I Need Your Help: Invite Someone Extra to Your Seder – Shabbat HaChodesh 5779

You probably noticed that we took out three Torah scrolls this Shabbat.  That is the highest possible number for any service of the year.  

The first is for our regularly scheduled parashah, Tazria.  The second is for Rosh Chodesh.  Today is the 1st day of the month of Nisan.  The Third Torah is to mark Shabbat HaChodesh, which is the Shabbat immediately preceding Rosh Chodesh Nisan, or, as in our case this year, when Rosh Chodesh occurs on Shabbat itself.

The Shabbat HaChodesh reading is taken from the Book of Exodus, chapter 12.

God tells Moses and Aaron: HaChodesh hazeh lakhem rosh chodashim.  This month for you shall be the head of the months…

We read about the special instructions that the Israelites must follow, beginning today, the first of Nisan.  Not only do they need to get ready for leaving Egypt, at last, they also have to start preparing for Pesach.

Nowadays, we know that Pesach is coming when we see the five pound boxes of Matzah added next to the Hamantaschen display at Costco.  The Israelites did not have Costco yet, so they needed a reminder from God.

Here is a summary of how the Israelites are to get ready for the very first Pesach:  On the tenth day of the month, each household must select an unblemished, one-year-old male sheep or goat.  They must then watch over it for three days, making sure that nothing happens to it.

On the fourteenth day of the month, at twilight, they are to slaughter it.  They take the blood and paint it on the doorposts and lintels of their homes.  This serves to ward off the Angel of Death while he is rampaging through Egypt, massacring all the firstborn.

Each household then roasts its selected animal over a fire, and eats it that night with unleavened bread and bitter herbs.  They are not allowed to have any leftovers the next day.  Whatever is not consumed that night must be burned up.

The Israelites are supposed to eat in their traveling clothes – loins girded, staff in hand, sandals on feet.

God’s instructions then turn from the present to the future.  The people of Israel will continue to celebrate this seven day festival of unleavened bread every year in remembrance of being rescued from slavery in Egypt.

The instructions stuck.  Not only do we still observe The Festival of Matzah, we also recreate the build-up to the moment of freedom.  That is why we read this special passage about how to prepare.  It is as if we are receiving these instructions as well.

Some of the particulars, however, are no longer practical.  Is anyone here planning to bring a lamb into their living room in about ten days?  How about painting blood on the doorposts and lintels?  It might need a new paint job, anyways?

But the essential messages in the Torah reading are still central to our holiday.  Just as our ancestors did, we clean the chametz out of our homes and eat matzah for seven days.  We celebrate the first night with a special feast.  The Torah says to eat it: “loins girded, your sandals on your feet, and your staff in your hand: and you shall eat it hurriedly…”

Our Seders today are anything but hurried.  But, in our house we encourage our guests to come dressed up in whatever they would wear if they were exiting Egypt the next day.

There is one other detail in the Torah reading that we make a big deal about, but I wonder how well we are actually fulfilling it.  The very first instruction to the Israelites is to bring a lamb into the house.  But that might not be practical for everyone, so the Torah states:

“But if the household is too small for a lamb, let him share one with a neighbor who dwells nearby…”  (Exodus 12:4)

In other words, people are supposed to get together for these meals.  From the very beginning, the ideal seder has had a large guest list. 

As the tradition of the seder transitioned from the Biblical model—centered around the sacrifice at the Temple—to the rabbinic model—modeled after the Greek symposium—many of the components were maintained.

This includes the idea of including others at the meal.  As we begin the Maggid section of the Seder, we throw open the door and announce:

הָא לַחְמָא עַנְיָא דִּי אֲכָלוּ אַבְהָתָנָא בְּאַרְעָא דְמִצְרָיִם.

כָּל דִּכְפִין יֵיתֵי וְיֵכוֹל.

כָּל דִּצְרִיךְ יֵיתֵי וְיִפְסַח.

This is the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt.

Let anyone who is hungry come and and eat,

Let anyone who is in need come and participate in the Pesach.

This is one of the only parts of the Haggadah which is in Aramaic, which was the common tongue in ancient times.  That means that it was especially important that participants at the Seder understood these words.

It might be influenced from a passage in the Talmud, describing one of the practices of Rav Huna, an exceedingly wealthy 3rd century Babylonian Sage.

“Whenever Rav Huna would eat bread, he would open the doors to his house and say…”

And now I am going to recite the Aramaic: 

כל מאן דצריך ליתי וליכול

“Whoever needs, let him come in and eat.”

