Two Weeks in a Row & Va’etkhanan

My mind is all over the place this week.

First, it was Tisha B’Av starting Monday night into Tuesday. “The saddest day in the Jewish calendar” as it commemorates the destructions (twice) of the Temple in Jerusalem.

More of a “holy day” or an "observance” rather than a “holiday.” Sitting on the floor, with candles to light the way, listening as the Book of Lamentations is chanted using a particularly beautiful and mournful melody.

Since I don’t pray for the rebuilding of the Temple, I usually have a hard time with this holiday. In fact, this very theme kept re-emerging; do we in fact want to return to the days of old? (Not really. Not when it comes to animal sacrifice as a Jewish practice, nor in any other way. Plus, Judaism went through a paradigm shift with the destruction, becoming more egalitarian—at least for men.)

But this year felt especially poignant, what with wildfires, heavy rains, thunderstorms, ongoing wars.

So much destruction. So much pain. So much healing needed.

Many religious Jews believe that the reason the Temple was destroyed was God’s punishment; the Israelites were not following the commandments, Personally, I don’t subscribe to such beliefs…(but were we? are we? what does that even mean?).

The holiday is bookmarked by two Torah portions that involve Moses reviewing the past forty years of the Israelites’ trek through the desert.

Yet again, two weeks—two times—in a row, Moses blames the people for God not allowing him to cross over into the Promised Land. This week begins with Moses repeating the same accusation; it’s the people’s complaining and lack of faith that caused it; “God is punishing me because of you!”

But the truth is, it’s Moses’ own fault.

Twice, he refuses to take responsibility for his actions, and re-members the past; the truth is, Moses is being punished for the time God told him to speak to a rock in order to draw water from it, and instead he struck the rock.

When is violence called for—if ever—and when should people sit down and talk things out?

We can talk about responsibility on a personal level…or on a worldwide level, as in governments continuing to make decisions that destroy the environment by neglect, or deliberate ongoing bombing, starvation, or expulsion (too many examples, sadly).

Of course, nations are made up of individuals: individuals who make choices.

Personally, I spent the better half of a week with my head spinning with personal responsibility.

It all started after publishing my blog last week.

One innocuous comment from someone who was taking care of the feelings of another person—out of love, I know—trying somehow to protect them from past hurt or help repair it.

This led me into a destructive place of second-guessing myself. (Or was it more like torturing myself?)

The question was, did I reveal too much? About whom? Might someone get hurt? Or be offended? Who did I need to protect? Had I done a good enough job?

From my place of self-flagellation, I called a rabbi/teacher-now-friend for help.

I learned that my style of writing has a name. Or at least belongs to a genre of telling personal stories that end with a take-away lesson.

This friend reminded me that I was inspired to write the way I do, like what I wrote last week, because of Rachel Naomi Remen, author of Kitchen Table Wisdom and My Grandfather’s Blessing.

They are not pretty stories, but they are real and sometimes heartbreaking.

Each one touched me deeply, and left me inspired.

This is because I could see myself in them.

As challenging as it might be, this is an opportunity to look deep inside and ask some difficult questions.

While protecting the identity of those I include in my stories, my goal is always to offer an opportunity for healing to my readers, but in this case, at least in one instance, I did the opposite.

(Though as far as Mr. Sleazy from last week is concerned, if he happened to see my blog (negative-zero-percent chance), maybe it would be a good thing for him to learn how he has hurt and violated others, including me!)

When it comes to personal responsibility, we can only do our best, and sometimes we get it wrong.

In the Torah reading this week, we are reminded to follow the commandments.

In a nutshell, we just have to try and be good people.

May we all (including politicians) approach the world and the choices we make with great care and a strong sense of personal responsibility.

And when we get it wrong, may we be able to forgive ourselves and others.

And if you’re like me, may we learn to be gentler with ourselves and with others when we misstep.

Hard Facts, Cat Ladies, & Devarim

Not to sound too excited about death, but I’ve discovered that I absolutely love doing funerals. 

I mean, let’s be real: people die all the time.


(Have I said this before?)

And I’m not causing death, so it’s not hard for me to state it.

It’s just a hard fact; people die.

But there are still things I can—and must—control.

It’s my job to help the surviving family find some sort of healing in the process—to help facilitate a Tikkun.

And people—in both life and death—are very complex.

When I first started with funerals, I was terrified.

So much is riding on how it goes.

With so little time involved.

