a tremor in his voice he asks, “Grandfather, which wolf will win the battle of your heart?”

To which he quietly responded, “The one I feed.”

We have Jewish terms that mirror these two wolves: the yetzer ha-tov and the yetzer ha-ra – the good inclination and the evil inclination.

A Talmudic sage teaches a similar lesson about what happens when we continue to feed our yetzer ha-ra.

Rabbi Yochanan ben Nuri taught: A person who tears his clothing in anger, or who breaks his utensils in anger or who throws coins in anger – consider him like someone who worships idols, for such is the art of the yetzer ha-ra. Today it says, “Go do this.” And tomorrow, it says “Go do that.” until finally it says “Go worship idols,” And he goes and worships them. (BT Shabbat 105b)

For the Rabbis, idol worship is the paradigm of evil and immorality. It is the ultimate sin towards which the yetzer ha-ra drives us. This midrash draws a causal connection between simple, everyday expressions of anger and the ultimate descent into depravity.

Another midrash teaches that Adam and Eve were created today, on Rosh Hashanah. The Torah describes this moment using the verb vayyitzer ha-adam. (Genesis 2:7) “God formed Adam.” A Rabbi in the Talmud noticed that that the word vayyitzer is written in the Torah with two letter yud‘s. This hints at the creation of two yetzer‘s. Two inclinations, one for good and one for evil. (BT Berachot 61a)

Thus the two inclinations, the two wolves, are part of us. In both the Cherokee legend and the Jewish concept of two yetzarim, we have outsourced agency. It is not we who personally direct our behavior. External forces, which happen to reside within our hearts, are at fault. But those forces cannot be eliminated, for as soon as we did so, we would cease to be human.

A another midrash teaches that after forming humanity, God looks at all creation and declares v’hinei tov me-od. “Behold, it is very good.” “Good” refers to the the good inclination. “Very good” refers to the evil inclination. “How can this be?” asks the midrash. Because without the yetzer ha-ra a person would not build a house, get married, have children, or engage in commerce. (Genesis Rabbah 9:7)

From a Jewish perspective, our goal must be to harness and control our inclinations, not to destroy them. We are not expected to deny who we are, to utterly eliminate aspects of ourselves. Neither are we allowed to complacently say, “this is just how God made me. There is nothing I can do about it.”

Short of brain damage or a lobotomy, we cannot ever banish parts of our core personality, but we can encourage certain traits and discourage others. As the grandfather acknowledges, while both wolves are always with us, it is we who feed them.

Let’s carry this metaphor a little further. For each one of us, our wolves have unique appetites. Some of our evil wolves feed on anger. We are quick to lose our temper, to shout at family members or friends, to swear at drivers who do not signal before merging, or to judge others harshly without first pausing to consider their perspectives and motivations.

Some of our wolves feed on jealousy. We compare our lives to others, and hold ourselves to unrealistic external standards. We want what our neighbors have: their homes, cars, families, bodies, full heads of hair.

Some of our wolves feed on low self-esteem. We downplay our successes and dwell on our failures. We strive too hard to be liked.

Some of our wolves feed on lust, or addiction, or greed.

What do our good wolves like to eat?

In the middle of Unetaneh Tokef, in just seven words, the Mahzor hints that our fates may not be quite as out of our control as we thought. Uteshuvah, utefilah, utzedakah ma-avirin et roa ha-g’zeirah. “But repentance, prayer, and tzedakah can turn aside the severity of the decree.”

Although the decree cannot be erased, it can be redirected. Perhaps therein lies the answer to our quandary – three actions that feed the good wolf, that can encourage our yetzer ha-tov to take control and direct our yetzer ha-ra.

First: Teshuvah, repentance. The path of teshuvah begins with being self-reflective, being willing to admit our weaknesses without blaming others and do the work that is necessary to repair our brokenness. Teshuvah is ultimately an expression of hope that our loves ones can take us back, and that God will allow us to return.

Second: Tefilah. Prayer, but I would suggest that it is really about humility. We are asked to recognize that there is more to existence than our own egos, to acknowledge the typically ignored blessings in our lives with a sense of gratitude, to turn to God with a sense of wonder and awe at a world that is simultaneously both accessible and unfathomable.

Third: Tzedakah. Translated alternately as justice, righteousness, and charity. We act with the knowledge that what we typically consider to be our possessions do not fully belong to us. Tzedakah asks us to be generous to others with our time and our resources, to accept that we have obligations to one another, a duty to bring justice and righteousness into the world, and ultimately, to place the needs of others ahead of our own.

Teshuvah, Tefilah, and Tzedakah: three feasts for the good wolf.

So although our personalities and characters may be sealed, our strengths and weaknesses determined for us by some complicated mixture of nature and nurture, even our fate in the coming year out of our control, our tradition teaches us that we have a say in the outcome of the battle taking place in our hearts.

It is about conditioning. Through the small, seemingly insignificant choices from day to day, we in fact have the ability to train our characters. We can cultivate qualities that make us better people and redirect qualities that separate us from each other and from God.

So as we celebrate Rosh Hashanah and enter the Aseret Y’mei Teshuvah, the Ten Days of Repentance leading up to Yom Kippur, let’s each ask ourselves: What do my wolves like to eat? How have I been feeding them? And what can I do in the year ahead to give the good wolf the upper hand in the battle for my heart?

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September 16, 2015

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For the Love of Israel – Rosh Hashanah 5776

I am a lover of Israel. And so it is with great love that I share the following: This summer has been a tough one for Israel. I am not talking about the Iran deal.

It started in June, when the Church of the Multiplication of Loaves and Fishes, one of the holiest sights in Israel for Christians, was burned down in an arson attack. Spray-painted on the wall were the words, in Hebrew, v’ha-elilim karot yikareitun – and their gods will be cut down, lifted out of our siddur from the prayer Aleinu.

On July 30, at the Jerusalem Gay Pride parade, an ultra-Orthodox man stabbed six people, one of whom, a teenage girl named Shira Banki, died. The murderer had been released from prison just three weeks previously after finishing a ten year sentence for stabbing several people at a gay pride parade in 2005.

The next day, Jewish arsonists firebombed the home of the Dawabsheh family in the Palestinian town of Duma, killing 18 month old Ali, and both of his parents. Four year old Ahmad is the only survivor, with burns covering 60% of his body. Hebrew graffiti was found on a nearby wall with the spray-painted words nekamah – “revenge,” and y’chi hamelekh ha-mashiach – “long live the the king, the messiah.”

These are not just stand-alone incidents. Over the last several years, there has been a rise in Jewish extremism and terrorism. Although often cloaked in religious garb, it is classic right-wing nationalism.

Without a doubt, these actions do not represent the attitudes of the vast majority of Israelis, or of Jews around the world. Politicians and national leaders from all parties, as well as leading Rabbis, were quick to publicly denounce violence, call for the criminals to be brought to justice, and pay condolence calls to the families of the victims. The Israeli public was appropriately outraged.

But when it comes to taking action, it is a different story. Israel has been slow to address the problem of Jewish extremism and racism.

Over the past three and a half years, more than forty churches and mosques have been burned in Israel, usually accompanied by biblical passages scrawled on a nearby wall. Until this past June’s attack, Israeli security services had not arrested a single person. No arrests have been made for the murder of the Dawabsheh family. Not a single Rabbi was detained for encouraging students to commit violence.

Do any of us have any doubts whatsoever about the capabilities of Israeli security services to take these kinds of Jewish hate-crimes seriously? Where were the task forces and undercover informants?

Just this summer, under pressure, the Shin Bet began using “Administrative Detention” to apprehend Jewish terrorist suspects. It is a tool that has been using against Palestinians, with great success, for many years. Why did they wait so long?

It did not happen earlier because there was no political will to do so. Policies by every single Israeli government for the past thirty five years to settle the West Bank with 400,000 Jews has quietly fanned the flames of Jewish nationalist extremism. The perpetrators are widely known to come from extreme religious nationalist settlements which often have a lot of political clout.

We cannot complain about moderate Muslims’ failure to take on Islamic extremism while we ignore our own Jewish extremism.

I know that some of us are thinking, ‘but what about all of the Islamic fundamentalism around the world? How can we even compare what a few religious wackos are doing to what is going in Syria, Iraq, Nigeria, and many other parts of the Muslim world?’ You are right, there is no comparison.

But they are not our own people. We are talking about family.

How do we, the American Jewish community, react when we hear about Jewish racism and Jewish terrorism?

There are some in the Jewish community that will never say anything critical of Israel, at least not publicly. Others have bought in to the anti-Zionist rhetoric that portrays Israel as a gross violator of human rights.

These two groups tend to be made up of the people who yell the loudest, creating what I suspect is a false depiction of a divided American Jewish community.

Anyone who says that Israel has a perfect human rights record is either blind or does not know what ethics is. Anyone who claims that Israel is one of the worst human rights abusers in the world is either naive or antisemitic.

Both extremists are guilty of the same assumption – that Israel must be perfect. Those who don’t see the blemishes and those who only see the blemishes are both blind.

But we can admit it: there are blemishes. Israel has some serious challenges. It struggles with poverty and unaffordable housing costs. It faces sharp social divides between different ethnic and religious streams. It has a problem with large numbers of immigrants trying to cross the border illegally. There is deeply-felt racism, conflict, and distrust between ethnic and religious groups. Hundreds of thousands of people who had lived on the land for generations were displaced when new immigrants arrived.

These problems should all sound familiar, because these are all challenges that are faced: here in America, as well as in Europe, South America, Asia, Africa, and Australia. In other words, nations, by definition, struggle to balance the pursuit of security and prosperity with the pursuit of justice and morality.

