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.

A Bucket Brigade & Sh’mini

As we come out of the Passover holiday with its special readings, we re-enter our regular Torah sequence.

I’ve spent the better part of the past ten days thinking about ways in which I (joyfully) feel personally liberated of late.

And also where I still feel a little stuck in the “narrow place,” an English translation for “Egypt.”

Though joyful to feel growth in certain ways, the state of our country very much concerns me.

Because:

It would have been (bad) enough had Republicans downright refused to create laws to reduce gun access in our country, but making guns even more accessible?

And:

It would have been (bad) enough had abortion been outlawed in certain states, but to go after abortion pills for the entire country as well?

It would have been (bad) enough for temperatures to rise to 90 degrees F. in NYC in May, but for that to happen in mid-April?

In the words of Greta Thunberg, “Our house is burning up.”

It all feels like too much.

Like what happens in this week’s Parsha with Aaron’s sons who are swallowed up by fire for making an unauthorized burnt offering to God.

But the Parsha is teaching us about holiness and restraint: what foods to eat; when to make offerings; not to get too enthusiastic about doing it all now, before its time.

I heard an Episcopal priest and theologian, Barbara Brown Taylor, define “holy.”

She said holiness means being able to maintain a sort of equilibrium even as the earth is shifting under our feet.

She commented on the passionate need many of us feel to “change everything now.”

She points us in the direction of seeing ourselves as one person in a bucket brigade, each making a contribution to put out the fire;

As Taylor says, we participate in the bucket brigade without knowing whether we ourselves will make it out alive.

But we do it because it’s the right thing to do.

Because life is holy, and it’s holy to help our fellows.

Putting out the fire is a collective activity, not an individual one—for the greater good.

Passover is about retelling a story of hope for the liberation of the collective.

It’s a story that says that we as a people will be able to overcome whatever comes our way.

It is a call for and of hope.

Our Torah commands us to tell the story of the Exodus every year so our children will learn and understand and continue to hope—for a collective, not an individual, freedom.

Many Jews include the stories at their seders of other people who are enslaved in today’s world—and other peoples that have overcome extreme adversity, especially that of Black Americans who depended on our Exodus story to give them hope.

Thus, we continue to continue to do our part.

Because we must.

It’s how we live a holy life.

For a collective freedom.

And say Amen.

No Bathroom Breaks & Tzav

The hardest time before Passover is the week prior.

It gets more and more complicated the closer you get.

First you have to finish eating any leavened products.

And not make the mistake of buying or making more.

Then it’s, “When will you clean out/burn/vacuum all the hametz (leavened stuff)?”

When do you shop?

When do you cook?

And you can’t taste matzoh until the seder night.

So what about the in-between time?

So much waiting.

This week’s Parsha is about preparing and anointing Aaron and his sons for the priesthood.

The priests are to keep a constant fire burning on the altar, and clean out old ashes regularly.

It ends with the striking commandment for them to remain in the doorway of the Tent of Meeting, that place where God speaks to Moses, for seven days and nights.

וּמִפֶּ֩תַח֩ אֹ֨הֶל מוֹעֵ֜ד לֹ֤א תֵֽצְאוּ֙ שִׁבְעַ֣ת יָמִ֔ים עַ֚ד י֣וֹם מְלֹ֔את יְמֵ֖י מִלֻּאֵיכֶ֑ם כִּ֚י שִׁבְעַ֣ת יָמִ֔ים יְמַלֵּ֖א אֶת־יֶדְכֶֽם׃

You shall not go outside the entrance of the Tent of Meeting for seven days, until the day that your period of ordination is completed. For your ordination will require seven days. (Lev. 8:33)

As Avivah Zornberg explains in The Hidden Order of Intimacy, the priests must stay in one place, a liminal place.

“To stay is both to rest, to dwell, and to be, in a sense, suspended, held back.”

“During the Passover night, too, the people were under house arrest, girded and booted for the journey, eating the Paschal offering. Suspended between past and future, this was a moment of focused attention, staying in the rich older English sense of the word (holding back, delaying).”

Zornberg speaks of all this against the backdrop of the Golden Calf, as “The Rabbis” do in their midrashim, their special stories, and the inability of the people to wait for Moses to come down from the mountain. It is this quick need to find a God substitute, an idolatrous object, to worship.

They were unable to wait.

Zornberg points to our need to be able “to wait, to remain vigilant, expectant, turned toward the future.”

She explains, “Such waiting is part of [the priests’] initiation rites. It represents faith and the ability to live with the unrealized possibility; it runs counter to the idolatrous posture that can tolerate no delay.”  

As the world faces so much uncertainty, as we anxiously await the news every day, asking, “What will happen? When will it end? How will it end?” we must learn to wait—to remain vigilant, expectant, and turned toward the future.

Passover is a practice in waiting: remaining expectant.

I think we all feel it in our lives every day, in various ways.

We may be getting close, but—seven days is a long time for the priests to stay in the doorway—with no bathroom breaks?

Supposedly after seven days and nights, the priests will be ready to serve.

We aren't crossing the threshold yet into better times. And we don’t know what the future holds.

But we need to move forward and continue to serve.

We can be like the priests in their waiting place, keeping the fire burning within, and cleaning out the old ashes.

