Till Death Do Us Part, Ki Teitzei, & Fences

You’ll excuse me if I don’t talk about the dead queen, or about the new prime minister who says it’s time to end the monarchy, while also ending the moratorium on fracking.

All while, as a world, we have just experienced the hottest summer in history, and drought is being followed by torrential, dangerous rains.

You’ll excuse me if I just want to talk about the wedding (if you’ve been following…).

Maybe you, too, would rather hear about a wedding.

There was actually a brief but torrential downpour at the wedding, but not until we were under a roof at the party. It didn’t relieve the extreme humidity, but it did feel cleansing. My sister-in-law said it was a good sign, that this marriage was bringing blessing to the world.

And it was wonderful.

Perfect, in fact.

It turned out exactly the way my daughter wanted and imagined it. The best DIY (Do-It-Yourself) wedding ever (in my estimation).

Of course, that was after a good bit of drama over the previous weeks: certain family members who (in the couple’s estimation), "didn’t care.”

This drama played out partly in their cutting almost all traditional religious elements from the ceremony—just two days before the wedding!

When I spoke to my daughter, she explained how upset and hurt she and her fiance were by various family members.

My role was to help them change perspective; those who showed up, were showing up because of their love and joy at the occasion. We would surround them in a bubble of love, and forget about the “don’t cares.” It would be intimate and meaningful, and this would add to their own joy.

Through our talking and listening, the elements they had taken out in anger and frustration, made their way back into the ceremony.

Essentially, the wedding was a Jewish one, performed in a traditional way, with some Catholic elements.

There was one thing decidedly “modern” that the officiant asked for: to write their own personal vows—but the couple did not deliver.

In a moment of confidence, I asked my daughter about this: no, she said, they were doing the old-fashioned vows like you see in the movies; this had always been her dream.

What traditions to keep in? Which ones to change?

There are still many rabbis who refuse to even perform an interfaith ceremony. “Build a fence around the Torah,” is what they say; protect Jewish ways from “infiltration” by “foreign” elements and “corruption.” Keep it “pure.”

I’ve been thinking about my own fences since the wedding, and then over the last couple of days since reading this week’s Torah portion, Ki Teitzei.

As I thoughtfully made choices leading up to and throughout the day of the wedding, I realized how much stronger my own boundaries have become.

Personally, I decided that, if the choices I made responded to or acknowledged someone else’s generosity and love, or increased joy and love in general, that was the choice to make.

I had to balance this with making sure not to exert excess energy that would send me over the edge to another long “crash.”

So, for instance, I was going to wholeheartedly welcome a houseful of sleepover guests, two of whom were doing my daughter’s hair and make-up (something I worked through a couple of week back, if you read my blog).

And I was going to welcome an extra, very-last-minute sleepover guest; this would bring my son-in-law love and joy—but ended up doing it for us, as well!

I was also going to buy the variety of celebratory foods I wanted for the house, not just bagels and cream cheese, which would have been the easiest and cheapest way. And I was going to serve them myself, despite one daughter’s protest to let people take care of themselves.

These all added to the festivities, made my guests feel welcome and cared for, and brought joy all around.

The foods would be typically Jewish, like my mother would have gotten from Zabar’s, no matter the cost. Such generosity around food had been a positive aspect she’d possessed; it was an important part of my family tradition.

Thus, I “invited her in,” and it brought not only joy, but healing.

At the wedding venue, where the party was, I continued to make choices that put myself and my children at the top of the list.

I chose to converse with those that brought me joy, I did not stop to take care of those to whom I normally would have felt an obligation. Instead, I let others take care of them, and others take care of me.

I remember noticing, as I consciously walked past certain people and circumstances, “That was the ‘old me.’”

Yes, I put up some fences—but very consciously and mindfully.

This week in Torah, we have examples of women who are lusted after and “taken” by men, then rejected.

What to do?

We have examples of newly married women accused of not being virgins by their husbands.

How to prove it one way or the other, and what to do with them?

We have examples of women whose husbands have died. What to do with them?

The answers make an effort to lie in favor of the women, probably revolutionary for their time, but manage to keep the women guilty or vulnerable.

The woman taken and rejected remains possibly cared for and most definitely unhappy; the test for virginity is basically a medieval witch trial.

The widow is given her dead husband’s brother as a substitute, (good for protection, perhaps, but most likely an unhappy choice for both of them). If he refuses, her only option is to publicly spit in his face and throw a sandal at him; she remains out in the cold.

These are very much based on cultural norms of the Ancient World, and the need to change them.

There are other messages from the parsha that are more timeless, like the commandment to provide for the stranger amongst us, to pay your laborer before nightfall so they can eat, and to remember what it feels like to be a slave.

These are universal messages of love and caring, not dependent on cultural norms of a certain time and place.

Thankfully, my daughter didn’t have to worry about being a virgin, or any of the other things mentioned above.

How lucky that she had the option to say, “Till death do us part,” not out of obligation, but as a real choice of commitment to her own personal choice of a husband.

When we say we want a fence around the Torah to protect our traditions, we must think carefully which traditions we are upholding, and which need revamping.

If we stick to the Bible only as literal law passed down from God and our prophets, we act as though the world has not changed. We do not allow for evolution in the world.

We each personally, like the world, evolve.

Though my daughter and son-in-law did not personalize their vows with their own interpretation, and they were definitely not from Jewish tradition, it was a profound moment when I heard them each say, “Till death do us part.”

The timeless and universal truths are what bring us closer to the kind of world we want to live in.

In general, I think this is a good test for our boundaries. We should always ask ourselves: do they bring more generosity into the world, likewise increasing joy and love within and around us?

As we continue to do our personal work of Elul, getting ourselves ready for the High Holy Days, thinking about the vows we may take for the coming year, may we carefully consider the kinds of fences we put up, and how high they need to be.

May we also consider the fences that need taking down.

May we each be conduits for generosity and joy.

And say Amen.

From Bloody Guilt to Mazel Tov & Shoftim

At the end of this week’s parsha, Shoftim, there’s a very strange ritual.

Its purpose is to cleanse the Israelite community of any bloodguilt incurred in the case of a homicide whose perpetrator is unknown or unfound.

It involves a heifer (a young female calf too young to work or give birth), the elders of the town, the local Levite priests, and an everflowing nearby stream. The elders break the Heifer’s neck by the stream, wash their hands with blood over the animal, and make a declaration of innocence.

Thus, they are free of guilt before God.

This ritual seems strange to us, but each element had meaning for people of its time.

Over the next five weeks or so, the Jewish community will be finishing an entire year of Torah readings. The weekly Torah reading is a ritual in itself.

We have also just entered the month of Elul, the month before Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, and Yom Kippur, when we atone for our “sins,” washing away our guilt.

It is a time of transition, when we prepare for these “high” holy days by looking inward, examining our thoughts and behavior over the past year, considering ways in which we can do better in the coming year.

One of our rituals is to hear the blowing of the Shofar, the ram’s horn, every day during this month. It is a reminder to “wake up.”

The Israelites of the Ancient World of the Bible have also been in a transition period, preparing to enter their new land. Weekly, there has been a review of the laws God gave them as a recipe for how to live a righteous life as a people in their Holy Land going forward.

Transitions take a lot of work, both inner and outer.

Even joyful ones.

And I have so many happening in my family this week.

Most importantly, my elder daughter is getting married. Preparing for the wedding, cleaning the house for guests, shopping for food…

My younger daughter, too, is going through big changes. Having just begun fall classes in her (almost) last year of college, she is moving to a new apartment, with new roommates, saying goodbye to old friends. It’s joyful, sad, and full of unknowns.

I am also turning 60 (a happy birthday shout-out to my twin brother!), a birthday that both American and Jewish cultures give importance to, and I hardly have time to mark or celebrate it.

All in one week!

Lots of transitions, not the least of which is preparing for this New Year, which is also the year I complete my rabbinical studies.

Even the world is going through big transitions, hopefully for the greater good over time, but it’s painful in the meantime.

As I said, transitions are challenging. While they may signify growth, entering into a new phase, they can also carry some sadness and loss—of youth, of parenting in the same way, of things as we knew them before. There is always a saying goodbye to the old, and with that comes varying degrees of grief.

Rituals help us through these periods of transition and any accompanying grief. They may be prescribed by the traditions of our community, often from religion, and are a way of making meaning.

Weddings are rituals signifying commitment between two people, while also involving family and community. We laugh, and we also cry.

The Jewish High Holy Days are a time of re-commitment to making changes in ourselves for the sake of relationships and community, a time for admitting that we are merely humans who will continue to make mistakes.

They are a time of connecting with regret and remorse, both emotions and tools that helps us re-commit to changes.

May we each commit or re-commit to finding ways of integrating ritual, old and new, into our lives, to help us through challenging times.

May we wake up and connect and re-connect to our fellow humans.

May we wake up and re-commit to ourselves and our relationships with each other and the Earth.

And in the Jewish tradition of joyful occasions, even when tinged with a little sadness: Mazel Tov to all!

