God Willing (Ha’azinu)

What would it be like, every single time we made a plan, to acknowledge that it might not come to pass?

To say, “God willing,” after every expectation?

For something as small as meeting someone for pizza?

Or as big as a life plan?

To acknowledge that we have no control over our lives—or the future?

That things we thought would continue—have actually come to an end.

And things we thought should end, are actually continuing.

We are constantly experiencing endings and new beginnings.

It can be no other way.

Here we are, in the middle of the Yamim Nora’im—the Days of Awe.

These are days of opening to deep reflection.

For me, this year has been the first time attending full-on services indoors, in a very full, large, sanctuary, in three years—since the pandemic began.

I have still had some mourning to do as I let go of the past—

—of what I thought things would look like, be like, the things that would have come to pass for me by this point.

Through this time, I’ve reached a new level of acceptance of a different kind of future.

Maybe better said: of a different kind of present than I’d imagined.

But that’s kind of true for all of us, isn’t it?

This Shabbat we come to the end of the Torah.

In the last paragraph of this Parsha, Moses is told once again what a disappointment he’s been to God.

For there was a moment—one small moment—when he showed a lack of faith.

For this, he will only see the Promised Land from afar—and then he dies.

This is not what Moses dreamed for himself.

After forty years of yearning, this is not the “present” he’d imagined for himself.

But before he dies, Moses recites a poem given to him by God for the people to hear.

Ha-azinu—give ear—oh, people!

And then he launches into a poem that is made up of God’s last warnings.

As we launch into Yom Kippur, a day full of God’s warnings and our prayers that these warnings not come to be, we have much listening to do, much quieting of all the chatter in our heads, of the plans we are constantly making.

We rehearse our deaths, imagining a world in which we might actually die—where the worst we can imagine happens.

All during this past week, the following prayer, which we recite or sing on Yom Kippur evening, has haunted me:

Act for Your Sake—L’ma’ancha—O Maker, not for ours.

See—behold our position—standing before You,

Impoverished and empty.

The soul is Yours and the body is Your work,

Have compassion on Your work,

Over the soul that is Yours.

לְמַעַנְךָ אֶלקֵינוּ עֲשֵׂה וְלא לָנוּ,
רְאֵה עֲמִידָתֵנוּ, דַּלִּים וְרֵקִים

הַנְּשָׁמָה לָךְ וְהַגּוּף פָּעֳלָךְ
חוּסָה עַל עֲמָלָךְ הַנְּשָׁמָה לָךְ.

On Yom Kippur, we come before the Mystery of the Universe, our Maker, empty, impoverished, begging for our lives.

Lives that are on borrowed time.

As we pray, we are reminded that we must do the best we can with this body and this soul—these things that don’t actually belong to us.

Thus it makes sense to “give ear” to the “still, small voice,” as our High Holiday liturgy says.

As we launch into a new year of unknowns, I personally have given ear to a still, small voice inside of me that has been telling me, “It’s time, after three full years of writing weekly, for a change.”

The plan is to transition into writing monthly, in sync with the Hebrew months.

I don’t really know where this will take me, but I know that I am opening up and making time and space for other things as they come along.

In a couple of weeks, I will have returned (God willing) from co-officiating at two interfaith weddings—the ones I’ve been working towards and planning for over the past months.

And then, you will hear how they went.

My hope and prayer is that we all give ear to the still, small voice, and that we present ourselves as empty, opening ourselves to be filled with awe as we step into a new year.

L’Shanah Tova U’m’tukah.

May it be a good year, and a sweet year.

May we have faith in ourselves, in humanity, and the future.

Keyn y’hi ratzon—May it be so.

And say Amen.

Newer-Truer vs. Oldy-Moldy (Nitzavim/Va-Yelekh)

I couldn’t fall asleep last night.

My mind was doing that thing that happens when you least want it to—

When you most need it to quiet down.

It was trying to figure something out—at the perfect time: when everything else was quiet.

Why was I so uncomfortable?

What was I uncomfortable with?

I’m in the last stages of preparing for a wedding in Upstate New York.

Maybe you remember; I’ll be co-officiating with a Lutheran pastor.

Last night we all met to plan the ceremony in detail: the couple, the rabbi, the pastor.

This pastor is very kind and respectful towards me.

He’s generous.

He gives the couple options for wording.

And he me asked repeatedly if I was comfortable with various Christian pieces as he presented them.

I kept saying yes, of course, no problem.

I was trying to be generous, too.

But inside, a different truth was speaking up.

In the quiet and the dark, I finally figured it out.

It was that wording, “Jesus Christ Our Lord and Savior.”

Don’t get me wrong; I’m okay with Jesus—many of you know this about me already.

But then it hit me.

“Our.”

“Don’t speak for me!” my insides scream out when I hear this phrase.

These words feel like they’re taking Judaism and Jews, and together, smashing us under a big thumb.

—Like a tiny little ant that got in the way.

The same is true with “New” Testament.

The Jewish “we” didn’t get the memo.

While the Christian “we” have the Newer-Truer testament from God, the Jewish “we” are stuck with our Oldy-Moldy one.

.

And the Very-Jewish-Jesus became the “Christ”—“the Anointed One,” the Mashi’ach, or Messiah.

But how can I ask a Christian pastor to take out something so central, so core, to their religion?

This week’s parsha—a double one—ends with Moses’ last words.

He is about to die, and he gives a kind of last testament.

He writes down all God has told him to.

The words he writes will serve as a witness—a testament—to the people’s bad behavior.

For they will stray again, even in the land flowing with milk and honey that God promised. and delivered, to them.

I had a long conversation with a close friend who’s becoming a Presbyterian minister.

She was happily shocked that a Lutheran would give any options for wording at all.

Truly generous of him, considering his heritage.

In searching for a common wording that could be comfortable for both Jews and Christians, my friend and I searched for a common truth.

We compared the beliefs of Christians and Jews regarding the Messiah.

And we came to a conclusion:

Jews and Christians both spend a lot of time imagining, praying for, waiting for, and perhaps most importantly, working towards a time when peace will reign on Earth.

A time when the Anointed One—the Christ, the Mashiach/Messiah—will come—in the future—whether it’s a first coming or a second coming!

The result is the same.

We are essentially praying for the same thing.

Yet, divisions—between the oppressor and the oppressed—along with dangerous beliefs—persist, adding more bloodshed as anti-semitism rises once again.

This Saturday night, the week before Rosh Hashanah, according to Jewish tradition, we stay up late into the night and pray.

We pray for forgiveness.

We pray for redemption.

We pray for Mashiach—the Anointed One.

We pray—for a good ending.

The Parsha this week leaves us with a cliff-hanger—not an ending at all.

There is a poem.

But we don’t get to hear it:

“Then Moses recited the words of this poem to the very end, in the hearing of the whole congregation of Israel: ”

We don’t get to hear how things end.

And we don’t even get to hear the first words of the poem.

Because the end is yet to be determined.

But what we do know, what we already have, are the Instructions on how to make a world of peace.

How we act, the words we use with and to each other, determine the end.

Maybe a good ending starts by finding language we can all agree upon.

So maybe we can start with this:

May the Anointed One, through our prayers and actions, bring peace on Earth and all that resides in her.

May we learn to speak our own truth for the sake of the other’s understanding.

May we learn to speak for each other in a manner that upholds the other’s truth.

And, perhaps most of all, may we be generous.

And let us say Amen.

A Hard Pill to Swallow (Ki Tavo)

During my convalescence from not-Covid over the past weeks, I got hooked on a show.

It’s called New Amsterdam.

It’s based on a book about the oldest public hospital in the U.S., Bellevue, in New York City.

It’s set in the present day.

It’s a little preachy, but the main character is kind of hot.

And the messages are good.

It’s about what medicine could look like in our country—if profit were not the goal.

The main character is a doctor who is also the medical director of the hospital.

He’s a really good guy, but he’s got problems.

He behaves as if he can single-handedly change the state of American medicine.

He’s also got a serious illness, and doesn’t know how and when to let go—and be a patient himself.

He repeatedly refuses to surrender to his own illness while trying singlehandedly to save the world.

He acts as if he just keeps going—and doing—he can fix the system—without slowing down one little bit.

He acts like he’s God.

The show also seems to be competing with Grey’s Anatomy on several levels, but especially when it comes to shocking surprise endings.

(If you’ve seen Grey’s Anatomy, you know what I’m talking about.)

Just when you think things couldn’t possibly get any worse, they do.

It takes your breath away and leaves you with your jaw open.

“No, no, noooooo!!!!!” you cry out.

Much like in this week’s Torah portion.

The curses God promises the people if they don’t follow the commandments once in the Promised Land are beyond most of our imaginations.

Just when you think it couldn’t get any worse…

For instance: nothing will grow in the land, pestilence will rule, people will succumb to all kinds of illness, they’ll be so hungry, they’ll be eating their own children…

(No, no, noooo!!!)

The promise of blessings is equally extreme.

If the people do follow all the commandments, they will be fertile, the land and animals too, all their babies will be healthy, no one will miscarry, and there will be no sickness!