It is almost identical language to that which we find in the Haggadah.  For Rav Huna, it was every meal.  For us, it is just on Pesach.  

A Pesach seder has lots of guests.  It is not uncommon for ten, twenty, thirty, even forty people or more to cram around a table that starts in the dining room, extends into the living room and ends in the hall closet.

At Sinai’s Second Nigh Community Seder, we typically welcome over one hundred people around the tables in the social hall.

But how seriously do we take the words of the haggadah?  When we open up the door, and announce, “let anyone who is hungry come and eat,” do we really expect someone to be waiting on the doorstep?

I need your help.

One reality of the Bay Area is that most people who live here are not from here.  Most of us tend to not have extended family living nearby.  For those who do, the Pesach seder is often an annual family reunion.

Other households have traditions of getting together every year.  The invitation does not even need to be extended, because the tradition of celebrating together has become a fixed custom.  My family in Seattle has an automatic invitation for the second night Seder every year.

But there are many people in our community, I assure you, for whom there is not a seder to which they can count on an automatic invitation.

At my house, we are happy to be welcoming 25 people to our seder this year.  But I have been informed that we have reached the limit of what we can handle, if not space-wise, than certainly sanity-wise.

As the Rabbi of the community, I am concerned about our members.  I worry about people whom I suspect may not have a seder to attend.

So I am asking for your help.  If you are hosting a Seder this year, please add a few more chairs.  Think about someone who might not have a place to go, and invite them.  

If you already have six people coming to your seder, make it seven.  Ten?  Make it 12.  Twenty?   Really, there is very little difference between twenty and twenty five.  It’s chaos either way.  I promise that you will still have leftovers.

Think especially about singles, people without children, and people who are relatively new to the area, or to the congregation.  Also, think about someone who has recently converted, or who is exploring Judaism. 

One of the great things about Sinai is that we welcome so many people from such different backgrounds.  Invite someone whom you don’t know that well.  Invite a person that you have seen coming to shul lately, but whom you have not met yet.  Our family seder’s are enriched every year by having guests from such different backgrounds.

Ha lachma anya is the opening statement of our telling of the story of freedom.  These words ought to mean something to us.

This is the bread of affliction that our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt.

Let anyone who is hungry come and and eat.

Let anyone who is in need come and participate in Pesach.

Shabbat Shalom.  Chag Kasher v’Sameach.

Sharing Passover – Shabbat HaChodesh 5777

As we just announced, Rosh Chodesh Nisan occurs this Tuesday.  In other words, the two week countdown until the first Seder begins in just three days.  (Aaaah!)

I am sure you noticed that we took out two Torah scrolls this morning.  That is because this Shabbat is Shabbat HaChodesh, the Shabbat before the beginning of the month of Nisan.

In the special reading that we chanted from the second Sefer Torah, God makes a similar announcement to Moses and Aaron.  It is the first day of the month of Nisan.

God gives them instructions on how to prepare.  This is the first recorded observance of Passover.  Here are the basics:  On the tenth day of the month, each household must select an unblemished, one-year-old male sheep or goat.  They must then watch over it for three days, making sure that it does not acquire any new blemishes, which would render it unfit for the offering.

On the fourteenth day of the month, at twilight, they are to slaughter it.  They take the blood and paint it on the doorposts and lintels of their homes.  This signals to the Angel of Death that this is a Jewish home.  In his wreaking destruction over all the first born of Egypt, he will know to pass over these houses.

Each household then roasts its selected animal over a fire, and eats it that night with unleavened bread and bitter herbs.  They are not allowed to have any leftovers the next day.  Whatever is not consumed that night must be burned up.

The Israelites are supposed to eat in their traveling clothes – loins girded, staff in hand, and sandals on feet.

Then, God switches gears, explaining that the people of Israel will continue to observe this holiday as a seven day festival for all time – in remembrance of being rescued from slavery in Egypt.

More than three thousand years later, our seders, and our observance of Passover, still look back to this moment.

A detail in this first Seder stands out.  The instructions are not directed to the priests, or to the tribal leaders, or to just the men, or even to individual Israelites.  The laws of Passover are directed to households.  People have to come together and share.