And let us say Amen.

Seeing with Generous Eyes: R’eih

Yesterday morning I woke up to a phone text from my daughter: two more teenagers will be sleeping over on the weekend of the wedding (next week, not this)—in addition to the others, who will already be spread out throughout the apartment, filling all floor space.

I could see it all before my very eyes: the partying late into the night before the wedding, the slamming of doors and toilet seats heard easily through my paper-thin walls.

As it is, I’m still struggling to get back to my old, bouncy, energetic self, measuring my progress day by day. It could spell disaster for me.

So I kind of lost it, and started crying—not that my daughter knew! I didn’t make that mistake!

But while acknowledging the need to take care of myself, I also felt ungenerous.

In my reaction, I was reminded of my mother, the “party pooper.” I don’t want to be that person! Why couldn’t I just let go and get excited about the excitement? It’s a rare gift to see your child get married. And it will be a gift to have all the cousins here. Just the fact that they love us so much and want to be such an integral part of this! I want to be a generous host!

In the week’s parsha, R’eih (See!), there’s a long section on generosity.

The Israelites, still getting reminders on how they should behave upon entering the Promised Land, are told how to handle the needy. They will have great abundance, and should not harden their hearts to the less fortunate among them. Rather, they should be careful to open their hands and give sufficiently to meet the needs of the needy.

They are reminded of the Shmita year, every seventh year, when slaves are freed and the land lies fallow; despite any concerns about scarcity as that year approaches, they must continue to be generous.

In fact, even thinking about holding back, Torah tells us, is a lower, “base” form of thought. And our eyes are evil (v’ra’ah eynkha/וְרָעָ֣ה עֵֽינְךָ֗) when we see our fellow person in need and close our hand. God will hear the cries of the poor, and those who withheld will stand guilty. If, on the other hand, we give with an open hand and heart, we will be rewarded.

There are even specific stipulations around slave ownership (that, unfortunately, give greater benefits for the “fellow Hebrew” slave):

1. No one should serve more than six years (a message lost on supposed-God-fearing American slaveholders, including, sadly, Jewish slaveholders)

2. The owner should not resent having to set the slave free, for they have gotten double the work they would have if paying a laborer

3. The owner should send them off with provisions (from the flock, threshing floor, and vat)

4. If they had a wife of their own when they came, they should be allowed to leave together, children included (this, from Exodus, which has more on the subject)

5. And perhaps most importantly and shockingly, if the slave refuses to go (because they love their owner and things have gone well for them), their ear must be pierced to the doorpost with an awl (a much debated subject), and they shall remain in servitude forevermore.

If we look at this last one honestly, we might to ask the question, “How many options were there out in the not-so-wide world for the newly-freed slave?” Maybe staying with a non-abusive owner would be better than…who knows what!

But the intended lesson is still about taking freedom when the opportunity presents itself.

How often do we turn away from opportunities because it’s too hard or painful, incurring some loss?

For me, the impact on my health might take me back a few weeks. That’s a painful thought for me.

But taking freedom right now might look like letting go of my worries about it for the sake of that one night—and for love in and of the family.

It might also look like redirecting my thoughts towards the joys of a once-in-a-lifetime sleepover with fun surprises. (Didn’t I just say a few weeks ago that the only thing that matters is the love in my family?)

Can I stay positive of mind, and be generous of heart? Can I take this opportunity to change old, hurtful patterns in my family? I have so many memories of hurt feelings because of lack of generosity coming from family members.

Also, the cousins are not exactly needy, but hotels in New York are astronomically expensive, and my husband’s family hardly have unlimited means.

But that’s not even what it’s about in the end. These are the moments that matter most in life, and good memories of joy keep us going.

No one should need a reward for being generous, but the rewards come from all of this.

So, let’s say Amen (and I’ll let you know how it goes…).

Look in the Mirror (Eikev)

One of the main critiques of religion, especially the Abrahamic ones (Judaism, Christianity, Islam), is how patriarchal they are.

This couldn’t be more true.

Thus, rejection of it. “I’m spiritual, but I don’t buy into this patriarchal stuff of organized religion.”

This week’s parsha abounds with perfect examples, as our (male) God tells the Israelites they are about to enter the Promised Land. [He] also tells them how they will be rewarded if they follow [His] laws (with abundance, fertility, good life)—and how they will be punished (with scarcity, sterility, death) if they don’t.

God reminds the people that [He] has tested their loyalty along the way.

[He] beseeches them to remember how [He] made them walk through the desert for forty years. [He} put them through hardships as a trial for them to see where their hearts lay.

The very Hebrew word for “trial” or “test” is the same as the word used for “answer.” It’s like they have to “answer to” God.

The same word in a different form, as used here, means that they have been afflicted, forced to humble themselves before God—on purpose, as in, “I did it for your own good.” (and we all know the damage that’s done to children through the millennia.)

The goal of this, God says, is so they will know that (famous lines), “It is not by bread alone that [man] lives, but by whatever comes out of God’s mouth” (i.e. God’s decrees).

God explains: “Lest you think, ‘My own power and the might of my own hand have won this wealth for me.’”

God declares we should not be afraid, for [He] will be the very one leading us into this new land, driving out, expelling the current residents, not because “you are so virtuous, wise, or righteous,” but because the others are worse; they’re wicked.

In other words, “Don’t be so grandiose; you didn’t do it by yourself. You had a lot of help! From Me!" (Capital M)

It’s true that the message of an all-powerful god, one who rescues us, can be comforting—and it’s an idea many of us no longer believe. We have known too much suffering to believe the opposite, and are tired of taking all the blame for what goes wrong in our lives; it is damning and damaging.

But what is also true is that this message to humble ourselves a little is one we need to hear, especially in our American culture where we are taught that we make or break our own success.

Both messages from Torah and our society are so very clearly patriarchal, based entirely on a male model of reward and punishment—and the Bible is here to remind us that it is not by our own hand if we are “successful.”

Even the word “success” is problematic, as it is based on how powerful a job we have, or how much money we make. As we know, many wealthy people love to say they created their wealth all by themselves, thus forgetting or disregarding the privileges they had along the way, often since birth.

The message is so strong that we feel proud and puffed up when we have money, and full of shame when we struggle.

Later in this parsha, Moses reminds the people that it was God’s love for this people that caused [Him] to do all the [He’s] done for them; all [He] asks in return is their steadfast love and loyalty.

While it’s understandable that one who loves another can hope to be loved in return, this is a controlling god who demands total love and loyalty.

You can’t get more patriarchal than that.

It’s also true that when we reject our holy books because they are patriarchal, we are rejecting patriarchy. That’s a good thing if we want to move forward to a time when we can live more or less as equals, in peace, on Earth.

But in the same rejection of our holy books, there may also be an unwillingness to look at ourselves in the mirror.

Because, as much as we like to think otherwise, we reflect the patriarchy we claim to reject in the very thoughts we have, in our relationship with ourselves, and with others.

Thus says Terry Real who created what is called Relational Life Therapy, which he describes in his interview with Tami Simon on the podcast, Insights From the Edge.

The way we live now, as always in the past, says Terry Real, is by constantly comparing ourselves to others. When we compare, we judge, and when we judge, we hold power.

Either we feel good, and proud, or we feel shame—because someone else has a better job, is thinner, more fit, richer, smarter, has more accomplished children, etc.—even when our circumstances are completely beyond our control.

Either way, one of us is superior while the other, inferior.

Real describes this as grandiosity vs. shame.

Underlying both, he says, is the same emotion: contempt.

He goes on: As understood in our society, either we are feminine/affiliative/connected/accommodating, or we are masculine/powerful/assertive; you can be powerful or connected, but never both at the same time.

Further, in a patriarchy we have power over others.

Such an attitude, he says, is even popular in activist (feminist, anti-racist) and spiritual circles. Who hasn’t heard this one: “I was weak. I’ve found my voice. Now I’m strong. So stand back!”

The fact is, of course, as human beings we are all essentially equal, which is what we’re fighting for.

But by holding on to this attitude, we are perpetuating the very patriarchal way of living that we are trying to change.

The alternative, says Terry Real, is “Soft Power.”

Soft Power is an art to be learned that translates into standing up for oneself while simultaneously cherishing the other person or people in the same breath.

Real guides partners in intimate relationships, but applies his philosophy to all of society; the goal is to truly understand that we are not only connected, we are of the same stuff—to Earth and everything in it and on it.

As humans, we are truly all the same underneath the trauma. Nothing separates us except our lack of awareness.

Therefore, we must be able to look in the mirror.

Only by closely examining how we live out the patriarchy in our daily thoughts and actions will we be able to change our way of living from power over to power with others.

The only way God and Moses knew how to teach us to care (about the widow, the orphan, the stranger in our midst) was by clobbering the people over their heads.

Now that we know differently, does it mean we never get angry when we talk about dismantling patriarchy and racism?

That would be impossible, and sometimes anger is appropriate.