Wow.

“Just” by doing all God tells us to do.

And so much of Jewish spiritual practice is in the doing—the commandments.

As Jews, we are known to be about all about the “law.”

Jews have gotten a lot of backlash because of our laws.

Why can’t we just try to be good people, love God, and pray?

But our laws, our commandments, are spiritual tools to help us connect to a higher power.

—tools put in place to help us surrender to that power, and give up our own will to control.

—to help us remember that we are not God—not even little gods—ourselves.

The High Holy Days are a perfect time to make new commitments—and it can be overwhelming.

There’s always the pressure to do more in the coming year.

—always a sense that, obviously, we haven't done enough.

Because the world is such a mess.

How can we stop? Or even slow down?

There’s so much urgency around it, too—the social and political problems, the climate…

And you would think, from our culture—and Torah—that we are not human beings, but rather human doings.

Plus, isn’t that how most of us behave most of the time?

About our lives, our health, our world?

I don’t know about you, but I find the main character of the show I’ve been watching very relatable.

Because, for instance, I was so proud that my current illness (I’m finally truly on the mend!) didn’t stop me at all from my normal activities.

I kept telling people—and myself—that I wasn’t that sick.

Being sick, and having my work rhythm broken by illness, is always a hard pill for me to swallow.

Until I had to finally surrender, just like that doctor (and all his pills).

With all I do regularly for my health, I most definitely shouldn’t have even gotten sick.

I eat all the right foods, do all the right exercises, take all the home remedies, get the right amount of sleep, swallow all the right pills (and not too many!)—plus I meditate, practice deep breathing, and take cold showers!

(Is anyone giving out gold stars for perfect behavior?)

Hell! I should live forever at this rate.

Maybe I should have singlehandedly gotten us all entry into the Promised Land by now.

But it’s simply not true that if we do everything right, we won’t get sick.

Sometimes shitty things happen despite doing everything right.

It’s a fact of be-ing human.

What if we took a step back and thought more about being, and a little less about doing?

Maybe it’s all the “doing” that got us in trouble in the first place—what gets us sick and our climate?

While thinking about which biblical commandments I might take on for the coming year, I also commit to recognizing myself more as a human be-ing with human limits—

Not a god—-not even a tiny, little one.

This week there’s a Blue Moon, the second full moon in a month.

It’s also a Super Moon, looking much bigger and brighter than usual.

This week is also the Sixth Haftarah (prophetic reading) of Consolation of Isaiah since Tisha B’Av, the commemoration of the destruction of the Temple earlier this summer.

The prophetic readings of consolation lead us right up to Rosh Hashanah.

Isaiah says that one day we will no longer need the light of the moon, or even the light of the sun.

Instead, God will provide all the light we need.

The Super Blue Moon can be a reminder that all the light we need in the world is already provided.

If we don’t take the time to stop and just be, we might miss the opportunity to receive the blessing of the light.

As we continue the work of trying, through all our doings, to bring more light into the world, let’s take time to stop and bathe in the light of the approaching High Holy Days—and just be.

You let us say Amen.

Zero Expectations and Ki Tetzei

I keep doing this thing to myself.

I keep expecting more of myself than I can deliver.

I push and push, and I’m surprised and disappointed when my body can’t deliver.

I’m doing all the right things, and yet the trajectory I have planned out in my mind does not meet my expectations.

It disappoints.

Every year, I read these verses in Torah:

If you have a wayward son, bring him to the elders of the community, and let him be stoned to death.

In this way, you will help wipe out evil from Israel.

What??

You are expected to give up on your own child??

I get it.

I guess. Sort of.

Maybe he’s a total failure: a drunkard, a thief, a liar.

Every parent’s nightmare come true.

And maybe we should be expected to judge objectively—even with our own offspring.

Sacrifice for the greater good.

Sometimes people are beyond help.

Sometimes a relationship is beyond help.

A marriage. A friendship.

Haven’t we been told it’s important to recognize when “it’s over”?

To know when to walk away?

But how often do we give up on someone before we’ve—before they’ve even gotten started?

What about self-fulfilling prophecies?

“You were always a disappointment to me,” used to be a common refrain that parents told their children.

Rather, it might be more productive to ask in return, “What were your expectations?”

Maybe they were too high to begin with.

Maybe you had this idealized version in your head of what it would mean to become a parent.

Or a wife.

Or a husband.

A friend.

Life itself can be a disappointment if we let it.

Either we learn to expect to be disappointed because life is hard—very hard.

Or we expect others to be more than human.

Rosh Hashanah is only three weeks away.

What kinds of expectations are we each putting into the holidays?

To be elated?

To be disappointed?

To be bored?

Maybe we should enter with no expectations at all.

I think it’s fair to say that if we could approach life with this attitude, we’d all be much happier.

Then we’d have a much fairer chance of having the experience we could potentially have.

So I want to propose a different kind of “getting ready” for the High Holidays during this month of Elul:

Let’s let go of our expectations and attitudes—good or bad—and come into it free and clear, ready to have the experience we will have.

Objectively.

And say Amen.

And good Shabbos.

Go Woke, Go Broke (Shoftim)

I have Covid for the third time.

It’s not so dramatic.

It’s become a part of normal life, I guess.

Not to underestimate how very harmful it can be.

For me, now, it’s been a very painful sore throat.

Chills and fever are gone.

Now heaviness on the chest has set in.

And the fatigue.

So much fatigue.

My brain is a bit muddled, and things are not entirely clear to me at the moment.

Will what I right even make sense—oops, I mean “write”? (I didn’t make this up; I had to actually correct my words)

In Shoftim this week, we read about fair judgment.

Throwing stones.

You can only sentence someone for a crime based on at least two witnesses.

The witnesses claim to have seen the person commit the crime.

The law is meant to make sure it is perfectly clear that the person committed said crime.

Then you can throw stones.

At the convicted person.

To death.

And the witnesses must be the first to throw the stones.

So, two things are true:

1. You have to really believe in the cause

2. You enjoy, or at least don’t mind, seeing someone else suffer

Last week I got an email from someone close to me.

In it was a link to an article entitled:

“What it Took to Save My Daughter From Transgenderism.”

“Tell me what you think,” was the tagline.

As soon as I saw the title, I shut it down.

Did they really want to know what I thought?

Or were they pushing a certain political agenda?

They claimed they were not.

They were genuinely curious.

Because it seemed to them that people were going “too far.”

To me, it seemed like an extension of the old fear mongering from a bygone era.

That gay people “make” other people “turn”gay.”

And that the person needed “saving.”

Besides, they said, the mother was a Democrat.

I scoffed.

As if being a Democrat makes you some kind of real progressive.

To me, being a Democrat simply makes you “middle-of-the-road.”

—Only willing to stand up for people’s rights when it’s popular.

—Or perhaps makes you the kind of person who looks like you’re standing up for people when you’re really not.

Because, remember; more undocumented people were deported during the Obama Administration than at any previous time in U.S. history. (You can fact-check on your own.)

I’m not meaning to bash Obama—just meaning to tell the truth.

I think the truth is important.

The truth is, I actually cried with relief when Biden was elected.

I voted for him.

Not because I thought he’d save us, but because the alternatives were not great, to say the least.

It’s a complicated world out there.

We all suffer from “information overload.”

But it’s important to be clear—especially if you’re planning to throw stones.

(I’m not throwing stones at Democrats. I just think our two-party system limits us, and there’s so much corruption.)

This week, we enter the month of Elul.

Traditionally it’s a time of deep inner work in preparation for the High Holy Days.

I think we need to see present-day stone-throwing as words.

Words can be just as harmful as actual stones, as we know now.

That thing our parents used to tell us?

That sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never harm me?

Let’s be perfectly clear.

It’s just not true.

Sometimes it’s in subtle ways that our words might harm someone.

Even sending an article in a casual way might be construed differently from how you intended.

(Or like me speaking badly of Democrats.)

Just because something has become a part of everyday life, like Covid, it doesn’t mean it’s harmless.

My blessing for this month is that we all become accutely aware of how our words (or actions) might harm someone else, and might add to the fear mongering discourse of harmful judgment of others.

And may we begin the work of making amends for harm done in the past year.

And may we be clear, to ourselves and others, about the intentions of our actions.

Say Amen, and Shabbat Shalom.

(To hear a really interesting discussion on the state of discourse around gender, listen to Go Woke, Go Broke on this week’s On The Media)

R’eih & The Choices We Make

Thirty years ago, I made choices as a young mother that went against the grain.

One was that I ultimately decided I would not “sleep train” my child.

I would not “let my baby cry it out.”

I got a lot of pushback.

People laughed at me.

They told me I was a victim of my child’s “manipulation.”

The same for breastfeeding beyond one or two years.

How would my marriage survive?

Because it’s inconvenient to get up for a baby in the middle of the night.

We need our sleep.

And our sex life.

I understand completely.

Such are the choices we must all make.

It’s never easy.

This week in Torah, we are given a choice:

A blessing or a curse.

