Expansiveness & Acharey Mot

The ancient rabbis said we were supposed to experience Passover personally.

We are to feel as if we had each lived slavery and had a form of personal liberation.

That we have come out of a narrow place, our own personal Egypt, or Mitzraim, into a more expansive existence.

As the Israelites did in the desert.

It sure is hard to live expansively in this moment.

We are gripped by fear, anger, rage, defensiveness, divisiveness.

This year, where was there room at our Passover seders to experience the joy of family and friends—

If only we shut it all off and shut it all out for the moment.

For Jews, and also for Palestinians and their supporters, there is so much unrest.

Many Jews feel alone and abandoned.

This, despite full economic support of the U.S. for Israel in this current war.

From the famous Hillel quote, they cry out, “Who will be for us if we are not for ourselves?”

And, “When has anyone been for us in reality?”

Other Jews cry out, “If we are only for ourselves, then who are we?”

The encampments across U.S. college campuses, the anti-semitic tropes by certain factions and individuals, the call for the National Guard, the violence of police, demonstrations across the world, the rise in hate speech and actions…

All together, these things have everyone horrified.

Incensed.

In disbelief.

For many, it’s like the rest of the world has come to a stop.

Nothing else matters.

Where is there room for expansive thinking?

Expansive feeling?

This week the Torah portion begins with the memory of Aaron’s two sons who were killed by God for offering an “alien fire.”

It quickly moves on to God telling Moses to pass on a message to his brother Aaron:

Do not “come in at will” to a certain place at the entrance of the Temple.

For God hangs out there in a cloud above it, and God’s presence will be too powerful for any person to live.

The text moves on again quickly to the sacrifice of two goats.

One is for God.

The other, for the mysterious “Azazel.”

The goat designated as Azazel is chosen by lots.

Is this Azazel creature a demon?

Our own “evil inclination”?

The things we say to slander others?

Our hate speech, maybe?

Is it a scapegoat?

There’s a rabbinic story that has the goat designated to Azazel being pushed off a cliff.

Thus will the person or family who has offered the goat be cleansed of their sins.

Even their clothing must be washed afterwards.

Otherwise, the guilt will stick.

In other words, a total transformation must happen.

Kind of like what’s supposed to take place through the course of Passover.

We come out the other end free.

In a Hassidic interpretation of Azazel, we are to spend as much time, money, energy dedicated to God’s purposes as to earthly concerns or attractions.

We need to be engaging in this debate that’s happening over Israel and the Palestinians.

It’s necessary.

People’s human rights are being violated.

Death by starvation and destruction are happening.

But we can’t choose the goat designated to Azazel by lots.

It’s not random.

The defense of Jews by right-wing Republicans is very deliberate—and can’t be trusted as sincere.

This war is very deliberate.

The decision to continue the destruction is not random.

Nor is the decision not to free hostages.

So, clouds where God hangs out and hides.

Will you please reveal yourself so we can find truth?

And hate speech and scapegoating.

Can we not get sucked into it and participate in it?

And fear.

Can we not get sucked into living in a place of fear, expecting to be attacked at any moment, whether verbally or physically?

Finally, can we keep an open mind?

It took a very long time for the Israelites to learn to live from a more expansive place.

Or did they ever?

Can we?

Shabbat Shalom.

A Passover Sacrifice & Metzora

I know I’m not the only one more than a little concerned about my Passover seder this year.

What with the political situation, namely Israel and Gaza, and the differing opinions within my family, I’m a bit worried about how that’s going to go down.

Usually at Passover, we bring in current events or political situations happening in the world.

What else, after all, is the use of Passover except to apply the idea of enslavement, oppression, and freedom to today’s world.

After all, according to the Haggadah, the book we use for suggested readings—and to remind us of “the order” (the seder)—we are to relive the experience of slavery as if we, too, were once slaves.

We are to imagine what freedom feels like to us, personally.

For people in Israel and Gaza, living a feeling of oppression, or entrapment at the very least, is very real.

I keep hearing that for Israelis, it’s as if it’s still October 8th in terms of the felt trauma.

Many are still wondering if their captive relatives and friends are even alive.

For Gazans, well…

So how do we come away from our seder this year without having caused upset or anger at the very least.

Or a full-blown fight?

Do we avoid it altogether in order to keep the peace, and pretend not to see the Elephant in the Room?

Or are there ways to talk about it without talking about it?

For some fascinating—and very helpful—thoughts on this, I happened listen to Chutzpod.

Every episode of Chutzpod addresses a listener who has written in with a challenging question, and the hosts seek to answer it.

I highly recommend it to you in general, but especially this episode—

—if you’re worried about the same thing as I am—and I imagine I’m not alone!

It’s all about how we talk, and how we go about discussing difficult things.

Now for this week’s Parsha as we get ready for difficult discussions.

As I said last week, metzora, often incorrectly translated as leprosy, can be found on the walls of a house.

It shows up again in this week’s Parsha.

I remind you that the ancient rabbis thought of it as a spiritual malady.

To take that even further, they thought of it as a miraculous physical manifestation of lashon hara (I credit Rabbi Jonathan Sacks for this reminder this week).

Lashon hara, or evil tongue, is gossip, or speaking about another person in a way that could damage their reputation.

Because with words, God created the world.

With words, worlds are created.

Or worlds are destroyed.

The Parsha describes scrubbing the walls of a house to rid itself of metzora.

I imagine the mouth as a house for the tongue and the old-fashioned punishment for cursing of washing a child’s out with soap.

Or scraping the tongue, which is good for one’s health in general.

I wonder if we can all go into Passover this year being especially mindful of our words.

Because with words, the world is created.

And the opposite.

Because on Passover, we’re supposed to sacrifice a lamb, not our family.

And can we say Amen?

And a happy Passover to all.

A Serious and Total Eclipse of the Heart, Passover Cleaning, & Tazria

I’m feeling very serious this week.

That, in spite of the festivities around the total eclipse we witnessed across parts of North America this week.

Yes, it was very festive, with people gathering in large numbers for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

(Woohoo!)

More than one person made the clever joke of singing, “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”

Opportunities abounded for cool social media posts.

And for opportunists looking to make money.

(I bet those special eyeglasses made millions.)

And the earthquake we had last week?

Very exciting, too, and more than a little scary, though not damaging at all.

Right away a t-shirt came out: “I Survived the 2024 NYC Earthquake.”

Opportunities also abound for political action these days.

Walking around New York City, it’s easy to see people wearing kafias, the traditional Palestinian scarf.

The kafia has once again become a central symbol for liberation since the war on Gaza began (it’s hard to say it’s “on Hamas,” the way things look from the outside).

I think, in light of the destruction, starvation, and death happening there, such solidarity is warranted--and before you jump to conclusions about my message, please read to the end. 

Yes, I always wish I could be the Jew, or especially the rabbi, who stops to talk to those kafia-wearing people and let them know this is painful for me to watch as well.

I want people to know that not all Jews think alike.

And that there are those who care just as much for Palestinian life as Jewish life.

I, as much as anyone, don’t want that blemish, the scar of murder, on the name of Judaism.

When Israel first began its bombing of Gaza, I had a beautiful moment with a young, Muslim woman, a tourist, in the park.

She was afraid of a squirrel who just wanted her muffin, and I stopped to reassure her.

Then we talked about Gaza.

She was so touched to hear that I was Jewish, and a rabbi no less, and that I cared so deeply about people other than my own.

We hugged and cried together (and she immediately put it on social media—of course).

On my way home from the park just this past Sunday, I passed a group of musicians.

They were a large group, many strumming on ukuleles, all singing in unison.

From various Latin American countries, they were dancing and playing music of the “working man.”

Songs of liberation sung by an elite group of educated Latinos.

One of them was wearing a kafia, and it occurred to me for the first time, how curious.

Yes, I hate that Israel is carrying out a collective punishment so brutal that we see shocking images of starving children as horrifying as any.

For Jews, and especially as a rabbi, I feel a special responsibility to speak out against such injustice.

But just as horrifying is the denial that rape and death were wrought upon innocent people in Israel by Hamas.

And the rise of hatred against Jews.

Hamas is anything but an innocent group of people simply fighting for the liberation of their people.

True: at this point, more than 33,000 Palestinians have been killed.

Meanwhile, by comparison, “only” something in the ballpark of 1,000 Israelis were killed in the initial attack by Hamas.

But we should not allow one horror to totally eclipse another.

And I wonder at how the Palestinian cause has become so central to the cause for liberation in general around the world.

Once again, it feels like "Jews don’t count" as a people in need of defense and protection--because we've "made it" in the world.

Once again, we are collectively guilty—as a people—in the eyes of the world.

What’s more, here are Latinos seemingly more concerned, more outspoken, for Palestinian liberation than for their ownpeople.

Are they initiating, or participating in, demonstrations for the hundreds dying in the Sonoran Desert of Mexico every year—perhaps the very least of the suffering wrought by U.S. immigration policies?

Our own government has done nothing of substance to change the ills that plague our city and our country.

What about all the mentally ill, drug-addicted people—

—abandoned people who have no other recourse than to sleep in the streets—or treated like criminals for sleeping in the subway among rats?

And treated with disgust and disdain by passersby.

Twenty six million Americans have no health insurance at all and can’t afford to go to the doctor.

Meanwhile, many who are insured are left with insurmountable medical debt.

A friend pointed out that it almost seems easier to fight for something happening on the other side of the world than for what’s happening right here in our very own city and country.

In schools and universities, or in malls and movie theaters all around the country, people have to face the possibility of mass shootings daily.

And, have we given up the fight around green house gases and global warming?

Temperatures on the East Coast are more normal for June than for April, and it’s pretty horrifying.

And don’t even get me started on abortion.

Or police brutality and racism. 

But the thing that might cause Trump to win the upcoming presidential elections will be Biden’s Israel policies.

Yes, his Israel policies are a blemish on his presidency.

But is this just the latest in the hot spot until we move on to the next horrifying thing and forget about all the rest?

Okay, okay, enough of my ranting (sorry if I’m boring you with things you already know).

Let’s move on to Torah (unless this is where you stop reading—hahaha!).

This week in Torah we hear all about different manifestations of tzara’at.

Tzara’at is mostly incorrectly translated as leprosy; its symptoms simply do not align.

Tzara’at could manifest in various ways, such as a rash, a sore, a patch of white skin, or even on the walls of a house.

It is presumed to be infectious; blemishes that form scabs and leave scars once they are healed.

Various sacrifices are to be made in the Temple, clothes to be washed, isolation “outside the camp,” walls to be scrubbed, until examined and pronounced “clean” by the priest.

The ancient rabbis saw tzara’at as a physical manifestation of a type of spiritual malaise.

It was seen as a sign that those infected needed to mend their ways, make changes to the way they were living.

Well, we certainly know we have many “ways” we need to mend.