But here’s a start:

Towards the end of this week’s reading, the people are beseeched to “cut away the thickening around their hearts and stiffen their necks no more. וּמַלְתֶּ֕ם אֵ֖ת עׇרְלַ֣ת לְבַבְכֶ֑ם וְעׇ֨רְפְּכֶ֔ם לֹ֥א תַקְשׁ֖וּ עֽוֹד׃

Along with awareness, and a desire to repair any damage we’ve done in the process, the first step is always a softening.

Let’s try it. Again.

Let’s try looking in the mirror.

Let’s increase our practice of examining our thoughts, words, and actions.

Let’s notice when we are judging ourselves or others, putting one of us in a position of shame or grandiosity.

It’s a good time for this work, as we approach the month of Elul and the High Holidays.

Because getting beyond patriarchy starts with each of us.

And say Amen.

Panic, Prayer, & Va’etchanan

Here’s how I usually get my blog going; I read the Torah portion for the week on Sunday first thing. As I’m reading, I’m noticing what stands out for me out of all the elements and stories, in Hebrew and in English.

As the days pass, I become very mindful of what’s going on in my life and the world, looking for connections.

About mid-week I start to panic a little if I haven’t had any inspiration.

And here I am, Thursday afternoon, and I’ve got nothing! I’ve listened to tons of podcasts, the news, learned so much about so many interesting, wonderful, and horrible things, but still, nothing (and I’m definitely panicking now).

All I’ve got is prayer.

Is this the crowd to talk to about prayer? Some of you, maybe. I am becoming a rabbi, so you all must know that I’m into prayer, but…well, you know how I grew up: “There is no God, and prayer is for the ignorant.”

But that’s how the parsha starts this week. It begins with the word for which it is named, Va’etchanan, which is Moses’ telling of his plea to God. (That’s a prayer, when you’re talking to God directly.)

But we all do that, too, don’t we? Who among us hasn’t pleaded with the air around us, to some invisible thing, when we are in a state of desperation, even when we know we’re probably not going to hear an answer. (And if we claimed to hear one, and told a friend, or our therapist, they might panic a little and want to probe further and make sure—God forbid—we’re not hearing voices in general, right?)

But when we say please to God, are our pleas always the right ones? Don’t we sometimes imagine that something would be just perfect—if only—and we later realize it was all wrong?

This week in Torah, Moses continues with his life review as he retells the story of the Israelites’ treck towards freedom. Of course, Moses’ story is very much intertwined with their story.

Right at the beginning, he retells word for word, in a heart-wrenching way, of a conversation with God; “I begged, I pleaded (va’etchanan); have mercy, take pity on me, You, oh amazing God who let me see so many wonders and miracles; You, who have no equal in power on Earth or in heaven, please, please, please let me cross over and see the Promised Land…just this one last thing.”

One might sense a bit of panic in Moses’ desperate plea; he seems to feel he absolutely needs to, at least, step into the land before he dies.

Doesn’t your heart just break for Moses, after all he’s been through? To be cut off from the one thing he’s worked so hard for?

But God was angry at Moses, and yelled, “You’re too much! Stop! Never speak of this to me again!”

Moses blames the people for God’s anger at him; it’s their fault, for being so stubborn and not having enough faith.

One can almost understand why Moses passes off the blame. He’s in pain. And for God to be so angry with him? It’s gotta hurt.

Still, in my opinion, Moses is not being introspective enough; we’ve seen many times when Moses didn’t have enough faith, either. And, frankly, God could use some Anger Management classes or therapy. I mean! To talk to your child in such a way!

And let’s be real; who hasn’t struggled with faith—whether in God or our fellow human beings?

God does make a concession, though, to allow Moses to go up on a mountain and at least see the land before he dies.

But the question remains: is Moses praying for the right thing? Sure, it’s sad that he can’t see the end result of all his work. But does he really need to? Maybe his work is done, and that’s that. Maybe he needs to accept what is. Maybe, too, Moses is not meant to see the end results of all his work. Big deal; he looks out at the land, and all he can do is imagine the future. Does he get the high he was expecting? I wonder.

But maybe sometimes our imaginations are enough. Perhaps our imagination is our power at times. If we imagine things will turn out alright, that we will solve the problems plaguing us, then it means we haven’t given up hope—that we still have faith.

So I guess I did come up with something to write, after all. No need for panic—even a little bit. The stakes aren’t so high here.

But the stakes are very high for a lot of other things that I don’t need to enumerate. And I think many of us are in a panic about these very things.

So, let us pray for equilibrium in everyday life; to know when it’s time to panic, and when it’s not.

Let us not only use the power of our imagination to help us keep our faith alive that we do in fact have the power to fix the problems in our lives and in our world.

And, from a teaching I heard on Tisha B’Av on Sunday this week with Hadar, let us have clarity that we’re praying for the right things.

And let us say, Amen.

Words, Miracles, Life Expectancy, (and other things)

It seems like everyone else is “coming out” these days, so I might as well, too. I always struggle with how much to share of my personal life, especially when it comes to my health.

I have often felt very alone in my health challenges. It’s embarrassing because people often don’t understand, especially if it’s an invisible illness like migraines or fatigue. In subtle and not so subtle ways, our culture teaches that illness is a personal deficiency; if we do all the right things, it’s in our power, whether it’s conventional, non-conventional medicine, or a combination.

The other part that’s hard is that everyone wants to offer their words of wisdom and a miracle cure.

You try, you hope, you put all your faith in it, but still your expectations of how things (and life) should work out…they mostly just don’t.

Before the pandemic, I had chronic fatigue for almost 20 years.

Just when I thought I was done with it, I got Covid—twice now!

That didn’t help my expectations for my health (and life) to change for the better.

Then, in order to finish with my last year of seminary (I expect to be ordained this coming January!), I pushed hard and crammed a lot in.

After I finally handed in my final coursework and completed the last two intensive weeks of study in early July, I crashed.

If you have experience being bedridden fairly often or for long periods of time, you understand. You don’t want to tell people yet again that you are too fatigued, have a migraine, whatever…you come up with some other excuse, maybe.

Even more than that, you just want to get on with life in the “usual” way—get on with all your accomplishments (like becoming a rabbi), but you don’t know when that will be.

Often the symptoms are inconsistent, so you start wondering if it could be something else—maybe worse. Like with the pandemic, there are lots of unanswered questions and expectations for Covid’s trajectory, and for how your life “should” be after you recover.

If we didn’t have a miracle cure for Covid, then the vaccine was supposed to be a miracle prevention.

I heard two fascinating episodes on Insights at the Edge, a podcast from Sounds True.

One is The Life-Changing Science of Spontaneous Healing. The answer here is, it’s actually not spontaneous, though is very exciting.

The other episode is called, Is There a Holy Grail of Healing? The answer is—no. There are no miracles. Though, again, that doesn’t mean there’s no hope. It just means it’s more complicated.

And since it’s more complicated, you still end up in bed.

If you’ve spent long periods of time in bed, you know that your mind goes in all different directions.

This time for me, I was doing a lot of “life review.” Of course, that was after I stopped catastrophizing, and finally sunk into acceptance of where I was.

Then, something wonderful happened.

My mind started going back over my life. I started to think of how incredibly lucky I’ve been, and what a truly amazing life I’ve had so far. The thought came that, if I were to die tomorrow (or today), I would be satisfied. I cried in gratitude.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t want to die. I want to be healthy and strong when my daughter gets married in September, for instance, and in my darker moments, I begin to worry that I won’t be. And there are so many other things I still want to do and experience.

But the place I ended up was, I have had so much love in my life, and that’s really all that matters. My dreams of what else I want to do don’t matter at all, really. All the accomplishments…the competition…the envy…none of it matters. It’s just our stupid, petty, human stuff.

Only the love matters.

I have to keep that in mind because I don’t know when I will die. But Moses does—sort of. He knows that he will not enter the Promised Land. God has told him so.

In the parsha this week, the first readings of Deuteronomy/Devarim, which translates properly as “things” or “words,” Moses does a life review. He knows that he will go up on a mountain and die, just like his brother Aaron did, directed by God.

Most of the parsha is in Moses’ voice, as he talks to the Israelites and reviews their journey, step by step, from slavery into and through the desert over the past almost-forty years.

He reminds them how bad they’ve been, not having faith in God’s miracles. God has shown them so many miracles, yet they still have so little faith.

Moses speaks in frustration; the current generation will not enter the Promised Land because of this. God is angry with this stiff-necked people.

But in the same breath, Moses says, “You know what? Me, too. I won’t enter the Promised Land, either, because God was angry at me, too.” Moses reminds them of one of the miracles God performed for the people, when Moses himself showed a lack of faith; the people were thirsty, and God told him to speak to a rock, and water would come forth. Instead, Moses hit the rock.

“So, yeah. Me, too,” Moses says.

Now that this current living generation has experienced a pandemic, more people understand what I’m going through, though now it’s transformed to “Long Covid.”

