R’eih & The Choices We Make

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

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

I would not “let my baby cry it out.”

I got a lot of pushback.

People laughed at me.

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

The same for breastfeeding beyond one or two years.

How would my marriage survive?

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

We need our sleep.

And our sex life.

I understand completely.

Such are the choices we must all make.

It’s never easy.

This week in Torah, we are given a choice:

A blessing or a curse.

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

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

Moses tells the Israelites:

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

Things will be different.

Two crucial things came out in the news this week.

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

How can these things still be happening—after everything!

Take, for instance, what happened in Mississippi.

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

It goes without saying that the cops were white.

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

Which I’m sure pales to the emotional trauma.

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

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

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

How is this still possible?

Then there’s Donald J. Trump.

How can his political career still be thriving?

How?

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

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

As I write!

We may easily be overcome by hopelessness.

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

(So soon? It was just getting started!)

And that the Donald Trumps of the world would win.

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

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

Because of changing laws!

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

It was a fair assessment of the power differential—

For that time, and even now!

Thirty years later, she refuses to be timid.

She has not let him bury her voice.

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

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

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

And those former cops in Mississippi?

They pled guilty.

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

This was not true even a few years ago.

So are we ready for the Promised Land?

Not quite.

But we’re getting ready.

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

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

My marriage would not survive.

None of these things happened.

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

The same for my marriage.

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

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

The choices we make are never easy.

We live in a society that demands much of us.

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

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

“how much easier, then,

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

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

Our choices start in the home of our hearts.

Shabbat Shalom.

And say Amen.

A Whack on the Head & Eikev

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

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

She spun around quickly just as they reached her.

She gave them a menacing look.

They backed off.

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

Not to look weak.

Not to be a victim.

I heard footsteps racing up from behind.

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

I refused to turn around.

I wasn’t afraid of them!

They were young, skinny things in their early teens.

Pipsqueaks as far as I was concerned.

Harmless.

And I could be tough.

I had gone to public schools in New York City!

I had taught kids like them!

Poor. Black. Tough.

I would show them.

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

I yelled out.

“WHAT THE F**K!”

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

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

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

“Oh, really!!”

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

I knew he was making it up.

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

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

No real damage had been done.

My glasses were still on my face.

But I was shaken.

I could feel my heart pounding.

I was angry.

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

By Black kids like them.

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

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

But I had also been a teacher.

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

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

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

I was having none of it.

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

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

“Don’t you dare threaten me!” I said.

The kid stiffened.

All of his bravado was gone.

He looked at me, terrified.

Where had that nice, caring, dedicated teacher gone?

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

The teacher who didn’t believe in punishment.

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

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

I could have gotten myself fired.

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

Very pregnant.

And because he knew me.

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

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

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

Stupid-White-Lady thing to say.

What was there for them to do, after all?

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

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

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

I learned about the public health crisis of drowning.

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

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

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

Every city and town has its murky waters.

And the public pools?

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

Especially in big cities.

But most closed their doors during the Civil Rights Movement.

It was preferable to integrating them.

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

Especially for the poor, who have no air conditioning.

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

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

“What does God command you?

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

How should we do this?

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

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

He will get the death penalty.

Antisemitism is not to be tolerated.

It was decided he should die for his crime.

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

What about racism?

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

Or through any kind of punishment, for that matter?

Has it ever worked?

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

The teacher in me wanted to make a difference.

Maybe I should have said,

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

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

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

If it would have given them pause.

Even for a moment.

Later in the day, I encountered them again.

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

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

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

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

I shook my head and walked away.

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

A society of stiff-necked people.

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

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

We are to impress these words upon our very heart.

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

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

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

I saw a posting on Instagram this week about Ubuntu.

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

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

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

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

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

Shabbat Shalom.

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

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

The doorman looked perturbed.

He was staring at a screen.

“What’s the matter?” we asked.

“Another bank going down,” he said.

I told him he should listen to some good news.

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

He laughed.

My husband and I talked about it after.

Why was the average person so concerned about the banks?

Was he losing money if that bank failed?

Do their profits “trickle down” to him?

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

“Too big to fail!” was the slogan.

If they failed, our economy would fail.

Same with the stock market.

But who’s actually losing out?

And who’s gaining?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We have plenty to mourn in today’s world.

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

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

—and that they’ve always been the same.

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

But I recently learned something.

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

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

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

They convinced Americans that socialism and communism could never work.

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

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

Because humans are the way we are, right?

—Greedy and ready to fight or exploit each other.

“It’s a dog-eat-dog world.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We are in mourning.