If we continue to act as we have, we will be cursed.

If we listen to God’s commandments, blessing will be ours.

Moses tells the Israelites:

“Once you cross over, you will not act in the Promised land as you act here.”

Things will be different.

Two crucial things came out in the news this week.

Both may lead us to despair, if we look at them from one angle:

How can these things still be happening—after everything!

Take, for instance, what happened in Mississippi.

A gang of six former law enforcement officials attacked, abused, sexually assaulted two Black men back in January.

It goes without saying that the cops were white.

They shot one of the men through the mouth, causing permanent physical damage.

Which I’m sure pales to the emotional trauma.

They then stood on the porch of the house talking about how to cover it up.

Modern day lynching, so many years after Jim Crow was abolished.

How could they continue to get away with such a thing?

How is this still possible?

Then there’s Donald J. Trump.

How can his political career still be thriving?

How?

After all that’s been brought to light over the years and decades and even more recently.

After continual abuse of power in government, and sexual abuse of women.

As I write!

We may easily be overcome by hopelessness.

Just a year ago, we were given the impression that the Me Too movement was dying!

(So soon? It was just getting started!)

And that the Donald Trumps of the world would win.

But E. Jean Carroll, a sexual assault target of Trump’s—thirty years ago—has refused to be a victim.

She won a civil case against Trump earlier this year—way past the statute of limitations was up!

Because of changing laws!

She had been told three decades ago by her friends to stay quiet; “He’ll bury you.”

It was a fair assessment of the power differential—

For that time, and even now!

Thirty years later, she refuses to be timid.

She has not let him bury her voice.

Now, women are saying, “We are not victims, not broken, not defiled, not ruined, asking men to rescue us.”

Rather, as Brooke Gladstone of On The Media says, “They’re pissed off, living their lives, defying the public imperative to open a vein in public as a testament to their loss and brokenness…

“They’re nobody’s property, nobody’s responsibility, and it’s about freaking time we took them seriously.”

And those former cops in Mississippi?

They pled guilty.

They will no longer be allowed to continue what they’ve been doing for—decades?

This was not true even a few years ago.

So are we ready for the Promised Land?

Not quite.

But we’re getting ready.

Thirty years ago, people told me I was damaging my children by taking them to bed with me.

That they would grow up to be too afraid to walk in this world.

My marriage would not survive.

None of these things happened.

Both my children are thriving, anything but afraid to walk in this world.

The same for my marriage.

We may despair and become paralyzed after a defeat, says Rebecca Traister in her On The Media interview.

But, “Social progress happens over lifetimes, not seasons.”

The choices we make are never easy.

We live in a society that demands much of us.

But the big spiritual lesson I took from my choices around child rearing was this:

“If I could close my heart to my own baby’s cries,

“how much easier, then,

“to close my heart to the cries of strangers in the world?”

The choices we make should never involve closing our hearts to those who suffer.

Our choices start in the home of our hearts.

Shabbat Shalom.

And say Amen.

A Whack on the Head & Eikev

The other day in the park, someone whacked me on the side of my head.

I had just passed these two young boys as they ran up behind a woman.

She spun around quickly just as they reached her.

She gave them a menacing look.

They backed off.

I kept walking, very conscious of how I carried myself.

Not to look weak.

Not to be a victim.

I heard footsteps racing up from behind.

I stiffened (but in a casual way) as I maintained my stride.

I refused to turn around.

I wasn’t afraid of them!

They were young, skinny things in their early teens.

Pipsqueaks as far as I was concerned.

Harmless.

And I could be tough.

I had gone to public schools in New York City!

I had taught kids like them!

Poor. Black. Tough.

I would show them.

As they skidded by, one on either side, one of them whacked me on the side of my head.

I yelled out.

“WHAT THE F**K!”

(I could say that because I wasn’t their teacher.)

The one stopped and looked at me as the other bounced off.

“Sorry! It was an accident!” he called out.

“Oh, really!!”

”Yeah,” he said. “He pushed me,” pointing to his friend. “I’m sorry.”

I knew he was making it up.

It was such a weird mix of young innocence and a hardening meanness.

I turned silently and kept walking, holding my head high, my neck stiff.

No real damage had been done.

My glasses were still on my face.

But I was shaken.

I could feel my heart pounding.

I was angry.

It brought me back to my junior high school days where I was beaten up almost daily in school.

By Black kids like them.

Kids who looked at me and saw all that was wrong in their lives represented in this one white girl with blonde hair.

A feeling of utter helplessness—maybe for both of us.

But I had also been a teacher.

I’d seen and experienced at least as much, and more.

Once, pushed to my limit, I grabbed a student almost twice my size.

He’d threatened me, leaning relaxed against a wall.

I was having none of it.

I pulled his collar up close around his neck, and slammed him against the wall, my protruding belly almost touching him.

I put my face up close enough to smell his breath:

“Don’t you dare threaten me!” I said.

The kid stiffened.

All of his bravado was gone.

He looked at me, terrified.

Where had that nice, caring, dedicated teacher gone?

The one who would never give up on any child, not even on him?

The teacher who didn’t believe in punishment.

Who carried the weight of society’s ills on her shoulders.

The chairman of the department was there and witnessed the whole thing.

I could have gotten myself fired.

I’m pretty sure he gave me a pass because I was pregnant.

Very pregnant.

And because he knew me.

But when you don’t have time to think, and you’re scared and angry, you do and say stupid things.

As I walked away from the kids in the park this week, I yelled out, “Go find something more productive to do!”

I was embarrassed for myself as soon as the words left my mouth.

Stupid-White-Lady thing to say.

What was there for them to do, after all?

Summer in the city for poor, Black children doesn’t offer a lot.

This week, I read an opinion article in the New York Times about the dearth of public pools in the United States.

It’s titled, “When It Comes to Swimming, ‘Why Have Americans Been Left on Their Own?’”

I learned about the public health crisis of drowning.

It’s really real, and I had known nothing about it.

Black children are the most likely victims because they don’t know how to swim.

Every year in New York City, a few teenagers drown in the murky waters of the Bronx River.

Every city and town has its murky waters.

And the public pools?

There used to be many of them, and they had huge capacity.

Especially in big cities.

But most closed their doors during the Civil Rights Movement.

It was preferable to integrating them.

But with summers getting hotter, this is a real issue.

Especially for the poor, who have no air conditioning.

So my comment to these children was utterly stupid, and I knew it.

In this week’s Parsha, Eikev, Moses speaks to the Israelites (as per the usual):

“What does God command you?

“Only this: to revere your God, and to walk in God’s paths.”

How should we do this?

By cuttting away “the thickness around your hearts and stiffening your necks no more.”

News came this week about the shooter that attacked the Pittsburgh Synagogue five years ago.

He will get the death penalty.

Antisemitism is not to be tolerated.

It was decided he should die for his crime.

But will this do anything to solve the problem of antisemitism?

What about racism?

Will any of society’s ills be solved through this kind of punishment?

Or through any kind of punishment, for that matter?

Has it ever worked?

Long after I had left those boys in the park, I continued to reflect.

The teacher in me wanted to make a difference.

Maybe I should have said,

“You keep this up, you’ll end up getting shot by a racist cop!”

“Or you’ll join the ranks of the mass incarcerated!”

I don’t know if it would have made a difference.

If it would have given them pause.

Even for a moment.

Later in the day, I encountered them again.

“Are you still picking on people?” I asked the same one as had whacked me.

He was the one willing to look at me and engage at all.

Again, the innocence, as if he could fool Stupid-White-Teacher:

“He started with me!” he defended himself as he pointed towards a man that was long gone.

I shook my head and walked away.

Either way, they’ll end up as just one more statistic in a society of crusted-over hearts.

A society of stiff-necked people.

Towards the end of the Parsha, Moses quotes God again:

If we do not love God with all our heart, if we do not follow God’s paths, the rains will not come in their time, the fields will not yield, and we will all perish.

We are to impress these words upon our very heart.

As we experience increasing temperatures—whacky weather more and more—we’re clearly missing something.

This is why we are to bind God’s words as a sign on our hands, let them serve as a symbol on our forehead, teach them to our children, recite them at home and on our way, when we lie down and when we get up, inscribe them on the doorposts of our houses and on our gates.

What it means to love God and walk in God’s paths clearly needs reinterpretation for our times.

I saw a posting on Instagram this week about Ubuntu.

This is the South African practice of showing compassion and humanity to a person who has acted badly.

It is to bring that person into the middle of a circle where they are surrounded by their community.

Then they are reminded of all the honorable qualities they possess—of all the goodness that they are.

My prayer for this week is that we have the ability as a society to cut the scabs that covers our hearts, and create another type of society.

This practice of Ubuntu may be a good place to start.

Shabbat Shalom.

God is a Communist (Tisha B’av & Va’etchanan)

Earlier this week, my husband and I, coming home from a walk, stopped.

The doorman looked perturbed.

He was staring at a screen.

“What’s the matter?” we asked.

“Another bank going down,” he said.

I told him he should listen to some good news.