As much as I don’t draw pleasure from other people’s suffering, it’s nice to be understood better. It’s nice to hear, “Me, too.” People no longer offer me miracle cures. They just commiserate. With love and affection.

The challenge for me, like Moses, I suppose, and like everyone else out there, is to retain that feeling of, “All that matters is love, and I’m so lucky to have it in my life. All the rest is bonus.”

I want to keep the flow of love front and center in my awareness.

I want to keep reminding myself that no miracle is greater than the type of conversations that keep love flowing.

Because for all our thirst, the thing that quenches it most is love.

Russian Dolls, Mattot-Mas’ei, and Tisha b’Av

This morning I picked up my necklace with all its charms to put it on. I wear these charms hoping that somehow my superstitions will add an extra layer of protection.

The chain was tangled, and looking closely as I struggled with it, I realized that if I just loosened my grip, it would untangle easily.

Those of us who were born around the 1960’s grew up thinking we were of the generation that would change the future of the world—if only we tightened our grip.

Major diseases had been overcome and modern medicine would save us all—eventually. Women were being liberated and would have control over their bodies. The same for Black people, who were learning to love their skin color and hair. Everyone would decide to lay down their sword and shield, and we would have war no more. Equality and justice would prevail and soon we’d all live in peace on Earth.

Many of us vowed to never give up the fight.

In this week’s parsha, we are taught about vows at length. Vows are not to be taken lightly, as they are a serious thing indeed.

Also, the five daughters of Zelophehad, who showed up in Pinchas last week, come back this week to conclude the story.

It is a story of female heroism and fairness.

First, these women stand up for their right to their father’s inheritance—and they are heard! They win (yay)!

Then, this week, the patriarchy demands its share. As the land the Israelites will inherit is being assigned to each tribe, the men protest; if these women marry outside their tribe, they will take their inheritance with them. The land will not be evenly divided as God assigned it. It wouldn’t be fair, they say.

What is fair? There are so many layers to this question.

Is it fair that these women must marry their cousins or lose their inheritance? Is it fair that the people previously living in The Promised Land are slaughtered? That the Moabite and Midianite women are blamed for luring the Israelite men?

I could go on, but I’d rather tell you about the show I’ve been watching called Russian Doll. It’s brilliant, funny and profound, and if you haven’t seen it, go watch it.

Like a Russian doll, the show uncovers deep layers of the human psyche. It’s about a woman who keeps dying. Over and over, she is (frustratingly) brought back to the same moment again and again—until she learns her lesson.

If you vow to see it, I won’t spoil it for you. But I will tell you that it’s about our desire to change life and make it fair.

It begs the question, “How are we supposed to live while we’re alive?” Should we try to turn back the clock, change the past, if only we had the power? Wouldn’t it make everything more fair—to get back the money someone stole from your family, kill all the Nazis, etc…?

If only…

If only we had fought harder, had a different administration, made a revolution…so many things would be different: coronavirus, abortion, gun violence, drug addiction, poverty, global warming…

If only we had been more politically active, raised our voices, not become complacent…

Tisha B’Av, which commemorates the Destruction of the Temple, is a time for mourning, and it’s coming next week. It’s one of those times in Judaism that allows us to simply mourn. We are not to try and change anything, or wonder how we could have done things differently.

We simply mourn. We read the Book of Lamentations and imagine the destruction, bloodshed and death.

I feel like that’s all I’ve been doing lately: imagining the destruction, bloodshed and death. Mental health professionals say we need to allow for that. I believe in that.

Political activists with a spiritual bent also tell us to grieve our losses, regain our balance, then use the energy of the pain and rage for the sake of change—take hold again, grab on tightly, make a vow to never give up.

I believe in that, too.

Look, I don’t have any of this figured out. I’m just journeying along in this life, trying to figure it out like the rest of you.

And what keeps coming up for me is that humans have always struggled for justice, equality and peace.

And at the heart of that is love.

Love for the land, our fellow humans, our families, our communities. And we’ve been taught that if we could divvy things up“just so,” making sure we all have our fair share of power and land, all our problems would be solved.

Conquer disease, and then we will all be protected, with no need for special charms around our necks.

But we know in our hearts that all disease will never be conquered. And we know that, come what may, we must all die in the end.

With Tisha b’Av we mourn the end of an era, and with this week’s parsha, we come to the end of the book of Numbers.

With these endings, maybe it isn’t a time for making vows or tightening our grip.

Maybe it’s a time to uncover the layers of our grief and figure out what lessons we each need to learn while we still live on this Earth.

And let us say Amen.

God’s Image in Pinchas?

Perhaps like you, I struggle to see the good in some people. You know what I’m talking about.

What about everyone being made in God’s image/B’tzelem Elohim?

Yet God is violent, flying into rages, sending plagues upon God’s own people again and again.


Do we want to be made in that image?

Maybe you remember the story of Pinchas at the end of last week’s parsha; Pinchas shows his passion for the Israelite God by putting his sword through a Midianite woman and her Israelite lover.

The pagan Midianites and Moabites are seen as using their women to lure the Israelites away from their own all-powerful “God” back towards pagan gods and practices.

In God’s fury at seeing the Israelites cavorting with the local pagans, God sends a plague upon the Israelites.

The plague ends with Pinchas’ horrific act. And—God makes Pinchas a priest!

“How can God reward such violence??!” we say.

Indeed, Pinchas is seen as a hero by many Jews. His story has been used as a license toward similar violence in today’s time against Jewish and Israeli “enemies.”

Some of this can be understood by looking at history. Paganism throughout the ancient world was a constant threat to the newly forming Israelite religion of monotheism. Thus, the repeated reminders in the Bible that we are different and must keep ourselves apart.

Fear of the stranger has been compounded by millennia of violent Anti-Judiasm.

But there’s another way of looking at this story, writes Arthur Waskow of the Shalom Center.

True that “The plague of violence ends the plague of sickness.”

But maybe God sees Godself in Pinchas, and  realizes that God’s own rage and violence are the wrong example to be setting.

Perhaps, as Waskow puts it, God is “shocked into shame.”

God’s covenant with Pinchas as a priest, is one of peace; literally, “I give him my Pact of Peace/Noteyn lo et briti shalom.”

Maybe this is God's way of saying, by making you a priest, you take a vow never to use violence again.

This may be a generous reading, but doesn’t it often come down to how we read—and look at—things?

I heard a recent episode of This American Life called The Possum Experiment. It investigates the basic question, “Are most of us bad or good?” Its authors wonder whether it’s better to stay on guard most of the time; having been burned, isn’t mistrust the better way to go?


Mistrust protects us, after all.

Act One is an interview with comedian and writer, Darryl Lenox (who is very funny—listen here).

Lenox has gone blind as a mature adult, giving him the privilege of being able to compare the “before and after.”

A tall, imposing, Black man who has lived with the kind of prejudice a man like him would in the U.S., Lenox is now forced to put his trust in strangers.

What he finds is that, when people discover he is blind, they are suddenly no longer afraid of him. Total strangers share intimate secrets and make him listen to confessions of all sorts.

There’s a priest who likes to have sex with men; a white cop who recognizes how his work has changed him by being on the look-out for danger always.


But mostly they’re older, white women—women who might be afraid of him under different circumstances, and now pour their hearts out to him.

The interviewer wonders, don’t these experiences make Lenox more cynical and distrustful?

No, he says, they've actually given him more faith in humanity.

Because to him, it means that we are all just “this small thing away from being exactly the same.”

May we read goodness and trust into our neighbors. 

Whenever possible, may we follow the way of peace in our dealings with those we disagree with and those who threaten us.

May we retain our faith in humanity.

And may we say Amen. 

Curses to Blessings & Balaam

I don’t want to talk about Balak.

Or his mission to get Balaam to curse the Israelites.

Or about Balaam’s curses that turn into blessings because the only words that can come out of his mouth are the words that God wants him to say.

Or about Balaam’s donkey and the angel with the drawn sword that blocks their way.

Or how Balaam beats his faithful donkey because he can’t see what his donkey can.

I don’t want to talk about how God finally gives the donkey the ability to speak, and how Balaam proceeds to have a conversation with him as if it’s the most ordinary thing in the world.

Or about Balaam’s inability to see despite, ironically, being a seer, which is why he is hired by Balak to curse the people Israel in the first place.

Or how it makes no sense that God gets angry at Balaam for going with Balak’s people even though God gave him permission just a minute ago.

I especially don’t want to talk about the bloody scene at the end of the parsha of Pinhas putting his sword through a “whoring” Midianite woman and her Israelite lover, and the contradictions in that story.

I just want to talk about the gratitude I have to be writing to you from “the country” where I am visiting a friend for a few days.

I want to tell you about the hammock hanging on her porch and how I’ve been gazing out at the woods, sleeping in a tiny tent, listening to the night sounds of the surrounding woods, the rushing water of a stream behind her house, and the rain on the leaves.

I want to tell you how grateful I am to be escaping the oppressive city heat, the garbage on the ground, and the incessant noise.