We know we must find a new way of living.

Next week, many of us will be cleaning our houses as we get ready for Passover, removing chametz, which is any leavened food products, down to the crumbs.

Chametz represented a kind of “puffing up” of our egos to the ancient rabbis.

Passover is not only a time for cleaning out, but also a time for renewal—as the springtime brings new life forth onto the Earth.



It's a sign of hope. 


So here's my blessing for the week: 

Let us participate in this renewal by “cleaning” our inner thoughts and attitudes as well.

Let us let go of our puffed egos of self-righteousness.

Because we, too, are “unclean” when we spew hatred in the name of love.

We are “unclean” when we desire or dream of revenge.

Worse, our attitudes and ways of thinking are themselves infectious.

What exists now, in all camps, is a way of thinking that blames an entire people.

Whether it is, yet again, “The Jews,” this time for a government’s criminal actions.

Or “The Arabs” or “The Muslims” or “The Palestinians,” for a representative organization’s criminal actions.

So I beseech you—I beseech us all.

Let our hearts not be eclipsed by one type of suffering over another.

Let us cleanse ourselves of “unclean thoughts” that include blame and hatred as we get ready for Passover.

Let us not, individually and collectively, add to the suffering in the world in a way that will leave scars that can never be healed.

And let us say Amen.

Just a Poem (for Shemini?)

This week, I got nothin’.

At least I don’t think so—or didn’t.

This week is the week when Moses’ nephews are consumed by fire.

They have offered what has been translated as “alien fire” to God.

Their crime is initiating a sacrifice without God’s command or consent.

It’s a tragic story with little sense to its punishment—and no time to grieve.

Instead of a story of my own, I offer another poem by Mark Nepo:

Above and Below:

Before I could speak, I reached

for something shiny. And godlike

figures swooping in from nowhere

blew small winds in my ear.

Later my parents tried to tell me

there was no wind. It was our relatives

playing with me in my crib. But I know

better. For over the years I’ve been re-

arranged by movements of air. And kept

alive more than once by godlike things

swooping in from nowhere.

You see, things are always what they

seem and more. Like icebergs, above

and below. Like what we say. And what

happens to us. Like the ribbon of to-

morrow behind the winter trees this

instant. Just another day and the call

of all that is waiting out of view.

So when I chance upon an infant

I lean in close and close my eyes, let-

ting all the love I’ve known and dreamed

rise from the basin of my being. Until it

rounds the soft precipice of my mouth

and falls as a whisper that might

steer a life toward light when lost.

(From his book, The Way Under the Way)

Lessons of Bravery from Death & Tzav

This afternoon I led another funeral.

This woman was kind and brave and full of love.

She knew how to keep on living and find joy—create joy—in life, despite suffering and grief.

She was an accepting person who did not judge others.

Rather she listened intently, and made every effort to understand their point of view.

And ultimately accepted their decision as their right, even if she might ultimately still disagree.

Professionally, as a Hearings Officer, she had defended the rights of those seeking disability from the government.

Sometimes to the point of controversy—because she cared so deeply about accuracy and fairness.

At the end of her life, when dying of leukemia, she made a lot of people angry when choosing to stop treatment.

Many people who loved her thought she was giving up.

What she was actually doing was surrendering to the inevitable.

Some of her doctors were uncaring once she made this decision.

As you can imagine, this was very painful to her daughter who cared for her and had to fight for her comfort.

She wondered if their main concern was for their “statistics.”

Jewish tradition does not support the right for a person to hasten death, say by taking pills to end life sooner than would be natural.

Saving a life is also one of the highest values in Judaism.

But Judaism does not prohibit removing treatment when the end is inevitable.

I think this woman’s decision was a brave one.

Especially in the face of so much opposition, anger, and sometimes lack of kindness.

I wish we all had the bravery to defend the rights of others and our own rights as well.

I think of those who seem dispensable in our society, and have few people defending them.

Today, I think of the immigrant workers on the Key Bridge in Maryland who died yesterday morning when the cargo ship hit it—-because of the lack of an emergency system in place to warn them. (There was enough time to stop traffic, but no communication system for those filling potholes.)

Today, I think of people like the Arizona State Senator fighting to maintain some remnant of the right to choose abortion in this country.

Today, I think of those willing to stand up against rising antisemitism despite what Israel is doing in Gaza.

Today, I think of those willing to report and speak out against the criminal actions of the Israeli government in Gaza in blocking aid to starving Palestinians.

This week’s parsha continues to explain the rules of the Temple and the sacrifices brought to clean the people of their wrongdoings.

One rule is to keep the fire burning continually on the altar.

It must not go out.

I leave you with this poem by Mark Nepo from The Way Under the Way.

I read it at the memorial service in honor of the deceased:

Yes, We Can Talk

Having loved enough and lost enough,

I’m no longer searching

Just opening.

No longer trying to make sense of pain

But trying to be a soft and sturdy home

In which real things can land.

These are the irritations

That rub into a pearl.

So we can talk for a while

But then we must listen,

The way rocks listen to the sea.

And we can churn at all that goes wrong

But then we must lay all distractions

Down and water every living seed.

And yes, on nights like tonight

I, too, feel alone. But seldom do I 

Face it squarely enough

To see that it’s a door

Into the endless breath that has no breather, 

In the surf that human

Shells call God. 

May we learn to listen better, hear other people’s pain.

May we be a soft and sturdy home for that pain, see it as a seed, and open the door to peace and positive change in the world.

May we make a world where people die in dignity.

May we remember our highest values, live through them, and create a world where saving lives is a priority.

May the fire of our bravery in defending ourselves and others not go out.

And say Amen.

Truth: A Eulogy for a Life Lived with Passion, Love, Loss, & Addiction (Ms. Anonymous)

People like to say that love is simple.

But more often than not, love is very complicated. 

We hurt the ones we love, and we love the ones who hurt us.

Love is actually really hard work. 

It means making sacrifices, and trusting others to find their own way even when we think we know better. And when we can’t let go, we often hurt those we love. 

Our culture also teaches that grief should be simple; someone dies, and we are sad. 

But grief is as complex as love.

We are left with feelings of guilt and regret at the things we did wrong, the things we didn’t do, the way we hurt the person we loved, for the times we were angry or didn’t give them space, or didn’t trust them enough, or didn’t let them in. The list goes on, as I’m sure everyone knows.

There’s also something officially called “complicated grief,” which can mean two things: that grief lasts longer than is culturally or socially “typical” or acceptable.

But it can also mean that we are grappling with very complex feelings about the person who has died.

With Ms. Anonymous and her family and friends, all of this was, and is, true. 

For Ms. Anonymous, who experienced the loss of many friends and family over the years, too many for one person to handle well, her grief was deep and long-lasting.

And the love between Ms. Anonymous and her family was deep, but also not easy.

I know it was deep because her parents, as far as I can see, would do anything to make things better or easier for her, and to make sure that their grandchild, Ms. Anonymous’ son, was loved and cared for and had all the privileges and care they had given Tessa as a child growing up.

I know it was deep because she accepted their love and support. 

And it was complicated because of Ms. Anonymous’ history with addiction, and of physical and emotional pain.  

I know her love was deep, and complicated too, because of the herculean effort it must have taken for Ms. Anonymous to stay completely sober for as long as was humanly possible for her so she could be a good mother to her child over many years.

I know it was deep because of the way she planned for her son’s birth, and the choice she made to give him the best possible nourishment from her own body for way longer than is socially acceptable in our American culture (and I promise I won’t embarrass him by saying how long!).

I know her love was deep because, despite the chronic and deep physical and emotional pain she experienced most of her life, she made sure to be fun loving and affectionate with her son whenever she was able, as he told me himself.

She loved so deeply and so truly that she wanted to do right by everyone and, I can guess, was disappointed in herself when she let those she loved down, Ms. Anonymous’ love went beyond her family, to animals and other people.

She treated and loved the stranger as herself, which is one of the strongest and central tenets of Judaism. 

She made friends with the unhoused she encountered on the street, bringing them food and clothing.

She learned to love the stranger from the values she got from her parents, to care about the underdog, whether it was the hungry, the unhoused, 

or the rights of women to be in charge of their own bodies, or for the dignity of the LGBTQ community she was so closely allied and aligned with.  

She loved poetry, a love her father transmitted to her by reading to her at night—or in the middle of the night if she couldn’t fall asleep. 

And her own poetry showed great talent, maturity, and depth from a very young age.  

Last but certainly not least, Ms. Anonymous was a “nature baby.”

I feel this is a good time to turn the microphone over to others who knew and loved Tessa deeply, to add to the richness of the story of Ms. Anonymous’ life. 

How (not?) to Live: A Eulogy for Sir Anonymous, an Overachiever

Time. 

All we have is time.

And it never feels like enough. 

We spend our lives running, achieving, trying to excel: proving. 

When people die young, we like to say they died before their time. 

We rail at the injustice of it. The tragedy! How could this happen? 

We are bewildered: Why?”

It all feels so unfair. 

And relationships–whether between a child and parent, spouses, siblings, even friends, are never simple. 

When someone dies, young or old, many feelings come along with it. 

Close loved ones may wonder how they will live without that person. 

They anticipate all the times in the future when they won’t be there–for Christmases,  Chanukahs, birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, New Year’s. 

It’s so sad.

But there is also anger. And resentment.

Anger at the forces that caused the person to die, anger at the disease that took them.

Anger at the person for dying.  

There can be resentment for who they were, or who they weren’t: how they fell short. 

Sir Anonymous was an overachiever— “driven” is probably a word many would use to describe him—both in life and in death and dying. 

And when you’re driven, balance in life is not a thing you can easily throw into the mix of “achievements.” 

Sir Anonymous was obviously well-loved, by all accounts. 

And for good reason.

He loved fiercely, and took Jewish values out into the world—I imagine as he had been taught, whether implicitly or explicitly.

Values that come from centuries—-millennia—-of discrimination and oppression. 

Values that teach that once you’ve made it in a place, you give back by supporting others who still struggle to overcome discrimination they experience—whether implicitly or explicitly.  

But when you’re an overachiever, you’re bound to disappoint–even, or maybe especially, yourself-–because you can’t be everything to everyone. 

You can’t do anything alone. No one can. And I think Sir Anonymous knew that. 

Perhaps Sir Anonymous thought, I have an amazing wife who I trust with all my heart–who I trust with my own life!--and I can be the provider while she holds up the house. My kids are okay. We’ve given them all the advantages they need to make it in the world already. So what was left? 

It seems that what was left was the drive to make sure he passed on his grit and determination to them, to make sure they knew what a hard world this is—-to be a coach to them like he was with everyone–and they’d be okay.

Such a drive can sometimes come out with harshness, but it comes from the same place of fierce and unrelenting love.  

Yes, Sir Anonymous tried to be everything to everyone–an impossible feat, bound to disappoint.