We don’t give up on America because it is not perfect. Nor should we give up on Israel because it is not perfect.

The Torah reading for this morning, the first day of Rosh Hashanah, begins with Isaac’s birth. Abraham circumcises his son on the eighth day, and then, at his weaning a few years later, throws a party on his behalf. At the party, Sarah, Isaac’s mother, sees Ishmael, Abraham’s other son, playing – m’tzachek. Something bothers her, and she tells her husband to banish Ishmael and his mother Hagar from the household, “for the son of that slave shall not share in the inheritance with my son Isaac.”

Abraham is distressed, but God reassures him that all will be okay. ‘Do what your wife tells you to do. I will make Ishmael the father of a great nation as well.’

Sarah and Abraham represent two distinct parental concerns. Sarah looks at Ishmael and sees in him a threat. One midrash explains that Ishmael was bragging that he, as the eldest son, would receive a double inheritance. Other commentators suggest that the word m’tzachek implies that Ishmael was involved in idolatry, and that Sarah was concerned that he would be a corrupting influence. Sarah is the mother who will protect her son from any perceived outside threat, regardless of collateral damage.

Abraham, in contrast, is concerned about the effect that favoring Isaac will have on Hagar and Ishmael. He knows that that there will be a personal and moral toll if he defends Isaac at all costs. He understands Sarah’s desire to protect her son, but he also sees the suffering that will ensue on the part of Hagar and Ishmael. So he is paralyzed, unable to take action until God breaks the stalemate in his conscience by assuring Abraham that Ishmael will not only survive, but will thrive. In the end, God affirms both Sarah’s protectiveness of Isaac and Abraham’s concern for Ishmael.

When I think about Israel today, I hear Sarah and Abraham’s voices arguing in my mind and in my heart.

We have got to look out for the Jewish people, because if we do not, nobody else will. And, we have to be concerned with morality in our treatment of the other.

In a perfect world, there would be no contradiction between these two values. In a perfect world, Sarah and Abraham would be of one mind when it came to matters affecting their son. In an almost perfect world, God would step in to offer a solution when our self-protection conflicts with our ethics.

Alas, we do not live in a perfect world, or even a near-perfect world.

As I said earlier, I am a lover of Israel. But there are different kinds of love.

Any good love affair begins with infatuation. Our beloved glows. Everything she does is perfect.

After Israel gained independence in 1948, Jews around the world were infatuated. Israel could do no wrong. What was the narrative? Israel had risen out of the ashes of the Holocaust. The New Jewish soldier-farmers fought a scrappy war of Independence against all odds to enable the Jewish people to come out of exile and reclaim our place in history.

In 1967, Israel’s sneak attack and victory against menacing Arab armies created an illusion of invincibility. It was David against Goliath, and we were David.

In 1982, that image began to crumble. Israel invaded another country in a war that was optional. It was not, like the others, a fight for survival. The IDF found itself an occupying power in Southern Lebanon. Atrocities were committed. While Israeli soldiers looked the other way, Lebanese Christian Phalangists murdered over two thousand civilians in the Sabra and Shatila refugee camps in Beirut.

International condemnation followed, and the Israeli public was furious. Ariel Sharon, the Defense Minister at the time, was found to be personally responsible by an Israeli commission of inquiry, and was forced to resign.

The Lebanon war was followed a few years later by the First Intifada, Oslo, the Second Intifada, The Gaza pullout and subsequent wars with Hamas. You know the stories.

It has been a complicated thirty years in which Israel is no longer David to the Arabs’ Goliath. Israel has struggled to balance security and morality as a powerful nation with dangerous enemies and sovereignty over people who refuse to accept it.

And all of this occurs in the spotlight, under a magnifying glass. I do not need to tell you this. So what kind of love do we bring with us?

For those of you (I do have to exclude myself) born before 1967, your foundational memories of Israel are of a nation that can do no wrong. The American Jewish community, especially after the Six Day War, was infatuated.

But for those of you born after 1982 (again, I have to exclude myself) – the only Israel you have known is one that has struggled, in the most public way, with being depicted as an immoral aggressor. You never had a chance to experience infatuation and fall in love.

In recent years, the rise of the BDS movement on many college campuses has created such an oppressive atmosphere for Jewish students, that some feel the need to hide their identity, and not get involved in Jewish life altogether. The rest are put in the position, as 18-22 year olds, of defending Israel on behalf of the rest of the American Jewish community. It is a tremendously unfair burden.

Some American Jews are so turned off by all of the attention that they check out. Why should I care? Why should I get emotionally invested in something that attracts so much conflict? For those Jews, Israel does not play much of a role in their identity.

That is unfortunate. Israel has been central to the Jewish people throughout our existence. When God first spoke to Abraham, it was to send him to an unknown Promised Land where his descendants would one day constitute a nation that would serve as a blessing to the world. When our ancestors left Egypt, their destination was Israel. At the Covenant at Mount Sinai, we committed to accepting the Torah and the mitzvot and God committed to settling us in the land of Israel in peace and prosperity.

And so, Ahavat Yisrael, the love of Israel, both the people and the land, has been central to Jewish identity from our formation as a family, as a religion, and as a nation.

But what kind of love?

Not infatuation that blinds us to seeing our beloved as she truly is. Real love is not blind. Real love requires our eyes to be wide open. Real love is conditional. I love you because of who you are, not regardless of who you are.

So what would a mature, lasting love of Israel look like?

On Rosh Hashanah, as we celebrate the beginning of the new year, we engage in Cheshbon HaNefesh, taking stock of our souls – not just as individuals, but also as a people. What does Cheshbon HaNegesh mean on a national scale?

It means lively and respectful debate about where we are as a Jewish people, here in our local community, in America, and as a global Jewish community. Israel, as our eternal homeland, must be part of that debate.

Unfortunately, so many aspects of Israel have become polarized. If you are a Republican, then you are against the Iran deal, against Obama, and for Netanyahu. If you are a Democrat, you are for the Iran deal, for Obama, and against Netanyahu. We have to reject this kind of “issue packaging.” A person can be against the Iran deal and still like Obama. A person can be for the Iran deal and against the settlements. It is possible to be disappointed in both Netanyahu and Obama, or to be fans of both (not very likely). We have allowed the loudest voices to polarize the Jewish community in a very unhealthy way.

Let me tell you about the Israel I love. As you may know, my family and I recently returned from a five month sabbatical, most of which we spent living in Israel, so I’ve had a lot of time recently to think about this.

I love that Israel provides an opportunity for the Jewish people to bring the values of our tradition into the real world. When we read the Bible and pay close attention, we realize that Jewish sovereignty in the Bible ultimately failed. The Torah presents a model of a society that, in addition to an elaborate system of ritual worship, emphasizes justice, ethical social and economic interactions, and righteous treatment of all members of society, including resident non-Israelites. The biblical Prophets are constantly railing against both the leaders and the populace for failing to live up to the standards established by the Torah.

The modern State of Israel, as a democratic Jewish State, offers us an opportunity to bring Jewish values into the world, with all of the messy challenges that are entailed. And while not perfect, I think Israel’s record is pretty strong, especially considering how many challenges it faces.

I also love the expansion of interest in Jewish life that has been taking place in Israel in recent years. More and more secular Israelis are turning back to our religious tradition and our texts for spiritual fulfillment. In contrast to a shrinking non-Orthodox Judaism in America, the liberal movements in Israel are growing.

I love all the ways that usually go unreported that different groups interact with each other positively. In June, Dana and I participated in the Zarzir Night Run. Zarzir is a Bedouin Village in the Jezreel Valley close to where we lived in Kibbutz Chanaton. Our kids drove through Zarzir every day on their way to and from school. On full moons during the summer time, a running store on the outskirts of Zarzir hosts a night run on paths through the fields. Well over a thousand men and women showed up, including religious Jews, secular Jews, and Arabs.

I love that Israel is expanding it’s national parks, and making them more accessible. I love that Hebrew has been revived as a spoken language. I love that Israel has an entire month dedicated to books. I love Israeli pop music.

There are also ways in which I wish Israel did better, and it is love that makes me care so much about where Israel is off the mark.

I am horrified that there are racist Jews, and even more so that there are members of our people who commit terror. And I am disappointed that Israel’s leaders have been so slow to do anything about it.

I wish that the government supported education equally for all Israelis. Currently, there are different funding levels depending on which public school system a child is learning in. Arab Israeli students receive far less education spending than their Jewish counterparts. That is wrong.

I cannot stand that the Rabbanut is allowed to impose its will on the rest of the country in matters pertaining to marriage, divorce, and conversion. I wish the Israeli government recognized the rights of non-Orthodox movements so that, for example, a wedding officiated by one of my Masorti colleagues would be recognized by the State.

I wish the government did not continue to encourage new Jewish settlement in the West Bank. I think it makes peace more difficult and sends unspoken messages that encourage extremist behavior.

Israel is a complex country that is far from perfect. And yet, to me, it is special and unique. I think it ought to be that way for all Jews. So I am not asking any of us to love everything. I am asking all of us to find what it is that we love about Israel, and love it even more. And if we can identify aspects of Israel that we think are off the mark, it is ok to disagree, as long as we are not disagreeable.

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Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

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September 5, 2015

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Memory, Gratitude, and the Promised Land – Ki Tavo 5775

Imagine, for a moment, that you are an Israelite. Your parents, along with their ancestors, were slaves in Egypt. Nearly forty years ago, God freed them and brought them out into the wilderness. You were born in that wilderness, and have spent your entire life living a precarious existence: in-between, dependent on God for food, water, and protection; no longer enslaved, but not truly in control of your destiny.