I want to tell you about the woods we lay down in, and the sparkling pond we went swimming in, the water so clear you can see the little stones at the bottom. And how I floated on my back and just listened to the silence of the water filling my ears as I stared up at the sky. And how healing it’s been.

I want to say that, even though I was “escaping the city" and its dirt, I still found garbage strewn in the woods. And somebody was playing loud music at the edge of the pond.

And I wished I could ignore the garbage and close my ears to the noise and escape the negative.

I want to say that, although sometimes we see things we wish we could close our eyes to, and go on our merry way, we can’t.

And there are times we try to see things, but we don’t, because we all have our blind spots.

May we be blessed with clear sight, with enjoying and loving this world while we’re in it, despite its imperfections.

May the curses that come from our frustrations turn to blessings, despite everything.

And may we be blessed with healing.

And let us say, amen.

Law of the Land: Hukkat

I’m just coming out of two weeks of immersive classes on Zoom through my seminary.

This past week, we studied Jewish funerals and baby welcoming/covenanting.

We created rituals to honor these two important ends of life in ways perhaps never done before—for individuals and populations that past generations could have never imagined in our rapidly changing world.

While endings can be sad, do we fight and deny them, and only welcome the new with open arms and delight?

Can we honor both?

It felt very apropos to what is happening in our country and world today.

Front and center in my mind are the Jan. 6th Insurrection hearings, and all the new Supreme Court rulings on abortion, climate, guns.

How they will change our lives.

How many more people will die.

Whether our Democracy is dying.

Whether our Democracy was ever really alive, or was it just an illusion.

These decisions have been like an unstoppable waterfall over the past weeks.

Are these waters causing death, or cleansing? Or both?

Speaking of water, over the past month, the water coming out of my tap has been very smelly--a really dirty, sewage smell. I began to wonder if there was something dead and rotting in the tank.

The building finally got a plumber in this week to clean it. It was filthy. Who knows how long it had been since the last cleaning.

This week’s parsha, Hukkat, is named for the laws of ritual purification regarding those who come into contact with the dead.

Niddah is the word used to denote impurity.

It’s the same word used to describe a woman in the middle of her menstrual period.

The root meaning of niddah (Hebrew letters, nun-dalet-hey), implies distancing, pushing away, excluding; a menstruating woman is considered impure and must be distanced from the camp.

But menstruation is about fluid cleansing her body of that which has died, so the cycle can begin again and new possibilities can be born. 

Humans are not good at accepting this cycle of life. We fight it. We’re afraid of it. We push it away. We keep it at a distance.

But death has to happen; it is what feeds new life as the old literally becomes compost to nourish the new.

Maybe that’s what’s happening in our country right now.

It’s been a long time since the American Republic began.

Since the Revolution, our democracy has expanded towards greater inclusivity, while recent trends have taken us in the opposite direction, towards greater exclusivity.

The old is wreaking havoc before it goes out, fighting its death to the very end.

Here is my prayer for the week:

While we honor that which may have started out as an improvement to the old, may new waters wash away that which is rotten.

And may the dying nourish new life and possibilities that come forth from it. 


And please say Amen.

Hollywood & Korach

I’ve been in classes on Zoom seven hours a day all week, and I’m pretty tired. It’s my last summer intensive before I get my rabbinical ordination!

One class I’m taking is about how to argue “Jewishly” according to the system we inherited from our rabbinic tradition.

We’re supposed to do it the way the rabbis supposedly did when they disagreed with each other; state the other’s opinion first, always in a respectful manner; make sure your children marry each other so there will always be peace.

Ahhh, how lovely.

And a little Hollywood, wouldn’t you say?

Maybe you know what happens in this week’s parsha; a man named Korach leads a rebellion against Moses, challenging him with, “You are too much—now you’ve gone too far.”

Korach’s complaint is that Moses has appointed his brother Aaron as high priest. (Korach wants to be high priest.)

Of course, it’s not Moses who made Aaron priest, but God.

Moses answers Korach with the same retort: “You are too much—now you have gone too far.”

God is furious with Korach; you don’t challenge God’s choice.

But another complaint comes from Korach’s main supporters, Abiram and Dathan; Moses, having led them from slavery in Egypt, brought them all "out of the land of milk and honey”--not out of misery--to die in the desert.

Still, Moses makes an attempt to argue God out of killing Korach and his 250 men.

Unsuccessful, Moses informs Korach that what is about to happen is not from “his own heart,” but from God’s. Just then, Korach and his men are swallowed up by the earth.

But God is not done, and sets a plague upon the thousands more followers of Korach.

This time, Moses stops the plague from spreading by standing in the middle of the crowd with his brother Aaron.

Moses is shown to be so very just and fair and respectful of his opponents.

All of it feels a little Hollywood to me.

With all the terrible things we are being slammed with daily, it’s easy to imagine a version of the past that wasn’t as bad as now.

I struggle constantly to remind myself not to whitewash any of it because, let’s be real; it was never a Hollywood picture. I can easily name a whole bunch of wars and plenty of other terrible things just from my lifetime.

But I take Moses’ statement about his heart as a personal challenge;

What’s in my heart?

Have I been angry enough at times over the past two years that I’ve wondered if the world might not be better off if all “our enemies” died in this current plague?

I challenge you to come up with a blessing for us all because I’m just too tired right now.

And I’ll say Amen.

Unthinkable & Shlach Lecha

I had a plan.

I was going to write about how courageous Republican Arizona Speaker of the House was, to put himself and his family at risk—how deep his trust and faith.

I was going to compare his to my own lack of courage, trust and faith—to do something as simple as give feedback to the mohel who’s forgotten his sacred duty to connect with baby and family with humility and awe.

The mohel even invited me to give him feedback; is it not my sacred duty to give it to him, just as Rusty Bowers believes it his sacred duty to uphold the U.S. Constitution?

I was going to compare all this to the spies in this week’s parsha—those sent to scout out the Promised Land.

I was going to ask, was it their lack of courage, faith and trust that led them to see giants too big to overcome, even with “God’s” help?

I was going to tell you about adrienne maree brown, her interview with Krista Tippet, and her vision for the future.

Brown asks: How can we on the left claim moral high ground when the idea of activism these days is to “cancel” those who slip up, not meeting our moral standards; how can we talk about love without giving each other a chance to grow? Weren’t we all trans-phobic just last week? Can we “skip the steps of unlearning oppressive systems by just punishing anyone who missteps”?

Where is our faith and trust, and our courage to be patient with each other?

With this morning’s unthinkable news that Roe v. Wade has been overturned, and my utter shock and dismay, can I still talk about courage, faith and trust?

Am I allowed to ask, do we need another “Summer of Rage,” as the Women’s March is calling for? Aren’t there enough wars going on?

Can I still end with a quote from Brown’s book, We Will Not Cancel Us?

Whether you approve or not, I’m going to, because I have no words of my own to give me courage:

“We cannot change. We do not believe we can create compelling pathways from being harm-doers to being healed, and to growing. We do not believe we can hold the complexity of a gray situation. We do not believe in our own complexity. We do not believe we can navigate conflict and struggle in principled ways. We can only handle binary thinking: good/bad, innocent/guilty, angel/abuser, black/white, etc.

“Cancer attacks one part of the body at a time. I’ve seen it. Oh, it’s in the throat; now it’s in the lungs; now it’s in the bones.

“When we engage in knee-jerk call-outs as a conflict resolution device, or issue instant consequences with no process, we become a cancer unto ourselves, unto movements, and communities. We become the toxicity we long to heal. We become a tool of harm when we were trying to be, and I think meant to be, a balm.

“Oh, unthinkable thoughts. Now that I have thought of you, it becomes clear to me that you are all rooted in a single longing; I want us to live, I want us to want to live, in this world, in this time, together.”

Maybe Rusty Bowers sees his missteps now in supporting Trump? Do we give him the chance to grow?

If Rusty Bowers could stand up with such courage, trust and faith, then can we?

Can we have the courage to hold the complexity of who we are, as Bowers did and does? Can we be what he modeled for us as a Republican who also refused to be a part of the "club”?

Can we have the courage to think the unthinkable, and refuse to be the toxicity that pervades our political discourse so that we may live, in this time, together?

Can we have enough faith and trust that we can overcome giants that seem too big to overcome?

And can we say Amen?

Jade and Joy (B’ha’alot’cha)

This week, I had the most amazing experience; I got to see the two ends of life back to back: brand new life and death.

They were vastly different experiences, yet they should have been the same in one way: filled with awe.

On Wednesday I accompanied a mohel (one who performs circumcision) way out in Brooklyn.

Getting there was just the beginning of the journey. I was locked out of my phone (security reasons), which threw me into a panic.

On the subway, I observed how everyone else stared at their phones, closed off to the amazing variety of life around them. It disturbed me deeply.

Then the family surprised me, as did the mohel:

The family, because they were so similar to mine: a "mixed" marriage of Latino (in this case, Mexican) and Jewish (Ashkenazi Holocaust survivors and Middle East Sephardi) descent.