Especially when you do it in the traditional way.

Jewish funerals are so multilayered.

Just like people.

As I get to know the family of the deceased, I have to ask a lot of questions, sometimes pressing them for more information.

More understanding.

And listen really hard.

Last week, I had to make a hard decision in my eulogy.

Since I was dealing with a brother and sister, I had two different stories.

I needed to discern between the two what was true and what, maybe, was not.

There was a man who had been very dear to the deceased.

But I gradually came to understand that he had probably taken advantage of this woman.

He was a well-known Broadway actor and singer.

She had met him when she was recently widowed.

And she was some thirty years his senior.

With lots of money.

Depressed and in search of company and joy, she’d started attending the theater soon after her husband died.

She soon became a “groupie,” showing up night after night to the same show.

Having been a difficult person (yet very generous and full of love to give), she’d had a hard time with friendship during her life.

Retired and lonely, she suddenly had lots of friends.

And she fell in love with this one actor, following him for years.

She believed the feelings were mutual, though probably not acted upon.

The relationship lasted thirty years until she died in her 80’s.

They had been “business partners,” according to her brother. 
 

According to her sister, this meant that she gave him lots of money, supported him, and rescued him from situations of his own making.

She’d transferred her attention and affection—and money—from her own family, especially her nephews, to this man’s children.

They became like family to her.

As you can imagine, her nephews, now grown with their own children, were very hurt.

The sister told me to expect to be charmed by him.

I told her, don’t worry, I’m not easily impressed.

He showed up at this tiny funeral in a grandiose way with his children and ex-wife.

He shook my hand vigorously, and thanked me for “doing this.”

As if he were the one who had orchestrated the funeral!

And he brought a playlist of his own voice—the deceased’s favorite songs—and had it electronically streamed into the family room on the speakers.

I made sure he did not remain with the family just prior to the funeral.

And I made the difficult decision not to mention him and his family by name.

I could tell by how his expression changed during the funeral, and especially during my eulogy, from beaming smiles to a fallen face, that he was not happy.

Afterwards, while waiting for the limo, we spoke.

I told him I knew how important he had been to the deceased.

I hoped he wasn’t upset that I hadn’t mentioned his name.

“Oh, no, it wasn’t about me, it was about her,” he reassured me.

Then, in a power play, he took hold of the back of my arm and pulled me in close.

From his tall height, he looked down at me, speaking in an intimate way, as if we were old friends.

“You did a beautiful job, rabbi, in every way. Your singing, your eulogy…you described her perfectly,” he went on, thanking me again.

I couldn’t wait for him to finish.

I felt helpless to get away from him.

How could I withdraw from his clutches without making a scene—as the rabbi?

I felt trapped and disgusted.

As a result of my omission of him and his family, he bowed out of going to the cemetery.

He made up some story of “finding his own way of honoring her with his children by going around the city to visit the stage doors where she’d waited for him to come out all those times.

Which meant I had a place in the limo with the family!

And her resentful, hurt, nephews didn’t have to ride with him!

We had wonderful conversation the whole time out to the cemetery and back.

Because I’d taken a risk myself, the family didn’t have to.

And I believe I brought healing to them.

I played this story over and over in my mind, and told it to different people again and again.

I felt traumatized by it.

(I’ve also since come up with how to get away from a situation like it if and when it happens again with another sleazy man.)
 

Maybe trauma is the same reason Moses repeats the entire story—in a nutshell—of forty years in the desert.

This is how the book of Deuteronomy begins.

But he chooses the details that are the hardest for him, it seems.

Of how argumentative the Israelites had been.

How angry God had been with them, and as a result, with Moses.

How the spies had come back from scouting the Promised Land with exaggerated fears that turned into incomplete truths and falsehoods.

Tall tales, like the story J.D. Vance told the American people of “Childless Cat Ladies” running our country—hardly a hard fact!

(For a really interesting and fun history of “Cat Ladies,” I recommend listening to this episode of “Revenge of…” on On The Media.”)

Moses tells, yet again, how he himself will not be crossing over into the Promised Land with the people he has led for forty years.

How he’d passed on the mantle of leadership for the future to another chosen by God.

Though the Israelites are entering a new phase in their history, a brighter future, Moses is reviewing a challenging past.

He weeds through what’s true and what’s not: what’s difficult to face.

He faces hard facts, continuing to process his life, what it’s meant.

