Author Archives: Rabbi Josh Berkenwald

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November 23, 2013

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Chanukah, Divrei Torah (Weekly Sermons)

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Happy Thanksgivukkah

It shouldn’t be news to anyone with a pulse that the first day of Chanukah coincides with Thanksgiving this year.  What do we call it?  Someone actually trademarked the word Thanksgivukkah ®.  So we could try Thanukkah.  Or how about Chanksgiving?

A lot has been written about the culinary options made possible by the coinciding of two gastronomically-rich holiday traditions.

It probably should not surprise us that some folks have cashed-in.  This is America after all, where there is nothing than cannot be turned into a business opportunity.  You can buy Thanksgivukkah greeting cards, t-shirts, songs on iTunes, and so on.  Then, there is the nine year old boy who designed the “Menurkey” and raised almost $50,000 on Kickstarter to get it produced.

On deeper inspection, it turns out that there is more than just a date that ties Chanukkah and Thanksgiving together.

First, the date.  The Jewish calendar is a lunar-solar hybrid.  The months follow the cycle of the moon, but in order to ensure that the holidays occur in the right seasons, we have to add occasional “leap-months.”  Nearly two thousand years ago, the Rabbis came up with the system that we use today.  There is a nineteen year cycle in which we add a thirteenth month during seven out of every nineteen years.  That keep Passover in the Spring, the High Holidays in the Fall, and Chanukkah in the Winter.

The earliest possible date for Chanukkah is November 28.  The latest possible date for Thanksgiving is November 28.  This year, those dates happen to coincide.  The last time they coincided was 1861, but Thanksgiving did not become a national holiday until Lincoln declared it in 1863.  That makes this year the first time it has ever happened and, as it turns out, the last time it will happen for approximately the next 77,000 years.

When they set up the calendar. the Rabbis were remarkably accurate, but not totally.  Averaged out, The Jewish year is a touch longer than the solar year of 365.25 days.  Every one thousand years, the two calendars diverge by four days.  The last year that Chanukkah will occur on November 28 is in the year 2146, but on none of the occasions between now and then will the 28th be a Thursday.  After 2146, the calendar divergence will make the earliest possible date for Chanukkah November 29.  It will take 77,000 years to work its way around the calendar, unless something is done.  That “something” will require a bunch of Rabbis to get together to agree on how to adust the Jewish calendar so that the holidays remain in the correct season.  And if that happens, it will truly be a “miracle.”  I don’t expect it to take place any time in my rabbinic career.

But there is more that connects these two holidays than just the date.  Much of the thematic convergence occurs through the relationship of these two holidays to a third Jewish holiday: Succot.

Let’s talk about Thanksgiving first.  The first recorded Thanksgiving took place in 1621 in Plymouth Rock after the first successful harvest by the Pilgrims who had just arrived that year.  They had come to America from Europe to flee religious persecution.  They were searching for a new home in which they could practice their faith in freedom.  First-hand accounts report that the meal was attended by fifty three Pilgrims and approximately ninety members of the Wampanoag tribe.

These were deeply religious people who read their Bibles closely.  They knew all about the Torah’s harvest festivals, in which Israelites marked the beginning and end of the agricultural cycle through celebrations of gratitude.  While they might not have literally modelled that first Thanksgiving on Succot, the idea of celebrating a successful harvest in the fall through a sacred meal was deeply rooted in their religious consciousness.  For the Pilgrims, Thanksgiving was a religious holiday with Biblical precedents.  For modern-day Americans who have inherited this holiday, the meaning of Thanksgiving is very much about religious freedom, the fall harvest, and gratitude.

These are themes that are shared with Chanukkah.  The Maccabees in Israel had similar experiences to the Pilgrims in Europe.  A dominating Syrian Greek empire offered extremely attractive alternatives to traditional Jewish practice.  Not only was assimilation widespread, the Greeks sought to forcibly impose their culture by outlawing some of the most important Jewish practices like Shabbat, Torah study, and circumcision.  They also took over the Temple, offering pagan sacrifices at the most important place of Jewish worship.  This is the first time in recorded human history that an attempt was made to eradicate a particular culture and religion.  It is the first record of attemped genocide.

It was working.  Jews were abandoning the Torah and embracing Greek ways of life.  In 167 BCE, the Maccabees revolted.  They fought to  undo the decrees and reestablish Jewish control in Israel.  When they recaptured Jerusalem and the Temple in 164 BCE, the Maccabees declared a celebration to give thanks to God.  It is not surprising that they would want to do this.  Most successful independence movements have an Independence Day.  Let’s look at how the Maccabees chose to celebrate their victory, in their own words.  The Second Book of Maccabees, written in 124 BCE, describes the first Chanukkah.

They celebrated it for eight days with gladness like Sukkot and recalled how a little while before, during Sukkot they had been wandering in the mountains and caverns like wild animals. So carrying lulavs… they offered hymns of praise (Hallel) to God who had brought to pass the purification of His own place. (II Maccabees 10:6-7)

The victorious Maccabees, by their own account, modeled Chanukkah after Succot.  It is a particularly appropriate holiday for a few reasons.  Succot is not only an autumn agricultural holiday celebrating the completion of a successful summer harvest.  It also has an historical dimension.  The succot that we dwell in symbolize the temporary dwelling places that our ancestors used during their wanderings in the wilderness, during the time of their escape from slavery into freedom.  Succot symbolizes religious freedom.

Succot is also connected to the dedication of the Temple.  When Solomon completed the construction of the first Beit HaMikdash in Jerusalem, he inaugurated it during an eight-day celebration that coincided with Succot.  We will read about it in the haftarah next week.

King Solomon gathered every person of Israel in the month of Eitanim (Tishrei) on the holiday (Sukkot) in the seventh month… for God had said, ‘I have built a House for My eternal residence.’  (I Kings 8:2,12)

For Solomon, Succot did not symbolize impermanence and vulnerability.  In fact, it was exactly the opposite.  Succot was about the establishment of a new, permanent home for God.

When the Maccabees recaptured the Temple in Jerusalem, it made sense on several levels to model their celebration after Succot.  First of all, they had missed Succot three months earlier.  And secondly, Succot was a tremendous precedent to use for a rededication ceremony for the Temple.  Succot, therefore, serves as a bridge that connects Chanukkah and Thanksgiving, regardless of when they happen to occur on the calendar.  Both holidays express themes of gratitude – for a successful harvest, for religious freedom, and for home.

Another reason for which I am grateful that Chanukkah is so early this year is that it means it is as far away from Christmas as possible.  Chanukkah and Christmas have absolutely nothing in common, and it is so unfortunate that so many elements of Christmas observance in America have been assimilated into Chanukkah.

This year’s earliness of Chanukkah offers a reprieve from the intensity of the commercialization of the holiday.  In contrast, while Thanksgiving has succumbed to commercialism to some degree, it seems to me that, more than any other national holiday, it is the one that is still observed in a meaningful way by the widest number of people.  Americans of all religious and cultural backgrounds really do express gratitude on Thanksgiving.  I would much rather have a Chanukkah influenced by Thanksgiving than by Christmas.

This year, we are blessed to be able to celebrate these two holidays on the same day:  The Festival of Lights, celebrating the Jewish people’s survival against religious persecution; and the festival of Thanksgiving, expressing the gratitude that people of all backgrounds, and of all religions, can enjoy the blessings of our great country

To all of us: Happy Thanksgivukkah!

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November 2, 2013

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Divrei Torah (Weekly Sermons), Genesis (בראשית), Uncategorized

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25th Anniversary of Women of the Wall – Toldot 5774

There are not many heroines in the Torah, so we must pay special attention to those we do have.

In Parshat Toldot, Isaac is the passive figure.  Rebecca is the one who takes charge – from the very beginning.  When her pregnancy is more than she can bear, God reveals to her that she is carrying twins, and that the older will serve the younger.

God entrusts her with the prophetic knowledge of who would recieve the blessing, placing her in a position of having to act in a bold and urgent manner

She sees what her husband does not – that Esau’s personality is not compatible with the blessing from God that Abraham has passed down to Isaac.  Esau, the hunter, is impulsive, and not much of a thinker.

It is Jacob, the thoughtful, intellectual, crafty son who will make a better person through whom to transfer the promise of blessing.

Later, after she has orchestrated Jacob’s theft of the blessing that Isaac meant from Esau, it is Rebecca who identifies the danger that her younger son now faces.  She counsels him to flee from Esau’s wrath by leaving home.  To achieve that end, she concocts a ruse to convince Isaac to send Jacob away.  She complains that there are no good women in the land of Canaan for Jacob to marry, and so Isaac sends him away to Rebecca’s family in Haran.

Once again, Rebecca’s clear perception of reality, her confident recognition of what needs to happen, and her quick response save the day, and quite possibly her son’s life.

It should not come as a surprise to us that the midrash identifies Rebecca as a Prophetess.

I have spoken about Women of the Wall before.  Last Spring, we held a Living Room Torah dedicated to learning about the history and struggles of this movement.  Rosh Chodesh Kislev, which will occur tomorrow, marks the twenty fifth anniversary of the founding of Women of the Wall, or N’shot Ha’Kotel in Hebrew.  Not only is it a significant anniversary, but it is also a time of great change and tremendous promise, not only for Women of the Wall, but for any Jew who believes that women should be able to play a public role in religiuos life.

Women of the Wall got started in 1988 during an international conference on women’s issues held in Jerusalem.  Rivka Haut, an Orthodox Jew from New York, presented an idea to borrow a Torah from a progressive synagogue and have a prayer service in the women’s section at the Western Wall.  She persuaded some of the conference participants to join her.  It was a diverse group made up of Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, and even secular Jews – mostly from America.