Finally, you are within striking distance of the final destination, the Land of Israel. The Jordan River flows in front of you, and on the other side you can see hills rising up into the distance

Your leader, Moses, old and weathered, called the entire nation together to hear a series of final speeches, which you have been listening to for the past several days. He reviewed the history of the previous forty years, taught about God, and listed commandment after commandment.

At this point, it’s enough already. You’re exhausted. You’re bored of eating manna for breakfast, lunch and dinner. You’re sick of living a nomadic existence. You want to settle down. You’ve bean hearing about the Promised Land your entire life. It’s time that someone made good on that promise.

This morning, you roll out of your tent to hear yet another speech. But today, Moses shifts gears. He leads you through a mental time travel journey.

‘Right now,’ he begins, ‘you are about to enter the land that God has promised you. You will settle it, and you will begin to build your lives. You will construct homes, and you will plant seeds. When the first harvest comes in, you need to do something. Gather samples of the first fruits from everything you plant and bring them in a basket to the Priest. And then, recite the following speech:

My father was a fugitive Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us . . . and the LORD heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. The LORD freed us from Egypt . . . He brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. (Deut. 26: 5–10)

It looks like it’s finally about to happen.

Notice there are three distinct time periods in this narrative: the present, in which Moses is speaking to the assembled Israelite nation; the not-too-distant future, after the Israelites have settled the land and gathered their first harvest; and the distant past, beginning with the first Israelites who made their way down to Egypt and were enslaved.

Present, future, and past – all existing in a single moment.

In the current reality, the Israelites can imagine themselves in the Promised Land. They can see it, just ahead – across a river and over the hills.

But Moses, who will not be joining them there, is not content to let them simply arrive. In fact, he knows that if they just show up, the Promised Land will slip through their fingers. Two more things are needed – memory and gratitude.

The Israelites will not be able to appreciate the full extent of what they have achieved unless they keep the memory of where they have come from alive. They need to express that memory with gratitude. Only then can the achievement of the Promised Land be real for them. So Moses prescribes a thanksgiving offering of first fruits to be accompanied by the performance of a historical narrative.

And here we are, thousands of years later, in yet a fourth time period.

Let’s think about this in personal terms. Our lives are comprised of a series of journeys with numerous destinations. We have had struggles on our way. Successes, failures, disappointments, and surprises. But hopefully, we have managed to articulate goals for ourselves. Some of them we achieve. Others remain elusive.

There are the big life goals: Have close friends. Fall in love. Get married. Have kids. Have grandkids. Get a degree. Build a career. And so on.

And there are character goals – Be a kind person. Be a supportive friend. Be generous. Contribute positively to the world. Develop expertise in something.

Often, when we finally get what we want, we find that it is not the same as what we have built up in our minds. The hype overshadows the reality. Or, we don’t give ourselves enough credit for our successes. We are disappointed.

We are asked us to put ourselves into the sandals of our ancient Israelite ancestors. Partially-redeemed, able to imagine a Promised Land that is full of blessing, but required to recall the past with gratitude before we can fully experience that future in a sustainable way.

Rosh Hashanah is just over a week away. It is a time when we consider the journeys that we are on. Where are we headed? Do we need to perform a course-correction?

Let’s also consider where we have come from. Who do we have to be thankful to? What blessings that we had nothing to do with have made our lives and the lives of those who have come before us better. What can we offer as an expression of gratitude?

Only by taking the time to remember where we have come from, and how truly blessed we are, can we fully appreciate what we have to gain in the future.

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Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

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August 29, 2015

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Say Something Nice, Even If You Don’t Want To – Ki Tetzei 5775

Like the last several Torah portions, Ki Tetzei is comprised entirely of mitzvot, commandments. Most of these mitzvot are bein adam l’adam. They address our relationships with each other: relations between husbands and wives, children and parents, brothers and sisters, neighbors, customers, proprietors, friends in our communities, and those whom we don’t so much care for, the poor among us, citizens, as well as resident aliens. Several mitzvot address compassionate treatment of animals.

We live interconnected lives, supporting and depending on vast networks of people on a daily basis. The Torah teaches us that how we conduct these relationships is of ultimate importance.

Being Jewish is not limited to a set of cultural practices and rituals. Just as important is our system of mitzvot, which is undergirded by an ethical system that treasures the inherit worth and equality of every human being, as well as the accountability that each of us bear for our decisions and actions.

It is just over two weeks until Rosh Hashanah. We are halfway through the month of Elul, which means that we should be taking stock of our lives, conducting a cheshbon nefesh, a self-examination. A big part of that self-examination should focus on our relationships with each other.

The mitzvot in the Torah portion deal primarily with specific events that occur between people, including dealing with misbehaving children, divorce, using honest weights in business dealings, fulfilling vows, and so on. When we take a step back, we see that each individual interaction that we have with one another is a manifestation of our overall relationship.

According to family systems theory, as described in the book Generation to Generation by Edwin Friedman, relationships exist under a condition of homeostasis. There is a balance between us, with each of us playing a set role. It might not be a healthy balance, by the way.

Homeostatic relationship systems don’t like to change, but they are dynamic. If one person in the relationship draws near, the other is likely to pull away, often unconsciously, in order to maintain the balance of the relationship system.

This is the time of year, however, when we have the opportunity to take a good, and hopefully honest look at ourselves and ask how we can be better. We examine our relationships with the people in our lives: husbands, wives, partners, children and parents, siblings, friends, and coworkers.

But because our fundamental relationships are homeostatic, it is really hard to make a difference.

Let’s think about the following single aspect of our relationship with one person who we care about. Consider how we speak to that person – specifically, how often we say something positive compared to how often we say something negative.

What is the ratio? Let’s be honest. One to one? One compliment for every criticism. Three to one? Ten to one? Or maybe it’s something like one positive statement for every three negative statements.

It might be difficult to estimate for ourselves, but we have got two weeks before Rosh Hashanah to gather some data. That should be enough time.

A 2004 study looked at a group of sixty leadership teams at a large information-processing company. It was trying to determine which factor made the biggest impact between the most and least successful teams. The conclusion was that the ratio of positive comments to negative comments within members of the team was the greatest determining factor in their success. They divided the teams into three groups. The average ratio of the highest performing teams was 5.6 – that is, nearly six positive comments for every negative comment. The ratio of the middle group was 1.9 – about two to one. And the ratio of the lowest performing teams was 0.36. In other words, team members criticized each other almost three times as often as they praised one another.

This should not be surprising to us. Most people tend to dwell on the negative rather than the positive. Receive a performance review with ten positive statements and one critique, and the only one we pay any attention to is the negative comment.

This is not only true in the workplace. The number one determinant in predicting the likelihood of a married couple getting divorced is the ratio of positive to negative comments that the partners make to one another. The ideal ratio? Five to one. For marriages that end in divorce, the ratio is .77 to one – about three positive comments to every four negative ones.

I suspect that the language we use with one another is more likely an indication of the state of a relationship rather than its cause. But, I also believe that conscious adjustments to how we speak with one another can have a beneficial impact on the underlying health of a family, a marriage, or a friendship.

Make the effort to be more positive, even when it does not feel natural, or does not come easy to us. In the moment, it will certainly make a difference for the other person, and probably also for ourselves. Over time, it can also change the relationship itself.

Let me offer a few examples. It does not have to be complicated: Start with household chores:

• Thanks for setting the table, doing the dishes, taking out the trash, and so on.

• Thanks so much for working hard to provide for our family. It must be stressful to carry that burden.

• Wow. The house was so clean when I came home today. It was nice to walk in the door to that.

• You really kept your cool when our daughter had her shouting tantrum. I could not have remained so level-headed. I’m glad you were there.

• Good job for going to the gym today.

• This morning, you worked hard to get everything done so that you could be out the door on time. It helped make things really calm in the house, and helped me start off my day on a good note.

Even the superficial things matter.

• I like your shirt.

• Those pants look nice on you.

This might seem obvious, but I wonder if we take advantage of every opportunity to say something nice to the people in our lives.

After all, there is a lot that holds us back. Anger, for one. When we are mad at someone, the last thing we want to do is compliment them for doing something nice. We want to punish them.

We also take each other for granted. We do not always recognize the stress that another person is experiencing. We often fail to notice the effort our family member has made to vacuum the house, make dinner, or take the kids to school.

But it is those small statements we make that communicate “I care about you. I am happy that you are in my life.” It feels good to receive them, and it feels good to make them.

That is my challenge to us for the next two weeks. Pick one person in your life. Count the number of positive statements you say to that person and compare it to the number of negative comments. Calculate the ratio. And then find more opportunities to give that ratio a bump upwards.

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Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

Posted on

August 22, 2015

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Deuteronomy (דברים), Divrei Torah (Weekly Sermons)

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Pursuing Righteousness at Hanaton – Shoftim 5775

It is not possible for me to cover everything that I would like to share about the past five months in the next few minutes. Expect it to come out in dribs and drabs over the course of the coming year.

This morning, I would like to describe a bit about the community in which my family and I lived for the majority of our time on sabbatical.

When trying to figure out where we would live, we initially thought of Jerusalem. It soon became apparent that finding a school that would accept our children for only three months would pose a challenge. So we started to think of alternatives. In the course of asking around for suggestions, several people said, “Why don’t you check out Kibbutz Hanaton?”

Hanaton is located on a hill in the Lower Gallilee, about 30 minutes East of Haifa, a few kilometers from the Movil interchange. It overlooks the Eshkol Reservoir, the major water reservoir serving the North. It lies between the Bedouin village of Bir al-Mahsur and the Arab town of K’far Manda.