(Because you have to smile and laugh in the midst of pain.)

He laughed.

My husband and I talked about it after.

Why was the average person so concerned about the banks?

Was he losing money if that bank failed?

Do their profits “trickle down” to him?

Back during the financial crisis of 2008, the Obama Administration bailed the banks out.

“Too big to fail!” was the slogan.

If they failed, our economy would fail.

Same with the stock market.

But who’s actually losing out?

And who’s gaining?

This week, starting Wednesday night into tonight, we are in mourning;

With Tisha B’Av, we commemorate the destruction of the Temple.

Tradition has us hear the chanting of Lamentations in the dark, sitting on the floor.

We’re told to bring a flashlight so we can see the texts in front of us.

But there are those who say we shouldn’t be mourning the Temple.

Why should we want to return to a system of sacrifices?

Even in Isaiah, last week’s reading from the prophets, it says:

“What need have I of all your sacrifices?”
Says GOD.
“I am sated with burnt offerings of rams,
And suet of fatlings,
And blood of bulls;
And I have no delight
In lambs and he-goats. That you come to appear before Me—
Who asked that of you?

But in more progressive Jewish circles today, mourning for the Temple takes on new meaning:

We have plenty to mourn in today’s world.

(And it’s not the failure of banks or big business!)

As humans, we seem to go between believing that things used to be different—

—and that they’ve always been the same.

“Things will never change,” is also a common refrain.

But I recently learned something.

Starting about a hundred years ago, there began an unrelenting propaganda campaign.

This campaign was to get Americans to believe that the “free market'“ is a good thing.

This campaign was made by businesses very deliberately—and very united—in their efforts.

They convinced Americans that socialism and communism could never work.

(You can hear about it all here—if you don’t know this history, I highly recommend this episode on On The Media!)

They convinced Americans that capitalism is not only a good thing, but that it’s the only way.

Because humans are the way we are, right?

—Greedy and ready to fight or exploit each other.

“It’s a dog-eat-dog world.”

They’ve done a great job making us think that things will never change.

They’ve taught Americans that our sacrifices are necessary—for the economy.

—That in the end, the money from big business will trickle down.

This week’s parsha begins with Moses’ memory of pleading with God to allow him to cross over into the Promised Land.

He’s kind of in mourning; God will not allow him.

The Haftara reading from the prophets this week from Isaiah begins with Nachamu—be comforted, my people.

We do indeed need comforting as we look upon and experience the destruction in today’s world.

We are in mourning.

But that flashlight might come in handy to shed light upon the types of sacrifices we should be making.

Because burnt offerings made to God certainly will not solve the problems we are experiencing today.

But other types of sacrifices—like reducing our consumption of resources as Americans—would do well.

On the corporate and on the personal level.

Isaiah even gives us a solution:

Wash yourselves clean;
Put your evil doings
Away from My sight.
Cease to do evil;

Learn to do good.
Devote yourselves to justice;
Aid the wronged.
Uphold the rights of the orphan;
Defend the cause of the widow.

Your rulers are rogues
And cronies of thieves,
Every one avid for presents
And greedy for gifts;
They do not judge the case of the orphan,
And the widow’s cause never reaches them.

As we face record heat this summer on a global level, we need to get serious about all this, people!

We are even seeing what happens right now if we don’t, as predicted in Isaiah:

Stored wealth shall become as tow,
And he who amassed it a spark;
And the two shall burn together,
With none to quench.

But maybe we can be grateful for one thing:

That at least it’s not snowing.

Because, (my friend sent me this meme);

Imagine shoveling snow in this heat.

And because you have to laugh even when there’s pain.

Don’t believe those people who think things will never change.

It seems to me that God wants a world of socialism—or even communism.

Because we actually don’t know if communism might have been successful if it hadn’t been for the CIA.

If we believe Isaiah, it doesn’t really matter what you call it; God wants a world where everyone is taken care of.

Where there is justice for all.

It’s not communism we need to be afraid of.

It’s the big banks.

Isaiah has the answer of how to cross over into the Promised Land;

God says, it’s not our pleading and praying that will bring about change.

So help spread the word!

It could be the word of God, or just yours.

Shabbat Shalom.

Which Way to Look, & Devarim

This morning I went down into the North Woods of Central Park.

I am privileged. I have the time for such things.

The air didn’t seem as bad as it’s been from the wildfires blowing our way again this week.

But the AQI (Air Quality Index) still indicated, “Unhealthy for Sensitive Groups.”

We are in a temporary but glorious reprieve from the heat at the moment, despite the poor air quality.

But also, I’m privileged. I have air conditioning.

And how long and to what degree am I to worry about the smoke?

Some Californians I know have told me they’ve simply learned to live with the smoke.

They don’t even pay attention anymore.

And didn’t I grow up breathing the worst pollution back in the ‘60’s and ‘70’s?

Didn’t I leave New York to live in an even more polluted place, Mexico City, in the early ‘80’s?

There was no AQI back then.

I’d forgotten all this.

Also, I’m privileged; I have air conditioning.

Sitting in the North Woods this morning by the stream and waterfall I love, it was a little escape.

For a few minutes, I could forget about a world literally on fire.

I could forget about the extreme sustained heat taking over large swaths of the world.

I could forget for a moment—or try at least—and also try to find some peace.

Because like I said; I’m privileged.

I sat staring at the water.

I noticed that if I looked one way, the water was calm and beautiful.

I watched the tiny ripples made by landing insects.

The trees and the blue sky reflected on the water.

But if I looked the other way, I saw the disgusting scum on the top and the polluted water beneath.

I chose to look the other way.

In thinking about this week’s Parsha as we begin the book of Devarim (Deuteronomy), I wondered about stories.

—about the stories we tell ourselves.

And those we tell others.

Moses gives a long speech.

He reminds the people of all they’ve been through, the places they’ve been.

He tells them not only of their own bad behavior, but his own;

Of his lack of sufficient faith in God, even after all the miracles he’d witnessed.

He tells them again that he will not be crossing over into the Promised Land as a result.

He reminds them of their new leader, Joshua, to whom he has passed the mantle.

These are the stories of the Torah.

What are the stories we tell ourselves?

That it will “all somehow work itself out”?

That it’s too hard not to take airplanes even though we know the carbon footprint we’re leaving causes more heat?

That the airplanes will fly even if we’re not on them?

That this is not a global issue that we must address together?

That it’s someone else’s—some other politician’s/country’s—fault and responsibility?

That we do our part by “recycling,” even though most of that plastic is not recycled?

That there’s a safe place where we can run to on this Earth?

And what kind of faith do we need?

In a God who will save us?

In humanity?

In our ability to work things out?

In the Earth to heal herself once we’ve destroyed most of humanity?

Ah, yes, but we can tell ourselves we ourselves will survive—because we’re the privileged ones?

Here we are on the other side of the worst of the pandemic, and it feels like we still didn’t get the memo.

—that there is no “back to normal.”

—that using less was a real thing.

—that slowing down and not getting on an airplane was something we needed to continue.

—that we are a global community.

Those who had the means, “escaped” to the country where the air was clean, and the weather not so hot.

But dirty air and heat follow people wherever they may flee.

I’m not sure I have an uplifting, hopeful message this week.

Do I have to?

Just because I’m the rabbi—and I can actually say I am now?

As I write, we are experiencing and witnessing apocalypse.

There are tens of thousands of climate and violence refugees pouring into New York City.

And our mayor wants to reverse the legal imperative to provide shelter to all who come to our city.

This is all happening right here, right now—not in some nefarious future time.

Who will be our leader now?

I think we have to be that together.

Which way should we look?

Maybe not the other way.

And maybe to each other.

Shabbat Shalom—for real.

And say Amen.

Along the Way (Matot-Masei)

I’m back!

The Kallah conference was just as magical as I had hoped it would be for me.

I don’t know if I told you how stressed out I was during the weeks prior.

In fact, I was terrified.

It felt really big to be going to this conference as a newly ordained rabbi.

I would be leading services as a colleague to the other clergy.

Was I worthy?

Would they come?

I barely slept the first two nights.

The schedule was insane.

I was anxious despite being totally prepared.

Anxious about getting up early.

Anxious about getting enough sleep.

Anxious to do my morning routine of self-care.

The davvenen, or prayer services, started at 7am.

There was competition;

Several services were happening at the same time.

Other leaders were well-known.

Did anyone even know me besides my former classmates?

There was even competition with breakfast because of the schedule.

And with late-night evening events.

You had to make choices; morning or evening, but not both.

But they came. And it was wonderful.

People went deep into prayer, and quickly.

They were grateful.

I felt worthy.

What a magical feeling.

And as if that wasn’t magical enough, my classes were perfectly juxtaposed:

“Life” in the morning; how to live with love at the center through Hebrew chant practices.

“Death” in the afternoon: Jewish views of the afterlife.

I had come with a question.

By day two, a voice whispered in my ear:

“This is the course you will be designing as a future offering: a mixture of these two classes.” (More on that to come!)

And I knew it was time to begin writing my book.