People at the Kotel were shocked.  Some event reacted by throwing chairs.  The police allowed the women’s service to take place for a while, then they arrested a few of the women for disturbing the peace.  In fact, what they had disturbed was the status quo.

And thus, Women of the Wall was born.

They have spent most of the past twenty five years arguing in the Israeli judicial system for access to pray at Judaism’s holiest site.  More than two decades ago, the courts issued a regulation prohibiting any prayer that is not in keeping with minhag hamakom (the custom of the place).

What is minhag hamakom?

It is difficult to say.  The Western Wall never functioned as a synagogue until after 1967.  In a de facto arrangement, Israeli secular law supported the Orthodox establishment’s total control over the site.  The ultra-Orthodox Rabbi of the Wall gets to define the minhag hamakom.

In 2003, courts designated the Robinson’s Arch area, which is in an archaeological park next to and below the Western Wall plaza, as a place where men and women could pray together with a Torah.  While egalitarian prayers could take place there, there were a lot of problems with the location.  People had to pay admission fees to get into the park.  They had to make reservations.  They didn’t get government funding.  It was not really a solution.

Plus, Women of the Wall did not want to have egalitarian services.  They wanted to have women’s only services.

Things have escalated over the past five years.  Until recently, the Israeli police followed the directives of the ultra-Orthodox Rabbi of the Wall, Shmuel Rabinowitz, an Israeli government employee.

There have been arrests nearly every month during Rosh Chodesh services.  Ultra-Orthodox Jews opposed to public women’s prayer would come out specifically to disturb them – shouting, spitting, and throwing chairs.

Women were forbidden from wearing tallitot, tefillin, reading from the Torah, and participating in public prayer in the women’s section at the kotel.  Women who violated this would often get arrested.

Over the last year, things have changed at an even more accelerated pace.  With increasing tension in Israel between ultra-Orthodox Jews and the rest of Israeli society over a host of issues, the government has begun to take on some of the sacred cows that it has left alone in the past.

For the first time, none of the ultra-Orthodox parties are in the ruling coalition in the Israeli government.  A few months ago, Prime Minister Netanyahu instructed Natan Sharansky, Chairman of the Jewish Agency, to come up with a compromise solution.  He developed a plan with three sections: men’s, women’s, and mixed.

Shortly afterwards, on April 14 this past Spring, five women were arrested for “disturbing the peace” during services for Rosh Chodesh Iyar.

The Jerusalem Magistrate Court wanted to release them immediately, but the police petitioned against it.  So it went to Judge Moshe Sobel of the Jerusalem District Court, who happens to be Orthodox.

He ruled that women wearing tallit and tefillin, and reading from Torah in the women’s section did not constitute “disturbing the peace” –  and were not breaking the law.  Women praying out loud as a minyan did not contradict what the law defines as “local custom.”  In fact, it was those who tried to stop them who were disturbing the peace.

Since then, Women of the Wall has continued to hold its monthly services, now with police protection.

There are still many ultra-Orthodox Jews who come to disturb them, including, in a recent development this summer, bussing in yeshiva girls to fill up the women’s section at the Kotel and hiss when members of Women of the Wall try to pray.

Despite Judge Sobel’s ruling, Women of the Wall is still not allowed to bring a Torah into the Women’s Section

Cabinet Secretary Avichai Mandelblit has been appointed to find a resolution – it is expected that they will adopt Natan Sharansky’s recommendations from last Spring to create a third, egalitarian section that is of equal status to the men’s and women’s sections

This solution has been very controversial for Women of the Wall.  Many members feel that they should stick to their goals of having full, equal access for women in the women’s section.

The leadership voted several weeks ago to compromise on some of their positions.  They realized that they were uniquely positioned to play a leadership role on behalf of Jewish groups and denominations that represent a majority of Jews around the world, including the Conservative and Reform movements.

Their compromise comes with conditions.  On Monday, they issued their demands.  Here are some of them:

• The new egalitarian space will need to accommodate at least 500 women and provide for direct physical contact with the Western Wall. It should be at the same level as the existing women’s prayer section and a natural extension of it.

• The new space should be open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Entrance should be free of charge without the need to book the area in advance.

• The new space will be renamed to include the word “Kotel” in it. Instead of being called “Ezrat Yisrael,” it will be called “the Kotel – Ezrat Yisrael.”

• Half of the members of the authority administering the new space will be women, including members of Women of the Wall.

• The authority administering the new space will receive at least the same level of government funding as the Orthodox-run Western Wall Heritage Foundation, which today administers the entire area of the Kotel.

• The government will take active measures to refer visitors from abroad, school children, soldiers and visiting dignitaries to the new space. It will also hold official ceremonies there.

• Women of the Wall will participate in designing the new space to ensure that those women who wish to pray together, and not as part of a mixed service, have the means to do so, and that individuals with disabilities are provided with convenient access to the area.

• A sign will be displayed at the Western Wall commemorating its conquest by Israeli army paratroopers in 1967 (something that does not currently appear, anywhere, by the way).

• The authorities administering the different prayer spaces at the Western Wall will hold joint meetings six times a year.

• Control over the upper plaza of the Kotel (the area just above the segregated prayer spaces) be wrested from the hands of the Western Wall rabbi and be transferred to a new authority that will also administer the egalitarian space.  This would restrict the authority of the Kotel rabbi to the men’s and women’s sections only.

Until the demands are met, Women of the Wall will continue to hold their services in the women’s section, once a month on Rosh Hodesh.

They also demanded that the Mandelblit Committee address and prevent the actions of the Rabbi of the Kotel and ultra-Orthodox leaders who are organizing the monthly demonstrations against the Women of the Wall.

Women of the Wall’s plan would transform the overall Kotel area into a space that truly belongs to all of the Jewish people, giving control over the particular areas directly to the people who most need to use them.  It would give equal status and access to all expressions of Judaism: Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, and more.

As of a week ago, over 450 women had already registered to participate in Rosh Hodesh services on Monday morning at 8 am, Jerusalem time.  They will be streaming it live if anyone wants to watch from San Jose

As a Conservative Jew, I am grateful that Women of the Wall has taken the lead in the struggle for equal access to Judaism’s holiest and most symbolically significant site, even if I, as a man, cannot participate in their services.

I am reminded of Rebecca, who did not keep silent when she saw the urgent need and opportunity that was before her.

She knew, through prophetic encounter with God, and perhaps through the wisdom that only a mother can have, that blessing needed to flow to someone who would not otherwise be in a position to receive it.  And that person was Jacob.

Where would we be if Rebecca’s voice had been silenced?  Without her courage, and her unwillingness to be placed into the subservient position that she would otherwise have occupied, Jacob would never have fulfilled his destiny, and the Jewish people would never have come into being.

We are witnessing a remarkable event unfolding.  If the trajectory of the last year continues, if Women of the Wall continue to lead this struggle, and if the Netanyahu government continues to try to broker a fair compromise, we will see public recognition of feminist and egalitarian expressions of Judaism in the near future.

And that would truly be a continuation of God’s blessing.

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October 24, 2013

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Serving Humanity and Its Challenges

On October 20, 2013, Congregation Sinai hosted an Abrahamic Religions Trialogue, hosting members of Lincoln Glen Church, the Baitul Basir Mosque, Abrahamic Alliance International, and SiVIC in a conversation entitled “Serving Humanity and Its Challenges.”  These were my opening remarks:

 

Welcome.  I want to thank my colleagues: Imam Mubasher Ahmad, and Pastor Larry Albright, for sitting on this trialogue panel with myself, and Reverend Andy Killie from SiVIC for serving as our moderator.  Also, thank you Rod Cardoza, from Abrahamic Alliance International, for helping to bring us together.

I think it is always important to remind ourselves of something whenever we are dealing with a tradition that is based upon an ancient Sacred Scripture.  And I think that applies to all three of us up here.  Whenever we apply ancient words to contemporary life, we make choices about which words we want to emphasize, and which words we want to de-emphasize, reinterpret, or even ignore,

I’ll speak from my own tradition.  The Hebrew Bible is filled with horrifying passages that command holy war, genocide, hatred of women, and so on.  It is also filled with passages that appeal to the best of human behavior, that inspire us to work for justice for all people, and to live lives filled with compassion.  The true moral question for a person who claims to live by Sacred Scripture is which passages he or she chooses to live by, and which ones he or she ignores.

As Jews, we don’t just pick up the Torah and read it to find the Truth.  We are inheritors of three thousand years of tradition of interpreting how to live by these sacred words.  Our ancestors struggled to apply the Torah’s principles in their times.  They passed on their conclusions to the next generation, which received their parents’ wisdom, struggled, and passed down their own conclusions again, and again, and again, until that rich accumulated tradition has reached us in the twenty-first century.  As Jews, we have inherited a particular way of understanding our Holy text that is not at all literal.  If you want to know what Jews do and believe, you cannot simply open the Torah to find out.

That said, Judaism has a long history of concern for the other, going back to our formation as a people.  This is one of our central narratives:

  1. We began as slaves in Egypt.
  2. God brought us out from slavery to freedom.
  3. And never let us forget it.

The Torah instructs us to care for and not mistreat the widow, orphan and stranger 36 times, far more than any other law.  Who are these people, the widow, the orphan, and the stranger?  They are the most marginal members of society, with the least power.  They are the ones that the Torah is most concerned about.  It emphasizes the reason why we should care for them – because you were “strangers in a strange land.”  You know what it is like to have been a stranger, to have had little to zero control over your own lives.  Therefore, you must protect the rights of the least powerful among you.  The Torah, and subsequent Jewish tradition, does not let us forget our humble origins.