As Shefa Gold puts it in her Torah Journeys: “Without the constancy of the fire, all of our sacrifices, our prayer, our holy work would cease.”

And say Amen.

Tree Hugging and Rudeness (Vayikra)

I almost thought I wouldn’t write this week.

I often go through this; “I have no inspiration, no idea what to write.”

This week, though, I’ve been sick in bed with a flu or a bad cold, so it’s been “special circumstances.”

But then I listen to something, read something, and decide it will be really short; “I’ll just say this one thing.”

This week, the “one thing” is about the line Lev. 5:7:

וְאִם־לֹ֨א תַגִּ֣יעַ יָדוֹ֮

V’im-lo tagi’a yado…

If the person’s means do not suffice…

Literally translated, it means “If the person’s hand does not reach (far enough)”

The context is the type of animal a person is to sacrifice based on the type of wrongdoing needing forgiveness; can they afford it? If they can’t, they can exchange it for a different animal.

This week’s reading, as we begin the book of Leviticus, or Vayikra, is all about sacrifices.

Vayikra means “And he called,” which is how the Parsha, and the entire book, begins:

וַיִּקְרָ֖א אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֑ה וַיְדַבֵּ֤ר יְהֹוָה֙ אֵלָ֔יו

Vayikra el Moshe vay’daber YHVH elav

And God called to Moses and spoke to him…

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks answers the question, “Why does it say here that God called to Moses and then speaks to him, when it usually simply says ‘God spoke to Moses’?”

Sacks quotes from Rashi, 11th Century Torah commentator, who explains, “It’s because each time God is calling specifically to Moses.”

It’s a personal “calling.”

There was another lively and challenging discussion with my younger daughter last week about the state of the world and our individual responsibility and ability in creating the future we want for it.

She was questioning, “If our civilization is crumbling, and there’s really nothing we can do about it, where’s the hope?”

My response was from an interview I heard recently on Krista Tippet’s On Being with Isabel Wilkerson.

That “what can we do?” question came up from someone in the audience.

The interviewee answered, “Stick to your expertise and your field. If you’re in the medical field, serve the world through that. If you are a climate scientist or activist, serve in that way,” etc., etc.

Wilkerson was very adamant that the way we serve the world is very personal.

In other words, it’s all about what’s within your reach.

When reviewing Vayikra, it’s hard to miss the repetition with each sacrifice described;

The person making the sacrifice must place their hand on the head of the animal.

It doesn’t say why, but to me it seems a sign of respect—for the animal.

My daughter ultimately sent me a document entitled, “An Animist Manifesto.”

Animism is about respecting the living world.

It says that everything is a person (except plastic—you can read more here.)

So let me end with this excerpt:

“Just because the world and the cosmos is full of life does not make it a nice and safe place to live.

“Lots of persons are quite unfriendly to others. Many see us as a good dinner.

“They might respect us as they eat us. Or they may need education.

“Like us, they might learn best in relationship with others who show respect even to those they don’t like, and especially to those they like the taste of.

“Although evolution has no aim, life is not pointless.

“The purpose of life is to be good people—and good humans or good rocks or good badgers.

“What we have to find out is what ‘good’ means where we are, when we are, with whom we are, and so on.

“It is certainly wrapped up with the word 'respect’ and all the acts that implies.”

The lesson of Vayikra for me at this time is for us each to answer these questions very personally:

What am I being called to do in this moment, as I am, where I am?

How can I show respect in this moment, place, and circumstance?

And.

How far can my hand reach?

These should be guiding questions for the choices—and sacrifices—we make.

Because, as the Animist Manifesto says, it might be rude to hug a tree without knowing it; try introducing yourself first.

And say Amen.

Mirrors, Vanity, Social Media & Vayakhel/Pekudei

I’ve been doing a lot of mirror gazing over the past week.

I just got myself a whole new wardrobe of professional-looking clothes.

It feels so good, like I’m a whole new person.

(Great sales, too!)

Now I feel ready to present myself to the world as a rabbi.

People have told me to post pictures on social media, and I did it, but then I took them down.

It felt uncomfortable, like I was crossing a boundary as a rabbi.

Also, social media has encouraged us to be even more vain than we used to be.

Which is in such stark contrast to the Women’s Liberation Movement of the 1960’s, which I grew up with.

Weren’t we supposed to have freed ourselves of the need to appear in a way condoned by society and the advertising world?

And now I have a big sty in my eye.

It’s healing very slowly, and has left a big bump on my eyelid.

In my experience, it will probably take another couple of weeks to go away.

The thought has occurred to try and cover it up with make-up, but that wouldn’t be good for it.

Am I to wait for it to clear up completely before I can walk out into the world and present myself?

Why this need to look “perfect,” and what does that mean, anyway?

What do people with physical disabilities do? There’s no waiting for them “until it goes away.”

What kind of ridiculous standards our society holds us to.

What about sagging skin as I age? Should that stop me? And why can’t that be seen as beautiful as well?

Do we judge elephants for their sagging skin?

In Vayakhel/Pekudei, this week’s Torah reading, the instructions for the building of the Tabernacle are carried out.

The Israelites are told to bring their skills and their material gifts.

The Torah describes the lavers for washing in preparation for service by the priests.

The lavers are at the entrance to the sanctuary and made of copper.