Another little voice whispered, “and this is the title:”

Love and Fury in the Time of Covid; From Communist to Rabbi.

All so magical.

Like little miracles.

This week’s Parsha, as we come to the end of the Book of Numbers, lists all the place-names the Israelites stopped along the way on their journey through the desert to the Promised Land.

It’s a very dry list, but there’s a Midrash, a rabbinic story, that imagines God telling Moses, “Write down all the places through which Israel journeyed, that they might recall the miracles I wrought for them,” guiding them safely through human and natural dangers.

The people are to remember the places where they complained:

Of lack of water.

And water poured from a rock.

Of lack of food.

And manna fell from the sky.

Of boring food, and quail fell from the sky.

The Midrash goes on:

It is like a king who takes his sick son to a specialist, and on the return journey, now better, reminds him along the way; this is where you had a headache; here is where we stopped to rest.

Each place was an oasis, providing what was needed in the end.

Here is the journey of last week’s conference:

Along the way, we complained about the schedule.

Along the way, we complained about the food.

Along the way, we complained about the beds, and how tired we were.

Along the way, we complained about our room keys not working.

About the heat and humidity.

About flight delays due to torrential rains and lightning.

We complained about people not wearing masks when they had cold symptoms.

We complained of getting Covid, or being exposed.

But along the way, we had air conditioning.

And along the way, we had friendly staff who worked so hard to accommodate us.

And along the way, we made new friendships, and deepened old ones.

Along the way, we talked for hours.

Along the way, we walked barefoot in the grass.

Along the way, rain poured from the sky, providing much needed water.

Along the way, we laughed and cried.

We anointed or were anointed with oil as Shabbat descended upon us.

We chanted and sang at the tops of our lungs.

Along the way, we felt our prayers go up to heaven.

We have a long way to go before we get to the Promised Land.

But along the way, we must keep noticing the miracles and magic.

I end with a prayer by Joel Kushner:

Blessed are you, Source of Direction who offers to whisper in our ears and hearts, guidance for our way. Allow us to quiet ourselves to hear and receive you fully, and enable us to be like a watered garden even in the parched places of our lives.

Good Shabbos, and say Amen.

Small Voices, Hukkat, & Balak

All week, I’ve been thinking about magic.

Especially because so much of it shows up in the Torah readings.

There’s the famous ritual of the red heifer, whose ashes magically cleanse the priest after coming in contact with the dead.

Immediately following is the magic of water coming from a rock after Moses strikes it with his staff—enough for thousands of people to drink.

There’s a winged snake that is sent by God as a punishment for all the Israelites’ complaining.

The serpent bites, and many die.

As an antidote, Moses is told to make a copper serpent and mount it on his staff.

When people who are bitten look at it, they recover. That’s magic, don’t you think?

In the Parsha called Balak, there is a talking donkey who sees an angel blocking his path and protests at being beaten by his master.

Balaam, the master, can not see the angel.

These characters are wrapped up in tales of curses and blessings.

Wouldn’t these be considered magic, too?

And who said Judaism doesn’t believe in magic?

Notice that I said “Judaism,” not Jews.

Jews used to believe in magic, for sure.

There are lots of incantations in ancient Jewish books, and plenty of evidence that Jews had incantation bowls made for them—not necessarily by Jewish magicians. (I heard a whole podcast about this which you can listen to here if you’re interested. It’s Episode 7 of Season 4.)

So, where am I going with all this?

We Jews take blessing very seriously.

We do a lot of it.

We believe that it means something to give someone a blessing.

Tradition tells us we are to make a hundred blessings a day. Or something.

Jews are enjoined to bless constantly.

We don’t only bless wine and bread.

We bless hand washing, and rainbows, and old friends.

We bless the moon and the stars, the sky and the lights in it, the morning and the evening.

We bless flowers and trees, our bodies and souls.

We bless beginnings and endings.

We bless the Mystery of Life for making it all happen.

In the same way, we think of speaking badly of someone as if it were the same as sending a curse out into the world.

Isn’t that magical?

Yet we’re often told, in a derisive manner, that “magical thinking” is something we shouldn’t engage in.

It’s like hoping for the impossible.

But what if the impossible were possible?

I could list a thousand things right now that I am hoping and wishing for. (I’m sure. you can, too.)

And others that I hope and wish will never happen.

What if magic happened all the time and we don’t recognize it as such?

I will be going to a conference of Jewish Renewal next week (don’t expect a blog from me!).

I’m hoping something magical happens there. (I’ll let you know when I come back!)

In the meantime, I’ve been doing some deep inner work as I figure out my path as a rabbi.

What am I being called to do?

What am I being called to see?

What is the small, still voice that I am to hear?

And what is it saying?

Can you hear it, too?

Shabbat Shalom.

Lords, Dukes, Kings, Gods, & Korakh

I just finished watching the stupidest Netflix series about Spanish Royalty.

I couldn’t tear myself away from it, even knowing it was all fake.

Such a soap opera.

But the clothing!

And the romance—between royalty and kitchen staff.

A kind and gentle duke who renounces his royal status for love.

A child born a slave, but rescued by royalty to live as such—equal in the eyes of the king—or duke, or whatever.

Ugh.

The worst.

When I was growing up, I remember my father teaching us children how American culture is fascinated by royalty.

Or at least the wealthy.

That’s why, he said, American democracy is a fake.

Because our American culture is created by those who want to maintain the status quo:

A few at the top, the rest underneath.

Our TV shows depict even the poor living not too shabbily.

Big, beautiful apartments for beautiful people who work in coffee shops, for intance. (“Friends,” anyone?)

We watch and dream of having lives like theirs: cute, funny, beautiful.

Then we go out and buy things that make us feel like we might make it to that place some day.

Leaving even less money for rent.

Don’t lie. I know you’ve done it too.

And what about slavery as depicted on TV?

Remember “Roots”?

Though revolutionary for its time, it made us hold onto the hope that “not all slaveholders were mean.”

Yeah, I’m sure that’s true.

But only in the past couple of decades has awareness become more raised around the true evils of slavery.

And the mentality of slavery is that some humans are less human than others.

This is where Torah enters the picture.

Korakh organizes a rebellion out of anger that he and his family don’t get to be priests like Moses and his brother.

They are merely Levites, caretakers of the Temple (the dukes of the Temple?)

He protests that Moses has gone too far; we can all be priests, can’t we?

But it is Korakh who goes too far and is punished by God along with many others.

So they are swallowed up by the earth.

I heard Jonathan Sacks (Lord Rabbi, as it turns out—true story) comparing chimps to humans and the fight to the top.

In his talk, he discusses the Jewish mystical idea that we humans have both an animal soul and a Godly soul.

This is not so different, he points out, from what science understands today about humanity.

We are not disembodied minds.

We have physical needs as humans.

These needs often take over our ability to think and act in rational ways.

And while hierarchy is normal among humans, it did not begin to dominate the world until agriculture became a thing.

Then came land ownership and kingship.

Dominating others to work the land became the norm.

This is also when monoculture became a thing, along with malnutrition and starvation when the crops failed (listen to or read Yuval Noah Harari for more on this).

And we have been taught that this is just the way things are, and they can never change.

But the truth is much more complex.

Before agriculture, humans lived communally, and in a much more egalitarian way.

The focus was on the survival of the tribe.

Sacks says that Judaism comes into the world as a protest; made in God’s image, we are all equally fragments of the Divine.

Of course, Judaism also reflects the society in which it was born.

God is our King, our Father—very problematic for many of us.

Torah was written down and received in a time when royalty and slavery were already the norm.

But Sacks points out that our Sages asked and answered the question of why God was created in the singular form:

So no one could say, “My ancestors were greater than yours.”

The truth about Judaism is, of course, much more complex than this, as is the world.

But some sages somewhere definitely had the right idea.

I believe that we humans are capable of finding our way back to a time of greater egalitarianism.

Our survival as a species depends on it.

We certainly have the brains.

And the technology.

I love this quote from Yuval Noah Harari:

“History began when humans invented gods, and will end when humans become gods.”

But what I like better is the less cynical idea that each one of us is a fragment of the One.

And that the Messiah will come when we have learned to live as if we really believe that.

May it be so.

Weddings, Blazers, Fringes, Assumptions, & Shlakh Lekha

I officiated at a wedding late Saturday afternoon.

It went beautifully, thank you very much.

But during the weeks prior, a lot of thought and discussion went into the clothing I should wear.

Was it okay, for example, for a female rabbi to wear a masculine-looking suit, a black blazer with pants, and Doc Martens?

Might some people be offended, or think it improper for me not to wear a dress, especially in more conservative parts of the U.S. (i.e. down South)?

On the other side of the argument was “Is this internalized misogyny?”

Why so much talk of women’s clothing when women find themselves (not by accident) in positions of authority?

Also, haven’t I entered a traditionally male field as it is?

It’s only 50-100 years since women have been allowed to become rabbis!

Anyway, what are the rules in this very rapidly changing world?