Because when you’re an overachiever, you feel like you’ll never get there, so you just keep pushing forward: the only way to go in life. 

But in the past four years, that changed. 

His Son Anonymous told me the other day that Sir Dad Anonymous’ every New Year’s resolution was about being more present in the coming year.

And as tragic as Sir Dad Anonymous’ death was, as unfair as it feels, it gave him the chance to be fully present for his family–most of all, his children–in a way he had not been able to before.

Finally, he could stop the running, achieving, excelling, proving.

He could just be. 

Wife Anonymous, though separated from him, stepped in to join forces with him and his doctors to help make it possible for Sir Husband Anonynous to survive his cancer for as long as he did.

Yes, Sir Anonymous was incredibly positive and determined, something he learned from his mother.

He coached everyone in every moment—even himself. 

While he “should not have lived” more than a year and a half according to the normal prognosis for his illness, he survived four years. 

And they were good years, up until the very end—full of unrelenting determination to make them just so.  

These were years that he took seriously—to live with a presence he could only fully learn knowing he was eventually going to die. 

He took the time to reconnect with his children in a way much deeper and more real than had been possible before–and that his Daughter Anonymous made possible through her dedication and love and her own hard, inner work. 

These very hard four years, from the beginning of a pandemic (remember Covid?), were a time when Sir Anonymous spent the gift of time in joy with his children.

Through his illness, he continued to play basketball with his boys, and joked and laughed with them.

But if it hadn’t been for Wife Anonymous’ immense love and strength–her love for him and their children—her presence–Sir Anonymous could not have survived the normal prognosis for his kind of cancer.

After putting things in order to make sure Wife Anonymous wouldn’t be left with insurmountable medical debt, an injustice that should not be wrought on anyone, Sir Anonymous could finally let go and just “be”--with them–seeing and appreciating them fully in their own right–for which they are incredibly grateful.

With that, for some personal stories, I hand over the mic to those who knew and loved him.

Come Sunday, Be Present, & VaYikra

When Sunday rolled around again this past week, I sang in front of a crowd of over 200 people.

It was in a gothic chapel with high vaulted ceilings.

I’d never done anything like that before.

Of course, I was nervous.

But I did well—

—with the help and encouragement of various people in my life coaching me, telling me I could do it.

“Just be present.”

And I was.

As people left, they thanked me for a beautiful service, and for my beautiful voice.

It felt like they were thanking me for a gift, which was how I wanted it to feel—like the gift I get from others’ voices—

—and from meaningful, thoughtful words shared.

Wow, did that feel good.

Such an accomplishment.

It was for the tragic death of a man in his late 50’s who died of brain cancer.

I was the rabbi who officiated at his funeral, and I wanted to honor him and his family by doing well.

I met with his wife and their children, all three in their 20’s, a couple of days prior.

Three children, whose weddings he would not be attending at some future date.

Anniversaries, holidays, and birthdays he would no longer celebrate with them.

He’d been an overachieving, high-performer who’d wanted to be everything to everyone.

Extremely positive and determined, he’d made it through four whole years—while his prognosis had been but a year and a half!

And he’d accomplished this despite starting at the beginning of a pandemic! (Yes, remember Covid?)

An overachiever—both in life and death!

A star basketball player, successful entrepeneur, he’d coached others constantly—even himself (how else could he make it through?).

He’d saved thousands of inspirational quotes sent to him by his own coach to keep himself going.

Phrases like, “Faith Embraces Uncertainty.”

He was a model patient, never complaining, always encouraging, always smiling: never burdening his family—to the last days.

This was one beautiful gift he gave them at the end of his life.

While he gave them another gift, that of presence, in his last four years, this hadn’t been the case for most of his married and parenting life.

Because when you need to be there for all, in the end, you’re present for very little.

This week in Torah we begin the book of Leviticus, VaYikra, the third of the five Books of Moses.

It begins with sacrifices.

Gifts to God to make expiation for one’s sins—for incurring guilt.

Some of these we do knowingly and intentionally.

Others are done unwittingly.

For each type of wrongdoing, there are specific types of sacrifices, using various animals, for instance.

Adjustments are made depending on means and available resources.

This man I never met was good man—a great man, as many attested—with a big heart, loved by many.

It was evident by the large numbers present for his memorial.

And he loved deeply.

As soon as he knew he was going to die, he put his affairs in order, selling his company and making sure his wife would not be left with medical debt—a sin in itself incurred by our American lack of Universal Health Care—an intentional sin by our government, in my eyes.

So what’s sin got to do with this guy?

He’d tried so hard.

He’d wanted to be everything to everyone, taking his learned Jewish values out into the world, coaching young people from undreprivileged families.

He’d given to the world!

Yet—when you try that hard, when you’re that driven, balance is not one of the achievements you can boast of in life.

Despite everything, he was likely to disappoint.

Despite all his efforts, he still could not achieve all, and save the world.

He was absent, and often harsh, with his own children, as he pushed them to do their best.

He wanted to make sure they knew that this world is tough, and that to survive, you have to be tough.

In my eulogy, I said I understood this.

After all, I’m a parent.

Have I not done these things?

Been absent, if only in my mind?

Been harsh when I thought this would instill a sense of responsibility?

After the memorial service, the family asked if I would lead a shiva minyan the next night.

Of course, I said yes.

Not wanting a traditional service, I experimented with them, leading them in Hebrew chant.

For each chant, I offered an intention and a focus.

“See what memories or thoughts come up for you in the silence after the chant, and see what needs to be shared,” I suggested.

After one chant about healing through nurture, the deceased’s wife shared a story.

She’d found her husband’s relentless positivity exhausting.

One day she’d finally said to him, “This must be really hard and scary for you.”

Tears had immediately sprung to his eyes.

“Yes,” he’d said.

And, “Thank you.”

She’d given him a gift.

His sons—everyone—-talked about what a gift he’d given them, being so positive.

But while giving one gift, he’d deprived them of another.

One boy said, “I always wanted to know what I could do for him, but there was never anything. Instead, he was always doing for me.”

“What a model of how to die with dignity,” he said, shaking his head in admiration.

But he’d modeled that one must never be vulnerable—or show vulnerability.

Not one tear fell from his grown sons’ eyes.

And he’d deprived them of the ability to give.

True, he’d finally learned to be present.

He’d finally learned to stop striving and pushing and running.

But only when nothing else was left to do but die.

And though he was lauded for his positivity and determination, he couldn’t have accomplished any of it if it hadn’t been for the presence and determination of his wife.

(Because behind every great man…)

Though separated from him, she’d immediately stepped in to join forces with him and his doctors.

And let’s not forget that he’d had his own coaches.

We do so many things wrong unwittingly while trying so hard to be good, to accomplish and to achieve.

Can we learn these lessons before we are about to die?

Can we realize that the weight of the world is not on our individual shoulders?

That we can only achieve truly great things when we join forces with others?

That it’s okay to need and ask for help?

That it’s okay to be vulnerable?

It seems to start by being present.

So let’s try that.

May it be so.

And say Amen.

Create Tension, Get Attention; Heresy & P’kudey

Oh, God, do I love heretics!

I think it takes great strength and courage to be one openly.

This week I heard the amazing story of an Evangelical Christian preacher turned heretic.

Carlton Pearson, an African American minister and Bishop of his church, rose to great prominence in the 1980’s and ‘90’s.

And of course, he preached about hell.

This is the biggest draw for Evangelicals; the fear instilled in people of hell.

Images of weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.

If you don’t take accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior, this is where you’ll end up.

I think Jews can relate to this, too.

My grandmother refused to say she didn’t believe in God for fear of punishment simply for doubting.

For Jews, it’s more about punishment while still living on this Earth—a kind of personal hell on Earth.

For Carlton Pearson, he had a moment of enlightenment when he saw images of starving babies in Rwanda on television.

In that moment, he began to accuse God.

“I don’t know how you can call yourself a loving, sovereign God and allow these people to suffer this way, and suck them into hell,” he said.

“Well,” responded God, “how are you gonna save them?”

“I can’t save this whole world,” said Pearson.

“Precisely,” answered God. “You think we’re sucking them into hell? They’re already there.”

God told him, “You’ve been teaching the wrong thing about me; that’s why people turn away from me.”

For the first time, Pearson understood that God was not the inventor of hell.

He began to understand that humans not only invented the idea of hell, but in our very actions, we create it for ourselves.

But he was afraid of what would happen if he said so publicly.

God said, “In order to get attention, you’re going to have to create some tension.”

So Pearson found his courage and began preaching about a God of inclusion and love.

And was declared a heretic.

He lost the millions of dollars that had poured into his church monthly.

He suffered the rejection of his community.

But he saw lives healed, and lives saved with love, as opposed to damaged by fear and hate.

As if a cloud had lifted from in front of him, he now saw things clearly, and moved forward with confidence, despite the consequences.

This week’s Parsha begins with accounts taken of the gold, silver, and copper used in the building of the portable house for God.

It ends with a cloud covering God’s sanctuary.

And the Israelites could not move forward into action until the cloud lifted.

We, like the Israelites, need to take accounting of our actions.

We need to see the hell we are creating and imposing on others: the starving babies.

This week I saw images of Israeli protestors blocking aid into Gaza by throwing themselves across the road in front of trucks.

I can’t get the voice out of my head of a “religious” Jewish woman being asked, “Don’t you have at least a little compassion for the babies that are starving?”

“Why should I have compassion for future terrorists?” she replied coldly.

Is this what Judaism teaches us?

Is this what God wants of us?

While antisemitism rises around the world, should we use it as an excuse to justify our own criminal actions?

Are we to become the “animals” we accuse others of being?

Every time I write such things as I’m writing here, I feel a tension around the possible backlash—the hatred and anger of fellow Jews who may accuse me heresy.

But, as God said to Pearson, we have to create tension to get attention.

We must notice and challenge ourselves if we are preaching about a God of hatred and punishment—-lest we become the hatred we hate.

We don’t need God’s help to create hell. We’re doing just fine all by ourselves.

May the cloud lift from before us so we may see a way forward in a loving, inclusive way—whether others do or not.

We can’t save the whole world.

No.

Not by ourselves.

But together we might.

(Note: You can find “Heretics” and learn about Carlton Pearson on This American Life. You can also see the Netflix movie, Come Sunday, for a dramatization of his life.)

A Lavish Ukrainian Wedding, an Owl, & Vayak’hel

This week is a Torah portion about too many gifts, if that’s possible.

It’s about turning people away in their generosity

It’s about saying, “You’re bringing beyond what is needed for this project.” (In this case, materials needed to build the mobile sanctuary for God to dwell among the people in their long trek through the desert.)

I want to write about the Jewish wedding of an interfaith couple I recently officiated.

It happened a couple of weeks ago, but it’s still very present in my mind.