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

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

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

On the corporate and on the personal level.

Isaiah even gives us a solution:

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

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

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

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

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

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

But maybe we can be grateful for one thing:

That at least it’s not snowing.

Because, (my friend sent me this meme);

Imagine shoveling snow in this heat.

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

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

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

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

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

Where there is justice for all.

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

It’s the big banks.

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

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

So help spread the word!

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

Shabbat Shalom.

Which Way to Look, & Devarim

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They don’t even pay attention anymore.

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

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

There was no AQI back then.

I’d forgotten all this.

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

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

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

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

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

Because like I said; I’m privileged.

I sat staring at the water.

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

I watched the tiny ripples made by landing insects.

The trees and the blue sky reflected on the water.

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

I chose to look the other way.

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

—about the stories we tell ourselves.

And those we tell others.

Moses gives a long speech.

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

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

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

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

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

These are the stories of the Torah.

What are the stories we tell ourselves?

That it will “all somehow work itself out”?

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what kind of faith do we need?

In a God who will save us?

In humanity?

In our ability to work things out?

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

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

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

—that there is no “back to normal.”

—that using less was a real thing.

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

—that we are a global community.

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

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

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

Do I have to?

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

As I write, we are experiencing and witnessing apocalypse.

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

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

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

Who will be our leader now?

I think we have to be that together.

Which way should we look?

Maybe not the other way.

And maybe to each other.

Shabbat Shalom—for real.

And say Amen.

Along the Way (Matot-Masei)

I’m back!

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

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

In fact, I was terrified.

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

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

Was I worthy?

Would they come?

I barely slept the first two nights.

The schedule was insane.

I was anxious despite being totally prepared.

Anxious about getting up early.

Anxious about getting enough sleep.

Anxious to do my morning routine of self-care.

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

There was competition;

Several services were happening at the same time.

Other leaders were well-known.

Did anyone even know me besides my former classmates?

There was even competition with breakfast because of the schedule.

And with late-night evening events.

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

But they came. And it was wonderful.

People went deep into prayer, and quickly.

They were grateful.

I felt worthy.

What a magical feeling.

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

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

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

I had come with a question.

By day two, a voice whispered in my ear:

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

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

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

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

All so magical.

Like little miracles.

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

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

The people are to remember the places where they complained:

Of lack of water.

And water poured from a rock.

Of lack of food.

And manna fell from the sky.

Of boring food, and quail fell from the sky.

The Midrash goes on:

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

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

Here is the journey of last week’s conference:

Along the way, we complained about the schedule.

Along the way, we complained about the food.

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

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

About the heat and humidity.

About flight delays due to torrential rains and lightning.

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

We complained of getting Covid, or being exposed.

But along the way, we had air conditioning.

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

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

Along the way, we talked for hours.

Along the way, we walked barefoot in the grass.

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

Along the way, we laughed and cried.

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

We chanted and sang at the tops of our lungs.

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

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

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

I end with a prayer by Joel Kushner:

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

Good Shabbos, and say Amen.

Small Voices, Hukkat, & Balak

All week, I’ve been thinking about magic.

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

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

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

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

The serpent bites, and many die.

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

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

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

Balaam, the master, can not see the angel.

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

Wouldn’t these be considered magic, too?

And who said Judaism doesn’t believe in magic?

Notice that I said “Judaism,” not Jews.

Jews used to believe in magic, for sure.

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

So, where am I going with all this?

We Jews take blessing very seriously.

We do a lot of it.

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

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

Jews are enjoined to bless constantly.

We don’t only bless wine and bread.

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

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

We bless flowers and trees, our bodies and souls.

We bless beginnings and endings.

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

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

Isn’t that magical?

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

It’s like hoping for the impossible.

But what if the impossible were possible?

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

And others that I hope and wish will never happen.

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

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

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

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

What am I being called to do?

What am I being called to see?

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

And what is it saying?

Can you hear it, too?

Shabbat Shalom.

Lords, Dukes, Kings, Gods, & Korakh

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

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

Such a soap opera.

But the clothing!

And the romance—between royalty and kitchen staff.

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

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

Ugh.

The worst.

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

Or at least the wealthy.

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

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

A few at the top, the rest underneath.

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

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

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

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

Leaving even less money for rent.

Don’t lie. I know you’ve done it too.

And what about slavery as depicted on TV?

Remember “Roots”?

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

Yeah, I’m sure that’s true.

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

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

This is where Torah enters the picture.

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

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

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

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

So they are swallowed up by the earth.

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

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

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

We are not disembodied minds.

We have physical needs as humans.