Remember the details – no leftover are allowed.  Given those restrictions, a lamb or sheep is way too much for one person to eat alone.  So it has got to be eaten by an entire household.  But what if a whole lamb is still too much for an entire household? The Torah takes it into consideration: “But if the household is too small for a lamb, let him share one with a neighbor who dwells nearby, in proportion to the number of persons: you shall contribute for the lamb according to what each household will eat…”  (Exodus 12:4)

Imagine the setting in Egypt.  Israelites are rushing around, trying to get ready to leave Egypt.  They are packing their things.  But in the midst of all their preparations, they have to plan for one final meal.  They pick out the lucky animal, and take special care of it for three days, amidst all the hustle and bustle.

Then, the night before departure – one final feast, a barbecue.  Children, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, servants – all come together to share.  Those without large families meet up with their neighbors.  Nobody is left out.  Why?  Because there cannot be any leftovers.

Nowadays, there are surely lots of leftovers after the seder.  At our house, by the time we get to the main course, it is so late, and we have already eaten so much, that nobody has any appetite left.

But the legacy of making sure everyone is included in the celebration of Pesach, in the celebration of freedom, is still with us in two significant ways.

The first is through the practice of maot chittin.  Literally, “coins for wheat.”  Since the time of the Talmud, it has been customary to give kosher for Passover flour to the poor prior to the holiday.  This enables them to bake their own unleavened bread.  Keep in mind, this tradition developed in the days before Manischewitz invented factory-baked matzah.

Giving flour, or money for flour, was considered to be ideal, as it is more dignified when a person can bake his or her own matzah.  Alternatively, a person could give matzah.

In some communities, local Jewish authorities would actually compel miserly residents to contribute towards Maot Chittin.  

A story is told of a woman who once went to her Rabbi with a strange question:  “Rabbi, is it permissible to drink four cups of milk at the seder instead of four cups of wine?

Shocked by the question, the Rabbi asked her why she would want to use milk.

“I am very poor.  I cannot afford wine.”

So the Rabbi gave her a large sum of money, and told her to go buy wine for her seder.

The Rabbi’s wife overheard this exchange, and when the women left, she asked her husband why he gave her so much money.

“Anyone who is intending to drink milk at the seder certainly does not have enough money to serve meat.  So I gave her enough money to purchase both.”

Every year at Sinai, members contribute money towards Maot Chittin.  It enables us, as a congregation, to help feed people.  I am privileged, as Sinai’s Rabbi, to send hundreds of dollars each year to our local Jewish Family Service’s No One Abandoned Here project, as well as to Mazon: A Jewish Response to Hunger.

The other way in which we make sure everyone is included in Pesach is captured in the opening lines of the Maggid section of the Haggadah.  Ha lachma anya…  “This is the bread of affliction which our ancestors ate in the land of Egypt. Let all who are hungry come and eat. Let all who are needy come and celebrate the Passover.”

While reciting these words, it is customary to open our doors to look outside to see if anyone is wandering around, looking for a seder to attend.  Not likely, so this action is largely symbolic.

But many of us try to fulfill this ideal by inviting guests to our seder tables.  Just as the first seder involved entire households, extended families, and neighbors joining together, seders today can be big affairs.  We invite relatives and friends.  For many seders, it is basically the same guest list year after year.  And that is wonderful.  We trace this tradition all the way back to our Israelite ancestors in Egypt.

I wonder, though, if we could do better.  Back in the shtetl, everyone knew everyone else’s business.  If a neighbor did not have a seder to attend, word would get out pretty quickly – and an invitation would follow.  But in our days, when we are dispersed and no longer dwell in tight-knit Jewish neighborhoods, we have no clue about each other’s plans.  We should not make any assumptions.

I assure you that there are plenty of Jews who do not have a seder to attend.

It is one of the reasons that I am proud of Sinai’s Second Night community seder.  It gives us a chance to celebrate together.  It also gives some people a seder who would not otherwise have one to go to.  We are so grateful to Rina Katzen for generously underwriting the seder to help keep the expense down.  Even so, it is still a lot of money for some people.

This year, let us give ourselves a challenge.  For those who are hosting, think about everyone you know.  Is there an individual or a family who might not have a seder to attend?  Invite them.  You do not have to know them well, or even at all.  According to Ha lachma anya we are supposed to literally bring strangers in off the street.

We shouldn’t worry about not having enough space or enough food.  I know from experience that it is always possible to squeeze in one extra person, or even four extra people.  I promise, there will still be plenty of leftovers.

By embracing the spirit of ha lachma anya, we get back to an important part of the first seder in Egypt.  Everyone is included.  Let’s make it happen this year.