I say Jewish wedding because, though the bride was Jewish and the groom of Muslim descent, they wanted a purely Jewish ceremony.

So that’s what I gave them.

The (now) husband is a non-practicing Muslim from one of the former Soviet Republics.

The (now) wife comes from a long line of (famous, according to her mother) rabbis from Ukraine.

Most of her family died in the Holocaust or in Soviet work camps.

So it was important to them that they have a rabbi.

Both sides of the family seem affectionate and caring toward each other.

The common language is Russian.

It was almost impossible for them to find a rabbi willing to officiate such a wedding, as you might imagine.

The Chabad rabbi they’d turned to had even questioned the validity of the bride’s Jewish identity.

They were relieved to have found me.

As I approached the venue, far out in Brooklyn, almost at Coney Island, a woman came up to me and grabbed my arm.

“Come, Rabbi, come!” she said in a thick Russian accent emphasizing the second syllable of “rabbi.”

I had no idea who she was, but quickly decided she was a friend and that I would indeed come with her.

She immediately started giving me the long history of her family.

I had to interrupt.

“Sorry,” I said as gently as possible, “but who are you?”

“I am the bride’s mother.”

Ah!

Time for an enthusiastic hug.

“How did you know I was the rabbi?” I ask.

“I smell! I smell!” she says, gesturing with her hand around her crinkled nose as if there were a scent wafting in the air.

Time for a laugh.

Then I saw what a stupid question I’d asked.

Of course she knew I was the rabbi!

As we entered the (smallish) banquet hall, it was like I was entering an alternate universe.

I immediately felt like a fish out of water.

People began arriving; women in long, sparkly, multi-thousand-dollar sequined gowns and spiked heels, small fur shawls across their shoulders, long fur coats.

Me?

I was dressed in chic wide-legged trousers from Old Navy, a cute little black jacket, and creamy Oxford Doc Martens.

I was glad I’d packed my heels.

(And I realized they hadn’t gotten the memo that wearing fur in the U.S. is now considered a cruelty to animals.)

As I was figuring out the logistics of the venue, there was hustle and bustle all around.

The chuppah (wedding canopy) was lying on the marble floor waiting to be picked up, its thick birch branches blending into the white marble floors.

I was worried someone would trip over it.

(No one did, I thanked God.)

Servers rushed by carrying elaborate trays of food to the tables; salads of beets, fresh white cheese, unidentifiable mushrooms, caviar, huge swans carved from watermelons, giant blueberries, vodka, whiskey, imported sodas and sparkling water...

Enough food to feed forty at each table that seated only ten.

I gathered the couple and their immediate family for a private little pre-ceremony ritual in a small room off to the side.

We surrounded the couple (a nervous wreck because everything was “fucked up”) as they faced each other.

First I led them in a little breathing exercise and a niggun (wordless melody) to help the couple transition from their frenetic energy.

I told a little story, then the groom covered his bride with her veil, and everyone showered blessings upon them.

They were finally calm and ready.

As we began the more public wedding ceremony, I pointed out how poignant this moment was:

Two people of supposedly such different cultures and religions, in a time of such strife and pain in the Jewish and Muslim world (not to conflate Palestinians with Muslims, as we know), coming together in love.

And fully supported by their family and community.

I pointed out the ripple effects such a thing can have on the world—even the fact that they don’t think that such a union is a big deal is itself a big deal.

Yet not so different from each other after all.

Afterwards I reflected: was I actually a fish out of water in their supposedly alternate universe?

An older cousin from the bride’s side of the family had taken me under her wing, introducing me to the foods on the table, making sure I saved room in my stomach for “more, there’s more coming,” and making me laugh and dance with her the whole time.

Every moment there was a chance to toast the couple with a “L’chaim!” and drink another shot.

The mother of the bride was grateful, I felt, for a female rabbi she could link arms with and tell her history to, along with her stories of woe.

Is that too many gifts?

Should some of the enthusiasm for giving, or abundance in this instance, be redirected?

Should we turn some of the gifts away?

Did the bride need two dresses (one for the ceremony, the other for dancing)?

Did they need an MC and three live singers, enough food for an army, and four photographers?

Perhaps a better balance is what’s called for.

Perhaps that’s the message of the Parsha.

Yes, it’s definitely a value system.

Where do we choose to put our money and limited resources—which in this case I know are limited.

I think of our human need to give, and how abundance makes us feel comfortable, like all is well in the world.

I think of our need for celebration, especially in these times.

I think of the now-somewhat-famous Palestinian student, Hisham Awartani who was shot in Vermont a few months ago (Notes From America, Feb. 19th episode).

I think of the go-fund-me movement to help him with medical costs (and the sadness that funding medical costs in the U.S. in this manner has become commonplace and unquestioned in a country with so much wealth and so much poverty).

I think of Hisham Awartani’s discomfort with all the attention and money he’s receiving, knowing meanwhile that if he were home in the West Bank, he’d be just one more anonymous Palestinian being carried around on a stretcher.

I think of the famous Central Park Zoo owl, Flaco, having survived a year in the wilds of Central Park, now dead, receiving lavish attention from individuals and the media.

I know we’re living in painful, soul-sucking times.

I understand it’s difficult to look at photos of starving and dead Palestinian children and much easier to look at a photo of Flaco.

This owl gave hope and comfort to many people in these difficult times.

It’s like the feeling of loss and pain is being poured into this one little owl.

It’s hard to come to terms with the fact that the U.S. government, while saying what Israel is doing in Gaza is “over the top” is not only not stopping it from happening, but actually responsible for funding it.

It’s hard to be reminded that the war in Ukraine is still happening.

But can we find a balance in where we put our money?

And can we measure more carefully where we give our attention?

I leave you with this question.

You can make the blessing.

(Please send it to me.)

Stretching & Late to the Game (Ki Tissa)

This morning, I think, was the first time I cried while hearing the story of a family from Kibbutz Be’eri.

Maybe I’m late to the game.

But what made me cry was a little different.

It was deeper than the personal story of pain and trauma of a specific family.

While heart breaking, it offered a ray of hope.

It was more than their personal story.

It was also indirectly about the loss of an intentional way of living.

A communal way.

An ideal.

Where all income goes into a common pool, and all benefit.

Where everyone has their needs met, whether it’s for health, food, education, friendship…

After months of living in a hotel with their fellow kibbutz members who survived, there were decisions to make.

As a group—as one big family—they talked.

What to do going forward?

For the good of everyone.

Some argued not to return to rebuild until they knew it was safe.

That included knowing that Palestinians would be treated fairly!!

They didn’t sound bitter, despite their unimaginable loss and grief.

And they were doing everything to stay together as a community—a community that had grown up together, like a family.

When I heard this, it brought tears to my eyes.

I was amazed at the humanity of people whose whole way of life and worldview had been threatened and upturned.

To know that, in spite of everything, they were able to maintain their care and concern for another people—

—a people they could easily turn their wrath on for having betrayed their trust.

They were not bitter.

They did not abandon their ideals.

This week in Torah, we have a story of loss of hope and faith—and a feeling of betrayal.

The Israelites have been waiting for Moses to descend Mt. Sinai for a long time.

And they’re done waiting.

With their history of grief and trauma, having escaped from slavery and walked through a wall of water through a divided sea, they are afraid.

They have experienced and seen death and destruction beyond the imagination.

In their anxiety, they descend as a mob on Moses’ brother, Aaron, and threaten him;

This guy Moses has betrayed us, they say in essence. He said he was coming back, and we see no proof of it!

“Make for us a god!”

From this comes a calf made out of gold: a false god, one they can bow down to, one they can see.

It’s a terrible moment when Moses learns of this disaster and hears God’s wrath.

Moses confronts his own wrath as well, smashing the tablets engraved by God’s own finger that he has brought down from the mountain.

Yet he pleads for the people: “Do not destroy them.”

From all this, ultimately, once all is calm, comes a beautiful moment of deep connection.

Moses has a heart-to-heart talk with God, a rational conversation, wishing to know God more deeply.

And God, in return, gives Moses a sweet assurance of revelation and protection, showing him only so much as he can observe safely—

—for to see God’s face would be too much, and Moses would die.

Since Oct. 7th, many people have abandoned hope of any kind of reconciliation, or the idea of Israeli Jews and Palestinians ever living peacefully together.

We want to see proof in a moment when there appears to be none.

Many have likewise abandoned hope of a world where people can live together and support each other in community.

We are caught, both literally and figuratively, in the crossfire between political players.

Yet we do have choices.

We do not have to make false gods of these political powers—as if they are there to protect and keep us safe.

We do not have to give in to forces that personally gain by keeping us afraid and full of hatred, ready to explode.

And just like those members of Kibbutz Be’eri, we do not have to give in to bitterness and hatred.

We do not have to react from our gut, despite feeling vulnerable.

We can choose, instead, to have rational, calm conversations.

We can choose to make sweet connections—and see what might be revealed.

It may take stretching ourselves to maintain hope and commitment to an ideal.

But we are capable of stretching.

Join me if you will.

The ripple effects are immeasurable.

And say Amen.

Note: To hear the story I describe above, listen to the latest episode of This American Life, called Family Meeting.

To hear more on communal living in today’s world, listen to the Ezra Klein show when he interviewed the author of an upcoming book about reimagining life “with friendship at the center.”

Aliens, Whales, & Tetzaveh

This week I happened upon a funny series on Netflix.

At first I thought it would be too silly, too childish.

But I found the humor to be right up my ally.

So I’ve kept watching, becoming more and more engrossed and invested in the characters and the outcome.

It’s called “Resident Alien.”

The main character is an alien living among humans—thus, he is a “resident alien.”

The title is obviously a play on the way we often speak of migrants from other countries in the U.S.; we dehumanize them.

This particular alien on the show has come from another planet to Earth—and not for good reasons.

He is on a mission to destroy all of humanity.

(And I’m not totally clear on why.)

One of his strengths is that he can transform his outer appearance to look like any other human.

As he lives among humans, he learns their ways.

At first, it’s all part of his disguise.

But slowly he is transformed.

He becomes more and more human, and less and less alien.

This is part of his charm.

When once he thought himself far superior, far more intelligent, he begins to see the strengths in humanity.

One character, who becomes his only friend, teaches him about human compassion.

“We show up for each other when we’re in need.”

This is how we survive the trials and tribulations of life, she explains.

The show also teaches that anyone can be your family, even when they are not blood-related.

This morning as I was exercising, I tuned into the Radiolab podcast.

It’s fun and funny, and I always learn something from it.

This week, the episode was called, “The World’s Smartest Animal.”

The hosts set it up kind of like a game show.

The contestants each argue for a particular animal as the smartest on Earth.

The chicken, one says, is so smart, it can play tic tac toe.

The crow makes tools.

It also holds funerals for other crows (so it can figure out what they died of and avoid a similar death).

In the end, the audience votes.