This is a lesson that the biblical prophets return to over and over.  On Yom Kippur, when we spend all day long fasting and praying for atonement, we read a passage from Isaiah in which the Prophet berates the people for ignoring the plight of the poor, even while they are fasting and performing all of the rituals correctly.  Ritual is meaningless if it does not inspire us to serve others.

There are so many passages in the Bible that I could point to that emphasize social justice.  Passages that instruct ancient Israelites to have a single set of laws for citizens and strangers alike. Instructions to build communities that are governed justly, with the rich and the poor treated equally.  Requirements for employers to treat their employees properly.  Obligations for feeding and clothing the poor.  I can’t go into all of those details this evening.

But I do want to mention one post-biblical teaching that speaks greatly to the Jewish people’s engagement with the rest of the world.  The Talmud teaches that the righteous of all the nations have a share in the world to come.  Judaism has never sought the conversion of all humanity.  As long as a person is following the ethical principles of his/her religion, that person will “go to heaven.”  Judaism celebrates goodness wherever it is found.

So practically speaking, where has this led?

I’ll speak just to the American experience of the past two centuries, during which time Jews have been at the forefront of many social justice causes.  Jews were among the leaders of the labor movement at the beginning of the 20th century, as well as the movement fighting for women’s right to vote.  Jews were heavily active in the civil rights movement.  Today, you’ll find Jews involved in just about any cause that is working towards improving our world: protecting the environment, fighting human trafficking, improving health in the developing world, combatting illiteracy, and so on.

Of course, it is not totally one-sided.  There have always been disagreements within the Jewish community.  While some were working to end segregation in the south, there were others at the time who did not want to rock the boat, and wanted the system to continue.  Some activists saw themselves as getting away from a Jewish tradition that they had experienced as insular, and narrowly focused.

But attitudes have continued to shift.  Today, most American Jews see a close connection between Jewish values and practices and the need to serve humanity.  In 2001, a study explored the attitudes of American Jews towards involvement in social justice causes.  It found that around ninety percent of American Jews agreed to the following statements:

• “Jews have a responsibility to work on behalf of the poor, the oppressed, and minority groups”

• “Jews have a responsibility to work on behalf of Jews who are needy or oppressed”

• “When Jewish organizations engage in social justice work, it makes me feel proud to be a Jew.”

• “Jews’ involvement in social justice causes is one good way to strengthen ties with other groups in society.”

But of course, there are challenges.

The Talmudic argument that Mike presented earlier captures it well.  Rabbi Akiva says that the foundational principle of the entire Torah is “Love your neighbor like yourself.”  Sounds great.

But who, exactly, is your neighbor?  This is not a clear-cut issue.

Jews have answered this question differently, at different times in history.  The answer changed as the result of both internal and external pressures.

As a people that has lived as a minority for most of the past 2,000 years, it has been a constant challenge to figure out how closely to engage with the outside world

To preserve Jewish ways of life, it is necessary to separate ourselves to some degree, to be inward-focused.  Especially during times of persecution, we have done exactly that.  Who is “your neighbor?”  Your fellow Jew.

At other times, “your neighbor” has been understood to refer to all human beings.  Jews could never ignore the other living next to us.

That is the strength of Ben Azzai’s preferred verse.  “This is the book of the generations of Adam.”  All human beings are descended from the first, primordial human being, who was created, male and female, in the image of God.  All human beings, regardless of their religion, skin color, ethnicity, or gender, are fundamentally equal, and contain a Divine spark.  To harm another person is to harm God.  Likewise, we honor God by honoring others.

Finding the right balance between inward and outward focus is a struggle.  Today in America, there are some Jews who would separate themselves from the wider culture as much as possible.  Certainly, the values of charity and compassion are strong, but the focus is entirely inward, within the community.

On the other hand, Jews have made it, perhaps “too well” in America.  We have become so assimilated that our ties to Jewish tradition have weakened.  We see this in  increasingly low affiliation rates among American Jews.  The ratio of Jewish charity that goes to Jewish causes compared to non-Jewish causes has decreased dramatically in recent decades.  When the ties between Jews have weakened to such a degree, it becomes very difficult to preserve Jewish practices, and to root our service to humanity in Jewish values.

As Conservative Jews, we seek to find that balance.  We focus inward, on our religious community, building connections between each other, supporting and encouraging each other to embrace Jewish ways of living.  And if we do it well, we inspire ourselves to take action in the wider world, and serve humanity – as Jews.

The Talmud, nearly two thousand years ago, lists a number of basic, community building obligations that Jews are obligated to perform on behalf of both Jews and non-Jews.  Activities like feeding the poor, visiting the sick, honoring and burying the dead.  The reason it gives?  mipnei darkhei shalom, because of the ways of peace.

I love this teaching, because it emphasizes that peace in the world will depend on our willingness to support human beings who are different than us.  And support them face to face, and during our times of greatest need.

May our communities’ coming together tonight bring us one step closer to a world of peace.

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October 19, 2013

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Becoming That Kind of Person – Vayera 5774

Parshat Vayera begins with Abraham sitting in his tent, during the hottest part of the day.  Last week’s parshah ended with Abraham performing a brit milah on all of the male members of the household, including himself.

The midrash connects them together, explaining that it is the third day after Abraham circumcised himself, at 100 years of age.  This is when the pain of the recovery is most intense.

So there he is, sitting in his tent.  It’s hot.  He’s in pain.  He looks up, and he see three distant figures approaching.

So what does he do?  Remember, this is the Middle East.

He does not reach for his shotgun.  He does not turn the other way, and pretend he didn’t see them.  He does not send one of his able-bodied servants to go find out who they are.

No, he rushes out to greet them.  He bows to the ground, and insists that they come in to rest.

“You must be tired, come in for a while.  Relax in the shade.  Wash your feet.  Have something to eat and drink.”

The three men agree, and Abraham starts rushing about, instructing household to to prepare food and drink for them.  He slaughters a calf himself.  While they are eating, Abraham stands before them, waiting on them like a servant.

Abraham’s behavior is remarkable.  While there is a code of hospitality in the Middle East,  Abraham goes above and beyond it.  It is not only that Abraham and Sarah had an “open-door” policy, welcoming visitors to their home.  They practiced radical hospitality.

This is not normal behavior.  Most of us, if we were recuperating from surgery, would not want to throw a dinner party and invite all our friends, not to mention strangers.  The kind of person who practices radical hospitality is the kind of person who has that quality down to his core.  Abraham is that kind of guy.

How does a person get like that?

Well, there is the rare person, like Abraham, who is simply born with that kind of generous spirit  But for most of us, it takes education from an early age.

Perhaps that explains the blessing that comes at the end of Abraham’s encounter with the three men, who turn out to have been angels.

“I have singled him out, that he may instruct his children and his posterity to keep the way of the Lord by doing what is just and right, in order that the Lord may bring about for Abraham what He has promised him.”  (Genesis 18:19)

Character is built through education.  Part of God’s blessing to Abraham is a charge to instructs his children so that they become “that kind of person.”

What does it mean to be children of Abraham?  To serve.  To recognize that our obligations to others go beyond the narrow circles of our families and friends.  It extends to people we don’t know.  It may even extend to people who hold different values than us.

Two of the angels leave Abraham’s presence, and Abraham is left talking with God.  God reveals the plan to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah, two depraved cities whose wickedness has provoked God’s anger.

Abraham boldly responds to God’s revelation with a challenge.  “Ha-shofet kol ha-aretz lo ya-aseh mishpat?  Shall the judge of all the earth not perform justice?”  This begins Abraham’s pleading with God to save the wicked people of Sodom and Gomorrah on account of the merit of 50, then 45, 40, 30, 20, and finally just 10 righteous people living among them.  Abraham is making this argument on behalf of people who do not share his values, people who probably deserve the punishment that God is about to mete out against them.

Indeed, Abraham has lived up to the blessing that God has just bestowed upon him.

As Jews, we look to Abraham as our Patriarch.  God’s covenant with him, and Abraham’s behavior, model for us the kind of role we are asked to have in the world.  And the message is that our compassion towards others, our concern for justice, must not be limited to our own.  It is clear from both of these stories that compassion must extend to people outside the circles of our families and friends.  Our pursuit of justice must reach those who do not necessarily share the same values and beliefs as us.

As Abraham’s descendants, we are asked to instruct our collective children about was is just and right.  The goal is to turn them into the kind of people who would rush out of their homes to take care of someone whom they did not know, or stand up to shout for compassion and justice on behalf of others.

That kind of training happens when we surround the next generation by a community that expresses those values through action on a regular basis.

The Torah subtly demonstrates how this kind of moral education can be successful.  One chapter later, the scene shifts to the city of Sodom.  Abraham’s nephew Lot happens to live there.  Lot’s father had died young, and so he grew up in Abraham and Sarah’s household, where he was raised by his Aunt and Uncle.  He must have learned something by their example.

When two of the three angels that had visited Abraham continue their travel, they go to Sodom.  This is how the Torah describes what happens when they get there:

“The two angels arrived in Sodom in the evening, as Lot was sitting in the gate of Sodom. When Lot saw them, he rose to greet them and, bowing low with his face to the ground, he said, ‘Please, my lords, turn aside to your servant’s house to spend the night, and bathe your feet; then you may be on your way early.'”  (Genesis 19:1-2)

It seems that Lot learned a lot growing up in his aunt and uncle’s home.  He has become the kind of person who practices radical hospitality.  God’s blessing of Abraham was well-placed.  May we live up to it.