Make Each Day “Complete” – Emor 5776

This morning’s Torah portion includes one of the Torah’s sacred calendars.  After introducing Shabbat, it then describes the biblical holidays beginning with Passover.  In the process, it describes the period of time in which we currently find ourselves, the omer.

An omer is a sheaf of grain.  Imagine a field full of stalks of grain.  To get an omer, one would tie a bunch of them together and then chop the stalks off at the base.

The Torah commands Israelite farmers to bring the first omer of the new harvest to the Priest in the Temple so that he can make a special wave offering to God.  After that, Israelite farmers are allowed to consume grain from the new crop.  The omer offering took place on the second night of Passover.

After describing this ritual, the Torah then tells us to start counting.

You will count for yourselves on the day after the sabbath – from the day on which you bring the omer for waving – seven sabbaths, complete they shall be.  Until the day after the seventh sabbath you shall count fifty days…  (Lev. 23:15-16)

The Torah’s language is somewhat unusual: Sheva shabatot t’mimot ti-h’yenah – “seven sabbaths, complete they shall be.”  What does the Torah mean by saying t’mimot – “complete?”

The medieval commentator Rashi emphasizes the numerical aspect of “complete,” and cites the halakhic, or Jewish legal, interpretation.  “The counting must begin in the evening, for otherwise the weeks would not be complete.”  (Rashi on Lev. 23:15)  The Torah is very precise.  If it tells us to count seven complete weeks, then we have got to make sure to acknowledge every single day.

In Judaism, the day begins at night.  Therefore, the mitzvah of counting the omer is at nighttime, that is to say, as early as possible once the new day begins.

The ritual begins with a b’rakhah, a blessing acknowledging that the action we are about to perform is a mitzvah, a commandment.  Then, we count the new day, using the particular “omer counting formula.”

What happens if I forget to count at night?  Jewish law is very precise.  If I remember the next day, I should count during the day day without reciting the b’rakhah, since I missed the opportunity to do it at the proper time.  Then, that night, I can resume by reciting the b’rakhah and continuing the count.

If I forget entirely for a full 24 hour period, I can no longer count the omer with the b’rakhah, even at night.  Since the Torah says to count “seven complete sabbaths,” the opportunity has been lost.  There are no do-overs.  I am out of the omer game.

Every year, it is a challenge to stay in the omer game.  It is surprisingly difficult to remember every single day.  And the stakes are high, because if I miss even once, I’m out.  So far this year, thank God, I’m still in.

So, it is daytime – not the time to count with a b’rakhah.  This will be a repetition for those who remembered to count last night.  Please repeat after me:

Hayom shmonah v’esrim yom, she’hem arba’ah shavuot la-omer.

Today is the eight and twentieth day, being four weeks of the omer.

Is the omer just a game of memory and persistence?  If it is a game, there must be a prize.  It’s a good one.  At the end of seven complete weeks, we celebrate the holiday of Shavuot when we re-enact the revelation at Mount Sinai and receive the Torah.

With such a holy and ancient prize, we would expect there to be a little more to the omer game than simply trying not to get kicked out of it.

A midrash notes something peculiar about the way that the Torah describes the requirement to count the omer.  It does not use the typical Hebrew word for “complete.”  Normally, if I wanted to say seven whole weeks, I would say sheva shabatot sheleimot.  The word shalem means “whole” or “complete.”  It is related to the word shalom for “peace.”

The word in our verse is t’mimot, or tamim in the singular.  This word adds an additional dimension.

In an ancient midrash, “Rabbi Hiyya taught: seven sabbaths, complete they shall be – when are they complete?” he asks.  “When Israel fulfills God’s will.”  (Leviticus Rabbah 28:3)

The word tamim has two typical uses in the Torah.  One is to describe animals without blemishes which are brought as sacrifices to God in the Temple.  The other is to describe people, who themselves have no moral defects.  They are blameless, or complete in their character.

The Torah says about Noah: tamim hayah b’dorotav – “Blameless he was in his generation.”  (Gen. 5:9)  God instructs Abraham: hit’halekh l’fanai ve’h’yeh tamim – “walk before Me and be blameless.”  (Gen. 17:1)

Thus, tamim implies complete in quality rather than in quantity.  Given this additional aspect, what does it mean to count seven “complete” weeks – or rather, seven “blameless” weeks?

One commentator suggests that the period of the omer, that is to say, the period between our freedom from Egypt and our receiving the Torah, offers us a unique spiritual opportunity.