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

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

Then came land ownership and kingship.

Dominating others to work the land became the norm.

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

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

But the truth is much more complex.

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

The focus was on the survival of the tribe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But some sages somewhere definitely had the right idea.

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

Our survival as a species depends on it.

We certainly have the brains.

And the technology.

I love this quote from Yuval Noah Harari:

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

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

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

May it be so.

Weddings, Blazers, Fringes, Assumptions, & Shlakh Lekha

I officiated at a wedding late Saturday afternoon.

It went beautifully, thank you very much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was drinking a Modelo beer (Mexican).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How many assumptions were made about them?

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

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

Why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I understand.

Rules make us feel safe in this unstable world.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fire & Brimstone, Lost in Torah

I’ve gotten ahead of myself.

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

Now I’m a week ahead.

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

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

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

Because our borders are fake anyway, right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They believe they are done for.

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

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

It’s the opposite of useful.

Mourning is not the reaction we need.

What we need is action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think it’s the same with climate disaster.

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

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

What we need is action.

And we have to keep at it.

Until they hear us.

And say Amen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This group came as a revelation in itself last year!

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

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

That whole time, I…

Let’s just say I was very lonely.

It felt impossible.

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

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

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

Thus, I have something in common with Moses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moses is to assign seventy elders to help him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so, here I am, entering new territory.

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

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

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

That is unknown.

I will see where I am led.

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

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

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

But eating the same food for years can become monotonous.

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

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

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

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

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

And say Amen.

Please Count Me In & Bamidbar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was all so vague.

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

Who’s in?

Who’s out?

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

They think my fences around Judaism are too low.

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

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

No.

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

Were the converts male or female?

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

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

If after, then were the children officially converted?

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

All this makes me very sad.

Because they want to be counted as Jewish.

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

The fences feel too high for them to climb over.

For the interfaith couples it’s even more complicated.

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

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

Literally.

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

We’re missing the bigger picture.

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

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

It’s called “Counting the Omer.”

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

But!

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

I remember getting really upset by this rule.

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

And just for missing one day?

Shavuot is the festival of first fruits.

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

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

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

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

So I ask, what needs to be revealed today?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So who counts?

We all do.

Every single human being counts on this Earth.

This is the Revelation we need today.

Many people are getting it.

Let’s pray that more do.

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

And please say Amen if you get it, too.

Walk With Me & Behar/B’khukotai

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

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

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

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

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

So now another young person is dead.

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

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

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

No big surprise!

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

I know I’m going against the grain.

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

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

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

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

As it is, so many Jews are walking away!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is that holy?

Yes.

Because that’s how you treat your brother.

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

Walking alongside your sibling is holy.

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

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

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

I got a bunch of Amens last week.

I need to hear them again this week.

Blemishing Judaism & Emor

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

Like that perfect cup of coffee I mentioned last week.

Can a flawed offering still be welcome?

Maybe our quest for perfection comes from Judaism!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As he quoted from scripture, my eyes glazed over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I reflected: not at all.

I think, rather, I was worried about holiness.

Are there any boundaries to holiness?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what about blemishing Judaism?

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

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

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

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

Because I believe it would be unholy not to.

And I hope you can say Amen.

An Imperfect Cup of Coffee & Acharey Mot/Kedoshim

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

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

That could be sacrilegious—but so be it.

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

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

And possibly animals.

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

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

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

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

This might be the hardest thing we can do.

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

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

The Torah is specific about it, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The vast majority of the time, we are wrong.

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

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

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

“It’s not a lot,” I said.)

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

These are all practices of kindness.

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

Just be kind.

And love a stranger—with no judgment!

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

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

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

So let’s try.

Let’s be kind.

To our neighbors.

And the strangers we pass along the street.

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

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

I want to believe it, too.

If you do, too, then say Amen.

Solitude, Loneliness, & Tazria-Metzora

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

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

The sense of isolation and loneliness.

I marvel now as I walk the streets.

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

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

And I have to fight the fear constantly.

Because fear separates me from those around me.

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

This week we remembered the Holocaust.

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

The kind of pain that comes from intense loss.

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

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

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

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

We can imagine that she may feel isolated.

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

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

Solitude can be good.

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

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

Brilliant, inspiring, and soothing to listen to him.

He speaks from personal experience.

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

The answer is more connection.

More love.

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

He suggests that we can all be healers.

Here are some of his simple ideas:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isolation and loneliness are harmful to our mental health.

But a little bit of solitude can be helpful.

It’s important to know the difference.

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

We can all become healers.

For ourselves and others.

And say Amen.

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.