On a podcast this week I heard a Black Jewish Orthodox man comment that he’d been “given permission to carry ID on Shabbat” by his rabbi—something normally “forbidden” in the Jewish Orthodox world according to Jewish law.

Logical, and happy, that the rabbi should have the sensitivity to understand how dangerous it is for a Black man in the U.S. to walk around without ID.

There’s also been so much discussion in my home around what it’s like for Jews of Color; do they feel, and are they, welcome in most Jewish spaces?

What are the assumptions made by others, and how do they hurt?

My younger daughter went to a concert in Brooklyn last night, and someone made assumptions about her.

She was drinking a Modelo beer (Mexican).

A guy standing near her leaned in and said, “Isn’t that a little ‘ghetto’?” (I guess he thought he was flirting?)

She looked at him and said, “It’s not okay to say that,” to which he replied, “Yeah, that’s why I looked around first.” (to make sure no one of color would hear—how very sensitive of him.)

This infuriated my daughter on so many levels, and she told him so (you did not want to be that guy).

His assumption that she is purely an Ashkenazi Jew (she considers herself a Jew of Color), not to mention the racist and classist content of his remark.

I, too, went to a concert last night—but in Central Park: New York Sings Yiddish.

There was so much nostalgia in that space, and I felt a wave of sadness come over me.

It was nostalgia for a world gone by; I thought of my mother and how she would have loved this.

I also think it’s beautiful that there are people actively keeping Yiddish culture alive.

But in that culture of mostly secular Jews there are so many assumptions made that don’t take Jews of other types into account.

I wondered how the few People of Color felt in that overwhelmingly Ashkenazi space.

How many assumptions were made about them?

With all this talk of nostalgia for the past, clothing and rules, societal expectations, and Jewish law (also known as Halakhah) swirling around in my head, I think of the last paragraph of this week’s Parsha.

It is that very last paragraph that commands us to wear fringes on the corners of our garments—called tzit-tzit.

Why?

To remind us of God’s commandments and remember to perform them.

That we should not follow where our heart or our eyes lead us—because emotion might lead us astray.

In this very rapidly changing world, what do the commandments mean?

Does a Black man really need his rabbi’s permission to act in a way that could potentially save his own life despite a commandment?

Does he need his rabbi to remind him of the law saying that saving someone’s life takes precedence over any commandment?

What if the white Ashkenazi rabbi (my assumption) didn’t understand the danger?

And what about “commandments” that later rabbis surmised from the Torah, but that are not specifically spelled out in it? (Classic example: the very complex laws for how to keep kosher based on the simple verse forbidding a kid to be boiled in its mother’s milk.)

Judaism is a religion that teaches that we all have direct access to God; we don’t need an intermediary.

Yet we often give ourselves over to authority figures to make decisions of common sense for us.

I understand.

Rules make us feel safe in this unstable world.

Laws can actually keep us safe (i.e. seat belts, no-smoking in public areas).

But in today’s world, do we need an authority to give us permission to save our own lives—or to wear pants, or to welcome people into our community?

In the end, I wore my double-breasted black linen suit and my cream-colored Doc Martens to the wedding.

And I draped my Tallis (prayer shawl) with its fringes on the corners over my shoulders (see here on my Instagram).

And perhaps partly because I felt like an authority figure, I was treated as one there.

Plus, on the contrary to offending anyone, I got compliments.

Feeling grounded as the rabbi, as one friend said, is more important than the expectations others have of how I should dress.

Wearing heals, worrying about stockings and whether my legs are shaven or not—all these things make me feel decidedly ungrounded.

While taking into account that we don’t live in a vacuum, I also want to count myself among the leaders of change that allows for more flexibility in many ways—not the least of which is in women’s dress code.

Also, while respecting halakhah, changes in law often comes after the public opinion changes.

Finally, welcoming people, however they come to Judaism—or even if they don’t—should be placed above all else, with an awareness of the assumptions we make, and the classist and racist ideas we carry.

So here’s to being a trailblazer as a rabbi with a blazer!

And please say Amen—and share any thoughts you have with me by responding.

Fire & Brimstone, Lost in Torah

I’ve gotten ahead of myself.

With the festival holiday of Shavuos falling on a Saturday, I lost my way in Torah.

Now I’m a week ahead.

So I didn’t miss a week of writing after all, like I thought!

Thus, I shouldn’t be writing about Shlach Lecha, but I will anyway.

Because I had a hellish week—not including (and no pun intended about) the Canadian wildfire smoke blanketing all of us in the northeast of the U.S., portending apocolypse.

Because our borders are fake anyway, right?

We all breathe the same polluted air, and we need to take care of our Earth, as the Torah tells us again and again.

Putting that aside, the kind of week I’ve had fits perfectly with “the spies” of next week’s Parsha, Shlach Lecha.

These so-called spies are sent to scout out the Promised Land and bring a report back to Moses.

What they find, and the fear they feel, is blown way out of proportion.

They’ve been told, after all, that this will be their land, and that God will help them attain it.

Yet, they come back spreading rumors of giants, not thinking of the consequences to their actions.

The people go into a panic, and even into mourning.

They believe they are done for.

We, also, may think we are done for, what with these wildfires out of control.

But we need to be careful with this kind of thinking.

It’s the opposite of useful.

Mourning is not the reaction we need.

What we need is action.

We need to scream and clamber until our press and our governments respond appropriately to the situation.

The same is true for the other story I was planning to tell.

In the professional organization of Jewish Renewal clergy, an email went out from someone accused of sexual harassment.

This person slandered one of his accusers names, singling her out, stating that she, and she alone, had caused him to lose his job.

When some of us spoke out against this very false accusation and slander, we were silenced by the overseers of our listserv.

We were told the listserv was not the proper place for such discussion.

Prayers went out “to the accused and the accusers,” and many of us were outraged by this “spiritual bypassing.”

Misinformation and slander were somehow allowed, but correcting the falsehood was not.

Yet, an ethics complaint had been brought three years ago, and has never been resolved.

Meanwhile, others are in danger because of a Code of Silence.

Still, many responded to our outrage with “Me too! I have tried and tried to be heard.”

Many had since given up, feeling isolated, alone, and shunned.

In cases of sexual harassment, there is so much misogyny (which I talked about last week), much of it internalized, the reactions of others is shocking.

But through our clambering, refusing over and over again to be silenced, something has been done.

We have shaken things up, and the Ethics Committee is finally moving forward.

It’s a small win, only one step forward, yet it feels big.

We are not the only religious organization, Jewish and other, that needs to revamp its Code of Ethics.

Since the Me Too movement began a few years ago, our U.S. government still has a long way to go to make things easier for complainants. (You can listen here to an incredibly enlightening episode of This American Life about this situation.)

But the more we clamber, the more we will be heard.

I think it’s the same with climate disaster.

Prayer for the Earth is only a small part of the answer.

When we hear of a climate disaster as an “act of God” or a “natural disaster,” this is misinformation.

What we need is action.

And we have to keep at it.

Until they hear us.

And say Amen.

Revelation, Misogyny, Naso, B’ha’a’lot’cha, & New Territory

You may have noticed that I didn’t blog last week for Parshat Naso.

I had so many thoughts and ideas, but nothing stuck enough to write.

There was the Priestly Blessing (May God shine God’s light upon you…).

And the magic of a spell put on a woman suspected of cheating on her (jealous?) husband (yes, the Bible sanctifies magic!).

It seems to be more of the same misogyny, of women suspected of using the power of her sexuality—and being punished for it by having her womb and thigh sag.

But as Shavuot descended upon us last Thursday, it became clear to me that I would not be blogging that week.

It was the revelation I needed—maybe the Revelation, capital “R” as received on Mt. Sinai.

The Revelation was (as pointed out by a friend) that I’m entering new territory in my life.

Preparing for the weddings I will be sanctifying is part of it.

Another is the Jewish Women Clergy group that I formed for my capstone project for my rabbinic ordination.

This group came as a revelation in itself last year!

We are getting very close to launching our website, and it’s very exciting.

It came to me as an idea after more than two years of pandemic and trying to “go it alone” as a leader.

That whole time, I…

Let’s just say I was very lonely.

It felt impossible.

I was doing everything people said to “get my name out there,” but I had no community.

And my dream had always been to lead in community—with other Jewish clergy—hopefully women.

I have to say, the impossibility of the task during such isolation made me feel somewhat like a failure.

Thus, I have something in common with Moses.

Because this week in Torah, Moses, too, feels like a failure.

As the Israelites move from camp to camp during their journey through the desert, they move from new territory to newer territory.

And they are full of complaints. (Who wouldn’t be with that kind of instability, and only manna to eat?)

They “remember” the varied and delicious foods they ate in Egypt—especially the meat.

Moses knows that he cannot satisfy this people, and especially not provide them with meat.

Thus, he feels like he has failed as a leader.

He cries out to God: “Why do you burden me with this people as if I birthed them? Am I to do this alone??”

God responds, “No, you don’t have to do it alone.”

Moses is to assign seventy elders to help him.

But God will be the one to provide the meat they crave.