And the animal that wins is the sperm whale.

Why?

Partly because the sperm whale can sense another being approaching from very far away (good for self-protection against the enemy).

More importantly, however, it was admired for lacking the concept of “I” in its “vocabulary.”

If a sperm whale could express its emotions, it would say, “We are sad,” or “We are in pain,” for example.

There was even a group of sperm whales that adopted a dolphin with a deformity that had caused its own group to reject it.

(Brings tears to your eyes, right?)

The sperm whale is the epitome of a completely communal way of thinking and living.

Since the beginning of the war in Gaza, I’ve been talking a lot about compassion.

How can we open our hearts to those we disagree with?

Or even to our “enemy”?

Or that which seems alien to us?

Does it protect us to be afraid and maintain our distance?

Certainly. Sometimes.

This week in Torah, instructions are given for garments to be worn by the high priest in the Temple.

One major element is the breastplate, or khoshen.

It is a patterned brocade made of special, colorful threads into which are set four rows of stones.

The stones add up to twelve, each representing one of the twelve tribes of Israel.

The priest is to wear it over his chest.

What is the meaning behind this?

It is said to have been a tool for divination—a way of getting Divine guidance.

Each tribe has its own particular qualities, as represented by the stones, and perhaps needs guidance in times of war.

But they are twelve that add up to One: the Jewish people in sum.

Why do we continually need reminders that we are One?

Like the Resident Alien in the TV series, who learns that the greatest human strength lies in our ability to have compassion, it seems that this is a lesson we, too, have not yet internalized.

Israel is a microcosm of all humanity.

We are still in a tribal mindset, waiting to be attacked, and using an attack as a reason to strip our “enemy” or their humanity.

When we stop seeing the Other as human, we lose our compassion.

When we lose our compassion, we lose what is perhaps most valuable and special about being human.

I wonder if we can stop politicizing violence with labels that either dehumanize others or hold them up as heroes.

If we personally are not capable of doing this, how can we expect our “enemy” to do it?

After all, what’s the difference between a “terrorist” and a “freedom fighter” except that we think one is more justified in their actions than the other?

Can we make it a practice to look at a stranger, someone we are perhaps even frightened of, and still see the image of God?

Like the Resident Alien who begins to rethink his mission of killing humans as he gets closer to them, maybe we, too, can get closer to those we consider our enemies.

I think it’s fair to say that are all engrossed and invested in this—and all—conflict on Earth, and its outcome.

Our future as a people, as a species, and as a planet depends on it.

This future depends on us.

We just have to remember that we are all characters in this show on Earth.

May we all become more human, less alien, and stop thinking of ourselves and our tribe as superior.

Because anyone can be family, even if they’re not blood-related.

Shabbat Shalom.

And say Amen.

Burying a Gift & T’rumah

In Judaism, we say that burying someone is the biggest mitzvah of all.

Why?

Because it is a kindness that cannot be repaid—like a gift.

In other words, it’s not transactional.

A mitzvah is enacted in order to bring us closer to God.

Another way to say it is that we bring God into the world through our actions.

Saying, “What do I get for it?” doesn’t figure into the equation.

When it comes to death, however, more often the feeling is one of being robbed—what kind of gift is that?

I did my first funeral last Friday.

It was a particularly difficult situation: youth, addiction, mental and physical illness, an ugly ongoing custody battle with an abusive biological father.

How can kindness, or the idea of gifts, be any part of this death?

If anything, it felt cruel, both the life that was, the fact that it was lost, and the untimeliness of it.

Her young son insisted on a traditional Jewish funeral for her, whatever that meant to him.

I went to the family’s house and spent hours talking and listening in their kitchen.

I looked at photos, heard of her brilliance, her sensitivity, her talent.

And her pain.

And their pain.

And their guilt.

How they’d fallen short as parents.

It was clear that they loved her dearly and had tried always to support her.

I sat alone with the teenage son for a while in the living room.

When I came back to the kitchen, his grandfather was waiting for me.

“Is he okay?” he asked hopefully.

I hesitated.

“Nnnooo?”

(Why would he be okay?)

(And what would be the purpose of pretending?)

His grandfather nodded, understanding. Perhaps he was grateful for my honesty in the face of his helplessness.

Later at the cemetery, we walked slowly behind the coffin, pausing along the way to show our reluctance.

We watched as it was lowered into the ground.

Just before giving instructions on how to proceed with the burial, I talked about the mitzvah of burying someone—the gift that can never be repaid.

Then I explained that, as a further show of our reluctance, we are to use the back of the shovel as we begin placing earth into the grave.

But I have to stop here for a moment.

Because I have to say that, in my experience, the most profound moment in a traditional burial is watching that coffin being lowered into the ground.

The next is hearing the echo of dirt, one shovel at a time, fall onto the coffin below.

It’s the ultimate wake-up moment; this is really happening.

We seem to need it, especially when we are in shock.

As painful as it is, it’s almost like a gift in itself.

As the mourners gathered round, taking turns with the shovel, I chanted, “Return again, return again, return to the place of your soul…”

I heard someone gasp behind me—a surprising acknowledgement that we are intimately connected to the Earth.

And another reminder that this person was truly dead.

I noticed that, to complete the task of the burial, there was a backhoe waiting nearby.

It almost felt like the mourners were being robbed of a sense of completion, of finiteness.

I resisted giving them permission; there wasn’t time.

The limos were waiting, and Shabbat was descending; it was a long trip home.

Yet people lingered nonetheless.

They were reluctant to leave, needed to stand around with each other, taking in the moment.

For me, not having known the family or her community at all, there was suddenly a deep connection between us.

Several people stopped to talk to me.

I offered a hug, and they gratefully accepted, holding on as though we’d known each other for ever.

In this week’s parsha, T’rumah, the people Israel receive instructions for the building of the Mishkan.

The Mishkan is the portable sanctuary they will carry with them through the desert over the next forty years.

It is, God says, “So that I may dwell amongst them.”

Or “within” them, depending on how you translate the Hebrew.

And “t’rumah” means gift.

The materials Israelites are to bring for the building of the sanctuary are gifts.

They get nothing in return.

Whether they bring pieces of wood, or precious stones and metals, animal skins, or various specially colored yarns to be woven into fabric that will be hung in the Tabernacle, all are valuable.

Like the gift of the funeral last week, each part was valuable.

The stories told, the songs sung, the tears shed.

The woman who died had been a gift to her parents.

Her son had been a gift to her, and her love had been a gift to him.

Each person that showed up at the funeral, or made the effort to drive out to the cemetery, was like a small jewel.

Each shovelful of dirt dropped into the grave was a tiny gem.

Each embrace and each hand held.

Each tear shed.

Each lingering person sharing their grief was a small piece of gold to another.

All these woven together by brightly colored threads made a beautiful fabric of human connection.

Over these past months, since the brutal Hamas attack on Israeli Jews, and the counter attacks on Gaza that have taken on such huge proportions, many people have closed themselves off to the grief of others.

Instead of grief, it’s anger and rage that overwhelm us.

Or I’ve heard people say, “My grief is so great, I don’t have room in my heart for the suffering of others.”

We’re not okay.

None of us is okay.

People on both sides have shut themselves off to the other.

Maybe it’s because we haven’t helped each other understand.

Or maybe we’re in the habit of not talking.

Or, more importantly perhaps, of not listening.

If we didn’t shut ourselves off and down, grief could be a healing that might bring us together.

If only we understood that grief is not something to possess, or feel possessive of, but rather a gift offering to others, to be shared, expecting nothing in return.

The Israelites are to bring gifts for which they expect nothing in return.

This is how they build the sanctuary.

And yet, there is a gift in return; God’s presence—among them and within them.

We also could build a sanctuary—woven out of the grief we share—for God to dwell among us.

May it be so.

Sapphire in the Ordinary & Mishpatim

On Monday morning of this week, I had a real panic attack.

Like, really.

I had an appointment to meet with someone I was very nervous about meeting.

We were matched up to work on a project together: me as the rabbi and he as the artist.

Me writing a drash, or sermon, on the weekly parsha—like I do here every week.

Him making a painting based on my drash.

But we were from completely opposite backgrounds.

A fierce Zionist, he moved to Israel at the age of 15 and has been in counterterrorism his entire life.

One of his children had been at the music festival in Israel when Hamas had attacked.

He had escaped, but the trauma was real.

Me? I grew up in a communist, antizionist household.

What a time, in the midst of such high tensions, for us to meet!

Why had we been matched? What if we couldn’t find common ground to work together?

On my way downtown on the subway, a man came walking down the aisle with his cane leading the way.

“I have a wife and children, and I’m almost blind. If anyone could spare a quarter, a nickel, a dime, some food, anything…”

Across the aisle from me was a young man I had noticed.

He seemed to be a new African immigrant in New York.

As the blind man approached the pole that separated me from this young man across the aisle, he reached out to pull him over so he wouldn’t hurt himself.

He didn’t worry about how dirty the blind man was; he wasn’t afraid to touch him at all.

I wasn’t the only one surprised by the gesture; the blind man seemed taken aback as well.

He didn’t give him money, but treated him with dignity: a human being in need of assistance.

It struck that he did it like it was the most natural thing in the world, reaching out with his whole body in a caring way to grasp the man’s arm.

In this week’s parsha full of “mishpatim,” or laws, there’s a very curious little paragraph.

All the elders of the community ascend the mountain, and they see God.

“Under God’s feet,” it says, “there was the likeness of a pavement of sapphire, like the very sky for purity…they beheld God, and they ate and drank.”

These men see God, and instead of trembling at the sight, they just go about their business, eating and drinking.

There has been much commentary on this strange verse.

The one that seemed the most probable when I read it was that God is in the ordinary, if we only stop to notice it.

Or not; maybe God is in the ordinary even when we don’t notice.

When I got downtown and met the artist, I realized how all my worries had been for naught.

I could not have been more surprised by our encounter.

We had so much more in common than I could have ever imagined!

Our conversation was as natural as could be.

We ate pizza and drank Snapple, and then went to see his artwork, and it was exciting learning about each other, our families, our children, our lives, our paths.

We could have talked for hours.

Like the man on the subway, he was just another human being, not the extreme person I had expected after all.

Like when the men beheld God and went to their eating and drinking, maybe I also beheld God on Monday.

Maybe I do every day, and fail to realize it.

Fantasy & Yitro

When I was in high school, I had a favorite teacher who loved saying the word “appalled.”

He spoke with a pretentious British accent, drawing out the word.

“I am appaaaawwlled at your behavior,” he would say to us collectively.

Outside of class, we would imitate and laugh at him.

Now I find myself using the word quite often, and I can never quite get his voice out of my head.

But I feel like I’m living in a constant state of “appalledness” or “appawllation.”

Funny how we become our teachers.