Ex. 38:8 says they are made of the mirrors used by the women who ministered, or performed tasks of the Tabernacle. (I read that mirrors were made of a very finely polished copper in ancient times.)

It reads like this:

בְּמַרְאֹת֙ הַצֹּ֣בְאֹ֔ת/B’marot hatzovot/the mirrors of the ministering women

It’s very curious language. It appears only once in the entire Hebrew Bible.

The women are not mentioned previously, and we know nothing of them.

And it is here at the entrance, a boundary of sorts, that the priests wash and prepare themselves for holy service and encounter.

But it is at the heart of the sanctuary where the holy encounter actually happens.

Rabbi Shefa Gold, in her Torah Journeys, connects the women and their mirrors to the impossibly high standards our culture sets for our physical appearance.

Because it’s true that women in particular are taught the need to gaze in the mirror often and make sure we somehow look “perfect.”

(How many untold numbers of eating disorders has this caused?)

What if we, says Shefa, especially as women, could trust that we are judged for what is in our hearts rather than what adorns our bodies and faces?

What if we could wash ourselves of others’ projections and expectations, and clear away judgment “and the need for approval, wiping away shame, cleaning every pore of its need for artifice, till the skin can let our radiance shine through”?

If we can cross this boundary that blocks us from revealing our inner holy selves, then we will be ready to encounter the Holy.

Then we can, as she says, offer up the judgments, criticism, and vanity that obscure our depths.

With this, we come to another crossing as we come to the end of the Book of Exodus.

As it always says at the end of each book of the Torah, may we be strong.

This is what a person with a physical disability or birth “defect” must do: find the inner strength and beauty and let it shine.

May we draw strength from this example.

And let us say Amen.

Of Life and Limb, Stinky Messes, & Ki Tissa

The other day, my cell phone fell into a compost bin.

There’s a new composting program in New York City.

A few weeks ago, my husband noticed a compost bin on our corner!

I was so excited about it.

I want to get everyone in my building to learn to use it.

Among the many problems our building—and our city—has is lots of vermin.

It’s especially bad in the basement.

Tenants complain about how bad it stinks down there.

I’m pretty sure that reducing the amount of smelly garbage in the basement can help.

We have a Tenants Association, which has done amazing things for our building.

I’ve recently taken on a new role on the steering committee.

I and one of my steering committee mates have decided to make our new composting bin into a campaign—for the sake of our building and our city—and I guess the Earth, too?

So this bin: it’s not a regular black plastic bin, where you just lift the cover and rummage through a stinky mess.

No. This is a fancy, metal, bright orange, state-of-the-art-made-to-keep-all-sorts-of-vermin-out-and-humans-from-throwing-regular-garbage-in-bin.

You download the app, find the one closest to you, click “Unlock,” and it literally gives you the green light to open a very narrow slot—just in case it should occur to you to dump a huge bag of non-food “stuff” in there.

One by one, you throw in your small amounts of food waste.

The other day, I ran into a neighbor as I was leaving the house with my paper bag full of food scraps.

She was headed to the laundromat, and since we were headed in the same direction, I asked her if she wanted to learn how to use it.

She did!

After getting the green light, I carefully placed my phone on top of the bin—not in the rain water, but on the edge away from the water.

As I placed my first bag inside, my hand knocked the phone.

Like a movie in slow motion, we watched it as it fell to the dark depths below.

I freaked out.

We both freaked out.

After quite a bit of cursing and self-flagellation (or self-flatulation, if you want to go with the stinky metaphor) on my part for my incredible stupidity, we began frantically looking for solutions.

Were there phone numbers to call?

Yes.

But no one knew anything. No one could help.

We were lost in the stinky mess of New York City bureaucracy.

Eventually, however, a whole community of people rallied around my dropped phone in an effort to retrieve it.

We pulled, poked, prodded, with all kinds of implements, tried opening it—of course, to no avail.

The superintendent of our building, though, was the ultimate hero.

Despite many other responsibilities, he took the time to help me.

It took almost three hours, but he finally called a friend who also happens to be the supervisor for composting in Brooklyn!

Such incredible luck.

Within ten minutes of that phone call, the bin was open, and the phone returned to its owner (that’s me).

It was exhausting.

I kept having to remind myself in the midst of the panic that this was not a loss of human life, nor was it the loss of a limb—though I think most of us out there can relate to the feeling that it is—both our life and a limb.

The way we fetishize our phones is kind of an old story by now; many people rest them on their chests or bellies like a baby; panic sets in if we should leave it home alone…how will it survive without us?

We fetishize our phones in much the same way the Israelites fetishize the Golden Calf in this week’s Parsha; “Make us a god!” they yell at Aaron, “for we know not what has become of this Moses fellow; he’s taking too long coming down from that mountain yonder!”

So Aaron tells them to hand over their gold jewelry, he throws it into a fire and, abracadabra, out comes a calf made of gold.

Now they celebrate: dancing, eating, drinking.

At the heart of this fetish is a profound lack of faith—in God, but maybe more so even in humanity; it is Moses, their fearless hero, who brought them out of Egypt, that they complain about, not God.

God informs Moses, “You’d better hurry down!”

When Moses descends with the stone tablets—with laws inscribed in God’s own finger—and sees what has happened, he smashes them on the ground in a great fury.

How could the people betray his trust?