“And you shall count for yourselves” implies introspection and stock-taking in order to choose the true good… just as one carefully examines the amount and integrity of the money he receives so as to avoid deficient or counterfeit coins, thus also when counting the seven weeks he must make sure to complete the number, and preserve the quality of each day, that they may not detract from spiritual integrity… Hence the expression t’mimut which refers to spiritual integrity.  (HaKtav VeHaKabbalah, citing Rabbi Shelomo Pappenheim)

I had a low quality day this week, a day on which I felt completely unproductive.  I just couldn’t get focused, couldn’t accomplish anything.  It was not a day on which I felt that I had fulfilled God’s will – despite the fact that I had recited the blessing and counted the omer the night before.

I imagine we all have days like this from time to time.  The period of the omer, as we prepare ourselves spiritually to receive the Torah, offers us a special opportunity and a challenge to, as Rabbi Hiyya puts it, fulfill God’s will.

How does one count each day?  By making each day count.

Today is the twenty eighth day of the omer.  For the remaining days – I’ll let you do the math to figure out how many there are – let’s commit to making each day count.  Every day, let’s commit ourselves to perform one quality action that will be a fulfillment of God’s will.

Give to tzedakha.  Study the Torah portion for the upcoming Shabbat.  Invite someone to Shabbat dinner.  Reach out to a person whom you know is going through a difficult time.  Volunteer.

Each day offers us a new opportunity to be tamim, to be complete.

 

Bibliography: Nehama Leibowitz, Studies in Vaykira, Vol. 2

Kitniyot on Pesach – Pre-Passover 5776

Now that Purim is safely behind us, we can move on to the next holiday.

It is customary, for the thirty days before Pesach, for Rabbis to begin teaching about the laws of the upcoming festival.  I am sure you remember the topic of my Shabbat HaGadol sermon three years ago.  In case you need reminding, I spoke about the custom of refraining from eating kitniyot during Pesach.

I want to revisit the topic this morning, as there has recently been a significant development that I am excited to share.  The Committee on Jewish Law and Standards, or CJLS. which considers and approves halakhic – or legal – decisions for the Conservative Movement, recently approved a teshuvah (responsum, or legal decision) that has far-reaching implications on the acceptable cuisine of Pesach.  It is based on a teshuvah written by Rabbi David Golinkin nearly thirty years ago in Israel.  Rabbi Golinkin, you will remember, taught us as our Scholar in Residence just a couple of months ago.

Of his extensive writings, this teshuvah is the one for which he is best known.  The CJLS took up the topic over the past year for the North American Jewish community, issuing its rulings this past December.

I am going to summarize the major points of the teshuvah and then relate it to our own community.

Basically, there is a tradition for Ashkenazi Jews – that is Jews whose ancestors lived in Eastern and Central Europe – to refrain from eating rice, beans and kitniyot during Pesach.  Kitniyot literally means legumes, but over time has come to be a catch-all term that encompasses many other types of products.

The custom appears to have originated in France and Provence in the thirteenth century.  The earliest written record is by Rabbi Asher of Lunel in 12010, CE.  He mentions a practice of some Jews not to eat chick peas during Pesach.  He is not sure why, but speculates that it is because the word for fermented beans is chimtzi, which sounds like chametz.  But he rejects this explanation.

Over the following centuries, additional explanations are offered as the custom spreads, both in the number of foods that are encompassed in the prohibition, and in the number of communities which embrace it.

Some of the explanations include the following:  Kitniyot are cooked as a porridge on the stove top, just like grain.  If we get used to eating kitniyot porridge, then we will eventually come to eat porridge made from grain.  Another explanation: there are some places where kitniyot are cooked into a kind of bread.  If we permit them, then we will come to think that bread from grain is acceptable.  A fourth explanation:  Sometimes, grains of wheat get mixed in with grains of rice or beans.

And the explanations continue.  In his extensive research, Rabbi Golinkin identifies twelve different attempts to describe the reasons for avoiding kitniyot on Pesach.  Whenever there are twelve different explanations for the origin of a particular custom, it is probably a good indication that nobody has a clue how it started.

Some of the earliest Ashkenazi authorities reject the practice outright.  Rabbi Shmuel from Falaise writes:  “it is good to refrain from the prohibition, and the custom that our fathers practiced is due to a mistake…”  Rabbeinu Yeruham ben Meshulam, a 14th century authority from Provence, describes it as a minhag shtut – a foolish custom.  Rabbi Yaakov ben Asher, a 14th century Ashkenazi Rabbi who moved to Spain, says that “it is a superfluous custom, and we should not practice it.”  Two important Ashkenazi authorities from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries called it a chumra she’ein lo ta’am v’rei-ach – “a stringency without rhyme or reason.”