This week, I was appalled by something I heard on the podcast, For Heaven’s Sake, of the Shalom Hartman Institute.

The hosts told the story of an Israeli army chaplain speaking to a group of soldiers at the beginning of the war on Hamas in Gaza.

The chaplain told the soldiers that the attacks on Israel of October 7th were something to rejoice; it portended the coming of the Messiah.

(Appalling, isn’t it??)

The episode, entitled “The Politics of Fantasy,” is a discussion of the conference, Settlements Bring Security, that was held this past Sunday in Israel.

The Jewish “Religious Right” is promoting the idea that this war Israel is currently engaged in is the war to end all wars.

It’s the war that will bring about the messianic dream of Jews repossessing the land that God promised us in the Torah.

If you take the Bible literally, as the fundamentalist religious right does, whether Jewish or Christian, then this story has to play out.

It’s the reason (or excuse) for possessing land, as recounted repeatedly in the Torah—and for repossessing land.

For Jews, it’s based on the idea that we are God’s Chosen People—and that God promised us “The Land.”

It’s the reason Chistian fundamentalists support Israel as a state—even while they call for Jews to convert to Christianity and will openly show disdain for our “Old” Testament.

They believe that the Messiah will come (back) when Jews have repossessed the land.

The idea of choseness, as it’s been translated, appears for the first time in the Torah in this week’s Parsha.

Now “free,” the Israelites are just beginning to be exposed to what it means to be—well, them.

Becoming them as God wants them to be, begins with trembling at the foot of Mt. Sinai, receiving the Torah—

—which really means hearing the Ten Commandments, or Ten Utterances, more properly translated, for the first time.

Being them—Israelites (or us, Jews)—will mean living by these words.

Among the words are some key utterances I think we should pay special attention to at this time as Jews:

You shall not swear falsely…    

You shall not murder.

You shall not steal.

You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.

You shall not covet your neighbor…

But there’s a key stipulation:

The people are told they will be God’s chosen, God’s “segula,” or treasure, if they listen to God’s voice.

God promises the land—but God also specifically says the land belongs to God, not to the people!

We’re in a very difficult position at this time, as Jews, as Americans, as Israelis.

It’s a dangerous game that’s being played.

We as a people, as Jews, whether American or Israeli, need to make sure we’re not being played.

It’s a dangerous game we’re caught in, between politics, fundamentalist religion, and fear.

It’s a dangerous idea when a sense of specialness, singled out by God, coupled with trauma, along with a messianic vision, and military power, all come together.

What happens to our inner moral compass when this happens?

What has happened to our inner moral compass?

Perhaps we should each stop pretending to know the answers.

Perhaps we should start by stopping pretending to be, each of us (because we all are guilty of this!) the only possessors of Truth and Solution.

Perhaps we all need a little more humility, and to examine ourselves, our thoughts, our beliefs, more carefully.

And can we do that without making excuses or giving reasons?

We should ask, are we in fact following God’s commandments?

Is it a fantasy that we can create peace in a world so fraught?

Maybe.

But we have to try.

And doesn't it start with each one of us that collectively become a "we"?

Because the way things are now is just appaaaawwwling.

Don’t you agree?

If so, say Amen.

Cowardice, Bravery, & B’shalakh

It’s been over a month since I’ve written.

I got sick (better now!).

But the whole world is sick.

(And the Whole World is sick.)

This past Monday morning I heard about the scathing report that came back from the Justice Department on the Uvalde, Texas school shooting that happened in 2022.

I was disgusted to hear about the utter failure of local police to prevent the deaths of 19 children.

Disgusted to hear again that 400 law enforcement officers stood around for 77 minutes before deciding to go in and help!

Disgusted that children acted like adults, calling repeatedly for help, while the adults outside acted like children, unwilling to go inside and help while they knew what was happening!!!

Disgusted to hear about the cowardice of those police who knew what kind of rifle they were dealing with

—and decided that their own lives were more important than the lives of the children.

Disgusted to hear about the cowardice of our American politicians not to side with what can be the only right thing to do:

—to ban automatic assault rifles of the kind used continuously around the country in these mass shootings.

—to prevent such guns from getting into the hands of those still barely adults—let alone anyone at all.

I am disgusted at the cowardice of these same politicians to even watch the videos of dead children, some of whose faces are blown off.

Because they must know that if they saw the images, they couldn’t live with themselves—

—they couldn’t live with their political decision to allow such things to continue to happen.

—how much they have allowed their hearts to harden for their own political and economic gains.

I’ve been thinking a lot about bravery and cowardice.

Because I’ve also been afraid.

When the report came out about the women and girls that were raped by Hamas, I was too afraid to read about it or see the pictures.

I was too afraid to look at the photos of the beheaded babies.

And I have asked myself, “Do people really need yet one more rabbi talking about Israel/Palestine?”

And, “Do I even have something special and different to say?”

Yet week after week, I listen to sermons that leave me frustrated, angry, and disgusted.

Rabbis too afraid to even mention Palestinian lives lost—if they in fact care.

If they have even a little doubt that Israel is fighting a just war in a just way.

It’s hard to tell by their silence, but the stakes are high.

The risk of being attacked, “canceled” or blacklisted as a rabbi for speaking one’s mind is very high.

People are so angry that they are ready to misinterpret anything you say.

And it’s frightening.

But I’ve been thinking of what is required of me in this moment in time.

I’ve been thinking of how I will feel if I do not speak my conscience.

Isn’t that what I was taught by my Communist upbringing?

To be brave?

I do not want to be a coward.

This week in Torah, the Israelites finally walk to freedom.

They walk through the famous split sea, the “wall of water” to their left and to their right.

As the Egyptians pursue them one last time, Pharaoh’s heart is hard as a rock (it’s God’s fault here).

When the Israelites reach the other side, they sing the famous Song of the Sea/Shirat Hayam, rejoicing at their freedom.

Miriam the Prophetess leads the women in dancing as she plays her timbrel.

Pharaoh and the entire Egyptian army have drowned as the walls of water collapse on them, purposefully preventing them from reaching the Israelites.

Immediately afterwards, as the Israelites begin to roam through the desert, they struggle with their fears around survival.

Will there be enough food and water?

But then God makes manna fall from the sky, and gives Moses the power to draw clean water from a rock.

There is enough for everyone, even double on Fridays for Shabbat!

This is a biblical story that has given Jews the strength to go on in spite of discrimination and oppression over millennia.

It gave enslaved Americans the hope and the strength to continue on.

It gave later generations of Black Americans the courage to continue to demand freedom and equality.

But I think it’s important to note that when the Israelites get to the other side, now free, they do not look back.

They do not see the utter destruction left behind, of bodies floating in the sea.

And perhaps they don’t have the courage.

Perhaps the pain would be too great, after everything they’ve gone through.

Perhaps their own pain is too deep and overwhelming to see the pain of others.

As I thought about it, it seemed similar to the situation in Israel proper at the moment.

On Israeli TV, numbers of dead Palestinians are posted, but no images are shown of the suffering Gazans are experiencing.

What they see on Israeli news is destroyed and empty buildings, but no people, dead or alive.

Much like what happened during the Iraq War, they only read numbers and hear rockets flying.

According to stories I’ve read and heard, Israelis near the border with Gaza have become immune to the sound of rockets flying and bombs falling.

At best, they can only wonder if people are dying on the other side.

On the other hand, they can imagine, and perhaps rejoice secretly, that Hamas is being wiped out with each bomb that falls, and each Israeli soldier dead.

And their own pain is so deep, the situation so dire, that out of self-protection, they close and harden their hearts to the “other” who is suffering.

It takes great courage to look at images of flattened buildings, and especially injured and dead children.

But Jewish tradition teaches that we are never to rejoice at the death of another, even the enemy.

Today, as in the past, Jews worry about the survival of our people.

Today, many Jews cling to Israel as a symbol of the survival of our people.

They see the mass demonstrations in support of Palestinian rights and the rise in antisemitism around the world as proof that we need Israel in order to survive.

But the cost of survival should not be the utter destruction we are seeing in Gaza.

After the Egyptian army drowns in the sea, those who are actively pursuing the Israelites, God doesn’t order the destruction of the civilian Egyptians left alive.

Perhaps because God has already caused so much destruction and suffering, having killed so many baby boys.

Perhaps God realizes in the moment that this time, maybe, just maybe, he’s gone too far.

And that it’s time to stop.

Because war has never, ever, been a path to peace.

Committing injustice against another, even if injustice has been committed against you, has never, ever, been a path towards justice.

It just leaves more pain and destruction in its wake.

I don’t pretend to have the answers.

I just wish us all the courage to soften our hearts and look at the destruction, death and suffering that has happened and is happening.

I wish us the courage to soften our hearts to the suffering of that which is not “ours.”

Only then will we finally find a path to a lasting peace.

And say Amen.

Six Feet Under & Tevet

Since October 7th, until a couple of days ago, I would say I have been truly depressed.

I have been constantly on the verge of tears, all day.

Simultaneously, I began obsessively watching the show “Six Feet Under.”

It took me out of the horrors of the world for a couple of hours a day, into someone else’s problems.

I don’t know about you, but I generally love dark humor.

Especially about death, and talking ghosts.

The show is about a family with grown children that lives above a funeral home, their family business, in a beautiful old Victorian house.

The first floor serves as the funeral parlor.

The basement is where they prepare dead bodies for burial or cremation.

Throughout the show, different characters have conversations with the dead.

The ghosts spontaneously show up and begin interacting with the living.

It’s pretty obvious that the various characters are working through their own issues through these conversations.

But it’s a fine line between being sure it’s simply their own imagination, fears, and struggles, and the ghosts really being there.

It’s deeply spiritual in that it begs the question, “Why are we here, and what happens after death?”

While the interactions are often funny and quirky, they become increasingly serious.

And it’s stressful to watch as the various characters make bad choices over and over.

They fail to communicate with each other effectively, walk away when things get hard, and are self-destructive.

Just when you think maybe things are taking a turn for the better, they don’t.

In fact, circumstances go from bad to worse as the show progresses through the seasons.

It is truly depressing and hopeless.

Everyone is deeply lonely, disconnected, and unhappy, whether they have partners or not.

They struggle just to get through each day.

All yearn deeply for love and connection, but can’t quite seem to reach it.

As I watched each night, I kept wondering if the show was making me feel worse, or simply reflecting how I was feeling as the weeks progressed and the world news got worse.

The show takes place in the early 2000’s in the Bush years, just was the Iraq war is beginning.

It reflects the era we are in now, proclaiming the need for destruction in order to make peace.

It reflects the anger, the fury, the frustration.

A neighbor told me, “Wait ‘till you get to the last episode! What they did...! It’s incredible.”

But he wouldn’t tell me if it was good or bad.

So I was bracing myself for an ending so horrible, it went beyond my wildest imagination.

And during the last episode, even until halfway through, things did not bode well.