Now that Kamala Harris has entered the presidential race, and Gov. Tim Walz has joined her as her running mate, it feels like there’s hope of saving our country from a second term with Donald Trump.

As we enter this hopeful moment in U.S. history after a long time of hopelessness, may we weed out the lies from the facts.

May we face bullies—misogynists among them—who try to corner us and make us feel helpless.

May we take control of that which we can towards a brighter future.

May we all act as facilitators of a Tikkun—a healing.

Mattot-Masei & Say It To My Face

We can take the Bible literally…

Or we can look at its lessons.

We can look for ways it tells us to “stick to our own kind,” and easily find them—

—again and again.

When I hear snippets of angry videos—

—on Instagram, on TikTok…

…maybe even on what some call “the news”…

—of ranting, self-righteous politicians—

—or individuals—

—it just makes my heart break.

As the thought of tribalism, and our “own kind” came to me, I googled the West Side Story song so I could share it with you.

And it reduced me to a puddle of tears.

Just thinking of how angry talk—”He is one of them!”—is still so much a part of our collective vocabulary…

Meanwhile, my head is swirling with the high energy and excitement around Kamala Harris’ new campaign.

So many people suddenly filled with hope.

Hope for saving women’s health and reproductive rights.

Hope for a better chance at healing our planet, saving it from doom and destruction…

The attacks from the other side—against “wokeness.”

Against her as a woman.

And as one of color…

These are a backlash against the changing landscape of our country.

It is a digging in of heels to racism and misogyny.

But Harris is not intimidated.

She is ready to fight (with a big smile on her face)!

She is ready to challenge Trump to a debate he might be afraid to have.

But as I have heard news commentators say, we will have to keep her to her promises.

Between promises and being ready to fight, the Torah is again relevant this week.

The reading starts with vows.

It focuses on the obligation to carry them out.

Unfortunately, misogyny is written all over it.

Women are forced to submit to the wishes of the men in their lives.

The men choose to allow them—or not—to carry out vows they have taken on.

And then there is war.

War against the Midianites (Moses’ wife’s tribe!) in order to take over their land.

As God says.

One gender is superior to—and will have dominion over—the other.

One people is superior to—and will have dominion over—the other.

This is the way Jewish Fundamentalists, the Christian Right, and their spokespeople, see things.

Unfortunately, this is the way a lot of people still see things.

People are digging in their heels—out of fear—to tribalism.

And they’re loud.

But not everyone.

And the other voices are equally capable of being loud.

The Torah reading ends, after vows and angry reactions from Moses making assumptions about the intentions of others…

It ends with the reminder of daughters having a say in their destiny.

It ends with the right of women to inheritance of land (albeit with some sexist and tribalist stipulations),

It ends with instructions on how to treat the land.

It says that we are not to pollute the land.

It says that blood pollutes the land.

It says that those who kill intentionally must be punished.

And those who are innocent are to have cities of refuge.

As Maria in West Side Story counters Anita with: “But my heart, Anita, but my heart!”

But our hearts…

Let us stop for a moment.

And listen.

What do they say…?

There is anger.

There is rage.

There is revenge.

But if we can get under the anger and revenge, there is a softening.

Yes, we must fight.

But let us listen to the softening part of our hearts as we do.

Trump Anointed (& Pinhas)

I often remember something I heard another rabbi say:

I wish the Torah wasn’t always so relevant.

Let’s take a look at the past couple of weeks.

The attempted assassination of Trump (yes, old news now, but not fake news).

The Republican National Congress.

Trump with a bandaged ear.

And his martyrdom.

He suffered—and suffers—for the sake of his country, not a care in the world for himself.

Only a passion for “America” drives him.

Thus, he was anointed.

Chosen by God.

Destined to be president.

Because aren’t all the signs there???

Missing a deadly bullet with just a slight turn of the head at exactly the right moment…

Guess what!

Pinhas (our biblical character of the week) also gets anointed!

Yes, the same Pinhas who drove a sword through the bellies of an Israelite and his non-Israelite lover last week.

Because he is “passionate” for God.

Pinhas is destined to be priest—and all the generations that will come after.

But it makes me nervous that someone as violent as Pinhas is chosen by God.

It makes me wonder about my God—or at least the God of the Bible.

It also makes me nervous that someone who incites violence in our country is anointed by others—

Meanwhile, Biden steps down as the Democratic incumbent for president.

Yes, I would agree it was courageous.