Dana and I had heard about Hanaton. We knew that it was a Masorti kibbutz in the North. Masorti is the name of the Conservative Movement in Israel. It has a guest house that some USY Pilgrimage groups used to stay at for a few days, although neither of us had been there. But we did not know anything beyond that.

So we started to inquire, including sending an email to a friend who had a friend who lived part-time on Hanaton. That friend of a friend sent an email to the Hanaton listserve, and before we knew it, people that we had never met were reaching out to us, offering to answer questions about life on Hanaton, school options, and living opportunities.

We lucked out in finding a basement apartment for rent, and then we started making our plans.

But let’s back up. Eight years ago, Kibbutz Hanaton, which was founded in 1983 by a group of Olim from North America, was down to about three members, and had hundreds of thousands of shekels worth of debt. It was on the verge of collapse.

Rabbi Yoav Ende was a recently ordained Masorti Rabbi who had a vision of building an inclusive, open, pluralistic religious community. He recruited a small cohort of young families who were ready to take a risk and try something new. In 2008, they moved to Hanaton and transformed it into a kibbutz mitchadesh – a revitalized kibbutz.

Hanaton is not what you are thinking of when you hear the word “kibbutz.” Kids live with their parents. Each family lives in its own home, owns its own belongings, and has its own car. There is no community dining hall.

Collectively, the kibbutz owns a few businesses, the largest being a refet, or dairy farm, which is wisely located at the top of the hill, upwind from the housing area. This ensures that kibbutz members have a constant olfactory reminder of the shared enterprise which is the kibbutz’s most profitable endeavor. I like to call that reminder eau de refet.

There is a fantastic boutique winery called Jezreel Valley Winery, a hydroponic lettuce farm called Yarok al HaYam, a ceramics studio, and a horse therapy center. Most kibbutz members work outside of the kibbutz in just about any profession you could imagine. There are several nursery schools, and a group is actively trying to establish a grade school on Hanaton.

So in what way is Hanaton actually a kibbutz? It’s collective in the sense that the people who live there have joined together to build a community founded on shared values of Judaism, pluralism, democracy, and egalitarianism. Members come from diverse backgrounds: Masorti, Reform, Secular, and Orthodox. They come from diverse political persuasions. There are all sorts of family configurations living at Hanaton, including single parents and same sex families.

On Shabbat, the central streets of the kibbutz are closed to automobiles, although not every kibbutz member keeps Shabbat or kashrut. If someone wants to use their car, they just park it outside the gate. Friends who identify as secular explained to us that they want their children to grow up with a deep knowledge, learned from lived experience, of what it means to be a Jew. Friends who identify as religious talk about wanting to raise their children in a pluralistic community. There are nine Rabbis living on Hanaton, hailing from every single major movement in Judaism.

There is no Mara D’atra, or person who is in charge of making religious decision on behalf of the community. Questions are dealt with somewhat collectively.

Tefilah on Shabbat feels a lot like here at Sinai – informal, participatory, child friendly, and non-judgmental. Each week, a different family or group takes responsibility for Shabbat services, assigning services leaders and Torah readers, preparing the D’var Torah, and sponsoring the kiddush.

Now at 70 families and growing, Hanaton recently closed its debt and is continuing to attract members, construct new homes, and build new community facilities. Because just about everyone there has moved in within the last seven years, the community is comprised mostly of young families, meaning there are kids everywhere. They are free to roam unsupervised. That took a little bit of adjustment for our family. We knew our kids would be safe, because we knew that there would be an entire kibbutz of adults looking out for them. Needless to say, it was great for them.

The Hanaton Educational Center, led by Rabbi Ende, is also doing fantastic things. It just graduated its third Mechinah cohort. Mechinah is kind of like a gap year for Israeli high school graduates before they begin their army or national service. The Mechinistim come from all over the country. Like the members of the kibbutz, they arrive from diverse backgrounds. They take classes in which they discuss Judaism, philosophy, Israel, and Zionism. They volunteer in the surrounding area. They build connections with neighboring Arab communities. And they are adopted by families from the kibbutz. It is really touching to see how past graduates came back to be with their kibbutz families for Shavuot.

This year, the Educational Center is starting a gap year program for North American students as well. Having lived there, and knowing Rabbi Ende and the other people who are running the program, I can tell you that it will be an incredible experience. Let me know if you are interested.

And they have more plans for expansion as well.

Rabbi Ende explained to me that his motivation for rebuilding Hanaton and its Educational Center is Zionistic. He wants to make a positive contribution to Israeli society, and he knows that the best way he can do this is by focusing not on national or international policy, but rather, on his own community. He is trying to build a kibbutz that embraces values of Judaism, pluralism, and democracy, and that teaches those values to young Israelis before they begin their army service. That way, they will bring their increased understanding with them when they defend their country. The Educational Center also tries to pursue those values in the wider community through programming with neighboring villages, especially some of the nearby Arab communities.

Of course, as everywhere, Hanaton struggles over some decisions, and as a young community, is still figuring out how best to talk about controversial topics without dividing people.

So let me tell you about our first days in Israel, back in March. We arrive at Ben Gurion Airport, spend our first couple of nights with Motti, Sinai’s High Holiday Cantor, and his family, and then drive up to the kibbutz. We cannot get into our apartment, so we drop our bags off on the porch of someone who until now we have only met by email. Then, we do what everyone around the world does when they move into a new home – we go to IKEA.

Wandering around IKEA, our phones start ringing and buzzing with calls and texts. Apparently, there is a gaggle of third graders outside of our locked apartment, eager to meet the new boy and show him around the kibbutz. What a welcome! And that pretty much characterizes our experience for the next three and a half months.

Congregation Sinai is a really friendly community. When someone new shows up in services, our members go out of their way to welcome them and help them settle in. We found Hanaton to be very familiar in this regard.

This was not our experience at other synagogues we visited in Israel. When we entered other communities, people did not generally come up to introduce themselves and find out who we were. But the members of Hanaton went above and beyond. People offered us furniture and cooking supplies. Our kids were welcomed into after school chugim, activities. We were invited to Shabbat meals.

Dana and I tried to help out wherever we could. When they found out I played guitar, I was recruited to help out with tefilah in “Shishi Yehudi,” a supplementary religious school program that takes place on Friday mornings. Dana helped prepare food for the Yom Ha’atzmaut celebration and chaperoned several class trips as the medic. We helped out with Shabbat services. It was great for us to be able to participate in community life. It was also kind of nice, I have to admit, to arrive a little bit late to shul, and fall asleep in the back row.

At the end of our time, the same friend on whose porch we left our luggage hosted a goodbye party for us. We are so grateful to the members of Kibbutz Hanaton for opening up their hearts to us when they knew that we were only going to be there for a limited time.

In Parashat Shoftim, Moshe presents detailed instructions about how the Israelites are to form functioning, thriving communities once they have entered the Promised Land. As the opening words suggest, shoftim v’shotrim titen l’kha b’khol she’arekha. “Judges and officers you shall appoint in all of your gates” – the overall emphasis is on justice, or righteousness. Indeed, a few verses later, we read the famous words, tzedek, tzedek tirdof – Justice, justice shall you pursue. From the appointment of judges, officials, and leaders, to the conduct of court cases, to rooting out immorality, to waging war against enemies, Parashat Shoftim recognizes justice as a goal that must constantly pursued, even as absolute justice remains perpetually out of reach. It also emphasizes that justice can only emerge when members of a society work together to make these ideals a reality in the messy real world.

This is what we found at Hanaton – a group of people who have moved their entire families into a community in order to pursue this vision of tzedek. I often found myself thinking that Hanaton is what Sinai would be like if we all lived together in a small community. It is a nice thought. We are a community made of members who have come together to pursue righteousness.

Sinai has always been lay led, but it is not easy for a synagogue to function without its rabbi for five months. From everything I have heard and seen, the Sinai community has thrived. I am not surprised. We have an incredible community of knowledgeable, talented, and dedicated members. There was someone to deliver a d’rash, lead services, and chant Torah every week. Education programs continued while I was gone. A group of musicians worked together to lead Kabbalat Shabbat services. Mourners received the care and comfort that they needed.

I am not going to list the names of the many volunteers and staff members who stepped up these past five months, but I do want to let you know how much my sabbatical enriched me. It deepened my connection to Israel, and my Jewish identity. And it was a great experience for my family. Thank you for making it possible.

Todah Rabah.

Posted by

Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

Posted on

March 15, 2015

Posted under

Divrei Torah (Weekly Sermons), Exodus (שמות)

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Melakhah and Avodah: Work of the Hands and Work of the Heart – Vayakhel – P’kudei 5775

Finally, the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary that the Israelites build so that God’s Presence can be with them in the wilderness, is finished. After all of the Torah’s detailed descriptions of the building project, the time has come for a final inspection. The workers bring each of the various parts of the Mishkan forward for Moses’ approval.

Imagine the scene: One by one, each of the parts of the Tabernacle appears: the planks, the posts, the coverings, the furnishing, the menorah, the clothing of the priests. All of it must pass inspection. Each work crew waits its turn. When called, the foreman steps up in front of everyone to present the result of his team’s labor to the boss.

That must have been a tense moment. After all, this is not just any building. This is the mishkan, a dwelling place for God. Did all of the work crews pull their weight? Did anyone cut corners, or get lazy? How is the Chief Building Inspector, Moses, going to react?