But suddenly it all changed.

You got a window into the future, and it was shockingly a heartening one.

The characters freed themselves from their inner constrictions and restrictions.

They reached out and freed each other.

They healed old wounds.

They learned to offer and accept love and help.

They took chances.

They grabbed opportunities for adventure and exploration.

They found joy, despite the daily struggles.

The night I finished watching, I went to sleep smiling.

Though I woke up sad again, crying agin, I went on my daily walk through the North Woods of Central Park.

I came upon a flock of well-camouflaged mourning doves.

Startled, they took flight, which is when I saw them, and they startled me, filling me with a sense of joy and freedom.

I thought, maybe this means I’m coming to the end of my mourning, despite the bad news and the state of the world.

I mean, how can I go on like this?

What good am I to others in this state?

Then, a few days ago, I went to visit my friends on the beach.

Just the 32 hours I was there pulled me out of it—at least for now.

It’s not that my friends were any more hopeful than I was.

But they share the more nuanced view I have of the situation, with true compassion for all involved—for all sides.

I had realized how alone I felt.

Besides finding comfort in connection with friends, I found joy in nature.

The night after a big rain storm came across the northeast, the weather turned cold, as it should be for this time of year.

Standing outside on the porch in my pajamas and a sweater, looking up at the constellations in the sky, breathing in the crisp, clean air, I was energized.

In the dark, I broke into a run along the pathway in front of the house until my nostrils froze.

In the morning, I ran on the beach and dipped my bare feet in the freezing water, and reconnected with the Earth.

We all desperately want to know how this will all end.

We might be asking existential questions like, “Why are we here?” and “What’s it all for?”

We want to know that the wars will stop, and that people will make peace with each other despite differences.

We want to know that we will learn to communicate with each other and not walk away when things get hard.

We want to know that we will wake up before it’s too late for our children, and their children, and start taking care of our planet.

In the meantime, we need to remember that we are not alone.

We must remember that our fears are not necessarily reality.

We must seek out connections with others that give us strength, and offer it to others.

We must notice that the idea of “nuance”—that things are never black and white—is spreading.

We must not only notice joy and gratitude when it happens, but create opportunities for it to flourish.

We need to find a degree of acceptance for what is, and learn to better live with uncertainty.

At the same time, we need to look for places and times where we can make a difference, to one person, or to many.

Until we are six feet under the ground, we each have the power to bring more love and peace into the world.

Let’s use it. Let’s do it.

One step, one foot, one word, one conversation at a time.

May it be so.

And say Amen.

Thanksgiving, Stuffing & Kislev

I didn’t realize how deeply this whole Israel/Gaza mess would make its way into my bones.

I didn’t know how isolated and alone I would feel.

I’m afraid to feel.

Afraid to express myself.

Instead, I’ve been stuffing my face since October 7th.

As if that will make me feel any better. (Tried-and-Not-True).

I think I’ve actually been depressed.

Has my silence been deafening?

But who needs another pundit?

What if, this time, I don’t want to take sides?

Everyone says I’m supposed to.

But what if taking sides is what gets us into trouble?

A part of me really wanted to go down to Washington for the Israel March.

But for what purpose?

Other than to be among my fellow Jews?

But are they? My fellows, I mean?

I thought maybe I should come as a more liberal voice.

But who would listen? Who would notice?

And who were they speaking to?

My deepest fears were realized when that evangelical pastor, John Hagee, known for making anti-semitic statements, spoke.

I knew right away, even though I’d never seen or heard of him. (Maybe my “evange-radar” is high.)

You don’t have to go any farther than Wikipedia to read about him, though it was in the news, but you can also learn more here.

Maybe this proves that Jews can’t actually spot “the enemy,” even when we try.

In the Torah during these weeks, we are in the thick of the saga of Isaac, Rebecca, Esau, Jacob, Rachel, and Leah.

Our matriarchs and patriarchs.

The lying, the cheating, the hiding, the stealing.

It might as well be a microcosm of what’s happening in the Jewish community, in Israel and Gaza…

Who can we trust?

Doesn’t history prove we can’t. Anyone. Ever.

Like Jacob and Esau.

Who is more at fault for the “stealing” of the birthright?

Is it even stolen?

Or is it given away?

And what drives their actions?

Fear?

Greed?

Hunger?

What about Jacob and his father’s innermost blessing?

Is it Rebecca or Jacob’s fault that this too, is stolen, though meant for someone else?

Or is it Isaac’s fault, for willful blindness and deafness?

Who is guilty: the one who makes the plan and carries it out?

Or the one who goes along with it?

Our sages say that Rebecca knew something Isaac did not.

Because God said Jacob should become our patriarch.

He was the righteous one.

But was he?

He didn’t start out on sure footing; he went along with his mother in her guile—and only cared about getting in trouble with God.

Where was his concern for the lives of others? For right and wrong?

And what about the years of suffering for Rachel, Leah, and Jacob?

Jacob’s father-in-law, Laban, lies and switches his daughters on the wedding night.

Does Jacob bear no responsibility?

And who suffers more: the barren one, Rachel, who is loved, or the fruitful one, Leah, who is unloved?

Is their suffering a competition, like Jews and Palestinians?

When Jacob finally takes his family, after decades of working tirelessly for his father-in-law, and runs away, Laban gets wind of it and pursues him.

“How could you do this to me??” he cries. “How could you take my family away?”

Where and how will it all end?

What all these stories teach us is that by looking only through one lens, nothing is solved.

If we only see our side of the story, then there is no other story to hear.

And the ending is not a happy one.

And maybe it’s too late for a happy ending.

Maybe we just give up on the “other side”—because they’re evil.

But that seems like the easy way out.

Calling the others “evil” is a copout.

If all we see, when trying to discuss differences in opinion—among Jews, or between Jews and others—is that another is attacking us, then maybe there is no hope.

Maybe we should all give up.

Don’t we all have that parent, or uncle, or cousin we have given up on?

But that feels like a trap.

The same trap of despair we fall into on the subject of Climate Disaster. (If you’re there, then listen to this!)

When our children and grandchildren later ask, “What did you do to stop it?” what will we say?

Will it be a proud moment?

What if all we can honestly say is, “I sided with those who denied we were killing indiscriminately”?

But everyone hates the Jews!

Is that a good enough reason?

Even more so, is it righteous?

If there is an end, if, like I heard the Israeli peace advocate Gershon Baskin say, can it end like it did for the Irish?

Can we have our “Belfast moment” where we say, “Enough! We’ve been killing each other for a hundred years. Let’s just stop.”

Weeks ago, just as the hostages had been taken by Hamas in Israel, we read of Abraham’s nephew Lot being taken hostage.

Abraham secured Lot’s freedom, but then he was worried, the Torah says.

Why?

Our ancient sages had an explanation; Abraham worried that even one person might have been harmed in the freeing of his nephew.

How much more so for us, knowing that many thousands of innocent people have indeed been harmed in the name of freeing not even a handful of hostages?

From the depths of the darkness in which we find ourselves, may we learn to look through multiple lenses.

May we learn to receive differing opinions as just that, rather than as attacks.

May we practice feeling comfortable with the discomfort of differing opinions.

Rather than stuffing down the pain, may we learn to express ourselves gently.

May all that we are stuffing down inside, trying not to feel, come out in a way that can bring healing.

May we lay down our sword and shield.

May the light of Hannukah bring all this to pass.

Bitter Heshvan Living Up to its Name & Light in the Darkness

The Hebrew month of Heshvan is more properly known as Bitter Heshvan, Marheshvan, מַרְחֶשְׁוָ, so-called because there are no holidays during this month.

It follows a month of deep introspection, joy, and then…nothing.

As I write, the moon reaches its fullest, greatest light.

Yet there has been nothing but dark and bitterness.

Bitter Heshvan has lived up to its name.

Israel, Gaza, the Jewish and Palestinian worlds (or should I say “world”?) are in the throws of fear, terror, destruction, death, despair.

I feel unable to speak.

I feel, deeply, the inability of the world to hold each other in love, grief and despair across tribal lines.

What remains is rage.

“They will destroy us!”

Followed by, “We will destroy you!”

“Senseless killing,” is repeated again and again.

Is killing ever senseful, I wonder?

“Overkill” is the word that comes to my mind.

And does killing in the name of killing ever turn out okay?

A young Jewish Orthodox woman quietly whispers, “Am I crazy, or does it seem like Israel is going too far?”

She feels unable to speak.

She feels silenced by her family and community. Her tribe.

And because I begin to doubt my own sanity, I say, “Oh, please, tell me I’m not crazy, too.”

I hear the mantra: “Of course I care about innocent Palestinians.”

Only the innocent, I want to ask?

What about the Jewish tradition that says, if you kill one person, it is like you are killing the whole world?

Or does that only apply to Jews?

And I want to say, “Show me someone who is innocent.”

“Hamas doesn’t care about its own people!” others repeat.

And I want to say, “Show me a politician or political group that is not self-interested, and really cares.”

I grapple, painfully, with my need to be cautious in my speech and my obligation to speak up and speak out.

Who will listen?

Who will not shut me down?

Returning from the wedding in South Carolina two weeks ago, I buried myself in a book just as the Jewish and Palestinian worlds were beginning to rage.

The Invention of Wings, by Sue Monk Kidd, is a historical novel set in Charleston in the early 1800’s.

It follows the life and evolution of Sarah and Angelina Grimke, two sisters from a prominent slaveholding family.

Sarah is widely considered to be the founder of the Suffragist Movement, yet her name is mostly unknown.

Together with her sister in the 1830’s, she fought to bring the Abolitionist Movement to the forefront in American minds.

Their beliefs came from their direct experience of witnessing the horrors of slavery.

They were strengthened by religious conviction.

While others said, “Pray and wait,” they said, “The cruelty and suffering must end today!”

But as women, men tried hard to silence them.

And there was a constant effort to shame them into loyalty to their own people—their family. Their tribe.

Yet they did not give in.

“Not in our name!” was their cry.

To everyone’s dismay, the fight became as much about women’s rights as it was about slavery.

The famous quote, “I ask no favors for my sex. I surrender not our claim to equality. All I ask of our brethren is, that they will take their feet from off our necks, and permit us to stand upright …” comes from Sarah Grimke.

Well-meaning men went to great lengths to get them to back down. To separate the movements.

The fight for women would hurt the fight to end slavery, they claimed.

Slavery was the greater evil in these men’s eyes.

And people wouldn’t be able to hold the two at the same time, they said.

But Sarah and Angelina insisted that they were one and the same.

Because justice for one is justice for all.

While any is oppressed, all are oppressed.

I also feel the pressure to defend “my tribe.”

So when I hear Jews shouting in the streets of New York, “Not in our name!” I break down sobbing.

Not in our name.

While the cry has been, “This was our 9/11!” I ask, did we learn nothing from the twenty years that ensued?