Nevertheless, the custom has continued to expand over the centuries, with more and more products included.  Some of them are: rice, buckwheat, millet, beans, lentils, peas, sesame seeds, mustard, corn, green beans, snow peas, sugar-snap peas, chickpeas, soybeans, sunflower, poppy seeds, garlic, radishes, peanuts, coffee, potatoes.  Eventually, derivatives of these products came to be included as well.  So for example, corn syrup, along with canola, sesame, soybean and many other types of oils were banned.  A few years ago, a certain segment of the Jewish world began debating whether hemp seeds were kitniyot, and by extension, whether marijuana could be used during Passover.

The problem is that all of our earliest sources clearly state that kitniyot are absolutely acceptable on Pesach.

Let’s start with the basics.  The Torah states shiv’at yamim matzot tochelu – “For seven days you shall eat unleavened bread.”  And the Torah also states lo tokhal alav chametz – “do not eat leavened bread on it.”  We are dealing with two terms that seem to be the inverse of one another – matzah and chametz.  An early midrash explains that in order to qualify as either matzah or chametz, a food item must be made out of one of five grains: wheat, barley, spelt, oats, and rye.  The same midrash then goes on to state explicitly that rice, millet, sprouts, beans, and sesame are not subject to becoming chametz and cannot be baked into matzah.  When they are left in water, it explains, they begin to deteriorate, or rot, rather than ferment.

The same grains that become chametz when exposed to water can be baked into unleavened bread and consumed in order to fufill the mitzvah of eating matzah on Pesach.

Eighteen minutes after wheat barley, spelt, oats, and rye touch water, they are considered to begin fermentation.  To bake kosher matzah, therefore, the dough needs to be placed in the oven in less than eighteen minutes from the moment that the water and flour are first mixed together.

Early sources include descriptions of particular kitniyot dishes that Rabbis of the Talmud ate during their Passover seder.  Rava, for example used to eat spinach beets and rice at his seder.

These basic standards are reinforced in numerous other sources throughout both the Palestinian and Babylonian Talmuds, midrashim, and early halakhic works.  Maimonides, a thousand years after the early Rabbis, states it pretty clearly:  “kitniyot such as rice and millet, beans and lentils and the like cannot become ḥametz, so even if one kneads rice flour and the like in boiling water and covers it with a cloth until it rises like dough that has fermented – it is still permitted to be eaten because it is not leavening but sirahon [decay].”

If the original practice and all of the earliest sources explicitly permit the eating of kitniyot, and if there is no clear explanation for why the custom began, and if numerous authorities agree that it is a mistaken and foolish custom and urge people to disregard it, where does it come from?

Rabbi Golinkin offers a likely theory.  Originally, there was a custom to refrain from eating kitniyot on all festivals, not just Pesach.  In Italy in the ninth century, there were some Jews who avoided eating beans and legumes because “there is no joy in eating a dish made out of kitniyot.”  Possible reasons include: that poor and simple folk used to eat kitniyot, so everyone should try to avoid them on festivals.  Alternatively, it is a widespread custom among Jews and non-Jews for kitniyot, and especially lentils, to be eaten by mourners.  Therefore, on a festival, when one is supposed to celebrate, it was recommended that one should avoid foods associated with sadness.

Although this practice, which was not especially widespread, applied to all festivals, it only stuck to Pesach.  This makes sense, as Pesach is the only one of the festivals whose laws put such a strong emphasis on categories of prohibited foods.  By the time the practice reached Provence in the thirteenth century, the original reason was lost.

Once the custom took hold, it spread.  Ashkenazi Rabbinic authorities, beginning in the late middle ages, were aware of the custom to prohibit kitniyot, but did not have access to all of the sources.  And so they approved it.  The power of custom, after all, is incredibly strong, especially when it concerns food.

In fact, custom can sometimes be even more powerful than law itself.  Rabbeinu Tam, the grandson of Rashi, states minhag avoteinu Torah hi – The customs of our ancestors is Torah; minhag halakhah hi – Custom is law; and minhag mevatel halakhah – Custom cancels law.