The Torah tells us:

“Just as the Lord had commanded Moses, so the Israelites had done all the work (avodah). And when Moses saw that they had performed all the tasks (melakhah) – as the Lord had commanded, so they had done – Moses blessed them.” (Exodus 43:38-39)

This is probably not the reaction they are expecting.

I get the impression that this blessing is kind of spontaneous. Moses is so overjoyed with what he sees, that he cannot contain himself. He bursts out in praise.

But what does he say? What is the blessing?

According to a midrash, Moses pronounces these words: Yehi ratzon she-tishreh shekhinah b’ma-aseh y’deikhem. “May it be his will that the Shekhinah will rest on the work of your hands.” (Tanhuma P’kudei 11)

What a wonderful blessing! The entire nation has been occupied in this project for many months. Our commentators teach that every single person had a part to play – some as designers, others as builders, craftsmen, weavers, and yes, some as donors. Each person is invested.

It is conceivable that after expending so much effort to build a building, one might be tempted to focus on its physical aspects – such as it’s beauty and sturdiness – and pay less attention to its spiritual function.

And so Moses’ blessing reminds the people of the Mishkan‘s purpose – to be a dwelling place for God’s Presence, the Shekhinah. “May the Shekhinah rest on the work of your hands.” Use this beautiful edifice for holy purposes. Don’t let it feed your ego, or symbolize greed.

But what is it that triggers Moses to offer this blessing? Why is he so inspired?

The Chatam Sofer, an Ashkenazi Rabbi from the early nineteenth century, suggests an answer. He notices that the Torah seems to be repeating itself. The Torah states: “Just as the Lord had commanded Moses, so the Israelites had done all the work (avodah).”

And then immediately afterwards says “And when Moses saw that they had performed all the tasks (melakhah)…”

They did all the work, they performed all the tasks. Why does the Torah need to say it twice, but with different words? Those two words, avodah and melakhah, says the Chatam Sofer, are two different things.

The second term, melakhah, refers to physical work. The work of our hands. It is the same word that is used at the end of the creation of the world to describe the work that God had done. Melakhah is also the word that the Torah uses to describe the kinds of activities that are prohibited on Shabbat. Melakhah is “creative and destructive labor.” It is the activities we perform which demonstrate our conquering, or mastery, of the physical world. It is what we do during the six days of the week.

Avodah is a different kind of work. It is internal. Nidvat halev, says the Chatam Sofer. “Generosity of the heart” without any concrete action.

“What is the avodah that is performed in the heart?” asks the Talmud (BT Taanit 2a) “Prayer.” And so, the term avodah is used to describe the worship of God in the Temple through the sacrificial system, and later to prayer as we understand it today.

In fact, the Chatam Sofer explains, the Torah is not repeating itself at all. The melakhah that the Israelites perform – the physical work that they do in building the Mishkan – is infused with avodah, with generosity of heart and spirit and with a desire to carry out God’s will.

But how could Moses have known this? How can he see into the hearts of every single Israelite?

Moses knows what is in their hearts because he has seen the final product that their hands have produced. He sees that it is pristine, without a single mistake or blemish. Moses knows that such a perfect result can only be achieved from pure hearts. The love and purity that the Israelites bring to their work infuses the very fabric of its creation. It is both melakhah and avodah.

When Moses sees this, he is overcome with emotion. Proud of these people whom he leads, he prays that the spirit which has motivated their efforts up to this point will remain with them so that the Mishkan can fulfill its function as a dwelling place for the Shekhinah.

It was eight years ago almost to the day that I first came to Congregation Sinai. At the time, I was here to interview to become its Rabbi. The synagogue still had that “new shul smell.” The building was brand new, having been constructed within the previous year.

I remember a story that was told to me during that interview weekend. Barry, our congregant who generously gave a year of his time to become the contractor for this wonderful building, stood before the synagogue and told the Sinai membership: “I have built it, now go and fill it.”

He knew that, as beautiful and well-designed a structure as this is, unless we infuse it with spirit, it is simply walls and a roof. Our community collectively makes it worthy of being a beit k’nesset, a house of gathering, a synagogue.

I would say that we have filled out these walls nicely. Congregation Sinai is a place in which we celebrate life’s joys and mourn its sorrows together, in which we express our connection to Israel and to Jews around the world. It is a sanctuary in which we come together to worship God. It is a center in which learning takes place by students of all ages. It is a shul in which the ancient values and practices of our people are lived and made relevant to modern life on a daily basis.

Our community has grown larger, with more people attending Shabbat services, more children in our Nursery School and Religious School, more programming, and more classes.

The reason for all of this is because we have so many people in our community who are willing and eager to work on behalf of this congregation. And I mean both kinds of work: melakhah and avodah. The physical work that has to be done, and the generosity of heart that is an expression of the love we have for each other and for God.

I feel so blessed to be the Rabbi of this community. And I am so grateful to have the opportunity to begin a shabbaton, a sabbatical, tomorrow. As this date has approached, people have been nervous – and that is understandable. What are we going to do without our Rabbi?

I am confident, however that Sinai will thrive in my five-month absence. We have worked hard to plan for all of the various contingencies that may arise, and to cover all of the responsibilities that generally call for a Rabbi.

Our religious services will continue. Limmud La-ad classes will take place. Celebrations will occur. There will even be some new initiatives, such as the Kabbalat Shabbat musical ensemble that will be leading services this coming Friday night. We are so blessed to have a community with so many knowledgeable and talented members who are willing and eager to give of themselves. That is why I am not especially worried. And it is why I am really looking forward to seeing all the ways in which we have grown when I come back at the end of the summer.

I really cannot fully express how grateful I am to everyone who has already stepped forward to plan for the next five months. I am especially appreciative of Joelle and the rest of the Sinai staff, who will be taking on numerous additional tasks during the time that I am away.

I can think of no better words to say than Moses’ blessing to the Israelites after they presented the completed Mishkan to him after months and months of melakhah and avodah, work of the hands and labors of the heart.

Yehi ratzon she-tishreh Shekhinah b’ma-aseh y’deikhem.

“May it be God’s will that the Shekhinah will rest on the work of your hands.”

Posted by

Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

Posted on

March 8, 2015

Posted under

Divrei Torah (Weekly Sermons), Exodus (שמות)

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It’s Impossible To Be Present Through A Lens – Ki Tissa 5775

I love going into the Nursery School. It is always such a breath of fresh air. These little human beings express themselves so honestly, without the inhibitions which they will acquire soon enough.

Every year, the nursery school celebrates the morning of Purim, and I get to join them for a visit. I usually tell them the abridged story of the Megillah, and then join them in a Purim parade. Loads of fun.

By the time I got to them this week though, they were out of control. I walked into the social hall and they all jumped up and swarmed around me, announcing themselves and their costumes.

“Look at me! Look at me! I’m a firefighter. I’m a princess. I’m Darth Vader! I’m Batman! I’m Elsa! I’m Elsa! I’m Batman! I’m Elsa! I’m Batman! I’m Elsa!” There were a lot of Elsa’s and Batman’s this year.

I was really struck by their desire to be seen and recognized. It was contagious. Once one of them announced herself, the rest soon followed, and I was soon surrounded by a gaggle of screaming preschoolers.

In just a few years, they will not be shouting out “Look at me! I’m Elsa!” But that innate need to be acknowledged will not go away. These kids will find other ways to call out for recognition, some constructive, some destructive.

It is a core human trait. We want to know that we matter. We want assurance that the people in our lives see us. In religious terms, we want to know that God cares about us.

The Israelites want the same thing. They want to know that they matter. They want to know that Moses, their leader, sees them, and is not going to abandon them. They want to know that God is with them.

As this morning’s Torah portion, Ki Tissa, opens, Moses has been up on Mt. Sinai for approximately forty days – depending on who is counting. The children of Israel, encamped at the bottom, have been waiting patiently for their leader to finish talking to God, come back to them, and tell them what to do next.

But something goes wrong. Day follows day. Week follows week. Still no Moses. The people grow impatient. Rashi explains that when Moses told the Israelites that he would be gone for forty days, he meant that they should start counting that night. But the Israelites started counting right away, and so they were a day off.

In any event, the Israelites gather in front Aaron and ask him to make them a god to go before them, because “that man Moses, who brought us from the land of Egypt – we do not know what has happened to him.” (Exodus 32:1)

Aaron gathers gold, melts it, and casts it into a mold, producing a golden calf. The people, overjoyed, announce “This is your God, O Israel, who brought you out of the land of Egypt” (Exodus 32:4) and then plan a celebration for the next day.

This episode, the Sin of the Golden Calf, is usually depicted as one of the worst catastrophes in the Torah. Right after leaving Egypt amidst signs and wonders and receiving the Ten Commandments at Mt. Sinai, the Israelites have already violated the fundamental mitzvah of not worshipping idols.

But let’s think about it from their perspective for a moment. The Israelites do not know where they stand. Moses is gone. He had been unclear about precisely how long he would be away. When he does not show up after the allotted time has passed, the Israelites feel abandoned.

And God? God is terrifying. Brings plagues, splits seas, and drowns armies. Creates earthquakes and thunderstorms. Invisible.

So it is understandable that the Israelites are feeling a bit lost by now. They want something tangible that they can see and interact with to lead them on in their journey. They want to know that they matter, and that they have not been forgotten and abandoned in this wasteland.

What better thing to reassure them than a shiny gold cute little baby cow. Remember what they say after it comes out of the fire: “This is your God, O Israel, who brought you out of the land of Egypt.” They are not worshipping another god. To the Israelites, this is the Lord and Moses all rolled up into one.