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September 14, 2013

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The Charged Emptiness of Our Souls – Yom Kippur 5774

Everything in the universe that matters most is invisible to us, except for matter.*1*

Take matter itself. If we look into the most powerful microscope and magnify down to the subatomic level, the electrons disappear, and become simply energy. They are impossible to see.

We cannot see electricity.

We cannot see gravity.

We cannot see light. We can only see what light hits.

We cannot see time.

The forces that bind our universe together, and that make life possible, are all completely invisible.

When it comes to people, we can look at another person, but we cannot see past that person’s skin. We cannot see another person’s consciousness or thoughts.

Every time I leave on a road trip with my family, I experience a powerful feeling. The car is loaded up with the clothing and supplies we will need for the next few days. We lock up the house, and set out on the road. This feeling usually comes over me shortly after we get on the highway. I realize that the things that matter most to me in life are all right here in this car. If, while I am gone, my house burns down with everything in it, it would be ok. None of that stuff really matters. But what I care about more than myself are the people in the car with me. I realize that what matters most is love, courage, pride in my children’s growth, the memory of our history together, our hope for the future. It’s the relationships that matter, and you can’t see a relationship.

The things that matter most in life are invisible.  But because they are invisible, they are easy to neglect.

Yom Kippur is a day that uniquely orients us to the invisible. If we are focused, it provides us an opportunity to realign our priorities to that which truly matters.

Maimonides opens his philosophical magnum opus, The Guide for the Perplexed, with a discussion on language. Whenever the Torah uses words that imply that God has a physical form, he says, it’s a metaphor. For example: God was walking about one day in the Garden of Eden. God took Israel out of Egypt with an outstretched arm. God saw. God spoke. God smelled. One might conclude, based on this language, that God has legs, arms, eyes, a mouth, and a nose.

Not so, says Maimonides. “The Torah speaks in human language,” quotes the Talmud. In our descriptions of the Divine, we fashion God in our own image.

And when it comes to worshiping God, we employ rituals that are based on those human images.

Ritual is a scaffolding that is built up around all of our God metaphors that allows us to come into contact with that which, in its essence, is completely beyond us.

During the High Holidays, our God metaphors are especially rich. Avinu Malkeinu. God is our father and our king, our judge and our shepherd. Each of us are placed on trial. Our deeds are read from a book. Our merits are weighed against our faults, and the Supreme Judge passes sentence on us for the year ahead.

All of this language is symbolic metaphor. To take the metaphor literally borders on idolatry.

But if we seek to relate to the hidden force that binds all creation together, we need the metaphor, and we need the ritual.

What is the purpose of ritual? The late Rabbi Alan Lew writes, “it is to render the invisible visible.”*2* What is invisible that must be made visible? Our sense of awe and wonder. Our fear. Our hopes. Our dreams. Our ability to have a relationship with God. Ritual enables us to express these invisible, intangible things.

In contemporary society, moderate religion is on the decline, while both fundamentalism and secularism are on the rise. Ironically, the person who embraces fundamentalism and the person who rejects religion altogether make the same mistake. They both take the metaphors literally. The former embraces them, and the latter rejects them.

What do we believe? Over the past week, has God been actually reading out of a book, judging us, and writing down our sentence for the coming year?

To have a mature faith in the post-modern world requires us to dive into the rituals knowing that they are metaphors, knowing that our finite selves are limited in our ability to connect with the infinite, and that it is only through ritual that our invisible spiritual longings become visible.

In ancient times, the central observance of Yom Kippur took place in the Holy Temple. The High Priest, supported by other priests and Levites, performed an elaborate series of rituals in which he made confession and sought forgiveness on behalf of himself, his family, his fellow priests, and the entire Jewish people. If he succeeded, he purified the Temple and enabled God’s Presence to remain amongst the people. It was a yearly restoration and reaffirmation of the relationship between God and Israel.

The ceremonies were quite elaborate. He stayed up all night. He washed himself and changed his clothes many times. He sacrificed animals. He transferred the sins of the nation on to a goat, which was then banished into the wilderness.

The High Priest also pronounced God’s proper name, in the hearing of all the people assembled on the Temple grounds. It was the only day of the year holy enough, and he was the only one pure enough.

The climax of these rites occurred when the High Priest went into the Holy of Holies. This was the only day when he was permitted to enter. The moment was so fraught that he would wear a rope around his waist so that, if he died, his body could be dragged out without anyone having to risk their lives by following him inside.

So what was inside the Holy of Holies?

One might think there would be an altar, maybe a menorah. Perhaps a table on which to place sacred objects. In fact, the room was completely empty. The only interruption in the rectangularity of the space was on the floor, where a rock protruded to a height of three fingers. This rock is the even sh’tiyah, The Foundation Stone – the point at which creation began, and the nexus between God’s realm and our own. This is where heaven and earth come together.

But in the room itself – nothingness.

Rabbi Lew calls it a “charged emptiness.”*3*

When the Temple stood, the High Priest served as our proxy. With the destruction of the Temple, the metaphors have shifted. Now, we have to do it all ourselves. Each of us becomes a High Priest. The elaborate service of the Temple is replaced by an equally elaborate set of expectations. We are asked to do a lot – to engage in cheshbon hanefesh, deep self reflection with brutal honesty, to repent for our sins, to apologize to those we have wronged, to perform additional acts of tzedakah and kindness, to pray, to fast.

If we perform all of the rituals correctly, we reach a point at which we are able to enter the Holy of Holies, a place where all of the metaphors fall away. We come face to face with ourselves, face to face with God – not that God has a face. There is no longer a Father and a King, A Judge and a Shepherd. There is only a charged emptiness that is at once all around us and within us.

This ecstatic moment of infinite connection with nothingness is the moment of revelation. This is what I long to experience each year. I wonder if you have ever caught a glimpse of this charged emptiness.

For me, Yom Kippur reaches its peak during Neilah, the final service that comes at the very end of the day. When we are lightheaded from fasting, but have gone beyond hunger and beyond thirst. When we have been inspired by the people around us who are taking those last moments to heart. Praying with a special fervor, the entire room is vibrating with individuals yearning to be heard. Individuals who are relying on one another to be elevated, to help each other connect with our shared essence. And then – ecstatic joy.

We emerge from that moment with a clean slate, transformed…

…bringing us to the next step. Now what? Is the moment over? We’ve entered the Holy of Holies and faced the charged emptiness of our souls, so now it’s time to eat lox and bagels and drink apple juice? Do we just resume our everyday lives and forget about those invisible moments we just experienced?

There are two Hebrew terms for us to consider, ikar and tafel.

Ikar means essential, or primary.

Tafel means extraneous, or secondary.

The Talmud warns: shelo y’hei tafel chamor m’ikar.*4* “Do not allow that which is extraneous – tafel – to become more important than that which is essential – ikar.”

What is ikar and what is tafel in our lives? Let’s play a little game. I call it: Tafel or Ikar: You Make the Call!

Your daughter or granddaughter joyfully asks you to push her on the swing. Just then, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket with a text message. You think it might be your boss.

You could check the text, or you could play with this bright eyed, eager child. Which is tafel, which is ikar?

You receive an email from the synagogue announcing a shiva minyan for someone who has just lost his mother. You know this person, but not that well. The season opener for Breaking Bad is on tonight. You’ve been anticipating it all summer long.

You could go to the shiva minyan, or you could watch TV. Which is tafel, which is ikar?

Your work group has a big product launch coming up. Your supervisor has informed you that for the next month, you should plan on being at work until late into the evening, and coming in on weekends. You and your partner have been going through a rough spot, and have recently decided to schedule regular times to work on communication. The crunch time at work overlaps with the time you have set to be with your partner. Which is tafel, which is ikar?

The things that are ikar, most essential, tend to be invisible. Spending uninterrupted time with a child, supporting a member of the community, being there for a partner. These are precisely the things that are easiest for us to neglect because we devote most of our attention to the visible world. There are so many tafel things calling out to us, distracting us from what really matters.

All of the rituals of the High Priest prepared him to encounter God’s ikar – to encounter God at a level beyond metaphor. Our High Holidays give us that opportunity as well – Yom Kippur especially. On this day, when we deny our physical existence by fasting, and when we do everything we can to embrace the invisible, we have a rare opportunity to refocus our lives on what truly matters.

In a few minutes, we will turn to the Yizkor service. This is another special time when our consciousness shifts exclusively to the invisible. We remember friends and relatives who are no longer with us. With their passing they are no longer tangible, yet that which matters most remains, invisibly, in our memories. What do we remember? What is the ikar of who they were to us?

I hope we don’t just remember the stuff they had, or the things they left us. We honor their memory when we remember the time spent with a sibling, the ideals that inspired a parent, the feelings we had when we were with our spouse. All invisible. But all ikar. That is what matters

This Yom Kippur, as we engage in deep soul searching, fasting, and prayer, may we be blessed to enter the Holy of Holies. In stripping away all that is extraneous in our lives, may we gain an awareness of standing in the Presence of God, in the charged emptiness around and inside us. May we emerge from Yom Kippur with a renewed focus on the ikar, those invisible things in our lives that matter most.

G’mar Chatimah Tovah. May we all be sealed for a year of blessing.

*1*I got some ideas for this opening from a Ted talk by John Lloyd at http://www.ted.com/talks/john_lloyd_inventories_the_invisible.html

*2*”Celebrating and Revealing the Invisible,” by Rabbi Mark Greenspan, in Yom Kippur Readings, ed. by Rabbi Dov Peretz Elkins, p. 131.