On the other hand, what about when the custom in question is based upon a mistake?  Does the custom still have the force of law?  Rabbeinu Tam also notes that the word minhag, custom, spelled backwards, is gehinom, the Jewish word for hell.  He also teaches “There are customs that one should not rely upon even in situations with regard to which it was taught ‘all goes according to the custom of the land.'”

So where does that leave us?  Rabbi Golinkin mentions five reasons why we might eliminate the custom:

1.  It detracts from the joy of the holiday by limiting the number of permitted foods.

2.  It causes exorbitant price rises which result in “major financial loss.”

3.  It emphasizes the insignificant (rice, beans and legumes) and ignores the significant (hametz which is forbidden from the five kinds of grain).

4.  It causes people to disparage the commandments in general and the prohibition of hametz in particular — if this custom has no purpose and is observed, then there is no reason to observe other commandments.

5.  Finally, it causes unnecessary divisions between different Jewish ethnic groups.

The only reason to continue to observe the prohibition is “the desire to preserve an old custom.”  Rabbi Golinkin, along with a majority of the members of the Committee on Jewish Laws and Standards, does not think that this is sufficient to continue the ban on kitniyot.

If Ashkenazim want to continue observing the custom of their ancestors, even though it is permitted to eat rice and kitniyot, he recommends that they go back to the original custom that limited the ban to just rice and kitniyot.  All of the other ingredients that eventually became encompassed in the ban would be just fine, such as oils, peas, garlic, mustard, sunflower seeds, peanuts, and others.

A word of caution, though, for those who are going to eat kitniyot on Pesach: it is still important to buy packaged products with a proper Passover hekhsher.  More and more items are available that state “kosher for Pesach for those who eat kitniyot.”  Pars, our local Jewish grocery store, clearly identifies them on their shelves.

There are also specific rules for how to purchase pure kitniyot like dried rice and beans before Pesach.  The CJLS encourages all of us who intend to modify our practice to ask questions and to consult Passover guides.

The Rabbinical Assembly publishes an annual Passover guide each year.  This year’s edition has been modified to include instructions for those who choose to include kitniyot in their Pesach this year.  Here is a link to this year’s guide.

Now, regarding our Sinai community:  In our congregation, we have many members who are Sephardic, Mizrachi, and Jews by choice, or who have at least one parent who is a Jew by choice.

It does not seem right to me to force everyone to observe the strictest Ashkenazi custom, especially when it has been proven to have been a mistake.  That is why, starting three years ago, there has been a kitniyot dish served at our second night community seder.  I believe in full disclosure, so I have always made sure to clearly identify it so that those who choose to continue to maintain the tradition of their ancestors may do so.  I have also provided guidance with regard to kitniyot to those who have asked for it – especially converts and vegetarians, for whom Pesach can be quite a challenge without rice and beans.

On every teshuvah approved by the CJLS, it states “The Committee on Jewish Law and Standards of the Rabbinical Assembly provides guidance in matters of halakhah for the Conservative movement. The individual rabbi, however, is the authority for the interpretation and application of all matters of halakhah.”

So, this Rabbi is convinced.  I accept the teshuvah permitting all Jews to eat kitniyot and rice on Pesach.  Over the next month, please ask me if you have any questions.

Each year, I sarcastically joke, chag kasher o sameach.  Have a happy or kosher Passover.  This year, to all of us, I say chag kasher v’sameach.  May we all have a happy and joyous festival.

Inclusivity and Pesach Sheni: Be-Ha’alotekha 5773

Judaism is a religion of memory. All of our holidays, including Shabbat, have a central component that orients us back to some past event – whether the Creation of the World, the Exodus from Egypt, the wandering in the wilderness, the saving of our people in ancient Persia, the victory of the Maccabees and subsequent rededication of the Temple, the destruction of the Temples… and the list goes on. When we observe these holidays, we don’t just remember what happened once, a long time ago. It is always a reenactment. We continually re-experience the formative events of our predecessors. The ancient stories of our people become renewed through us.

This has two complimentary effects. The first effect is a (lower case “c”) conservative one. Our observance of Jewish holidays roots us in the history of our people. We perform the same traditions that our forebears have performed since ancient times. This establishes and strengthens our connection not just to the actual people who were redeemed from slavery in Egypt, but to every generation since that has remembered and re-enacted the Exodus since.

Alongside the conservatism implicit in an ancient tradition, we also innovate. In every generation, every single year, in fact, we have to be creative to make ancient traditions relevant to our lives today. That is why our holidays have layers of observance and meaning that have expanded over the centuries, and continue to expand today.