How could his own brother Aaron betray him?

Not only do the people have troubling trusting that Moses will return, where is Moses’ faith in his brother and the people?

Though Aaron gives a lame excuse for making a “god” for the people, can Moses not understand Aaron’s—or the people’s—anxiety?

Speaking of trust and faith, many tenants in my building feel hopeless and betrayed by our management company.

There’s a lot of cynicism around how much we can change things, and they’re right not to trust the company.

Little by little, services have been chipped away at slowly, much the way Roe v. Wade was—along with many other laws and services that have protected Americans over the decades—laws and protections we thought were written in stone!

At our Tenants Association meeting earlier in the week, a lot of people expressed this frustration, and lack of faith in our ability to make changes.

There was a lot of anger.

One tenant told me privately that she’s very cynical.

But lack of faith showed up even before the meeting.

We were putting flyers the meeting under doors, and I noticed and wondered aloud why we didn’t have enough copies for all the apartments.

“Oh, that’s because ‘so-and-so’ decided we shouldn’t bother inviting tenants who never come to meetings.”

I was taken aback; “Why would you give up on people? How do you know?”

At the meeting, when composting came up on the agenda, I pushed for it and our ability to make a difference together in this small way.

I was shocked to get a huge negative shout out from one person on the steering committee: “It will not make a difference!”

In spite of the anger and cynicism, all these people showed up; they can’t have completely lost faith in humanity.

And the nay-sayer about the compost; she’s fighting for our building, though she seems to believe every human we have to interact with is evil.

And me and my phone?

Honestly, the truth is that the whole time my neighbors and superintendent—this whole team of people—were putting their heads together to help me get it back, I was already coming up with solutions for a phone lost forever to a stinky mess.

But these people, who could all relate to the loss of a phone as if it were a life or limb, never gave up, while I was ready to do that.

It was amazing to me that they kept saying, with such assuredness, “We’re gonna get it back.”

Where was my faith in the humans trying to help me?

When Moses throws and smashes the tablets, he’s shown that he’s lost faith in his people.

Though God is irate as well, he sends Moses back to carve a new set.

As angry as God is, God has not given up on his people; this is God’s message by having Moses make a new set of tablets.

We underestimate the willingness of others to help—and also our ability to make change happen, despite seemingly insurmountable powers.

The people of Israel are not giving up; their protests against the Prime Minister’s efforts to overhaul the judicial system for his own advantage and control are loud and clear—and truly an example to us.

Not just day after day, but week after week, they haven’t stopped!

It’s funny that the question people kept asking me after I told them about my phone was, “Was it stinky after being in the compost bin?”

No, actually, it wasn’t.

I know that compost has to rot in order to offer nourishment for plants to grow, but the stink is part of the process.

That’s where we are now.

So let’s put our cynicism aside, and see what we can do—each in our little, or big, way.

And say Amen.

Clear Drawers, Jumbled Rubber Bands, Empty Bells, & Tetzaveh

You know when you find yourself sifting through a drawer and clearing it out when you “should” be doing something else?

You know: the one crammed with stuff you don’t want to throw away, but don’t know where else to put?

In my house, we call it the “everything” drawer, and it’s in our kitchen. (Maybe you have one, too.)

I found myself doing exactly that the other day—cleaning it out.

It felt so good to finally do that.

I found treasures, like the screw driver we’d been looking for.

(Which someone, like a spouse, say, had mindlessly thrown in there instead of, you know, where it belonged).

Of course, a lot of stuff needed to go in the garbage.

I couldn’t bring myself to throw away the many rubber bands I found pushed and crammed in the far recesses.

(I use them! Although maybe I don’t need all of them. At least now they’re in a container.)

The drawer is very much in order and clean now—cleared out of the stuff I will never use again.

Which brings me to the Parsha, Tetzaveh, which is a different kind of “order” that comes from God to Moses.

Last week, the order was about constructing the Tabernacle, or the Mishkan, the mobile home for God as the Israelites journey through the desert.

This week it’s the vestments for the priesthood.

The Parsha begins, though, with the instruction for the Israelites to bring “clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly.”

It quickly moves to Moses dressing his brother Aaron, who will become High Priest, in the special priestly vestments:

לְכָב֖וֹד וּלְתִפְאָֽרֶת

L’khaved ul’tiferet; for glory and beauty

There will be a breastplate with precious stones representing all the tribes.

And the robe will have golden bells and woven pomegranates, alternating, all around the hem.

The bells are empty, specifically to make noise as Aaron enters the sanctuary to officiate, and when he leaves.

Their jingles are to protect him from death:

וְנִשְׁמַ֣ע ק֠וֹל֠וֹ בְּבֹא֨וֹ אֶל־הַקֹּ֜דֶשׁ לִפְנֵ֧י יְהֹוָ֛ה וּבְצֵאת֖וֹ וְלֹ֥א יָמֽוּת׃

V’nishma kolo b’vo’o el hakodesh lifney adonai u’vtzeito v’lo yamut

And he will hear the voice (sound) coming in and leaving the Holy One’s presence so he won’t die. (Ex. 28:35)

Ramban (Nachmanides) suggests that the priest is “transfigured by his vestments,” penetrating “some humanly impenetrable area.” (Avivah Zornberg, The Particulars of Rapture, p. 379).