The baby looked "native" to Mexico, with a full head of straight black hair and dark skin.

It was a pleasant surprise beyond my little world, representing the present and future of Judaism and the world.

The mohel, though immediately welcoming and kind, extremely skilled, ready to show and teach every step of the way, was a bit arrogant and jaded.

He knew exactly what to do, said all the right things at every turn, yet, shockingly to me, showed no interest in the baby.

I saw none of the awe he expressed in words for this new life. The suffering of a baby boy had become normal to him---a part of the sacrifice one makes for Judaism.

Maybe it is too painful to hold both. Otherwise, how do it?

And during the entire ceremony, beginning to end, an older woman scrolled and tapped away at her phone the whole time. It looked more like a habit than her struggle with the ritual, though it could have been both.

It all disturbed me deeply, and I couldn't sleep that night.

The very next day, I visited a funeral home where I expected a matter-of-fact tour.

This time, I was in total awe of what I got:

A mortician who herself lives in awe of death and dying and treats it with the deep respect and reverence it should receive; not a morbid person in the least, she talked about the beauty of dying as the body goes through different stages.
We spoke of the soul, Jewish beliefs around its slow separation, and its ascent.

It surprised me that my experiences of the two, of the bris and beginning, and ending and death, would have been the reverse: awe for new life, getting jaded around death.

I could see that this was true for some of the funeral directors; it just pays the bills, but not for this one. She was passionate and committed to everyone's care, alive and dead alike. She held both with equal reverence.

And I was wondering how in our wider culture, we have lost our sense of awe at the mystery of everything, and numb ourselves to that within and around us, staring at our phones constantly.

Would the world be different if we lived with more awareness, and could hold death with the same reverence we hold new life--if we didn't approach the end with such fear, turning away, and denial? If we could both hold pain and joy at the same time?

I was thinking about this week's parsha, in which so much arises:

The people are finally setting out through the desert; a cloud settles over as an indication to stay put, and lifts when it's time to move on--and no one has a problem with the these two states.

What's hard for the people is the redundancy of eating the unimaginable miracle manna day after day; instead they "remember" the abundance of meat and fish in Egypt they ate as slaves (?). God becomes frustrated, sends them quail and meat, showing that nothing is too much for the Almighty, then punishes them for their cravings and complaining by sending a plague upon them.

God also shows that, though Moses is special as a prophet, anyone can become one. In fact, Moses wishes it were so, that he shouldn't have to bear the responsibility alone of speaking to God.

When I think of my experiences this week, and of the lack of awe in our culture, I think of the state of the world and the constant barrage of bad news. Surely, there are good things happening. Can we hold both?

How can we possibly change the way things are going if we can't hold everything?

Can God, Moses, and the people hold everything as well as they do the cloud settling and lifting?---the gratitude for freedom and enough food vs. the boredom of manna and craving variety; the desire to single out one leader as special vs. the ability of many to become prophets and communicate in their own way?

I was wondering, how can a sense of belonging in and among all, our sense that all belongs, birth and death included, a reverence for the cycle of life and our love for the life that exists, help us in our work?

I found part of the answer in a conversation between marine biologist Ayana Elizabeth Johnson, and Krista Tippett, about Johnson's future book, "What If We Get This Right?"

Here is the description:

"Amidst all of the perspectives and arguments around our ecological future, this much is true: we are not in the natural world — we are part of it. The next-generation marine biologist Ayana Elizabeth Johnson would let that reality of belonging show us the way forward. She loves the ocean. She loves human beings. And she’s animated by questions emerging from those loves — and from the science she does — which we scarcely know how to take seriously amidst so much demoralizing bad ecological news."

My prayer for this week comes in the form of a question that guides Johnson:

"Could we let ourselves be led by what we already know how to do, and by what we have it in us to save?"

"What," she asks, "if we get this right?"

May we find peace with the cloud's lifting and settling; may we let ourselves be led by what we already know, by the love and the awe and the pain, and by a sense of belonging for life and all its stages; may we be and become leaders in our own special way, know that nothing is too much for us to achieve--and put our phones away and notice the awesome variety of life around us, as painful as it may be.

And may it be so; keyn y'hi ratzon.

Amen.

Priests and Blessings: Naso

This week in Naso, we have the longest parsha of all the 54 weekly portions, and interestingly, we have the shortest, most concise blessing, so poetic, that appears in the Torah.

It is what we call the Priestly Blessing, which appears in an interesting place in the Torah this week:

We have just learned of what will happen to a woman (through magic, or a type of witchcraft, mind you) if she has been unfaithful to her husband; “her belly shall distend and her thigh shall sag; and the woman shall become a curse among her people.” (Ugh.)

(Nothing, on the other hand, will happen to her husband if he was seized by a fit of jealousy and was wrong. Ugh again.)

Following this curse is a description of the Nazarite, the one who dedicates themself to God, shaving/not cutting their hair for a certain period of time, making special burnt offerings in the Temple.

After this, we get the Priestly Blessing, so commonly used, in blessing our children at home and in shul, on Holy Days, in our traveling prayers.

I keep my writing brief this week, as I have continued to recover from Covid (doing much better now!), and basically felt inspired by nothing this week (well, not exactly).

But I think we need a blessing.

May you be blessed and protected

May life deal kindly and graciously with you

May favor be bestowed upon you

And may you be granted peace

Blessings for our country, our world, our dear Earth, and for each of us as we go through our personal struggles.

And say Amen. 

Miami Vice: B’midbar

I just returned from a whirlwind of a trip over Memorial Day Weekend to Miami.

I got the phone call at noon on Thursday, when I was almost three hours north of the city; the main teacher of this trip of fifteen teens, Latinx and Jewish, was sick with Covid, and they needed a replacement.

Could I make it to JFK airport by 6 O’clock that evening?

Yes! Yes! Yes! Though Crazy, Crazy, Crazy!

And I made it there before anyone!

It was my first time in Florida! (Yes, I know; unusual for a Jew, but I am an unusual Jew.)

And though I am sick with Covid, I feel compelled to write. (And of course I got Covid! No one wears masks on airplanes anymore—and especially not in Florida!)

Plus, I barely slept for four days.

But it was an AMAZING trip!

It was the culmination of a year-long program of these Jewish and Latino kids working together—yet they had barely interacted until now.

This was our job—to get them to talk to each other, separated by their own little safe groups, their very own tribes: the Orthodox Jewish boys from one school, the groups of Latino kids from their public schools, the one Jewish girl who didn’t have a tribe.

We did museums, community gardening, Salsa dance lessons, the beach…

But the most important thing was the time we spent sharing and listening to each other’s stories in smaller, mixed groups.

It was through personal stories that the kids finally connected across the vast cultural and socioeconomic chasm that separates us in our society.

Little by little, they opened up to each other.

Each one felt heard. Each one felt like they counted.

By the last day, they were dancing, playing, laughing and jumping in the hotel pool together. They had finally bonded.

This week we begin the fourth book of the Torah: Numbers/B’midbar/In the Desert.

And the first thing that happens in this last book is, everyone is counted: Each tribe, each individual—well, each male—I have to be truthful.

But that’s an important fact.

Because it begs the question: who among us is not counted? Who doesn’t count in society’s wider eye?

One of the things we did as a group was learn about the housing crisis in Florida, especially Miami.

There’s so much “speculation” going on, so much construction—but it’s all for the wealthy; the average local person is being priced out, much like in New York City.

This vice I saw in Miami of over-consumption of resources (fancy buildings, high-blasting air conditioning, bottled water) in a place that nature didn’t intend to have large human populations, is something that’s happening all over our country.

As a society that supports “market speculation,” building where we shouldn’t be for those who don’t need it, we are not counting those who need to be counted.

Seeing the immensity of the problem in such a concentrated way made me feel overwhelmed and helpless.

But at the same time, I was given an incredible gift.

Being with these young people, hearing them exchange their stories, seeing them connect despite vast differences, and listening to their solutions to the problems, their passion and drive to make change happen, gave me hope.

There was a small amount of healing in our tiny corner of the Earth this weekend.

I told them, if they are our future, then there is hope for the future of humanity.

And let us Amen.

Love the Earth (and moss): B’khukotai

The other day, I was talking to a neighbor, and I told her about the Emergency Rental Assistance Program that was created in New York State during the pandemic—incredibly helpful to many people.

She was happy to hear about the program, but soon moved on to the subject of “personal responsibility.”

She complained bitterly about people who “take advantage of the system that’s supposed to help hard-working people.”

“These people have four kids they can’t support, and take hand-outs instead of going out and getting a job—I don’t care, even if it’s at McDonald’s!” she yelled.

Her point was, people need to learn to live within their means.

True…

But then I tried to veer the conversation off the individual, towards the systemic issues that plague our society. I reminded her that McDonald’s doesn’t pay enough to cover anybody’s rent, no matter where you live.