But God is not sympathetic to the Israelites’ fears. For making a statue, God wants to destroy them in an instant. Moses talks God down, and then hurries to see what is going on.

Moses’ reaction to the Israelites seems almost feigned. He already knows what they have done and has even spoken up on their behalf. He waits until he is actually within sight of the Golden Calf before he turns on the anger and shatters the Tablets of the Covenant.

Perhaps Moses recognizes what the Israelites are going through at that moment. Consider what he says to God afterwards when God threatens to wipe out all of the Israelites and start over with Moses. Moses refuses point blank, instead delivering God an ultimatum: “If you don’t forgive them, then You can erase me from Your book!” Why would Moses go to bat for these people unless he empathizes with them?

What God does not seem to understand yet is that the Israelites are emotionally fragile. They really do need to be reassured. Moses gets it. He understands that, as a Prophet, the intermediary between the Israelites and the Lord, it is up to him to teach God how to relate to the people.

After a bit of negotiating, Moses makes two important requests. One, he asks God to reveal God’s self to Moses. Moses wants to have a better understanding of with Whom he is dealing. The second request is on behalf of the people. “Unless You go in the lead,” Moses instructs God, “do not make us leave this place.” (Exodus 33:15) Moses knows that the Israelites need more recognition than God has given them so far.

God, scolded, agrees to both of Moses’ demands.

While no human can be exposed to God’s Presence and survive, God makes an accommodation. God summons Moses up to Mt. Sinai once again, and instructs him to hide in the cleft of a rock. The Divine Glory passes by, and Moses is able to see God’s back (whatever that means).

From then on, the Shechinah, the Divine Presence, travels with the Israelites through the wilderness as a cloud of smoke by day and a pillar of fire by night.

Thanks to Moses’ insight and boldness, the Israelites finally have the reassurance they seek. They know that God is with them, because they see signs of God’s Presence. They know that God speaks to their leader, Moses, on a regular basis, because Moses himself has been permanently changed by the experience. Plus, God’s Presence descends upon the Tent of Meeting whenever Moses goes inside to commune.

In our world that is full of distractions, it can be difficult to be fully present. Gone are the times when families and friends would have to talk with one another because there was literally nothing else to do.

Nowadays, we are surrounded by electronic devices, guaranteeing that we are never bored, and offering us excuses so that we never have to be fully present with another person.

But the need to be seen and acknowledged is buried deep inside of us. It is a need that is not replaced by technology. Indeed, technology provides a lot of distractions that interfere with our ability to see one another and to interact with the world.

As I prepare to depart with my family on my sabbatical in a little over a week, I have been thinking a lot about a particular electronic device which I expect will feature prominently in my experiences – a camera. Nowadays, pretty much everybody has a camera in their pockets at all times. We have the ability to record every moment of our lives – in high definition.

Think back to a vacation you once took. Try and remember what happened. The people you were with. The sites you visited. If you are like me, you have photographs of most of those memories. It is because the photograph itself reinforces the experience. We are far less likely to remember vacation experiences for which we do not have the pictures.

Why is that? Is it that those experiences are less real, or less significant?

Not at all. Cameras have changed our brains. They have altered the ways that we store memories.

Don’t get me wrong. I am a camera person. I like to take pictures. I think I have taken some pretty good ones. The most practical class I took in high school was photography.

But for me, a camera often interferes with the experience itself. I find it difficult, if not impossible, to be fully present through a camera lens.

I suppose that for some really talented photographers, a camera can actually become an extension of oneself. When such an artist looks through the lens, he or she is indeed fully present with the subject.

But when I look through the lens, I am thinking about other things: Do I have enough light? What image do I want to focus on? How much do I want to zoom in. Is my subject backlit, or washed out? The camera then becomes a barrier to being fully present and in the moment.

This is true if I am out in nature somewhere, looking out at a gorgeous valley. It’s also true when I am with my kids. I can interact with them, roll around on the floor, cheer them on at a sports game. Or I can create a permanent record and view the experience through a glass lens.

While the camera may create a lasting image, it often comes at the forfeiture of genuine experience.

As I prepare to live in Israel for the next four months, I expect to take a lot of pictures. But I also am reminding myself that the experiences that really matter in life are the ones in which we are fully present with our environment, and the people in it.

Judaism offers us many opportunities to be Present. Right now, we are here together celebrating Shabbat. One of the blessings of Shabbat is that it forces us to pay attention to one another. To be Present, in this moment, and to not let the distractions of the week get in the way of our relationships.

Because whether it is Nursery School students clamoring for the Rabbi to acknowledge them in their Purim costumes, Israelites longing for a sign of God’s Presence to reassure them that they have not been abandoned, or our own quests for meaning in life, we human beings are hard-wired to seek opportunities to be Present.

It is those intangible moments when we truly connect with the essence of the other which matter most. May we have the courage, and the privilege to see and be seen clearly.

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Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

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February 23, 2015

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Where is God? – Terumah 5775

Where is God?

I learned the answer when I went to Camp Gan Izzy, the Chabad Day Camp, in the summer before third grade. Sing along if you know this one:

Hashem is here, Hashem is there,

Hashem is truly everywhere!

Up! Up! Down! Down!

Right! Left! And all around!

Here! There! And everywhere!

That’s where He can be found!

Up! Up! Down! Down!

Right! Left! And all around!

Here! There! And everywhere!

That’s where He can be found!

So there is the answer. God is everywhere.

Once, Rabbi Menahem Mendl of Kotzk, the Kotzker Rebbe, walked up to a group of scholars and asked them a simple question: Where is the dwelling of God?”

They laughed at him. “What a silly question! Is not the whole world filled with God’s glory?!”

To which the Kotzker answered his own question: “God dwells wherever we let God in.”

Two diametrically opposed answers to the question of where God is:

The first answer: Everywhere. God is big! Nothing can contain God’s Presence. God fills all of Creation, and then some!

The second answer: God is small and lonely. God is outside, knocking on the doors of our hearts, waiting to be invited in.

The first King of Israel is Saul. When he loses God’s favor, Samuel the Prophet is called upon to anoint his replacement, and so God sends him to Beit Lechem to find a man named Jesse, one of whose sons will be anointed as the next King of Israel.

Samuel arrives, and sees Eliav. Tall, strong, and handsome, he is Jesse’s eldest. Samuel takes one look at him and says to himself, “Surely this is the Lord’s anointed.”

But God has other plans. “Pay no attention to his appearance or his stature, for I have rejected him. For not as man sees [does the Lord see]; man sees only what is visible, but the Lord sees into the heart.” (I Samuel 16:7)

So Jesse brings up his next son, Avinadav. “Nope,” says the Lord. Shammah. “Next!” And so on, down the line.

After rejecting seven sons, Samuel asks him, “You got any more?”

Jesse looks at him, shrugs, and says, “Well, there is my youngest son. He’s out tending the flock.”

“Well hurry up, man” Samuel urges, “bring him to me.”

Samuel takes one look at the kid and hears the Divine voice saying “This is the one.” So Samuel anoints David as the next king of Israel.

Where is God?

God peers into young David’s heart, and finds an opening. We are told that after Samuel anointed him, “the spirt of the Lord gripped David from that day on.” (I Samuel 16:13)

As this morning’s Torah portion, Parashat Terumah, opens, Moses is on top of Mount Sinai and the Israelites are encamped below. God instructs Moses to launch a capital campaign to raise money for a new building. This is in the days before money, so they are going to have to collect raw materials: gold, silver, copper, wool, fabric. precious woods, animal skins, and so on. The gifts start pouring in. The people respond so enthusiastically to the fundraising campaign, that Moses has to end it early – before the big donors can even come forward. The first – and last – time in history that has happened.

They are going to use all of these materials to build the Mishkan, the portable Tabernacle or Sanctuary, that the Israelites will take with them throughout their wanderings in the wilderness.

This and next week’s Torah portions are filled with detailed descriptions of how to build all of the furniture, make the clothing, and construct the building. At the end of the Book of Exodus, the final two portions will repeat much of these details as Moses passes on the instructions and the Israelites build it.

This Mishkan will enable them to install the Priests who will perform all of the special sacrifices and rituals, thereby maintaining the relationship between God and the Israelites in its proper balance. Moses will confer with God in the inner precincts of the Mishkan. It will also serve as a physical location for God’s Presence among the Israelites – a cloud by day, a pillar of fire by night hovering to let the Israelites know that God is with them.

So where is God?

In the Mishkan, it would seem.

But, wait a second. I thought God was everywhere, or waiting for hearts to open to be let in! Now we are describing God’s Presence materializing in a physical location.

The truth is, God has no need whatsoever for a house. God is way too big for that. To suggest otherwise, that God’s Presence can somehow be contained in a physical space, is blasphemy bordering on idolatry.

It is we who need a Sanctuary. Sefer Hachinukh teaches that it is the act of building the Mishkan which is transformative, not the building itself. It is the journey, not the destination, which matters.

But why a Mishkan? Why is it so important for the Israelites to build this thing in the first place?

Nachmanides, the 13th century Spanish Rabbi, connects the Mishkan to the Israelites’ encounter with God at Mount Sinai. The Revelation at Sinai was a glorious, indescribable moment. The challenge for the Israelites after such a supremely spiritual experience is what to do the day after, and the day after that, for the rest of their lives. Everything else will be a let down after Mt. Sinai. Nachmanides notices that there are a number of similarities between the Torah’s description of the Mishkan and the Revelation at Sinai.

God speaks to Israel through Moses from inside the Holy of Holies just as God spoke to Israel through Moses on top of the mountain.