*3*Rabbi Alan Lew, This is Real and Your Are Completely Unprepared, p. 221.

*4*BT Menachot 8a

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Isaac’s Bar Mitzvah Speech – Rosh Hashanah II 5774

I can’t believe this day has finally arrived. There were definitely a few moments when it was not at all certain that I would be standing here before you.

I know what you all must be wondering. What happened up there – on the mountain? It is difficult for me to talk about. Some of it I still do not understand. I keep replaying the events of those three days over and over in my mind, and different images keep flooding into my head – many of them contradictory. Looking back, I don’t quite know what was real and what might be a figment of my imagination.

Father has never talked about “the incident” since. He barely even spoke while it was going on. It all started when Father came to me, and said, his voice filled with gentleness: “My son, my favorite son whom I love, Isaac, you must come with me tomorrow. We are going to worship the Lord.”

Father had been telling me about the Lord for as long as I can remember. That this God, the only God, sent him on a journey from his native home to the land of Canaan, where we live now. Father left everything behind, and set out with Mother to come here. God had communicated with Father several times, promising that Father would be the founder of a great nation.

I was to be the one through whom this blessing, this b’rit, or covenant, as he called it, would pass. Although Father told me about the Lord often, I never heard the voice. I was never visited by angels. Father always seemed so certain, so unwavering. He knew in his heart that these promises would be fulfilled. And so I have always trusted him, even though I felt that this was too great a burden for me to bear.

When he told me to get ready for our journey, I went along.

On the morning of the third day, Father looked up and saw a mountain. He asked the two servants who were with us if they could see anything out of the ordinary, but they could not. I could see it, however. Moriah. The mountain was enveloped in clouds, with a pillar of fire flashing within.*1* He sent away the two lads with the donkey, and gave me the wood for the burnt offering to carry. Father took the flint and the knife.

Something was missing. “Father,” I asked, “Here are the flint and the wood, but where is the sheep for the burnt offering.”*2*

“God will provide, my son,” he replied. There was something in his eyes at that moment. A distant look, as if he was concentrating on a voice that was meant only for him. Then he looked at me lovingly, and without a word placed his hand on my shoulder and we walked up the mountain together.

When we reached the top, Father began collecting large stones to build an altar. It was at that moment that it became clear to me what I had known all along. There would be no sheep. I was the sheep.

But I didn’t know if I could do it.

“Father,” I said, as he put the last stone in place, “I am just a boy. I don’t know that I will be able to stay still for the sacrifice. I am worried that if I get scared, I will tremble out of fear of the knife, and you will feel sorrow, and perhaps then your sacrifice to God will become invalid. Please, Father, bind me extra tightly.”*3*

And so he did. He stacked the wood on top of the stones, and placed me, bound, on top. Then Father grasped the knife.

At the moment that he raised it high, I looked up, and beheld something wondrous. The heavens opened. I saw the Shekhinah, God’s very Presence, seated in the heavenly throne room, which was filled with angels. For the first time, I understood a little about the One who commanded Father to offer me up as a burnt offering. My soul flew out of my body.

An ethereal voice cried out, “Abraham, Abraham! Do not raise your hand against the boy.” The Holy One revived me. I came to, and all I could think to do was praise the Lord: “Blessed are you Adonai, who gives life to the dead.”*4*

I then realized that my eyesight had gone blurry. While my soul was leaving my body, Father’s eyes were dripping with tears. Apparently, he could no longer keep his emotions bottled up, even as his heart was filled with joy at fulfilling God’s command. Father’s tears poured into my eyes. I have had difficulty seeing ever since.*5*

I was in a daze. Suddenly, there was movement off to the side. It was a ram, its horns caught in a thicket. I recognized this ram, although I don’t think Father did. It was from our flock. We had named it, ironically, Isaac.

Father had come to worship the Lord, a task which he had to complete. Without betraying any emotion, he freed the other Isaac from the bush, and brought it to the altar, where he offered it up to God.

Since that day, Father and I have hardly spoken. I was sent off to the Garden of Eden to recover. Then, Father enrolled me at the Shem and Ever Day School to learn God’s Torah and the mitzvot.

But a mystery still haunts me. I was the one through whom the Covenant would be fulfilled. And yet, I was the one whom Father was asked to sacrifice. Father says that this was a test. I don’t know what exactly it was a test of. A test to see if his faith in God was greater than his love for me? A double test, to see if he would carry out the command to the very end, confident that he would be stopped at the last minute so that God’s promise of children as numerous as the starts could be fulfilled? Whatever it was, it seems that Father passed it.

Afterwards, an angel blessed him, because he did not hold back. Therefore, Father, myself, and all of our descendants will be as numerous as the stars in the sky and the sand on the shore. The nations of the world will be blessed through us, because Father obeyed the Lord’s command.

And now here I am, becoming a man.

There are a few people without whom I could not have made it to this day.

First of all, I would like to thank all of my teachers at the Shem and Ever Day School.*6* You taught me Torah and mitzvot with so much love and passion. I will strive to pass on that same love of Torah to my own children.

I also want to thank the angels at the Garden of Eden Convalescent Home.*7* You nursed me back to health when I needed you. You healed my neck, which was nicked by the knife. You did such a great job that I only have a tiny scar the size of a bead.*8* I literally would not be here without you.

Ishmael, my brother, you had to leave when I was really young, and I still do not quite understand why. Mom said you were a bad influence on me, but I really missed having a big brother around. We do not see eye to eye on most things, but I think we have more in common than most people assume. I hope we can find an opportunity to spend some time together so that we can really get to know each other. Maybe then, each of us might be able to hear and accept the other “where he is.”*9* We have spent way too many years apart.

Mom, I know that you are here with me in spirit. I was the son you always wanted. You had given up on ever having children, but then, miraculously, you got pregnant and had me. Sometimes I wonder if, having been born so late, you and dad might have put too many hopes in me. I know you protected me fiercely from what you saw as bad influences, and I do not blame you for that. You loved me more than anything in the world, and you put my future ahead of everything. You and dad each loved me intensely, but quite differently, and that could be confusing sometimes. Mom, I heard you died right after “the incident.” I overheard the angels at the Garden of Eden Convalescent Home whispering something about how the Adversary told you what Dad and I had been up to, and the shock was too great. I was so sad to not be able to mourn for you at your funeral. Whenever I look at your empty tent, I am painfully aware of the hole in my heart. I long for the day when my memory of you will not be so difficult.*10*

Last, Father. I don’t blame you for what you did. I know you love me as much as it is possible for a father to love a son. It’s just that your faith in God was stronger. My faith, I think, is not the same.

When I have kids one day, God willing, I plan to do things differently. I prefer a quieter life. I don’t want to travel far and wide. I don’t want to seize the gates of my foes. I want to be close with my kids.

I worry about how my descendants will understand what has happened to me. There will come a time when they will suffer persecution, when they will be oppressed and murdered for being heirs to this covenant. What, then, will they do – when their love for God is so great, matched only be their love for their children? What will they do when the bloodthirsty mobs come, demanding that they break the covenant, and turn over their sons and daughters, whom they love?

I know what they will do. They will look to me and Father as examples. And they will offer up their children to God. But there will be no angel to stay their hands. There will be no miracle to turn aside the hordes at the gates. They will accomplish that which Father only showed a willingness to complete. “Yours was a trial,” they will say “mine were the performances.”*11* They will compose elegies to glorify their martyrdom, such as this:

On the merit of the Akedah at Moriah once we could lean,

Safeguarded for the salvation of age after age-

Now one Akedah follows another, they cannot be counted.*12*

Is this what it means to be chosen? Chosen for what? For suffering. For love. For death.

No. Not for death. I refuse to believe that. For life. Maybe the test was a lesson. After all, God stopped Father at the last minute. “Do not raise your hand against the boy, or do anything to him!”*13* cried out the angel. God does not want parents to offer up their children as burnt offerings. God wants parents to raise up their children with love, and learning.

Thanks to all of you for being here with me as I celebrate becoming Bar Mitzvah. If there is one lesson I take from what happened to me, it is to treat every day as a gift. Every day we are alive is a day that God has sent angels to protect us. We must strive to make the most of the blessings we have been granted.

That is the legacy I will leave to my descendants.

 

*1*Genesis Rabbah 56:1,2

*2*Genesis 22:7

*3*Genesis Rabbah 56:8

*4*Pirkei d’Rabbi Eliezer 31 quoted in Shalom Spiegal’s The Last Trial, pp. 30-32

*5*Genesis Rabbah 56:8

*6*Genesis Rabbah 56:11 (4)

*7*Abravanel on Genesis 22:19 (5-6)

*8*R. Joshua ibn Shuaib, Sefer Derashot (Cracow, 1573), Hayye Sarah, 96.

*9*Genesis 21:17

*10*Genesis 24:67

*11*Shalom Spiegal’s The Last Trial, p. 16

*12*Selihah by Rabbi David bar Meshullam: “O God, do not hush up the shedding of my blood!” quoted in Shalom Spiegal’s The Last Trial, p. 21

*13*Genesis 22:12

 

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Making Our Insides Match Our Outsides – Rosh Hashanah I 5774

Most of us probably don’t spend much time thinking about what we want written on our gravestones. As a Rabbi, I actually do think about this quite a bit, because I often help people design their family members’, or even their own markers.

Here are a few epitaphs, messages inscribed on gravestones, that I did not have a hand in.**1**

Some describe the manner of a person’s death, as in:

Here lies a man named Zeke.

Second fastest draw in Cripple Creek.

Others seem to be more about the living:

Sacred to the memory of

my husband John Barnes

who died January 3, 1803

His comely young widow, aged 23,

has many qualifications of a good wife,

and yearns to be comforted.