We see this conservatism and innovation expressed in the Torah from the very beginning. This morning’s parshah is set in the second year after the Israelites have left Egypt. On the fourteenth day of the first month, what we call the month of Nisan, the Israelites observe Passover. And what is remarkable is that only one year after the Exodus itself, they are already performing the ritual of remembrance. They are already making the transition into a people of memory.

But there are some folks, even then, who are left out of that first Passover after the Exodus. They had been in a state of ritual impurity, and the Torah says that in order to offer the Passover sacrifice, a person must be in a pure state. When everyone else is eating roast lamb with matzah and bitter herbs, they have to just watch.

This group of people is eager to celebrate Passover, and they are not content to sit on the sidelines. So they turn to Moses: “Yeah we’re impure, but why do we have to be left out?”

Moses does not have an answer for them, so he tells them: “Stand by, I’m going to ask God,” which he promptly does.

And God issues the ruling: “Anybody who can’t present the Passover offering because he is ritually impure or on a long journey should offer it exactly one month later, on the fourteenth day of the second month. But don’t think this is a free pass. A person who could have offered it at the right time but didn’t… is guilty.”

This has come to be known as Pesach Sheni – “Second Passover.” It is a rather unusual law in the Torah. Most of the Torah’s mitzvot are just given. This is one of only a handful of laws that comes as the result of a particular case.

One other example in particular, shares some similarities. Towards the end of the Book of Numbers, the five daughters of the deceased Zelophehad come to Moses. As in this morning’s case, the existing law leaves them out. The sisters point out that because only sons can inherit, their father’s land will be lost to their family. So they make the case that their father’s land should pass to them.

Again, Moses does not have an answer, so he turns to God. God affirms the sisters’ claim, and the law changes to allow daughters to inherit from their father when there is no male descendent.

Both stories, Pesach Sheni, and the daughters of Zelophehad, feature groups of people who are left out of the normative social structures. In the first, it’s a group of impure people who really want to celebrate Passover. In the second, it is women, who are ignored by the law.

They both make their case to the leader, Moses, who doesn’t know what to do. He understands what the law says, but he also knows that there are human beings in front of him. He turns to God. In both cases, God recognizes that the point is valid. These groups have been marginalized, left out, and so God changes the law to be more inclusive.

That these cases are codified in sacred scripture should tell us something. The Torah could have just presented the ruling. But it didn’t. It wanted us to know about the real, human situations behind the law. It wanted us to be aware that the rules of society in those particular times was excluding people.

It illustrates the tension between conservatism and innovation. Moses was lucky. He could just say: “Hold on a minute. Let me go ask God.” It’s not so easy for us. We are the ones who must negotiate often competing values. With an ancient tradition that is rooted in sacred scripture, but that also values inclusivity, how do we account for change?

This has been a constant tension in Judaism. To what extent do we preserve Jewish law and tradition as we have received it, on the one hand? And on the other hand, how much can we innovate to respond to new situations, new technologies, and new understandings of human experience.

This tension, between conservatism and innovation, is an identifying feature of Conservative Judaism: a movement that affirms halakhah, our commitment as individuals and communities to Jewish law; and a movement that also embraces the best of what modernity has to offer.

As for issues around inclusivity, this has meant that the Conservative movement has moved slower than some elements in the Jewish world, and faster than others.

Over the last century, the Conservative movement has embraced women’s equal involvement in religious life, it actively embraces Jews by choice, it has recently made greater efforts to reach out to intermarried families, and over the last decade has created new laws and traditions to welcome gay and lesbian Jews into mainstream Jewish life.

As in any established movement, the pace of change is slower than some would like, and faster than others would prefer.

But the overall direction in which we are moving is clear. We have made great strides in making our communities more welcoming to people who have been historically marginalized, whether due to gender, sexual orientation, wealth, ethnicity, etc. aBut we still have a long way to go to remove the walls that keep out those who would find a home in Jewish community.

I have learned that in many cases it is not enough to just say: “We are a friendly community. Everyone is welcome.”

At Sinai, we pride ourselves in being a fairly traditional, friendly, and heymish community – and that is by and large true for anyone who is courageous enough to walk through our doors. But with limited resources, we don’t do a whole lot to reach out beyond the walls of our synagogue.

It is one thing to say, “anyone who wants to join us is welcome.” It is something else to go out of our way to personally extend the invitation.

Our Torah, and our Jewish tradition, points us in the direction of inclusion. What can each of us do to make our community even more inclusive than it already is?