The Tablet of the Covenant that the Israelites carry with them in the Mishkan was given on Mt. Sinai as a symbol of the covenant that was struck there.

The cloud of smoke created by the incense offering in the Tabernacle recalls the cloud that covered Mt. Sinai.

Similarly, the fire on the altar symbolizes the fire that descended on Mt. Sinai from the heavens.

The building of the Mishkan is meant to capture the essence of what happened to the Israelites at Mt. Sinai and enable them to take it with them on the road. The Mishkan will serve as a kind of portable Mt. Sinai.

A Talmudic teaching (BT Sanhedrin 16b) takes it a step further. The building of the Mishkan is not a one time project. It is timeless. We are to constantly build a Tabernacle in every generation.

So does that mean that we should launch another capital campaign tomorrow? I think we might be able to get it to fit in the parking lot.

Just kidding. Our tradition understands the Mishkan as a metaphor in and of itself.

God tells Moses, v’asu li mikdash, v’shachanti b’tocham. These words appear in many, if not most synagogue, usually on donor plaques. We have it in a beautiful mosaic right there in the foyer above the names of those who contributed significantly to the building of this sanctuary.

V’asu li mikdash, v’shachanti b’tocham. “Make for me a Tabernacle, and I will dwell in… ” – finish the sentence. It should say b’tokho, “in it.” But it doesn’t. It says b’tokham, “in them.”

“Make for me a Tabernacle so that I can dwell within them.” The Israelites build this beautiful, expensive building, and now God is not going to even move in?!

This leads many commentators to suggest that each human being corresponds to the Mishkan. The eternal command to build the Tabernacle is as relevant to us in this moment as it was to our ancestors in the wilderness thousands of years ago.

The purpose of building the Mishkan is to transform those who are building it.

The 19th century commentary, the Malbim, teaches that “each one of us needs to build God a Tabernacle in the recesses of our hearts, by preparing to become a Sanctuary for God and a place for the dwelling of God’s glory.”

How do we transform ourselves into holy vessels worthy of God’s Presence?

The answer is quite straightforward: by doing mitzvot, we not only alter the world around us, we also transform our inner selves. And then, God has a place in which to reside.

So where is God?

Everywhere? Waiting outside the door? Or in the mishkan?

The three answers merge. The potential for God’s Presence to enter the mishkan of our hearts is with us at all time and in all places. We return to the Kotzker Rebbe: “God dwells wherever we let God in.”

But when we look inward, do we truly see ourselves in this way? Are our hearts capable of becoming holy vessels that can house the Divine? While these concepts are embraced in our tradition, notably by some of the Great Hassidic Masters, it seems to me that many of us struggle to see ourselves in this way, if we even consider it at all.

Our lives are so busy, our society and economy so material-driven, that the inner life is easily silenced and ignored.

Transforming the self into a holy vessel, a sanctuary for God, a Mishkan, requires kavannah, the intention to do so.

We approach an act with the mindset that its performance can open up our hearts, draw in sparks of holiness, and possibly even let God in.

We can introduce this kind of kavannah into our lives at any moment. We just have to slow down, alter our perspective, and consider that our actions can have cosmic ripples beyond the physical world that we see around us.

The next time we give tzedakah, say a blessing before eating a meal, or study something, let us consider that what we are doing can transform our hearts in a profound way.

Right now, we are all here together in this physical sanctuary. This is an opportune moment. Let’s push the distractions aside, and make this an opportunity for holiness. What better time and place is there than right here and right now?

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Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

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February 16, 2015

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Divrei Torah (Weekly Sermons), Exodus (שמות)

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Distance Yourself From Lying Words – Mishpatim 5775

In one of my favorite scenes from Seinfeld, Jerry claims to have never watched a single episode of Melrose Place. He is called on it, and is being forced to take a lie detector test to prove it. So he turns to the expert for advice.

Jerry: So George, how do I beat this lie detector?

George: I’m sorry, Jerry I can’t help you.

Jerry: Come on, you’ve got the gift. You’re the only one that can help me.

George: Jerry, I can’t. It’s like saying to Pavorotti, “Teach me to sing like you.”

Jerry: All right, well I’ve got to go take this test. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

George: Jerry, just remember. It’s not a lie… if you believe it.

How true. How true.

A study published about fifteen years ago found that people say things that they do not know to be factually true up to about two hundred times per day. Men tend to lie about 20% more often than women. Women, it turns out, are much better at it than men.

The study’s author, a social psychologist from the University of Budapest named Peter Steignitz, found that 41% of lies are to cover up some sort of misbehavior, 14% are “white lies” that “make social life possible,” and 6% of lies are sheer laziness. In most cases, Steignitz concluded, lies are harmless. In fact, he claimed, if nobody on earth lied anymore, “then this planet would end up completely deserted. There would be 100 wars.” His advice: “Let us be honest about our lies.”

So, how about some honesty? Someone comes up to you and says, excitedly: “how do you like my new haircut.” It’s hideous. But what do you say?

Your friend skips out on a dinner that you are both invited to. You know that he is at a hockey game, but he asks you to tell the host that he is home sick. What do you tell the host?

There are many everyday situations in which the simple telling of a white lie could save embarrassment, smooth over social interactions, or even get us out of trouble. Innocuous, right?

The social science notwithstanding, perhaps we should not be so flippant about the harmlessness of most lies. The truth is, being truthful is considered by most religious and ethical traditions to be the morally correct path.

Indeed, the Torah insists on our honesty on numerous occasions, in numerous contexts. On the other hand, the Bible’s stories are filled with people, including our greatest biblical heroes, lying themselves silly.

Both Abraham and Isaac lie about their wives, passing them off as their sisters, in order to not be killed. Jacob lies to his father Isaac, claiming to be his brother Esau in order to steal the blessing. In return, everybody lies to Jacob. After Jacob dies, Joseph’s brothers lie to him about their father’s desire for them to make peace. And all this is just in the book of Genesis!

There seems to be a discrepancy between the ideals of truthfulness contained in the Torah’s law codes, and the real-life experiences of human beings. Of course, this is entirely consistent with our experiences as well. We may, in theory, express our commitment to the principle of honesty, and yet, if we are truly honest with ourselves, most of us will probably have to admit that we lie on a daily basis.

The Torah includes many mitzvot that regulate our interactions with each other. A significant portion of those mitzvot have to do with behaviors that are forbidden. You shall not murder. You shall not steal. You shall not subvert the rights of the needy, and so on. This morning’s Torah portion presents a particular behavior in a unique way. מִדְּבַר שֶׁקֶר תִּרְחָק. “From a lying word stay far away.” (Exodus 23:7)

It does not say, “you shall not lie,” or “he who lies shall be punished in the following manner.” It tells us, instead, to distance ourself from lies. Lying is the only behavior in the entire Torah from which we are commanded to stay away.

Many commentators understand this requirement to be directed specifically at judges. The commentator Rashbam explains that in a case in which a judgment seems contrived and the witnesses false, but in which we are unable to provide an effective refutation, it is best to stay as far away as possible. A judge should stay clear of anything which could create the impression that he or she has dealings with something that is corrupt. (Sforno)

But our sources also understand this injunction to distance ourselves from lying words more broadly. The Maggid from Kelm claims that a liar is worse than a thief or a robber. The thief steals when no one is watching, and at night. The robber will steal at any time, but only from an individual person. A liar, on the other hand, will lie day or night, to individuals and groups. Our tradition has many other pithy statements like this extolling the importance of truth.

The truth is, honesty does not come naturally to us. It is something that must be taught. Any parent knows this. The most indiscriminate liars in the world are toddlers. “I didn’t do it. It fell by itself.” Our natural instinct for self-preservation pushes us to lie.

It falls on parents, teachers, and the community to educate children about the importance of truthfulness. In our family, we try to emphasize that the absolute most important rule is being honest with each other. Of course, to convey this with any success whatsoever, we have to be honest ourselves, because kids can sniff out dishonesty a mile away.

Perhaps that is what Rabbi Zeira, one of our Sages from the Talmud, is getting at when he teaches that “a person should not tell a child, I will give you something – and then not give it, because this teaches the child falsehood.” (BT Succah 46b)

The Talmud (BT Yevamot 63a) tells a story about a Sage named Rav, whose wife would constantly mess with him, and it drove him crazy. If he asked her to make lentils for dinner, she would make peas. If he asked for peas, she would cook lentils.

When their son Chiyya got older, Rav would send him into the kitchen to pass along his requests for dinner. Chiyya, a bright child, would switch the requests around. If his father asked for lentils, he would tell his mother that he wanted peas, and she would then cook lentils, and vice versa. That way, Rav got exactly what he wanted for dinner every night, and his parents’ fighting improved.

This went on for some time, until one day, Rav commented to his son, “Your mother has gotten better.”

Chiyya then confessed that he had been switching the messages around.

Rav was impressed with his son’s wisdom, acknowledging the popular saying “From your own children you learn reason.” Nevertheless, he recalled the Bible’s warnings about dishonesty, and told Chiyya not to lie anymore. Rav recognized that his parental obligation to teach truthfulness to his son overrode any short-term benefit this little white lie may have had. He and his wife would have to deal with their issues on their own.

Jewish law emphatically emphasizes the importance of truth-telling in certain areas. When it comes to business, for example, both business owners and customers must be honest at all times.

However, our tradition does not hold truth-telling to be an absolute. There are circumstances in which it might be appropriate, or possibly even necessary, to say something that is not true.

The Talmud (BT Yevamot 65b) teaches that one may tell a lie in the interests of peace. Various examples are given. The question is asked regarding what one should say to an ugly bride on her wedding day. Beit Shammai insists that one must always tell the truth, while Beit Hillel says that we must praise her as beautiful and full of grace. Our tradition fallows Beit Hillel.