Gravestones sometimes say something about the deceased’s personality:

Beneath this stone, a lump of clay,

Lies stingy Jimmy Wyatt.

Who died one morning just at ten

And saved a dinner by it.

And then there are those that purport to give advice to the visitor:

Reader, I’ve left this world, in which

I had a world to do;

Sweating and fretting to get rich:

Just such a fool as you.

Sometimes, a person has specific ideas about his or her own epitaph. Thomas Jefferson, the founder of my alma mater, the University of Virginia, left clear instructions of what he wanted to appear on his gravestone at Monticello. The inscription reads:

Here was buried

Thomas Jefferson

Author of the Declaration of American Independence

of the Statute of Virginia for religious freedom

Father of the University of Virginia

Our third president, a man who accomplished so much in his lifetime, wanted to emphasize what he had given the people, not what the people had given him. These three accomplishments stand out as legacies that continue to shape the lives of millions to this day.

The message that we leave behind on a tombstone, or in most cases, the epitaph that is placed upon our tombstone by others after we die, is one of the ways in which we leave our legacy to the world. The advice I give is that the epitaph should say something about who this person was, and what they cared about.

How was she known in the world? Was she kind and generous? Was he a loving father and grandfather, or maybe a patron of the arts? Was she a musician, a great reader, or a gourmand?

Six generations from now, will a descendant be able to gain an understanding of his ancestor when he visits the grave?

What happens when there is a discrepancy between how a person sees herself and how the outside world sees her?

I experience this as a parent. Our children want to be recognized and acknowledged. They want the reassurance that they matter. They want to be truly seen for who they are.

And the truth is, this does not end at childhood. Most of us want to be seen for who we are. But few of us feel that we are. There is a disconnect between our internal and external experiences.

Each year, Rosh Hashanah presents us with an opportunity to realign our outsides with our insides.

One of the aspects of Judaism that many people seem to admire is its emphasis on action. It is not what we think that matters, but rather, what we put into practice. When the day of judgment comes, we will not be held accountable for all of our ugly thoughts, the times when we lashed out at each other in our minds. What will be piled on God’s scales of justice are our actions. What did we do in our lives?

People seem to like this aspect of Judaism.

But we also emphasize the interior life. We affirm the existence of something called a soul. We speak of God’s Presence dwelling within us. We point to a Divine Spark that is buried deep within the heart of every human being. The interior life matters also.

What is the definition of a person who is at peace? It is someone whose insides reflect what is outside – tokho k’voro.

Who among us can claim this? That the self we express out to the world is the same as the ideal self that we would like ourselves to be?

In the Haftarah that we read this morning, the first day of Rosh Hashanah, we encounter someone who experiences this disconnect between internal hopes and external experiences. We meet Hannah, favorite wife of Elkanah. Hannah is unable to become pregnant. Inability to conceive is a common Biblical motif. The basic pattern goes like this: The woman is beloved of her husband, but is unable to have a child. The people around her make fun of her, which exacerbates her suffering. God intervenes on her behalf, and she becomes pregnant. Within a year, she gives birth to a boy, who lives a remarkable life. This is a motif that repeats itself numerous times. Think of Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, the unnamed mother of Samson, and Hannah.

The story of Hannah is remarkable in that it describes both the internal and external sides of the story. We know how the outside world is interacting with Hannah. We are also told what she is feeling, what she does not express. There is a discrepancy between Hannah’s inner self and the self that she portrays to those around her.

Every year, she would travel, with her husband, her husband’s other wife Peninah, and all of Peninah’s numerous children, to offer a sacrifice at the shrine in Shiloh, where the Priest Eli presided.

This was a particularly sad time for Hannah, made worse by Peninah, who would deliberately make fun of Hannah by flaunting her numerous offspring in the face of her sad rival.

Elkanah sees that his wife is depressed and tries to comfort her in his way. “Hannah, why are you crying and not eating. The food is getting cold. Why are you so sad? Aren’t I more devoted to you than ten sons!?”

While everyone else is experiencing food coma, Hannah gets up to pray. Eli the Priest looks at her, sees her lips moving without uttering a sound, and immediately jumps to conclusions: she must be intoxicated. “How dare you defile the Lord’s sanctuary in your drunkenness!” he yells. Here she is, pouring her heart out to God, and God’s own Priest completely misunderstands her.

Hannah is experiencing great pain. She is not the person who she wants to be. She is not living the life that she has imagined. Nobody sees her as she sees herself. Nobody understands her pain and sorrow. Instead, they insult her, or patronize her, or misjudge her. Hannah is utterly alone. She has nobody with whom she can share her suffering.

So what does she do? This is how the text describes it: “Hannah was bitter of soul, and she prayed to God, all the while crying her heart out.”**2**

She channels her anguish and pours her heart out to the Lord. If no other human being can understand her, perhaps God can.

Hannah’s tale has a happy ending. The woman who begins the story bitter of soul has her prayers answered by God. She gets pregnant and gives birth to a son whom she names Samuel. He will eventually become a chieftain, prophet, and anointer of kings. At Samuel’s weaning, Hannah returns to Shiloh to dedicate her son to a life of service to God. Again, she opens up her heart and this time offers a prayer of blessing and gratitude to God.

Our tradition identifies Hannah as the model for heartfelt prayer. Whenever we are feeling that the words in our siddur do not resonate with us, do not express what we are feeling in our hearts, we would do well to remember that the early Sages did not think that fixed words were the most authentic way to pray. Hannah’s way is the ideal to which we ought to aspire. To bring what is internal, whether sorrow, gratitude, or joy, and make it external.

To do this, we must appraise ourselves honestly. What is the ideal self that we wish we could be?

Perhaps I strive to be generous, or to make a difference in my community. Maybe I want to be well-read, or knowledgeable. Or perhaps I want to be a reliable friend and confidant? Maybe I want to have a healthy body.

We often try to teach our kids: “It doesn’t matter what other people think.” Well, it is not exactly true. In fact, there are some people in our lives whose opinions matter. People whose views of us we should care about. What we should be teaching is to be selective, to figure out which people are the ones whose opinions count.

Pick one person in your life whose opinion you care about. It could be a spouse or partner. Maybe it’s your mother or father, or possibly a son or daughter. Maybe you have a friend whose opinion really matters. Or perhaps a mentor, teacher, or someone you work with.

Let’s take a few moments to ask ourselves: How do I want this person to see me?

Now let’s ask the more difficult question: How may this person actually see me?

Put another way: If this person were to write my epitaph, would it be the same as if I had written it myself?

I am going to guess that there is a difference between how we want to be seen, and how we are seen.

So what will it take to become that person that we strive to be, and to be known that way by others?

As the Nobel Prize winning author, Isaac Bashevis Singer said: “We know what a person thinks not when he tells us what he thinks, but by his actions.”**3** By focusing on our actions, maybe we can change ourselves from the outside in.

One of the Sages of the Talmud, Rabbi Ila’i, teaches that if you want to know what a person is like, you have to look at three aspects of his or her behavior.**4**

Amar Rabbi Ila’i: Bishloshah d’varim adam nikar.

“Rabbi Ila’i said: A person is known by three things.” Then he makes a little pun.

B’khoso, uv’khiso, uv’kha’aso.

“b’khoso – by his cup, uv’khiso – by his pocket, uv’kha’aso – and by his anger.”

What do each of these things mean?

Let’s start b’khoso, by his cup. In Rabbinic literature, a kos, a cup, is a euphemism for wine. Our tradition sees alchohol, potentially, as a great blessing: “Wine gladdens a person’s heart,”**5** Psalms teaches. But the Rabbis also recognize the harm that overindulgence can bring.

And so, b’khoso is about enjoying the world. A person is known by the way in which he or she takes pleasure in life.

The Talmudic Sage Rav taught: “A human being will have to give account for all that his eye beheld and he did not eat.”**6** The world that God created is a blessing, one which we are meant to appreciate and enjoy.

A person is known by the quality of his enjoyment of the world. Did he hold back, denying himself the ability to experience pleasure? Perhaps he overindulged, consuming so much that he could not appreciate the earth’s blessings. Or maybe he found the sweet spot, cultivating a sense of gratitude by being constantly open to the world’s bounty, recognizing it as a gift from God that must be appreciated, conserved, and shared.

However we enjoy the world, people will know us by it.

A person will also be known b’khiso, by his pocket. How we spend our money says something about us. What percentage of our income do we give to tzedakah? Which causes are the ones which inspire our generosity: hunger, curing disease, education, the arts?

How much do we tip?

How well do we save for the future?

Do we give gifts to our friends and family members?

How do we choose to spend money on ourselves?In contemporary society, with widening income gaps and disposable consumerism, a significant portion of our community has the ability to buy and buy and buy – with much of that buying making no difference in our quality of life. How have we managed to resist those pressures?

Our peers, and our children, see how we choose to spend our resources. What lessons are they drawing about where our priorities lie?

Finally, a person is known b’kha’aso, by his anger.

Anger is not a bad thing. Anger is important. Anger can tell us when there is injustice. Anger points us towards wrongs in our world that need to be corrected. Our challenge is twofold. On the one hand, we have to learn to pay attention to our anger. On the other hand, we have to not allow ourselves to be consumed by it.

So what makes you angry? Needless violence? Children who start school already behind because they don’t have any adults to read to them? Pollution in our air? Dirty clothes left on the living room floor? “The size of a man is measured by the size of the thing that makes him angry.”**7**

Once you are angry, what do you do about it? Nothing? March in the streets? Donate money? Volunteer? Start an organization? Start yelling and waving your arms? Anger is a useful emotion only so long as we direct it towards righting that which is wrong.