She wasn’t having any of it: “I pay my taxes so somebody else can buy drugs by trading their food stamps for cash! My mother worked three jobs so she could feed us!” she yelled.

I see my neighbor’s pride as a beautiful thing that I wish for every struggling person, but to hear her talk this way made me really sad.

It was a reflection of the extremely successful indoctrination of millions of Americans to take the blame for being poor.

It reminded me of the Bush presidency years, when George W. commended a woman for doing just that (“You work three jobs…How amazing!”).

Where was the question of government responsibility? Where was the awareness that no one should have to work three jobs just to make ends meet?

It takes responsibility off the government for the very poor job it does in taking care of its residents.

Our taxes should be to make sure that everyone gets their basic needs met; it should be a reciprocal relationship, especially in a country with such wealth as ours.

Yet abuse of the tax system in our government, by our government and among rich and poor alike is rampant.

And then there is abuse of our land.

This week’s parsha, B’Khukotai, continues with the laws we are to abide by as a people if we are to have our needs met, with enough food for all.

It says that “God will walk among us” if we listen, but if we don’t, we will have pestilence, we will be so hungry that we eat our own children, and we will be constantly on the run, though no one is pursuing us.

It seems that’s where we are: living with widespread pestilence and constant fear—not to mention eating our children’s future away in our abuse of the Earth.

The parsha goes on to say that the land will no longer yield because we have not followed the laws of Shmita and Yovel/Sabbatical and Jubilee.

Therefore, the land will take its sabbatical, its Shabbat, its rest, simply by not yielding.

Finally, the Earth will regain its balance and God will remember the covenant God made with our ancestors.

I was listening to On Being, and I heard botanist Robin Wall Kimmerer, in an interview with Krista Tippett. She says we could learn a lot from plants and their particular intelligence, but especially from moss.

Being very small, moss is very poor at taking resources for itself, so it is forced to stick together, to cooperate and help each other; “Because it takes up very little space, moss is a great example of how to live within your means.”

Also, though made up of tiny organisms, mosses make huge contributions to us and the Earth. For instance, they filter and conserve water and prevent soil erosion—so important.

We as homo sapiens have tried to have “dominion” over the land, as we thought the Bible told us was our right, but that hasn’t worked so well, as we are seeing now.

Those who have inherited our Bible are re-evaluating; did it mean that we should exploit the earth by taking as much as we could, stripping it bare until it wouldn’t yield anymore—depriving our children of their future?

Clearly not, or those who interpreted those lines about dominion didn’t read far enough. Or maybe they chose to ignore the part about allowing the land to rest.

As usual, the Bible has been misused by the powerful to manipulate the weaker for personal gain.

Here is an excerpt form Kimmerer’s book, Braiding Sweetgrass, that I found particularly poignant:

“We are all bound by a covenant of reciprocity: plant breath for animal breath, winter and summer, predator and prey, grass and fire. night and day, living and dying. Our elders say that ceremony is the way we can remember to remember. In the dance of the giveaway, remember that the earth is a gift to pass on just as it came to us. When we forget, the dances we’ll need will be from warning: for the passing of polar bears, the silence of cranes, for the death of rivers, for the memory of snow.”

Kimmerer comments on the pain of this passage: “One of the things I had to learn was the transformation of love to grief to even stronger love, and the interplay of love and grief we feel for the world, and how to harness the power of those impulses.”

May we learn to harness the power of the love and the grief we feel for the world, our beautiful Earth, and may we remember our Covenant.

And may we say Amen.

My People, My Mountain: B’har

If there was one sentence I wish we could all believe in and live by from the Torah, it would be: “The land does not belong to you; it is Mine.”

Yes, that’s God speaking, as usual, and it is repeated several times in this week’s parsha.

The Book of Leviticus is known for being chock full of laws given over to the Israelite people through Moses on Mt. Sinai. B’har, “On the Mountain,” is no exception.

B’har is all about the laws of Shmita and Yovel, the sabbatical, every seventh and fiftieth year.

These allow the land—and the people—to rest, and all possessions, including houses and slaves, to return to their original owners or to go free and return to their families, respectively.

Of course, I understand why this law has not been followed.

It’s not only inconvenient for the farmer; it may not even be possible to accomplish such a feat as saving enough grain during the first six years of the cycle to have enough for the seventh year.

But the second part about letting all slaves go free and land and houses return to their original owners…what can I say about that other than, it’s also extremely inconvenient (yes, I’m being sarcastic) for those who hold the wealth and power; they not only don’t want to let go of it, but they actually don’t have to because nobody is making them.

It makes me think of the gun laws in the U.S. and the filibuster left over from Jim Crow, that allows laws that are bad for the majority to continue as they are, despite the majority wishing to see change. (Did you hear the discussion on Democracy Now! about law and the mass shooting, this time in Buffalo, NY, last week?)

The same is true for abortion laws; the majority of Americans don’t want abortion rights overturned.

Of course, the way we posses and treat our land reflects the way we treat our people, and vice versa.

And some people are apparently more important than others.

The episode, My Lying Eyes, on This American Life, examines different situations in which people refuse or just can’t see what’s blatantly in front of them.

One is about climate change/crisis. Another is about Ukrainian vs. Latin American refugees at the Mexican border.

My heart aches for Ukrainians fleeing for the their lives. We’re coming on three months of this war!

And I’m happy that so many people have sprung forth with donations for these victims of war, and that U.S. borders have opened for them.

But my heart also aches for the Latino refugees who have been fleeing war for years, not to mention the state of their refugee camps at the border as described in the podcast (Act 2).

If there’s anything the Bible and religion are good for today, as I discussed last week, it’s to examine ourselves, our beliefs, and to be a reflection of the society we live in today, if not to reflect the kind of society we aspire to build.

How are we blinded, not just as a society, but as individuals as well, to the suffering of those not like us?

This week’s parsha, as throughout the Torah, also has the commandment to welcome and include the stranger as much as “our own.”

It’s human nature to care about our own families and communities first. But we’re at a time of reckoning, really, where we’re being asked to care about those beyond our own “peeps.”

Here are some lyrics from the original Woody Guthrie song, This Land is Your Land, that most of us don’t know:

As I went walking I saw a sign there,
And on the sign it said "No Trespassing."
But on the other side it didn't say nothing.
That side was made for you and me.

In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people,
By the relief office I seen my people;
As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking
Is this land made for you and me?

Nobody living can ever stop me,
As I go walking that freedom highway;
Nobody living can ever make me turn back
This land was made for you and me.

Can we continue to expand our definition of “my people”?

I think the world depends on it.

The Rejects of Emor

Every so often I am asked to explain myself; how did I get here and why am I doing this work? How did I go from communist to rabbi?

Yesterday I saw a friend from 30 years ago. We spent the afternoon together and had a wonderful time reminiscing about the past, remembering the pain and the joy, and filling each other in on our lives and children as they have grown and unfolded.

Towards the end, this friend finally asked me, “So what inspired you on this path to become a rabbi?”

It was the question I was sort of dreading. I knew that my path towards religion was confounding to her, as it was to my mother and anyone else from my previous life.

How could I explain in a nutshell how something as problematic as “religion” and the Judaism that my friend—and that I and my own parents had rejected—could bring me so much joy and healing?

How does an ancient book like the Torah, with all its dreadful, sexist, racist stories and rules (don’t even get me started on Israel and its politics) give meaning to my life—a tribal religion based on a sacrificial system that has no meaning in our lives today?

Take, for example, this week’s parsha, Emor, with its rules for priestly purity and sacrifice; a priest can not “marry a woman defiled by harlotry,” nor a divorced woman; no “lame” man who has a defect (per translation) like being blind or with a shorter limb, broken leg or arm, hunchback, dwarf, is considered a full enough human being to make a sacrifice to God.

The same goes for animals: none with any defect or blemish is worthy of sacrifice.

They are all—both human and animal—rejects in God’s eyes.

But the worst is yet to come: “When a daughter of a priest defiles herself through harlotry,” she is to be burned to death, and a person who blasphemes God’s name is to be stoned to death.

This is the God my ancestors rejected.

And this is the way “ancients” lived, right?

We’re “moderns,” and we have all the answers, right? Especially those who call ourselves “progressives” or “liberals.” We’ve got it all figured out.

But are we? And do we?

What about the “lame” among us? Do we look at disabled people with pity? What expectations do we have of them? Are we respecting them through our laws? How much accessibility are we creating?

What is our attitude towards people who turn to prostitution in desperation?

Abortion was legalized in the U.S. only fifty years ago (when I was ten years old!), and strong political/religious forces are fighting hard to overturn this right.

Yet the same forces ignore rape and abuse and could care less about providing sustenance to families of young children, as lawmakers continually block legislation that could provide support.

Then there is this sudden, terrible shortage of baby formula. The monopoly that three huge formula companies have on the market, plus our market economy that allows for such monopolies, giving companies the ability to pay low wages and charge high prices, not only causes the problem, but exacerbates it.