Lots and lots of meat, until the people are sick.

I imagine that now Moses feels relieve—and a little less lonely.

When I think of the loneliness I felt as an almost-rabbi during the depths of the pandemic, I am thankful now that that is coming to an end for me.

Moses gets his male elders as support, but I craved the co-leadership of women.

In fact, I suspect there was a male out there who spread some rumors about me and my leadership, discouraging others from coming to my Shabbat services in the park (a bit of misogyny there, perhaps?).

But it helped to drive me to start something that would reflect the much-needed shifting paradigm in Judaism and in the world.

It’s a shift away from male dominated competition that unconsciously drives women to compete with each other for the few desirable Jewish clergy positions out there.

It is a shift away from women using their sexuality to draw others in, even in spiritual settings.

It is a shift towards one of true and genuine support, cooperation and co-creation among women.

And so, here I am, entering new territory.

I have my Jewish Women’s Clergy group—Covid-style, meaning we are dispersed around the country, but brought together by a common goal and the gift of the Internet—a World Wide Web, indeed.

We will offer a great variety of services—and serve we plan to. (Stay tuned!)

I can’t say how this will affect my blog and podcast going forward.

That is unknown.

I will see where I am led.

Just know that I will be finding a new rhythm to my writing; perhaps not weekly.

And now I end with a description of the manna of which the Israelites complained so bitterly.

This week’s Parsha says it is like a thick cream. Sounds delicious, no?

But eating the same food for years can become monotonous.

Still, since magic is sanctified by the Bible, and that magic sounds none too bad, perhaps we can be inspired to wonder if magic is possible for us as well.

We may not need manna to rain down on us, but we definitely need some water to fall from the sky.

Just as manna fell in the right quantities for the people, may the magic that is water itself rain down upon us in exactly the right quantities for us as well.

May it nourish the Earth so the Earth can continue to nourish us.

And may God shine God’s light upon us, and turn God’s face toward us.

And say Amen.

Please Count Me In & Bamidbar

For the past few days, I’ve been visiting a friend who lives on the beach.

(Yes, same one as last year, when I went into the freezing ocean!)

As I walk along the beach in my friend’s neighborhood, I am amazed by the mixture of people from all walks of life, all races and ethnicities, and religions represented.

It’s one of the things she loves most about her beach community—so unique among other, more exclusive beach communities to the south and north of her.

Many beaches, as we know, are reserved for the wealthiest among us, as if money gives them the entitlement to access the ocean.

One of the things the Torah reminded us of last week is that the land does not belong to us or anyone else; it belongs to God, however you wish to define that heavily loaded word.

While here at the beach, I’ve had continued conversations with couples soon getting married (by me as their rabbi).

This week I spoke with a couple who are both Jewish.

It’s obvious that they’re connected to Judaism by only a very thin thread.

They don’t know how they feel about God and, according to them, they don’t “practice” Judaism in any obvious way.

They also don’t know why they feel the need for a rabbi to officiate at their wedding—but they do.

They are so apologetic about their lack of enthusiasm for Judaism, it feels like they wonder if they should even be counted as Jewish.

I keep reassuring them that I understand—because I do.

I was once like them in so many ways: confused about my desire for it, unsure of what or how much of it I wanted, always wondering if the ways I was Jewish “counted,” feeling I wasn’t “Jewish enough” because I didn’t “do” enough Jewish “things.”

It was all so vague.

This brings up big and heavy questions of who gets counted as Jewish.

Who’s in?

Who’s out?

Meanwhile, I continue to receive messages from colleagues who challenge my advocacy for greater inclusivity in the Jewish community.

They think my fences around Judaism are too low.

(You’ll have to read my previous two blogs to get a better picture of why.)

Does anyone question this Jewish couple’s legitimacy as full Jews based on their Jewish practice?

No.

Of greater concern is the fact that they both have parents who converted to Judaism.

Were the converts male or female?

Who converted them? Are they counted as legitimate authorities of Jewish law?

Did the parents convert before or after their children were born?

If after, then were the children officially converted?

The answers to these questions are apparently not sufficient for most rabbis to agree to marry them.

All this makes me very sad.

Because they want to be counted as Jewish.

But it somehow feels too complicated for them to go the extra mile.

The fences feel too high for them to climb over.

For the interfaith couples it’s even more complicated.

The first one I met with felt reassured by my long (interfaith) marriage of 35 years (and counting!); if we could make it work, so could they.

I made a point of saying that couples like them—like us—are the future of the world.

Literally.

Because if we don’t stop fighting over things like religion (and land), we will have no future as a human race (let alone as Jews).

We’re missing the bigger picture.

This week in Torah, as we begin the book of Numbers, which is all about counting, we have a census of the Israelites, with all the names of all the tribes, their most important members, and their numbers.

As we approach the holiday of Shavuot, we also approach the end of a period of 49 days of counting between Passover and Shavuot.

It’s called “Counting the Omer.”

The thing about counting the Omer is that the rabbis came up with a rule; since the Torah commands us to count the days, they decided we should recite a blessing each day before counting.

But!

If you forget one day, then you’re out: you can continue to count the days, but you’re no longer allowed to say the blessing.

I remember getting really upset by this rule.

Why do the rabbis get to decide if I get to say the blessing or not?

And just for missing one day?

Shavuot is the festival of first fruits.

But Shavuot also commemorates the receiving of the Torah on Mount Sinai.

It’s also when the rabbis (again, the rabbis) calculated, according to their method of counting, that we received Revelation.

They say Shavuot is when Judaism’s laws and teachings were revealed to us.

These are teachings of how to live a life guided by a desire to create a society of equity and justice.

So I ask, what needs to be revealed today?

Last week I was reminded by a colleague of something the leader of the Jewish Renewal Movement, Rabbi Zalman Shachter-Shalomi, said.

When pondering the question of what needs renewal in Judaism, another question comes up: “How do we know when we’re going too far in loosening the boundaries of Judaism?”

Reb Zalman said, (and I’m paraphrasing), that we base our answers to these questions on the reality of the world we’re living in.

It might be about who gets to look at or walk along the ocean.

Or it might be who gets to judge who is Jewish and who is not.

The Nazis didn’t care what Jewish authority said about who was Jewish; they were happy to count us in when it came to killing us.

I think we should remember this when we jump to count people out.

So who counts?

We all do.

Every single human being counts on this Earth.

This is the Revelation we need today.

Many people are getting it.

Let’s pray that more do.

The future of Judaism, and humanity, depends on it.

And please say Amen if you get it, too.

Walk With Me & Behar/B’khukotai

I’ve been thinking all week about what it means when Torah says, “I will walk amongst you.”

If we follow everything God tells us to do, it says in this week’s Parsha, like taking care of our “brother,” and other ways we treat each other, God will walk amongst us.

A couple of weeks ago a gay student from Yeshiva University died by suicide.

Last year, the university refused to allow an LGBTQ club to come into existence.

It’s okay, they say, to be gay, but you can’t practice it.

So now another young person is dead.

Because he didn’t feel like his brothers were walking alongside them.

All week I’ve been thinking of my last week’s thoughts about what is holy. (And this will make much more sense if you read what I wrote—so click on the link if you didn’t get a chance!)

I got a lot of pushback from other rabbis on my agreement to co-officiate at the weddings I told you about.

No big surprise!

If you do things others wouldn’t do because you’re trying to change the culture, that’s what will happen: lots of pushback.

I know I’m going against the grain.

I suppose I knew that from the time I entered rabbinical school.

In fact, I chose to become a rabbi because I saw the need for more rabbis that could potentially change the status quo.

I know there’s a need out there that breaks with what exists.

These two couples have to fly me in because of that need!

As it is, so many Jews are walking away!

What’s their disillusionment or disinterest about? (I have plenty of thoughts on it.)

I posted my blog on a list serve of Jewish Renewal clergy, and I got big questions and challenges.

Why, for instance, would I co-officiate with someone I was not aligned with?

I thought I had answered that question: because if it weren’t for me, there would be no rabbi at their wedding!

And having a rabbi is very important for both the couples.

And—you never know the impact you are going to have on a couple’s life—on a single person’s life, even—just by being present for them.

If there is no rabbi opening the door and saying, “Come in, I will walk with you,” I know I would win the bet that they would walk away forever.

That’s why I will go so far as to say, “I will walk amongst you.”

Is that holy?

Yes.

Because that’s how you treat your brother.

All humans, whatever their belief systems, are brothers—better yet, siblings, for nongendered language.

Walking alongside your sibling is holy.

It is holy to meet people where they are and walk with them.

Walking away because they’re not where you wish they were is not holy.

How else will we bring healing to this very wounded world if we can’t walk together?

I got a bunch of Amens last week.

I need to hear them again this week.

Blemishing Judaism & Emor

As humans, we seem to always be in search of perfection.

Like that perfect cup of coffee I mentioned last week.

Can a flawed offering still be welcome?

Maybe our quest for perfection comes from Judaism!

Because this week, the Torah has us on the quest of the Holy.