We will be known by the things that make us angry and what we choose to do about it.

Our task is to make these aspects of our lives reflect the kind of person we imagine we can be in our hearts.

We celebrate Rosh Hashanah as the new year, the day on which God created all that is. In our mahzor, we state hayom harat olam. “Today the world is conceived.” Not 5774 years ago. Not four and a half billion years ago. Today. Creation is renewed today – in each one of us.

Rosh Hashanah offers us the choice of becoming a new person. The past is gone, never to be repeated. There is only the eternal present, and hope for the future. What can we do to make our outsides match up with our insides? To make the self that others see reflect the self that we want to be?

This year, focus on three things: b’khoso, u’v’khiso, uv’kha’aso. By our cup – the way that we enjoy the blessings of the world; by our pocket – how we choose to prioritize our resources; and by our anger – how we express our moral outrage.

This year, let us become new people.

**1**I found these epitaphs at the following websites: http://www.webpanda.com/ponder/epitaphs.htm and http://www.et.byu.edu/~tom/jokes/Funny_Epitaphs.html

**2**I Samuel 1:13

**3**Isaac Bashevis Singer, New York Times Magazine, Nov. 26, 1978.

**4**BT Eiruvin 65b

**5**Psalms 104:15

**6**PT Kiddushin 4:12

**7**Attribution cannot be confirmed. Most likely J. Kenneth Morely or Christopher Morely.

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August 24, 2013

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Shut Up and Listen – Ki Tavo 5773

Ernesto Sirolli is an Italian aid worker. In a Ted talk, which is viewable online,*1* he tells the story of his first project in Africa, in the 1970’s. He was part of a group of Italians who decided to teach Zambian people how to grow food. So they went to Southern Zambia to a beautiful, fertile valley that led down into the Zambesi River, and they brought a bunch of Italian seeds, intending to teach the locals how to grow tomatoes and zucchini and so on.
The locals, of course, had absolutely no interest in doing that, so the Italians paid them to come and work. Sometimes they showed up. The Italians were amazed that, in such a fertile valley, there was no agriculture.
Instead of asking the Zambesi about it, the Italians said “Thank God we are here to save the Zambian people from starvation.”
Everything grew beautifully – better than in Italy, in fact. “Look how easy agriculture is,” they told the Zambians.
One night, when the tomatoes were big and ripe, two hundred hippos came up out of the river and ate every last vegetable that they had planted.
The Italians said to the Zambians: “My God! The hippos!”
And the Zambians said: “Yes. That’s why we have no agriculture here.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“You never asked.”
Sometimes, it pays to listen.
It is the last day of Moses’ life, and he knows it. The Israelites are assembled before him in the Plains of Moab on the Eastern Side of the Jordan River. This is the next generation, the children of those who had left slavery in Egypt. They have all been born in the wilderness.
Now, they are poised to enter the land of Israel. Moses, knowing the end is near, has been giving a series of speeches to the people. He has reviewed the history of the Exodus. He has presented the laws, including those that will be applicable once they enter the Promised Land. And now, in this morning’s Parshah, he pronounces a series of blessings and curses which will befall them depending on how they uphold the terms of the covenant with God.
Moses turns to the people and says:
Hasket ush’ma yisrael…
“Silence! Hear, O Israel!”*2*
This theme of listening has been a recurring one throughout the Book of Deuteronomy. Moses tells the people many to listen times. Our most famous prayer, the Shema, is from the Book of Deuteronomy. So it is not unusual that Moses tells the people to listen. What is unusual is that he tells them to shut up first. Hasket ush’ma. “Silence, and listen…” It is the only time in the entire Bible that the word hasket appears. When a word appears only once like this, scholars call it a hapax legomenon. As the medieval Rabbi and linguist Ibn Ezra comments, “its explanation is according to its context, for it has no parallels [in Scripture].”*3*
We are left with a question: If the idea of listening is so prevalent in Deuteronomy, why, on this single occasion, does Moses feel he needs to first tell the Israelites to be quiet? To answer that, let’s look at what he tells them to listen to this time:
hayom hazeh nih’yeta l’am ladonai elohekha
“Today you have become the people of the Lord your God.
Is this true? Is this day, at the end of the fortieth year of the Israelites’ wanderings, the day that they finally become God’s people? Didn’t that already happen a long time ago – at the time of the Exodus or at Mt. Sinai?
The great medieval commentator Rashi explains Moses’ instructions as follows: “You should consider every day as the day on which you entered into a covenant with [God].”*4*
Moses is not speaking just to the Israelites born in the wilderness. He speaks to all of us. He challenges all of us to treat “today” as the day on which we enter into a covenant with God.
Perhaps that explains why he tells the people to be quiet before he tells them to listen. Back at Sinai, they did not need to be told to shut up. There was a cacophonous sound and light show that overwhelmed the senses – earthquakes, thunder, lightning, fire, smoke, the sound of the shofar. Believe me, they were paying attention.
Forty years later, in Deuteronomy, there is no miraculous revelation by God. There are only words. In order to listen, to really listen, to what Moses is saying, the people must first stop talking. Only then can they, and we, open ourselves up to Torah and become the people of God.
“Shut up and listen!” he says. If we want to be a people of God, we have to stop making noise. We have to stop projecting ourselves and our egos out into the world.
In a world that is full of the noise of our own making, this is an important reminder. We tend to spend a lot more time talking than listening. When we do that, when we shut ourselves off from what the other has to say, we put up barriers. It is impossible to be in a relationship with someone to whom we do not listen.
I did a search online on the expression “Shut Up and Listen.” There were articles that advocated this approach for salespeople. We can be much more effective when we pause to listen to the customer say what the customer actually wants instead of telling the customer what he or she wants. Makes sense.
A self help column spoke about the importance of listening to criticism from other people. Rather than arguing back, it advocated simply saying “thank you,” and trying to really understand the critique. That is an important strategy that can help us learn about ourselves. Also makes sense.
And I found the story of the Italian aid worker in Zambia that I told earlier. The reason that more than one trillion dollars of Western aid money in Africa has done far more harm than good over the past fifty years is that most well-intentioned do-gooders don’t stop to ask people what they actually need. They would do well to shut up and listen.
While all of this may be true, that being quiet and listening may help us improve our sales numbers, or better ourselves, or help impoverished societies, Moses is getting at something deeper. He teaches us that the secret of being in an authentic relationship with another, whether it is a relationship with another human being, or a relationship with God, lies in our ability to shut up and listen.
Silence is more than just the absence of words. To be silent, we have to let go of our defense mechanisms. We have to stop acting as if “the world was created for me” and start acting like “I am but dust and ashes.” When we force down our ego, we create an open space that can be filled by another.
To be in a true relationship is to be in a covenantal relationship, which carries obligations.
The French Jewish philosopher Emanuel Levinas said that we encounter God when we truly look into another person’s face. Our self falls away and there is only the commanding Presence of the Other. Being in authentic relationship with another person is wrapped up with being in authentic relationship with God.
While there are many aspects of silence, it does come down to words. Words are our primary tools for projecting ourselves into the world. What if we only had a limited number of words that we could use each day?
The American poet Jeffrey McDaniel ponders this in his poem, The Quiet World.*5*

In an effort to get people to look
into each other’s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn’t respond,
I know she’s used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.

Just imagine what it would be like.

*1*http://www.ted.com/talks/ernesto_sirolli_want_to_help_someone_shut_up_and_listen.html
*2*Deuteronomy 27:9
*3*Ibn Ezra on Deut. 27:9
*4*Rashi on Deut. 27:9
*5*Listen to author read the poem at: https://myspace.com/jeffreymcdaniel/music/album/the-forgiveness-parade-5886367

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August 17, 2013

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Eating the Fruits While One Labors – Ki Teitzei 5773