Did we learn nothing from the excuses used for killing innocent people “caught in the crossfire”—because of hidden weapons of mass destruction.

Tunnels.

Hostages.

The whole country united—for war.

“Pure evil” is the other mantra.

And it was a “beautiful coming together of all Americans across the divide.”

Was it?

Those who questioned our war cry were screamed at: “You are anti-American! You hate your own people!”

But I love my country—my people, my tribe—enough that I want us to be better.

So I say, “Not in my name!”

Like the Evangelical pastor who dares to speak for all, in the name of Jesus Christ “Our” Lord and Savior.

The arrogance.

To speak for others.

To speak for Jews.

For some Jews to speak for all Jews.

To silence those who question.

Instead of speaking, I find myself listening.

Listening to other people’s pain.

Just listening.

Because they can not.

Their pain is too deep and too great.

It is too fresh.

And I understand their pain in a way that is hard to explain to others who are not Jewish.

But I, too, have that pain.

I, too, am horrified by the slaughter of Jews.

I can’t explain my nuanced point of view to other Jews any more than I can explain Jewish trauma to those who don’t come from it.

How can I ask people who are worried about family and friends to think of someone else’s?

To think of other tribes when it’s their tribe that’s being attacked?

How can I ask people not to choose?

“What else are we supposed to do? What would you have us do?” people ask in frustration.

If the answer is, “I don’t know,” then maybe we haven’t thought hard enough.

“You feel helpless?” says a Chabad rabbi and his wife on Instagram; “Do a mitzvah. If you’re a man, lay tefillin. If you’re a woman, recite psalms. That’s how Mashiach (the Messiah) will come!”

I lay tefillin daily.

I am a woman.

Does that count?

I hear a sermon in shul that makes me recoil, that leaves me deeply disappointed in my very progressive Jewish community:

“As horrible as everything is, so many beautiful things are happening. Look at how Jews are coming together! In Tel Aviv the restaurants are giving away hundreds of meals to soldiers, and they’re making their kitchens kosher to the degree that anyone, literally anyone, no matter their level of Jewish observance, will feel comfortable eating there. They’ve reached out to the rabbinical authorities to put a rush on their kosher certification. And it’s happening! Isn’t it beautiful? Jews coming together across divides. Maybe Mashiach (the Messiah) really is coming!”

Everyone laughs.

Because we normally make fun of those who speak that way.

Now we’re talking like them.

I cry.

I cry because this is our Progressive Left giving into our Religious Right.

I cry because the progressive Jews of Israel have been forced to sideline their fight against the Extreme Right due to war.

Because they’ve been forced to put aside their fight for democracy.

“Oh, it’s only temporary,” says someone.

But I fear not.

I fear it will be lost in an ongoing war of death and destruction.

And it feels strangely coincidental.

Strangely intentional.

Instead, we give in to the primal need to defend our tribe and survive.

Once again.

“The Jews need a home. A safe place to go.”

Yes.

But not like this.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Where is Mashiach now?

Then I have a dream.

I dream that I become the owner of a building.

It has a beautiful, grand, arched entrance with carvings.

But the entrance is strangely in the back, blocked from sight.

I am afraid to go down to the basement.

Dark. Dank.

I imagine cockroaches. Waterbugs.

A friend suggests I block off half the building, the dark half, from usage.

But I don’t want to. That’s also where the beautiful entrance is.

I need the whole thing.

Then another friend says, “It’s actually not so bad. Don't be afraid. You should go down and see for yourself.”

So I go.

And there are hundreds of rooms.

Like in a university, they are classrooms where I imagine animated discussion, learning, growth happening in the future.

Hope.

I see hope.

And, actually, there is light.

Though it’s the basement, light is flooding in.

And I see on the windows, the dirty windows, that someone has wiped away the grime and drawn peace symbols with their finger.

The light shines through.

And within the grimy spaces inside the symbols, there are little feather wings, like angels’ wings.

And I am filled with immense joy.

There is light in the darkness.

But I notice that the peace symbols are not visible all the time—only from a certain angle.

As we come towards the month of Kislev, the darkest time of the year, when we intentionally bring light into the world with the candles of Hannukah, may we hold on to the images of light and hope.

May we open our hearts so we can listen to and hold each other in our grief and pain beyond our tribes.

May we raise our voices above the silencing, and stop blaming each other.

May we invent wings that can carry the destruction and death away.

May we find an entrance into a grand new era of peace and love.

May we see not “worlds” but one world.

May we look from a different angle.

May we find another way.

And please say Amen.

Two Weddings, a Funeral, and an Unveiling

Some rabbis in the Talmud pose a situation: if a wedding and a funeral procession meet in a crossroads, what do they do?

The answer: the funeral procession is diverted; the wedding takes precedence.

This was something of the situation I experienced this past weekend.

It was the second wedding, two weeks in a row, where I co-officiated with a Christian pastor.

The attacks on Israel by Hamas had happened that very morning.

Just before the wedding in the evening, the Jewish parents of the groom’s family and I talked about it.

Should they “tell the children”?

They had decided against it.

Why ruin their wedding day?

I agreed completely.

It was nice to know that our instincts went with Jewish tradition.

And since celebration trumps mourning, I begin with my wedding experiences.

Both weddings were extremely joyful.

And life changing.

For the couples, the families, and for me.

The first was Upstate New York, near Rochester.

The second, in Charleston, “Down South.”

Very different places with very different cultures.

Yet, not such different experiences for the families or for me.

The fears I’d had about the ministers did not play out—not even with the Evangelical pastor.

They were both extremely careful, respectful, sensitive, caring.

We laughed together and bonded.

I had also wondered at the wisdom of traveling for four days each, two weekends in a row.

It’s demanding work.

And Covid is going around like wildfire.

The decision had been a difficult one; officiating on Shabbos afternoon, on the first day of the holiday of Sukkos, and then on Simchas Torah.

But both couples wanted me at the rehearsal, and to lead a ketubah-signing ritual on Friday, and Shabbos prayers that night before dinner.

For free, I threw in an interfaith-egalitarian-inspired Bedeken ritual (veiling and unveiling of the bride) before signing their interfaith ketubah (the traditional Jewish marriage contract made untraditional).

I wove Sukkos and Simchas Torah into all of it; the reminder that God does not need a permanent structure in which to abide, but rather moves with us, within us, and around us at all times.

And we would be dancing like crazy that night, with so much joy, as we do on Simchas Torah.

I taught through stories, and led everyone in song and blessing.

For the first wedding, I carried a lulav and esrog with me on the airplane along with other religious Jews.

And before the traditional prayers over the candles, wine, and challah, before inviting in the angels with Sholom Aleichem, I gave a little shpiel.

I talked about the kind of world these couples, and their families in supporting them, were ushering in: a world of love and peace between people that seem so different on the outside, but are the same on the inside.

It was about crossing boundaries that have been closed for centuries.

It was about how difficult this was for the families, both of whom feel strongly about their religious faiths and traditions.

And the courage it took for them to be there.

It was about helping the Christians understand a little more about Jewish trauma and our history.

It was about the importance of focusing on the commonalities more than our differences:

Our common texts, the language of blessing, even God language (minus Jesus) is the same.

And the language of Messiah: whether it’s a “second coming” or a first, we’re all praying for the same thing:

When peace and love will reign on Earth.

I even explained that I would be changing the language of the Hebrew prayers from “God, you have chosen us from among all peoples” to “with all peoples”—because we are all chosen by God; God chooses all of us.

There was so much appreciation for these statements, from all present.

Had I said no to them for the myriad of reasons listed above, it would have been a lost opportunity.

A lost opportunity for deep connection between me and the families.

To serve the pastoral needs—not just of the Jews, but of the Christians present as well.

The Jews would not have had representation, and they wouldn’t have had a rabbi to help them close the gap.

It would have been a lost opportunity for healing.

And a lost opportunity for learning and appreciation of Jewish ritual and custom.

The result was gratitude expressed by both the Jewish and Christian families and friends.

Gratitude from people of such different backgrounds for being able to come together the way they did.

Gratitude for accomplishing boundary-crossing so successfully, not just by clenching jaws and bearing it.

Gratitude from everyone in the room feeling heard and seen, understood and accepted.

This was holy work.

It gave me hope in humanity and the future.

Then the attack happened on Israel.

And the retaliation.

And a veil seemed to come down over the joy.

Suddenly, after the joy, it felt like a funeral.

All the hope I’d had for Israel’s future drained from me.

Just as Israel was fighting, divided over its political future, with a chance for a better democracy coming to be, it united in war.

In vengeance.

All of Jewish trauma came out at once; “We will be annihilated!”

Doubt and hopelessness came screaming in my face.

Heartbreak and grief took over.

And then.

I remembered a shiur (a teaching) I heard just a couple of weeks ago.

It was from Rabbi Jonathan Sacks on Rosh Hashanah.

A teaching that Rosh Hashanah does not celebrate the birth of the world, but the birth of humans.

As we read from Genesis this coming Shabbos, each step along the way, God creates on his own.

And each time, God says, it’s good: the heavens, the Earth, the sea, the light, the animals…

It’s all good.

Until it comes to humans.

Then God asks, “Shall we create humans in our likeness?”

The rabbis answer the conundrum of the plural “we” that suddenly appears, implying collective creativity, with a midrash:

God creates a group of angels, and asks them, “Shall we create humans in our likeness?”

The angels answer the question with a question: “What are these humans to be like?”

God gives them a little preview.

The angels say, “No, better not."

God doesn’t like their answer, so God destroys them.

God creates a second group of angels, and the same thing happens.

With the third group, the angels answer God’s question by saying, “Master of the Universe, we know what happened to the first two groups of angels. This is your world, do with it as you please.”

So God creates humans.

Then bad things start happening: Cain and Abel, the flood, the Tower of Babel…

The angels say to God, “Sorry, but we told you so.”

And God answers, “I will not give up on them, no matter how bad they are.”

This Saturday, with the new moon, we enter the Hebrew month of Heshvan.

With that transition, we come to the end of Tishrei, the busiest month in the Jewish year that started with Rosh Hashanah and ended with Simchas Torah.

It is a time that is supposed to bring about transformation.

I pray that we continue to find ways of transforming what feels like a world void of hope.

I pray that we remember that, for all that is happening in our world, we maintain awareness that there are other worlds where different things are happening for different people.

I pray that we remember the suffering of others besides ourselves.

I pray that, despite the grief and anger and outrage, we each try our hardest to see the likeness of God in every human being.

I pray that, despite rising violence and increasing polarization, we each find ways of closing gaps and crossing boundaries.

I pray that a way to peace is unveiled for all of us.

I pray that we each contribute more to peace than to war.

With our words, our prayers, and our deeds.

Like God, we should refuse to give up on humanity, no matter how bad it gets.

And please say Amen.