Following this is a commentary that builds on Ramban’s reading; the bells, with their hollow center, symbolize a spiritual ecstasy the priest will reach in the presence of the Holy.

It is an awakening, an expanded consciousness to “the nothingness of the human person within the priestly robes.”

God’s presence, instead, fills the space of “nothingness.”

But the sound of the bells—the voice—is to keep the priest connected to his humanity, his very life, which is represented by the woven pomegranates.

The density of the fruit, with its many seeds, represents the substance and power of the priest as a human being.

The pomegranate is “an aural image—the sound of the robe is to be heard by the priest” to remind him not to get lost in the ecstasy of God’s presence.

So, on the one hand, the message is to become a clear vessel for the holy, like the clear oil used for the continuously lit lamp.

On the other, it is to remain grounded and connected to the Earth through our bodies.

In spiritual work, we constantly oscillate between the two: the bell and the pomegranate.

Most of us are aware of the idea of “expanded consciousness” as talked about in Buddhism: the desire to feel at one with all life, our interconnection, or intraconnection between all.

But to maintain expanded consciousness in every moment would mean we were dead—or that we would fly away—so the bell, the voice, is there to help us remain grounded.

How do we translate the holy into our lives as grounded humans?

Easier said than done, of course.

We all carry defenses and prejudices that separate us from others.

These days, for instance, I’m working on giving equally to all those who ask me for money on the street.

A friend visiting a few weeks ago noticed, and challenged me: “Why do you differentiate?”

I shrugged.

It was my prejudice.

What did I see that made one beggar different from another?

So I’ve taken to filling my pockets with coins before I leave the house, and giving to whomever asks.

One of those times recently, a woman approached me as I was leaving the supermarket.

“Excuse me; do you have a dollar—or five?”

“No,” I said, “but I have some change.”

She accepted.

As I placed the change in her filthy hand, she looked at her palm and exclaimed in pleasure at the amount: “Oh! Thank you.”

As we parted, she called out, “Thank you for hearing me out.”

It struck me that being heard—paying attention to her—was so important—and that she had expressed it.

To her it meant I’d seen her humanity.

On an interview on the podcast Identity/Crisis the other day, I was heartened to hear the story of a Jewish family who had taken in a Ukrainian refugee family—not because I have a special place in my heart for Ukrainian refugees above others, though.

It took until the end of the show, but the conversation finally went toward naming the problem of our immigration system—and the fact that it’s been an ongoing problem for refugees and all immigrants, but in particular for those of color.

I was especially happy to hear the woman state that she had taken time with her family to ask the question: if it had been a Syrian/Muslim family, would they have so readily opened their home?

While discernment is necessary for survival, when it morphs into prejudice, it’s very harmful.

I don’t seek spiritual ecstasy, but I do seek spiritual connection.

Like the bells and pomegranates, I want to find a balance between clearing myself out and making room for the holy, while remembering to ground myself in the Earth through my body.

This means keeping my ears open for those moments so I can see through my prejudices to the humanity of the other lying beneath the, perhaps dirty, surface.

We all have varying degrees of prejudice and racism to clear out.

Maybe that’s the jumble of rubber bands I couldn’t bring myself to throw away; I shouldn’t forget the mess that’s inside, but I need to periodically go through it and clean out what’s getting in the way of the treasures.

So maybe cleaning out the “everything” drawer was the very thing I needed to do in that moment—and maybe that’s actually part of the work rather than a distraction from some imagined “should.”

I also need the audio reminder of the woman asking for money—maybe that’s the “voice” of the bells.

And what seems like a jumble of seeds in a pomegranate might be that jumble of rubber bands that needed to be removed and examined to see what still serves and what doesn’t.

Except that getting those seeds out from the pomegranate takes a lot work, which is why I generally avoid buying them—yet it needs to be done.

Maybe I’ll use that screw driver to remove them the next time I get one.

(If I can find it.)

But seriously; for the sake of a humane world, may we all continue to do this work.

And say Amen.

The Heart of the Matter & T’rumah

Recently, I had an intense conversation with my younger daughter about the climate crisis.

She’s taking a class called Eco-Spirituality in college, and she loves it.

She shares the belief with indigenous peoples that the Earth is a living being.

She also believes that the Earth is incredibly forgiving, and that using the pronoun “it” when referring to the Earth denotes lack of respect.

As a live being, the Earth has agency, and holds us.

She recognizes the Earth’s regenerative powers, and that even if humanity were to go extinct, the Earth would recover her balance.

But she needs to believe that there is a God who wants us to live, and therefore won’t let us die—or will at least hold and help us.

I wondered out loud about “overpopulation,” to which she responded emphatically, “I refuse to accept overpopulation as the problem; that’s eugenics.”

Which would mean that it’s okay for the poorest of the world to die as a way of depopulating an “overcrowded world”—for the sake of the privileged few who have access to clean water, air conditioning, and air filters.

Not only is there enough abundance on Earth to support and hold all of us, we should be unwilling to sacrifice some for the sake of others.

She is frustrated and disheartened by her generation, many of whom despair, believing the world is doomed.

In this week’s Parsha, Moses is given instructions by God to build a mobile home—for God.