In January 1914, Henry Ford*1* raised his workers’ salaries to $5 a day.  His competitors were paying $2.25.  He also shortened the work day from 9 to 8 hours.
The popular reason is that Ford wanted his workers to be able to afford to purchase the cars that they were manufacturing.  He wanted to increase demand for his product.
This is a somewhat simplistic explanation.
The real reason was to reduce worker attrition.  It was incredibly expensive to have workers who might or might now show up, and if they did show up, were more often than not drunk.  In 1913, Ford employed 52,000 men to keep a workforce of 14,000.
In increasing the wages, Ford did not just write bigger checks.  Half of the wages were paid as bonuses and were dependent on a number of factors.  Ford had a “Socialization Organization” that sent people to workers’ homes to make sure they were doing things the “American Way.”  No gambling or drinking.  Immigrants had to learn English.  Women could not get the bonus unless they were single and supporting a family.  Men could not get the bonus if their wives worked.
By reducing the workday from nine to eight hours, it allowed Ford to schedule three back-to-back workshifts per day.
But he did not just raise wages to improve efficiency.  Ford had much bigger ideas  He writes in his autobiography:
“The kind of workman who gives the business the best that is in him is the best kind of workman a business can have. …[I]f a man feels that his day’s work is not only supplying his basic need, but is also giving him a margin of comfort and enabling him to give his boys and girls their opportunity and his wife some pleasure in life, then his job looks good to him and he is free to give it of his best. This is a good thing for him and a good thing for the business.”
It worked. The reason it worked for those employees is not because the wages went up and the workday shortened in and of themselves.  It’s that it made working at Ford better than the alternatives.  Morale and loyalty were high because workers knew that they were getting a better deal at Ford than they could get anywhere else.
In 1913, Ford’s workers made 170,000 cars.  The next year, after these changes, they made 202,000 cars.  It went up and up from there.  Ford’s approach was adopted across the American economy, and played a big role in building the American middle class
In recent years, this has fallen apart.  Companies no longer take the approach that they need to invest in their employees the way that Ford did starting in 1914.
Over the last several decades, corporate profits relative to GDP has risen significantly.*2*  At the same time, employee compensation relative to GDP has fallen.  This is reflected in workers’ stagnant wages while corporations earn huge profits.
It seems to me, anecdotally, that workers today do not feel the kind of loyalty to their employers that Ford’s workers did in the 19-teens.
The Torah would seem to support Henry Ford’s ideas.  It is ironic because, in addition to being a business genius, Henry Ford was an anti-semite, publishing a series of articles in his newspapers that were later reprinted in a four volume set of booklets called The International Jew, which fanned the flames of all of the classic stereotypes.  It was admired by Nazis and reprinted in Egypt in Arabic as recently as 2001.
Henry Ford was apparently misinformed about Jewish values.
This morning’s Torah portion states: “When you enter another man’s vineyard, you may eat as many grapes as you want, until you are full, but you must not put any in your vessel.  When you enter another man’s field of standing grain, you may pluck ears with your hand; but you must not put a sickle to your neighbor’s grain.”*3*
This has been understood by our tradition to refer specifically to laborers.*4*  Workers in the field are allowed to eat their fill while they are working.
Why does the Torah require this?  Some commentators say that it is a benefit to which they are entitled – part of a worker’s pay.
The Mishnah asks how much a worker is permitted to eat?  Of course, there is a disagreement.  Rabbi Eleazar ben Hisma says that a worker cannot eat more than the value of his wages.  The Sages permit it, but warn that he should not be so gluttonous as to close the door against himself.*5*
In other words, if a worker is too greedy, his boss is not going to rehire him, or he’ll eat up all the profits, and he won’t have a job for very long.  So he should be smart about it.  To summarize, being able to eat while they work is a benefit to which agricultural workers are contractually entitled.
The Talmud adds that the worker is not allowed to transfer this right to family members.  It is only for the worker himself.
The commentary Torah Temimah explains that if the worker does not have to spend his own money on food while he is working, it will improve his morale physically and spiritually, thereby making him a better worker.  In other words, it makes good business sense.  Like Henry Ford more than 3,000 years later, the Torah recognizes that workers will be more productive when they feel that their basic needs are being met.
A similar rationale, it seems, has led many of the high tech corporations in our area offer all sorts of supplementary benefits on their campuses ranging from free gourmet food, to exercise facilities, laundromats, daycare centers, volleyball courts, and more – anything to make workers stay at work longer and boost productivity.
A medieval work, Meirat Enayim does not think that the right to eat produce while working is a benefit.  If it was, the worker should be allowed to transfer that benefit to his wife, children, or anyone else for that matter.  Rather, says the Meirat Enyaim, it is an act of grace and kindness.
Even though, according to strict justice, a worker should not be allowed to eat the products of his labor, the Torah is telling us to go beyond what strict justice requires.  A worker should not have to spend all day long handling food that he is not allowed to eat.  That would be cruel.  We have to act with compassion and not allow a person over whom we have power to suffer, even if the details of the contract would allow it.  Just because something is legal does not mean that it is right.
The Torah reminds us that there are some things that are more important than the bottom line.  This is such an important lesson in 2013.  We are more removed than ever geographically and socio-economically from the production of the things that we consume, whether strawberries picked by migrant workers in Watsonville, iPhones assembled by 20 year olds brought in from the farms in China, or t-shirts sewed in overcrowded sweatshops in Bangladesh.
Our prosperity depends not just on the opportunity for everyone in our global society to earn decent wages, but also on the compassion that is afforded to those with the least power among us, and the ability for everyone to live a life of dignity.
*1*http://www.forbes.com/sites/timworstall/2012/03/04/the-story-of-henry-fords-5-a-day-wages-its-not-what-you-think/
*2*http://www.slate.com/blogs/business_insider/2013/07/30/henry_ford_s_150th_birthday_his_fight_for_higher_wages.html
*3*Deuteronomy 23:25-26
*4*I got some ideas for this D’var Torah from AJWS’s D’var Tzedek, written by Rabbi Joshua Rabin.  It can be found at http://ajws.org/what_we_do/education/publications/dvar_tzedek/5773/ki_tetze.html?autologin=true&utm_source=education&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=20130812-E-DT
*5*Bava Metzia 7:5

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June 23, 2013

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Blessings and Relationships – Balak 5773

We experience holiness and blessing when we truly see the other with an open heart. This is something that the Prophet Balaam is unable to do in this morning’s Torah portion.

We can understand Balaam through Martin Buber’s notion of relationships. For Buber, most of our relationships are what he calls “I-It.” We treat others as objects from whom we can get something. These are transactional encounters. What can this person do for me?

Think about the numerous interactions we have every day – at home, at school, at work. Most are transactional. This person is going to ring up my purchase, or bring me my food, fold my laundry, turn in a report, and so on.

The other type of relationship, the far more significant one, Buber calls “I-Thou.” This occurs when we encounter the other in its entirety. My whole being comes face to face with another’s whole being – and that encounter demands a response. Our relationships are only meaningful to the extent that we can truly encounter the other.

Ultimately, according to Buber, we enter into a relationship with God when we relate to the other as Thou.

Balaam treats everyone whom he encounters as an It. All of his relationships are transactional. He never really responds to Balak and his emissaries. They want to hire him to curse the Israelites, and he shrewdly leads them on: “I can’t do anything except what God tells me… but stay until tomorrow, maybe I’ll be able to come with you after all.” We get the impression that Balaam is stringing them along just to convince them to raise his pay.

Balaam treats his donkey as an It as well. The poor animal is only a mode of transportation to him. That is why Balaam does not hesitate to beat her when she stops moving. One would think that an animal that had been a faithful steed and companion all these years would deserve a bit of compassion – but Balaam considers her only for what she can do for him. He never truly sees her.

Because Balaam is treating everyone as an It, he cannot perceive the angel, who is a stand-in for God. His inability to authentically relate to the Other renders him incapable of sensing God’s Presence.

After two rounds of God placing words of blessing into Balaam’s mouth, he has at least recognized the pattern. So what does he do? Balaam looks down on the Israelites, and sees them encamped tribe by tribe. He sees something that impresses him, for this leads him to offer his own words of blessing:

Mah tovu ohalekha Ya’akov, mish-k’notekha Yisrael.

“How lovely are your tents O Jacob, your dwelling places O Israel.”

What is so “lovely” about the Israelites? That they truly relate to one another. They encounter their children, their parents, their spouses, their friends and neighbors as Thou, to use Buber’s terminology. It is this quality that makes them beloved of God and deserving of blessing.

Listen closely to how Balaam expresses the people’s loveliness. How lovely are your ohalim, “your tents,” and your mish-k’not, literally “your tabernacles,” or sanctuaries.

For a nomadic people in the wilderness, “your tents and your tabernacles” is the equivalent of saying “your homes and your synagogues.”

Balaam recognizes in our ancestors a quality that he himself lacks – that they treat one another as human beings with a divine spark. Not as an It from whom I can derive some advantage, but rather as a Thou who reflects the image of God. That is why God’s Presence resides with the people.

This quality has characterized Jewish life every since. The Torah’s commandments and our people’s traditions orient us towards living in meaningful relationships with each other – both in the home, and in community. This is how we experience holiness.

Holiness is encountered in relationships – but only when those relationships are unencumbered by greed and selfishness.

In his new book Relational Judaism, Dr. Ron Wolfson identifies the different levels of relationships that Jews encounter:

Between you and yourself; you and your family, your friends; between you and Jewish living and learning; between you and your community; Jewish Peoplehood; the State of Israel; and the whole world; and finally, between you and God.

Each of these levels of relationship can be holy, but only if we make the effort to encounter the other before us. If we want to experience holiness in our fast-paced, high tech world, we have to make an effort to encounter one another with our hearts. Our Jewish traditions in both home and community, if we would embrace them, are key.

Here are just a few examples. On Friday night, as part of the table rituals, it is customary for parents to bless their children. Granted, sometimes it can be a challenge to get them to sit still, but that moment of intimacy between parent and child, mediated through ancient words from the Torah, creates an opportunity for an I-Thou encounter.

Now shift to synagogue. At the end of Shabbat morning services, before we start eating, we recite kiddush together. Not individually, but together. Our custom is that, before reciting the final blessing over the wine, the leader chants savri, and everyone responds: l’chayim. “To life!” It is often a light-hearted moment, but think about what is taking place. We have come together from all over the place at the end of a busy week, spent time praying together, and are about to share a meal. But we don’t rush. We pause to declare the holiness of Shabbat. Not privately, but all together. And we shout out “to life!” It could be an intensely powerful moment, a joyous and holy moment, if we open our hearts.

And finally, when someone is in mourning for a loved one, the announcement goes out about shiva minyanim, services to be held in that person’s home. The community comes to them. And that includes for people we do not personally know. In a time of loss, we do not leave a person to be alone. We make sure that the mourner has a minyan, a community, to give the mourner an opportunity to recite the mourner’s kaddish – a prayer that is all about holiness.

When Balaam looked down on the Israelites, this must have been what he saw. Parents and children, friends, neighbors, and strangers, all treating one another as human beings in the image of God. People celebrating time together with joy and life. People comforting one another during periods of loss. When Balaam saw an entire nation living this way, he recognized something that had been missing in his own life. He recognized that God was with this people, and that they were truly blessed.