While women shouldn’t be shamed for formula-feeding, and it’s true that some women can’t physically breastfeed, it’s also true that there’s a terrible shortage of support for women who would like to breastfeed. This is not to mention that the hospitals support the companies by notoriously sending women home from the hospital with “free” formula in spiffy little bags.

And doesn’t this all tie into our expectation that “all those mothers having all those babies they shouldn’t be having” also “shouldn’t be so lazy,” and should go to work—at minimum wage jobs that can’t pay their rising gas bills!—so even if they wanted to breastfeed, they can’t?

Yet the political/religious forces are forcing women to have the babies they don’t want to have, can’t afford, and can’t feed.

Aren't we still burning women alive, but in a different sense?

And how well do our schools address learning disabilities?

Do you still hear people (teachers included) call children lazy instead of wondering what’s getting in the way of their learning?

And how are we doing “respecting” other kinds of “rejects” of society?

How many homeless, drug-addicted, mentally ill people do you see on the street? (I live in New York City, and I see many more in the past two years). How’s our health care system handling this problem?

And how are we each doing in terms of our personal attitudes? Do we sneer at the drug addicts and prostitutes and think of them as “less than” so we can just walk on past and feel better about ourselves?

Do we use the excuse of blaming the parents who are the cause of the children being “messed up”?

Or do we have compassion for all involved, recognizing that the parents are victims who were once children too, and who, if only—if only—we as a society gave them the proper support—well, things would be different.

Like the women in our society, it feels like I’m in a Catch-22 situation; I recognize that the ancient books of my heritage are totally outdated, yet they still manage to inform us and reflect on ourselves as a society.

Worse, they serve as a mirror for our present-day life and society.

And as for the religion itself—its prayer books and spiritual practices—so much of that is antiquated as well. It needs updating as much as our sacred texts do, and I don’t agree with the opinions and practices of many other—maybe most other—Jews. Which makes it a struggle.

But I have my community that’s on the same page with me, and we find strength in each other and in singing together.

And when I feel like all is for naught and my hope has been drained, I find strength in praising the miracle and the mystery that I am still here, despite everything.

Why should I not be able to take joy in my heritage just because of others who have tried to exclude me as a woman? Why can’t I take ownership of it and redirect it to something new and renewed?

Because we can’t throw away the world we have; we have to renew it as well. And we can’t deny where we come from.

Finally I come full circle, and I am reminded that, throughout time, we have always had underground movements, as the underground abortion movement is beginning to surge again.

The oppressed, the enslaved, and the downtrodden have always found ways of getting around the restrictions.

We will find a way.

We always do.

Cleanliness, Godliness & K’doshim

What IS my obsession with toilet bowls—really??

Or is it our culture?

I got sucked into Facebook the other day, as one is wont, and saw this crazy video of a woman pouring tons of different colored liquid and powdered cleanser, and shaving cream, into an empty toilet bowl.

It had a scrubby thing blocking the hole, and she filled the toilet——all the way to the top—with this toxic stuff!!

It was disgusting—and I couldn’t tear myself away from it.

She poured layer upon layer, emptying at least six containers of Dawn and Comet, and she showed you each bottle before she squirted or shook, almost as if she were advertising the products, making cutesy little designs at each layer.

It was the weirdest thing I’d ever seen.

I watched because I wanted to see the point; was this a science experiment? Was it going to foam up and over the sides of the toilet?

No. When she was done, she put some gloves on, put her hand in, mixed it all together, and in 5 seconds, she flushed, and it all just disappeared down the toilet. All those chemicals!

And the toilet wasn’t even dirty to begin with!!

Did it reflect this obsession we have as a culture with toilets and cleanliness in general—our fear of germs and bad smells?

I saw a comment from someone: “I can’t believe you made me watch this!" (And three hysterically laughing emojis.)

I wanted to comment, ““What exactly is the message here?? This is so toxic, wasteful and terrible for the earth!” (But I didn’t want to embarrass the person who posted it—and I’m not going to give you a link to the video to make you watch it!).

This week, the Torah portion is K’doshim. It gives over lots of laws for living a holy life, some of which are repeated elsewhere in the Torah.

It starts with God telling the Israelite community through Moses, “You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God, am holy.”

It repeats again and again, “I am your God,” after each stipulation that, if followed, will make the Israelites holy.

Among these are ways to treat our fellow humans and the Earth. It’s about treating family members and the stranger with respect and care, being honest and fair; it’s about leaving the gleanings of the field or the orchard for the poor; remembering that we were strangers in a strange land; paying your workers (who work the land) on time, not drinking the blood of an animal because blood is the life-force; it’s about the holiness of animals, and allowing fruit trees to establish themselves as healthy and strong before eating their fruit.

The Torah clearly tells us that we are to be holy, as God is holy; we are to be like God.

What does that mean, exactly?

Last week, I wrote about our connection to the land as Jews; we remember this every year on Passover as we yearn to return ”next year” to Jerusalem.

The earth, as stated in the Torah, is obviously holy, or we wouldn’t have all these stipulations about how to treat it. For us to be holy, it seems to me, we need to stay connected with the holiness of our land. If you’ve seen Fantastic Fungi, then you understand how closely intertwined we are with the earth, and how much our health and life depend on the Earth’s health and life.

These “germs” actually make us stronger if we can live in harmony with them.

Yet, our consumer-driven culture has made us forget this fact, and often confuses cleanliness with the absence of life. One of the ten commandments given to us is, “Do not kill”—yet that’s all we do with the toxic chemicals we daily pour down the drain—and on our crops.

So, I end with this “Earth Prayer”:

O Endless Creator, Force of Life,…

Let us, when swimming with the stream,

become the stream.

Let us, when moving with the music,

become the music.

Let us, when rocking the wounded,

become the suffering.

Let us live deep enough

till there is only one direction,

and slow enough till there is only

the beginning of time,

and loud enough in our hearts

till there is no need to speak.

Let us live for the grace beneath all we want,

let us see it in everything and everyone,

till we admit to the mystery

that when I look deep enough into you,

I find me, and when you dare to hear my fear

in the recess of your heart, you recognize it

as your secret which you thought

no one else knew.

O let us embrace

that unexpected moment of unity

as the atom of God.

Let us have the courage

to hold each other when we break

and worship what unfolds….

O nameless spirit that is not done with us,

let us love without a net

beyond the fear of death

until the speck of peace

we guard so well

becomes the world.

(Mark Nepo, from The Way Under The Way)

And let us say Amen.

The Promise of the Land & Akharei Mot

I took a much needed break from writing last week.

But I was on a journey through Passover.

In the end, nothing really turned out the way I expected on our two seder nights, or the way it’s been in the past. I really wanted to get Rabbi Ellen Bernstein’s Passover Haggadah, The Promise of the Land, but I didn’t get to it in time.

I know this haggadah focuses our care of the land, which couldn’t be more apt for our time.

Then, this week I heard a recent episode of The Experiment that asks the question, “Should We Return National Parks to Native Americans?”

Did you know that our national parks were created by forcing native people off their land—that these lands were not the pristine lands we were taught they were?

Or that we were taught to believe that “pristine” meant only animals living on them, not the “savage Indians.”

Did you know that these “pristine” lands look the way they do because they were actually consciously shaped by the generations of people who lived there before Europeans came along?

And that Teddy Roosevelt, who is known for his love of the land and creation of the National Parks system, hated Native Americans?

David Treuer, of the Ojibwe people, thinks the National Parks should be returned to Native people.

As Jews, we focus so much on the promise of the land that God gave us, and we think so much about “returning to the land.”

It seems to me that everyone has a right to their land, though who it belonged to first and who it belongs to now gets very complicated.

And then there are people who say that of the 500+ recognized tribes in the U.S., they would never agree on anything because of the history of animosity between them, so why bother? It’s in the past. Let’s move on.

This week’s Torah reading, Akharei Mot (After the Death), returns us to the story of the death of Aaron’s sons—or rather moves on from it.

I am always struck by how quickly the story moves on from these painful deaths.

Yet, God still seems angry, telling Aaron through Moses, “Don’t come too close (like your sons did), lest you die (like your sons did).”

God hasn’t moved on. And God gets angry enough about Aaron’s sons not following his commandments.

Maybe God is really angry at us right now for not taking care of the Earth the way we should, and we just don’t hear it? Do we pass over the problematic American history we have the, the way God passed over our houses in Egypt?

David Treuer says, look at our U.S. government! It’s full of white people who have so much animosity between them, yet they work together; “Have the big idea, and work out the details later.”

What are the big ideas we all have, about our country, our world, that we doubt we can work out?

Do we move on, put it all in the past? Say, “it is what it is” and let go?

Or do we hold on to some of our anger, like God seems to, and our memory of the painful past, for the sake of telling the truth? For the sake of creating a new kind of world? Do we try to make amends for our history and the ugly way our country was created?

I think it’s worth speaking the truth and trying to make amends for our mistakes—past and present—for the promise of the land.