וְעָ֥שׂוּ לִ֖י מִקְדָּ֑שׁ וְשָׁכַנְתִּ֖י בְּתוֹכָֽם׃

V’asuli mikdash v’shakhanti b’tokham;

Let them make Me a sanctuary, that I may dwell among them.

The instructions are specific, with very precise measurements.

The Israelites are to bring gifts with the willingness of the heart—things such as gold, silver, fine wool and linen of particular vibrant colors, precious stones, tanned skins, a certain type of wood, oil.

At the core of the sanctuary is the Holy of Holies, with an Ark that holds “the Torah,” the teachings for future generations.

This is the innermost chamber where the high priest is the only one ever to enter—and only once a year, on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement.

Guarding the Holy of Holies are two cherubim, or large scary looking winged things.

It is from between the cherubim that God will speak to Moses.

And God says the plan must be carried out exactly as God shows Moses:

כְּכֹ֗ל אֲשֶׁ֤ר אֲנִי֙ מַרְאֶ֣ה אוֹתְךָ֔… תַּעֲשֽׂוּ׃        

k’chol asher ani marey ot’kha…ta’asu.

Just as I show you…you shall do.

But the rabbis infer that Moses had trouble translating the plan into action.

It’s hard for us to understand the plan as well; it doesn’t really make sense if we look carefully at it.

But maybe that doesn’t matter.

What is implied in “Just as I show you,” is an unbending, unchanging quality.

And the rabbis said, no, this is a mobile home for God, not a stationary, unchanging home, like a Temple.

Because every generation will have its own way of doing things—its own voices, its own prophets—to reinterpret Torah according to the needs of the time.

This is illustrated by the Hassidic story of the rabbi who took over for his father. The congregation complained, “Why don’t you do things like your father did?” to which the younger rabbi replied, “I do things exactly as my father did. He didn’t do things the way his father did, either.”

In addition, it important to note that a different translation is possible for that verse, “Make me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.”

Instead, we could say, “that I may dwell within them.”

When the priest enters the Holy of Holies once a year, he is going to the inner chamber—meaning the very heart.

Because where is “God” to “dwell” if not within the very heart of each of us?

Yet it is up to us to do the work of making, and opening, space for the holy, the sacred, to dwell within us: within our very hearts.

In The Particulars of Rapture, Avivah Zorberg says we as humans have the need to contain God. Thus, we build buildings to house God.

We also have the need to be held, as my daughter expressed.

And that which we might call “God” is speaking to us from the midst of scary things happening all around us.

Whether there is a “God” or not, whether “he” can control or influence or help, whether “he” cares about saving humanity or not, is not the heart of the matter.

The heart of the matter is that young people need us to hold them with steadfast faith in their voices of prophesy, and our belief in their strength and power—the power of human innovation, resilience, and the ability to effect real change in the way we live—so the Earth can, in fact, hold all of us.

They need us to pass on our wisdom and hope—to translate the voice of “God” that has spoken through us and past generations, the voice of resilience and strength through extreme hardship, the one that holds and heartens, just as our ancestors did for us, so they can translate the voice of God—God’s “plan”—into action for these times.

May it be so.

Bubbles & Mishpatim

I have things growing, sprouting, and blooming all over my house.

Not mold, but alfalfa, lentil and broccoli sprouts (I just learned how!).

And sourdough starter, bread, and pancakes (also new for me!).

And flowers people brought me almost two weeks ago to celebrate my ordination: lillies, amaryllis…

Oh! And the bubbling kimchi on my counter, and scallions growing on my windowsill!

Absolutely nothing to do with my new ordination.

Yet it’s a part of the newness, and it feels very symbolic to me.

I think it’s grounding me in face of the turmoil in the world.

Like my kimchi, it’s making me happy and bubbly.

More than anything, though, it’s satisfying and fulfilling.

In an experiential way, it’s showing me the possibilities for new things blooming for me—and the world, the troubles of which are constantly on my mind.

We Americans are told that one of our highest values is the right to the pursuit of happiness.

Our Declaration of Independence lists it as third after life and liberty. (Interesting episode on this question on Hidden Brain.)

But happiness is not one of the values taught in the Torah.

It doesn’t even show up as something we should be thinking about.

Life and liberty do, however, as illustrated in this week’s Parsha, Mishpatim, or Laws.

These laws all have to do with how to treat your fellow human being.

For instance, there’s the example of the slave who is set free by his master (yes, he and his), but chooses not to take freedom—whether because he loves his master, or doesn't want to leave his wife and children (the latter of which is a very good reason, I think).

For this, the slave is punished, and his ear is awled to the doorpost.

Why his ear?

What is the slave to hear that he denies?

Does he have a higher purpose he is refusing, or too afraid, to explore? After all, there’s a whole wide world out there.

And why the doorpost?

Is he to remain in this liminal space in perpetuity?

Also in this week’s Parsha, the famous phrase, “We will do, and we will listen,” shows up three times.

This is the Israelites’ response to God’s giving of the laws presented to them here.

The phrase is so enigmatic due to the order given of the two actions.

It has inspired much commentary over the millennia; don’t we need to hear, or listen, and thus gain understanding of what we are to do before jumping into action?

Yet, such a statement illustrates a kind of faith that says, “I will learn what it means in the doing, and then it will make sense to me.”