Other examples are given about when it is permissible to lie, including when life is in danger and when it would bring about peace. Husbands and wives are not supposed to tell the truth to others about what goes on in the bedroom. A person who is particularly knowledgeable on a subject should not claim to be an expert. To do so would be immodest, or could lead to embarrassment if he is then asked a question that he cannot answer. Finally, a person who has been graciously hosted is not supposed to go around telling people about it, because it could lead to disreputable individuals calling upon the wealthy host.

It would appear that our tradition does not define truth and lies as a straightforward reporting of factually accurate or inaccurate information.

Truth, considered to be one of the pillars of the world, is more complicated. In Michtav M’Eliyahu (Vol. I, p. 94) Rabbi Eliyahu Dessler explains: We had better define truth as that which is conducive to good and which conforms with the Will of the Creator, and falsehood as that which furthers the scheme of the yetzer harah, the power of evil in the world.

When the Torah urges us to distance ourselves from lying words, it is really setting an ideal for us to build families and communities that are rooted in honesty. While little white lies may sometimes be called for, they do take their toll on us.

As the Talmud states (BT Sanhedrin 89b), “this is the punishment of the liar, that even if he speaks the truth – nobody listens to him.”

Our tradition recognizes that reality is complicated, and that absolutes are often unrealistic. Nevertheless, we can imagine what a community built on truth looks like, and we can strive to create it.

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Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

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January 25, 2015

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The Origin of the Hebrew Calendar – Bo 5775

Parashat Bo continues the story of Moses and Aaron confronting Pharaoh, demanding that the King of Egypt allow the Israelites to go out into the wilderness to worship God. As he refuses, they announce each calamity that God is about to bring upon the Egyptians. The devastation wrought by the plagues on Egypt worsens, and Pharaoh’s stubbornness begins to show cracks. He offers to let just the men go, but then he changes his mind. Then he agrees that the children and the elderly can go as well, but he backtracks once again. Finally, Moses announces that the entire nation is simply going to leave with all of their belongings. Furthermore, Pharaoh himself will supply the cattle that will be used as offerings to God.

Moses declares the upcoming tenth plague, the death of all first born humans and animals in the land of Egypt, and then the Torah takes a break.

God speaks to Moses and Aaron, saying the following:

Hachodesh hazeh lakhem rosh chodashim, rishon hu lakhem l’chodshei hashanah

This chodesh shall be for you the head of the chodashim, it shall be first for you of the chodashim of the year. (Exodus 12:2)

Our tradition understands this to be the first of the Torah’s 613 mitzvot. Because of its position as number one, and because it interrupts this dramatic story, we can assume that it is telling us something highly significant.

Indeed, this verse is the origin of the Hebrew calendar. The Rabbis do some very close reading to explain how the Hebrew calendar, which came into existence long before they came along, is rooted in the Torah.

Moses and Aaron are told that this chodesh will serve as the first chodesh of the year. But what is a chodesh?

Chodesh is from the same root as chadash, meaning new. The chodesh is something that is mitchadesh, that experiences renewal.

The appearance of the moon changes from one day to the next, such that it renews itself once per month. The sun, on the other hand, appears the same each day. Thus, the Rabbis of the Talmud (BT Megillah 5a) explain that we count the year by months, rather than by days. The term chodshei hashanah, the months of the year, illustrate this requirement. This is why our calendar is a lunar calendar, rather than a solar calendar.

But this leads to several problems.

A lunar month is 29 days, 12 hours, 44 minutes, and 2.976 seconds, approximately. Twelve months is 354 days and a fraction. This would make a lunar year about 11 days shorter than a solar year. If we were to follow just a lunar system, the months, and the Jewish holidays, would float across the seasons, taking about 33 years to return full-circle to the season in which they started. That is, in fact, how the Muslim calendar works.

Deuteronomy states shamor et chodesh ha-Aviv v’asita Pesach. “Observe the month of Aviv and offer a passover sacrifice to the Lord your God, for it was in the month of Aviv, at night, that the Lord your God freed you from Egypt.” (Deuteronomy 16:1). Aviv is the only named month in the Torah. It literally means “new ears of grain” because it is the month in which the ears of grain first appear. If the calendar were to float over the course of the seasons, then we would not be observing Passover during Aviv.

Furthermore, with regard to Succot, the Torah says b’asaf’cha et ma’asecha min hasadeh – “when you bring in your produce from the field.” This means that Succot must always take place at the time of the fall harvest. Therefore, the Rabbis of the Talmud explain, we have to occasionally make an adjustment by adding a thirteenth month. (BT Rosh Hashanah 7a) In this way, we will be able to celebrate Passover and Succot in the appropriate seasons.

In ancient times, the adjustments would be made based on the observance of spring-like changes. If the trees had not yet begun to blossom or barley had not yet started ripening, then the Sanhedrin, the ancient Jewish court that met in the Temple, would delay the beginning of the year by adding a thirteenth month. The additional month, following Adar, we now refer to as Adar Bet.

Now that we have a fixed calendar, the addition of the extra month happens on a predetermined schedule, seven times out of every nineteen years.

But there is another problem. When is the Jewish new year?

In the Mishnah, we read that there are actually four, or maybe even five new years, each marking something different. Nisan is the New Year for counting holidays and for kings. Tishrei is the new year for counting years, sabbatical and jubilee years, and for several other agricultural purposes. (Mishnah Rosh Hashanah 1:1)

The Talmud records an argument between two rabbis about when the creation of the world occurred. One Rabbi says that it happened in Nisan. The other says it happened in Tishrei. So we seem to have some ambiguity.

In the Torah, the new year occurs on the first day of the month we know as Nisan. This is the same month as the month of Aviv I just mentioned. The Torah, indeed most of the Bible, does not have names for any of the months. Instead, it references the month number, always referring back to the month in which the Israelites went out of Egypt.

For example, what we refer to as Rosh Hashanah, occurring on the first of Tishrei, is instead name Yom Teruah, a Day of Blasting, and takes place on the first day of the seventh month. When the Israelites get to Mount Sinai and camp out around the base, preparing to receive the Ten Commandments, the Torah states:

On the third new moon after the Israelites had gone forth from the land of Egypt, on that very day, they entered the wilderness of Sinai. (Exodus 19:1)

The Book of Numbers begins as follows:

On the first day of the second month, in the second year following the exodus from the land of Egypt, the Lord spoke to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai… (Number 1:1)

Centuries later, the Bible continues to look back to this moment.

In the four hundred and eightieth year after the Israelites left the land of Egypt, in the month of Ziv―that is, the second month―in the fourth year of his reign over Israel, Solomon began to build the House of the Lord. (I Kings 6:1)

Throughout the Bible, whenever dates are referenced, it is by a number counting back to the first of Nisan in the year in which the Israelites left Egypt.

What we know as the Hebrew months (Tishrei, Cheshvan, Kislev, Tevet…) do not appear until later books of the Bible, such as Esther. In fact, the “Hebrew months” are in fact Persian names which were assimilated into the Jewish calendar at some point late in the Biblical era.

Why is all of this important? Couldn’t the Israelites haves simply taken the Egyptian calendar with them, or adopted the Canaanite calendar? Why did our ancient ancestors need to have a different calendar? Why is it important for us to continue to keep a different calendar?

How we measure time is extremely important. Having a Jewish calendar, and marking our years according to it, distinguishes us, especially when we are living in a society that counts time differently.

The twelfth century Torah commentator Rashbam explains that the calendar is oriented in this way so that we always have the Exodus from Egypt in our consciousness. The Exodus is the formative moment of the Jewish people. Its memory is supposed to have a profound effect on our lives, both individually and collectively.

As we read in the Haggadah for Passover, we are instructed to recall the Exodus all the days of our lives, and even the nights. We mention it in our daily prayers. We connect it to Shabbat by calling it zekher liztziat mitzrayim, a remembrance of the Exodus from Egypt, when we recite Kiddush. And, our calendar itself also reminds us of that formative event.

Nachmanides points out that when the Torah states “this month shall be for you…” it puts things into a relative context that is particular to the Jewish people. While Tishrei might be the universal month of creation, and the month from which we count the earth itself, we are also to think of time in its relationship to our particular story. Our story began when our ancestors first became free.

Being conscious of Jewish time offers great meaning for our lives. We count our week from Yom Rishon, the first day, up to Yom Shishi, the sixth day, keeping ourselves oriented towards the day of rest throughout the week. We mark our months by the waxing and waning of the moon, and experience renewal every 29 or 30 days. We remember our exodus from Egypt, and express our gratitude for freedom by caring for those who are suffering. And we mark the yearly birthday of the world, marveling at the miracle of Creation and committing ourselves to do better and be more.

That is what it means to live in Jewish time.

Rebyehoshua

Sermons and Other Writings by Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

Author Archives: Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

Feeding the Wolf – Rosh Hashanah 5776

For the Love of Israel – Rosh Hashanah 5776

Memory, Gratitude, and the Promised Land – Ki Tavo 5775

Say Something Nice, Even If You Don’t Want To – Ki Tetzei 5775

Pursuing Righteousness at Hanaton – Shoftim 5775

Melakhah and Avodah: Work of the Hands and Work of the Heart – Vayakhel – P’kudei 5775

It’s Impossible To Be Present Through A Lens – Ki Tissa 5775

Where is God? – Terumah 5775

Distance Yourself From Lying Words – Mishpatim 5775

The Origin of the Hebrew Calendar – Bo 5775