The priest himself, and any animal offerings meant for God at the Temple, must be unblemished.

No animals with crushed testicles, for instance (for real!).

And the priest must be careful not to become defiled by coming in contact with the dead, (with exceptions).

They mustn’t marry a divorced woman, or someone “defiled by harlotry.”

Even the actions of those related somehow to the priest must be unblemished.

The blemish of the daughter of a priest who “plays the harlot” will rub off on him.

Thus, she must be “put to the fire” and burned.

No person, either, with any sort of blemish to their body, like a limb too long or too short, a physical “defect” of some sort, is qualified to make an offering.

All must be perfect in order to be acceptable for making expiation for wrongdoing.

Over and over in this Parsha, we are taught that to be holy is to be perfect.

This week I had a meeting with a pastor for an interfaith wedding at which I will be co-officiating.

I soon learned that the pastor was “non-denominational”—code-word for Evangelical.

As I sat listening to him, learning about his beliefs, I wondered if my agreeing to officiate at this wedding had been the right move.

From things he said, I could guess that he believed that I, as a Jew, am lacking some ultimate perfection—that of accepting Jesus as my “Lord and Savior.”

As he quoted from scripture, my eyes glazed over.

Voices rang in my ears that said, “Out of respect for Jews and Judaism, Jesus must not be mentioned” at the wedding; many a rabbi had already turned the couple down because they would not abide by this stipulation.

What if hearing a blessing in the name of Jesus offended someone?

How did I feel when I thought of being blessed in Jesus’ name?

And what if there was a Holocaust survivor in the room? How offensive would that be?

These voices stopped me in my tracks again. I thought I’d worked through this. I knew why I was doing this.

But I was forced to think again; What is my responsibility as a rabbi?

Am I to hold all the generational Jewish trauma in the weddings I help make happen?

Am I to turn away from this couple in the name of protecting the boundaries, the “fences” around Judaism?

My daughter asked me if I was worried about blemishing my reputation as a rabbi.

I reflected: not at all.

I think, rather, I was worried about holiness.

Are there any boundaries to holiness?

When I remember why I’m doing this, I think there are none.

I am agreeing to officiate at weddings that other rabbis refuse precisely because I think there are no boundaries to the holiness of love.

As we step more and more into an interfaith world, somehow it still feels like we’re in uncharted waters.

Yet it is not without precedent that I agree to celebrate the holiness of love that goes outside the bounds of accepted Jewish norms.

If my husband and I had not found a rabbi who would agree to co-officiate at our wedding, I highly doubt I myself would be a rabbi today.

I highly doubt I would have raised my children in a Jewish home.

If we hold the boundaries, the fences around Judaism, so tight that no one can climb over, then we are shutting people out that would potentially like to dip their toes into it.

And what about blemishing Judaism?

To me, the biggest thing that blemishes Judaism is a refusal to let people in.

What blemishes Judaism is hurting other Jews, and often non-Jews as well, because of that refusal.

I wonder what the world would be like if we were always in search of the holy instead of the perfect.

So, yes, I am officiating at these weddings, with these pastors who might mention Jesus.

Because I believe it would be unholy not to.

And I hope you can say Amen.

An Imperfect Cup of Coffee & Acharey Mot/Kedoshim

The book of Leviticus is chock full of rules and commandments.

But if you don’t take Torah over-seriously, you might find a little humor in this week’s Parsha.

That could be sacrilegious—but so be it.

The long list of family relations that you shouldn’t “lie” with is very long—and useful for the most part.

It’s good advice not to have sex with your father’s wife, for instance.

And possibly animals.

Of course, it is all very serious, and some of it has hurt a lot of people.

Like the injunction not to lie with another man the way you would a woman (which I did write very seriously about a while back. You can read it here).

But what I want to focus on today is the commandment to love your fellow, your neighbor, as yourself.

It comes along with, be kind to the stranger, for you were once strangers (in Egypt).

This might be the hardest thing we can do.

It’s a practice, not a feeling, as this article said on The Torah—.com.

It’s so important that it became The Golden Rule.

The Torah is specific about it, though.

Attached to it are all kinds of things like fraud, not putting stumbling blocks in front of the blind, not disrespecting the deaf, paying wages in a timely fashion…

The other day, I was listening to a podcast episode on Hidden Brain about connecting with others.

They were discussing clinical studies around why we don’t always reach out and help others in need.

So often, it turns out, it’s more about the feelings and thoughts we project onto others than about not wanting to help.

Of course, there’s judgment in many cases, as with people on the street.

But when we know the person, we apparently often worry that we might annoy them.

We also bring perfectionism into the picture: what if the help we offer, or the way we offer it, is not quite right?

The vast majority of the time, we are wrong.

In fact, by helping, we touch people in ways we can’t even imagine (even those we might judge).

The studies show that we completely underestimate how much others value the help we offer.

(The other day I put a bunch of change into an unhoused man’s hand, he looked down and said, “That’s a lot.”

“It’s not a lot,” I said.)

Even with tiny things like “paying forward” a cup of coffee someone bought us, or a bridge toll someone ahead paid for us—it makes people so happy!

These are all practices of kindness.

Isn’t that what the Torah is trying to tell us?

Just be kind.

And love a stranger—with no judgment!

According to Lorna Byrne, author of Angels in my Hair, simply offering someone the gift of a smile can save someone’s life.

You just never know, she says. (You can listen to the interview here on Sounds True.)

Byrne says that by living in this way, by spreading kindness, we can support our leaders by showing them the kind of world we want to live in.

So let’s try.

Let’s be kind.

To our neighbors.

And the strangers we pass along the street.

Take a chance—even if it’s not perfect.

Byrne believes that it’s possible to create that world we imagine, in spite of the very big challenges we face.

I want to believe it, too.

If you do, too, then say Amen.

Solitude, Loneliness, & Tazria-Metzora

As I was reading this week’s Parsha, I was immediately brought back to the depths of the pandemic.

I connected in a visceral way to what it would feel like to be a person infected with a contagious disease sent “outside the camp.”

The sense of isolation and loneliness.

I marvel now as I walk the streets.

Indoor and outdoor spaces where I look at whole, unmasked faces and have “normal” conversations with those I see and meet.

I still see a lot of fear—and a lot of masks—well-founded, but not mine; my fears go beyond COVID.

And I have to fight the fear constantly.

Because fear separates me from those around me.

Meanwhile, I don’t take the sense of joy and wonder at speaking face to face for granted.

This week we remembered the Holocaust.

We heard stories of the kind of pain that comes from isolation and loneliness—as individuals and as a people.

The kind of pain that comes from intense loss.

Then there is how this week’s Parsha begins, with laws of purity for a woman after childbirth; she is forced into a time of separation.

It might feel to her like being sent outside the camp, like a separation from the community.

It’s problematic, mostly for questions of mysogeny regarding the length of time after a girl baby vs. a boy baby (longer for the girl).

During this time, she can not touch anything sacred or enter the sanctuary of the Temple.

We can imagine that she may feel isolated.

But Rabbi Shefa Gold connects her isolation to the creative process; “During a time of intense creative output, as with childbirth, a person steps outside the boundaries of time and space. [The woman] touches the realm between the worlds where “Ayin” (“nothing”) gives birth to “Yesh”(“existence”). (Torah Journeys, The Inner Path to the Promised Land)

So it begs the question of the difference between solitude and loneliness.

Solitude can be good.

Thus, it was with beautiful synchronicity that I happened to hear Dr. Vivek Murthy, U.S. Surgeon General, speaking with Krista Tippett on On Being.

He talked about the mental health crisis of our “loneliness epidemic.”

Brilliant, inspiring, and soothing to listen to him.

He speaks from personal experience.

The ultimate solution to the mental health crisis in the U.S., he says, is not more therapists (though we do need more of them).

The answer is more connection.

More love.

Because at the heart of our crisis is isolation and loneliness.

He suggests that we can all be healers.

Here are some of his simple ideas:

1. Spend 15 minutes a day connecting with someone you love (other than those you live with): talking, texting, just saying “I’m thinking of you. (We often think that the circle of those who care about us is much smaller than it actually is; get over your sense of shame at not being in touch, and reach out.)

2. Be intentional about giving the gift of your full attention in those minutes of connection. Our devices are designed to take our attention. It’s not your fault, but you don’t have to let them.

3. Smile at strangers; it makes you both feel better. (Truth!)

4. Find opportunities to serve; when we help each other, we forge a connection and reaffirm that we bring value to the world.

5. Find a few moments for solitude every day. In solitude, the noise around us settles; we can reflect, and connect to gratitude. This all spills over into the quality of the relationships we have.

6. Also, put away the devices in those moments of solitude—despite your fear of boredom. Boredom is good; it can lead to creativity. When you’re waiting for the bus, just wait for the bus—like in the old days (and maybe you’ll connect with a stranger).

Isolation and loneliness are harmful to our mental health.

But a little bit of solitude can be helpful.

It’s important to know the difference.

And we are not helpless in the process of healing our country and our world.

We can all become healers.

For ourselves and others.

And say Amen.