This was the argument used by The Rabbis for taking on a new Jewish practice; try it out, see how it works for you, see what it does for you. The lessons will come in the doing.

And it’s true that sometimes we may miss out on opportunities for growth if we wait until we understand the reasons.

By this argument, I should be jumping into action now that I am ordained, and to see what I am to learn from the things I do.

And there is that pressure; “What are you doing now that you are ordained?” “Do you feel different?”

The answer to these questions is, I have lots of projects, ideas, and plans—and yes.

But there are times when we need to stop, ground, explore, and take time in discernment.

The fact is, I have so many ideas and projects going, it was recently brought to my attention that I need to become more focused; if I’m doing too much, I will do nothing well.

Also, if I’m haphazard about it, that’s how I will show up, and nothing solid will grow from it.

Then again, I don’t want to be so focused that it limits me.

And I want to be happy.

No. Correction. I want to be purposeful, effective and meaningful.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks points out the differences in the way the phrase “We will do, and we will listen,” is described each time it shows up in the Parsha this week.

The first and second time, it’s “The people responded together” and “In one voice.”

The third time, there is no unanimity.

He comments, that’s because, though as a people and a society, we have calls we must answer together, we also must hear the call as individuals as well, with our own particular purpose and experience.

May we do, and hear the call, and allow it all to sprout, bloom, blossom, bubble, and grow.

And may there be healing for all.

And say Amen.

Revelation, Neurosis, the Ten Commandments, & Yitro

“We use the excuse of our wounds in order to avoid uncomfortable feelings.”

And “in order not to show up in our lives.”

Thus says Buddhist psychotherapist Bruce Tift.

According to Tami Simon of Sounds True: Insights at the Edge (you can listen here), “Tift is a master at holding two seemingly contradictory experiences:”

On one hand, feeling in touch and connected with the “vast expanse of being,” the infinite, unconditional love, outside of time.

On the other, distancing ourselves from others; we’re dismissive, reactive, we shut down.

We do not show up in the moment, excusing ourselves because we don’t feel safe.

We are afraid of our feelings.

We use our neuroses, says Tift, to avoid feeling scary feelings.

We believe we must heal our traumas first; only then will we be able to “show up.”

This, I would say, is the experience of the Israelites as they receive Revelation in this week’s Parsha.

It’s a very big moment for them: an incredible opportunity, really—yet they fail utterly.

The people have a choice of transcendence, but they remove themselves, asking Moses to speak for them, and to transmit God’s words to them.

Due to their trauma, they are afraid to face God themselves; they do not show up in the moment.

It’s true that what happens is extremely intense; God comes down in a dense cloud, and as fire and thunder and lightning.

Mount Sinai is enveloped completely in smoke, and “the smoke rose like the smoke of a kiln, and the whole mountain trembled violently.”

It’s so intense and frightening that the Israelites’ senses get mixed up. There are many “voices,” which they see. The voices sometimes mean the clap of thunder, or the blast of a horn:

וְכׇל־הָעָם֩ רֹאִ֨ים אֶת־הַקּוֹלֹ֜ת וְאֶת־הַלַּפִּידִ֗ם וְאֵת֙ ק֣וֹל הַשֹּׁפָ֔ר וְאֶת־הָהָ֖ר עָשֵׁ֑ן וַיַּ֤רְא הָעָם֙ וַיָּנֻ֔עוּ וַיַּֽעַמְד֖וּ מֵֽרָחֹֽק׃

(Ex. 20:15)

And they saw the voices and the lightning (torches) and the voice (blast) of the shofar (horn), and the mountain was smoke and the people were afraid, and they staggered and stood far back.

But there seems to be a contradictory message here: on one hand, the people should come near.

On the other, Moses is to warn them in case they “break through to God to see.”

וַיֹּ֤אמֶר יְהֹוָה֙ אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֔ה רֵ֖ד הָעֵ֣ד בָּעָ֑ם פֶּן־יֶהֶרְס֤וּ אֶל־יְהֹוָה֙ לִרְא֔וֹת וְנָפַ֥ל מִמֶּ֖נּוּ רָֽב׃

If they “break through,” many from among them may fall. (19:21)

And this is the moment in which they receive the Ten Commandments—or more properly, the Ten Utterances.

It is also in this moment that they beseech Moses to speak to God for them.

And they remain far away.

It’s true that facing our traumas can be frightening.

But it’s also true that if we wait until our traumas are healed, we may be waiting a lifetime before we begin living.

Or we may never live.

If we are constantly shut down, disconnected, “protecting” ourselves from uncomfortable feelings, then we miss out on life and the love that comes with it.

Yet, this is not to disrespect our pain and fear; there are times when we must necessarily protect ourselves. We may need some time. We may not be ready.

Even God is afraid for the people, as he comes with a warning “not to break through,” for they might become overwhelmed by God’s presence and the revelation they are about to receive.

But as Bruce Tift says, if we allow our pain and our limitations to get in the way of our living, we’re missing out on an opportunity.

Instead, says Tift, we can live our trauma—and the neuroses that come along with it—knowing we will never be fully healed.

We can accept our limitations and the contradictions, and also not allow the fear that we can not take what is set before us to prevent us from living.

We can love ourselves and others in spite of our neuroses, and continue to challenge ourselves with opportunities to connect, despite our fear.

If we take on this challenge, then we are already free, according to Tift—and enlightened.

Because, to take from Shefa Gold in her Torah Journeys:

Don’t we already know, in moments of revelation, that we are all connected, and that hurting another hurts ourselves too?

Don’t we already know there is no need to covet that which belongs to our neighbor; that there’s no need to take something that is not ours, because there is no lacking, as in fact, everything belongs to us all?

Don't we already know in our very beings that there is no need to testify falsely against another, because Truth is right there in front of us, just waiting to be revealed?

Don’t we already know that we don’t need false images, because God’s love is accessible always, continually surrounding us? Because when we experience love and connection with other humans and with nature, isn’t that God?

Don’t we know that, in order to maintain our sanity, we must stop at least one day a week to smell the flowers, or we will wear ourselves to the bone?

Don’t we already know that it’s in the stopping that we can breathe a little—that these Truths are revealed to us in the moments of stopping or slowing down?

Perhaps it takes many voices, the voices of our fellow humans, or the loud thunder claps and fire and smoke, to bring us into awareness.

If we can just show up, then many things will be revealed to us.

And please say Amen.

The Zigzags, Songs, Split Seas, & Split Minds of Beshalakh

Throughout life, we go between complaint and ecstasy.

In moments of ecstasy, we spontaneously sing and dance.

When things don’t go our way, we complain.

We make transitions, crossings of sorts, and we celebrate. Or we should—according to Rabbi Shefa Gold, it’s not optional.

But soon after the ecstasy, problems present themselves with the next part of our journey.

Perhaps anxiety sets in.

We went left instead of right. Backward instead of forward.

Perhaps we’re paralyzed, unsure how to proceed.

We stagnate.

We have regrets.

We ask so many questions:

What? How? Why?

From the start of their “freedom,” the Israelites are deliberately put on a winding path, a zigzag through the desert, by God.

No sooner are they free of the Egyptians, broken out into song and dance, with the women led by Miriam, than they become nervous again.

But what is their song?

It is ecstasy at their freedom, but it must necessarily be tinged with grief.

They’ve just witnessed a horrendous thing: Moses, with God’s help, splits the sea, the Israelites pass through on dry ground, and all the Egyptians are swallowed up as it crashes in on them.

More trauma.

It’s the beginning of their zigzag between complaint and ecstasy.

Complaints about the food—and lots of questions: how and what will we eat?

And the water—so bitter it is undrinkable.

With sarcasm they ask, why did you take us out of Egypt? Can there possibly be enough graves?

But miracles abound for them, and gifts are given.

Moses takes a tree and makes the water sweet.

God makes manna fall from the sky, the mysterious (and monotonous) food they will eat throughout their forty years in the desert.

They are given Shabbat, an unwelcome gift of spiritual practice; they must learn to gather only as much manna as they need or it will be infested with maggots and rot.

How hard it is not to take more than we need.

How hard it is to stop.

After all, they are stagnating. There’s nothing to do but gather manna every day.

If they stop, they will feel the stagnation.

The Parsha ends with Amalek, and a battle, and a strange story of Moses holding his hands up in the air; as long as he held his hands high above him, Israel prevailed, and when he let them down, Amalek prevailed.

Avivah Zornberg, in The Particulars of Rapture, asks of this story, “in what sense can the Torah mean that victory and defeat depend on Moses’ hands? Is this a magical effect of the charismatic leader who can manipulate destiny?”

In answer, she quotes a midrash:

“Did Moses’ hands make or break the fortunes of war? No! But as long as Moses raised his hands, the Israelites would look at him, and have faith in the One who had commanded him to do so. As a result, God did miracles for them…” (p.245)

As Zornberg explains, Moses’ hands are raised in the age-old position of prayer—or perhaps “like a conductor of an orchestra, he stands in full view of the people craning their necks to look upward.”

And the music Moses generates, says Zornberg, is the complex music that is both joyful and sad—of the human heart.

To support Moses, there is a stone, and two humans on either side of Moses that place the stone under his arms. But the two people supporting him also help hold his hands steady when they grow weary, so he can hold them high until the sun sets.

The word used for “steady” is emunah, meaning firm, unwavering—and faithful.

As Rashi says, “Moses’ hands were held in faith, spread out to heaven, in a firm and faithful prayer.” (p.245)

Can the people “produce the inner music that is life and strength”?

True singing, says Zornberg, is of a split mind; there is ecstasy and sadness all at once within music and song; “No longer miracles—but song and prayer. As he models prayer, Moses’ hands no longer hold the staff, imperiously outstretched over sky, land, and sea. His hands are empty, they quiver beseechingly with the weight of flesh, they create faith in the hearts of the people.” (p.246)

“God takes the indirect route, says the midrash…, so that they may traverse the wilderness, eat manna, drink of (Miriam’s) well, ‘and the Torah will settle in their bodies.’

“…Given world enough and time, the vibrations of a new music may liberate them from the decrees of Egypt.”

“Every disease is a musical problem, every cure a musical solution.”

So as we continue to zigzag our way through life, with our fears, traumas, regrets, unsure which way to turn, and with song that reflects our ecstasy and grief, may we tap into our inner strength and faith, supported by others—and, to quote from Shefa God, “surrender in faith to the taste of today’s bounty.” (Torah Journeys, p.76)

And say Amen.