It’s hard to admit when you’re not up for the job (Trump certainly won’t).

Of course, there was also an awful lot of pressure.

But it still does come in sharp contrast to Trump, the one who anoints himself.

Making the Torah even more relevant is what happens at the end of the Parsha;

Moses asks God, “Who shall come and go before the people” when Moses’ time comes to an end?

Moses knows that he is tired.

And Moses himself is given the task of appointing Joshua, physically passing his spiritual powers to the High Priest.

I see the parallels, but I’m not sure of the spiritual lesson.

Maybe it’s that we need to be really careful about claiming to have a direct connection to God.

We need to question ourselves—especially when we see a fervor for killing.

A fervor for murder.

A justification for it.

Because no matter who does it, it can not be God—at least not my God—that wants that.

I think we can extend this message—this questioning—to other situations that exist in the world today.

If killing and destruction are a part of what you think God wants of you, maybe that’s not God actually talking.

I would argue with that God.

I would protest—just like Moses does on several occasions.

So I guess my blessing for today is:

May we all continue to question ourselves and our beliefs, especially when the urge is violent.

And please say Amen.

Sexually Speaking, Idols, Dreams, & Balak

The temptation for humans always seems to be to name all the horrible things that are happening.

We somehow think that’s what it means to be “real”: to name all that’s terrible. (Check out my new Homepage!).

(Speaking of keeping things real, how many of us secretly wished that gunman hadn’t missed?)

(Good thing I’m not a politician and I can just be real about it, even if I know it would have only have made things worse, as it already has).

But there are other real things happening that aren’t awful.

I mean, Dr. Ruth Westheimer died last week—the good part is that she lived to 96!

And made a real impact on how we talk about (and hopefully do) sex.

She kept things very real—and was kind of an idol to me.

My teenage years are full of memories of listening to her on the radio.

(Was it every day after school that I heard people calling in with questions for Dr. Ruth on her show Sexually Speaking?)

Dr. Ruth was full of positivity and hope.

Her determination to revolutionize how we talked about (and had) sex was how her role in Tikkun Olam (repairing the world) played out.

There had never been a show like it before, and there hasn’t been one since.

And all that hope and positivity came from someone who survived the Holocaust.

She could have given in to the horrors of what she’d experienced and all she’d lost, and just given up.

But she saw it as her duty to be part of the repair—because she had survived!

Right now we’re in a different place.

All we think about is that our Democratic presidential candidate is unable to keep his thoughts and sentences straight.

(Among other things.)

And that our Republican candidate is going to win—and bring ruin to even more lives than we thought was possible.

This week in Torah, we have a king, Balak, who wants a diviner, Balaam, to bring curses upon the people Israel.

Balaam has connections with God that Balak does not have.

Balaam repeatedly checks in with God.

He even dreams that God gives him the go-ahead to meet with Balak and talk things out.

God gets angry—because that was just a dream.

But God still says, okay, go, “but only do as I say, and only speak My words.”

Thus, Balaam repeatedly blesses the people, which really pisses Balak off.

But Balaam is none too perceptive either.

He doesn’t perceive the “adversary” (Satan, in Hebrew), with drawn sword and all, that God has put in front of Balaam to block his way.

(How connected to God is he after all?)

Balaam looks rather foolish, too, because his donkey sees the adversary while he, a “smart human,” does not.

This, my friends, is Torah humor.

Still, all is revealed in the end.

Ultimately, Balaam manages to bless the Israelites as opposed to cursing them.

(Does he apologize to his donkey for beating it? He really should.)

The Parsha ends with “whoring Israelites” (men) who have sex (speaking of sex) with Moabite women.

These Moabites are influencing are luring the Israelites away from their One True God to worship false idols.

There is a plague (always a punishment) that takes the lives of 24,000 Israelites.

Until Pinhas, son and grandson of a priest, follows a Moabite woman and her Israelite lover into a tent—

—and pierces them through the belly, killing them both.

Thus, the plague is checked.

Happy endings, the Torah is not known for.

What about our happy endings?

Even though the predictions for our presidential elections seem dire, do we have to believe them before they even happen?

If we give in to bad dreams that predict a living nightmare, do we make them come true just by giving up?

Who—what—is our True God?

And the false gods that we are believing?

Even though polls have been proven to be dead wrong time and again?

(Remember France last week—again!)

What does giving up do for all those out there on the ground working so hard to make the outcome different?

The lesson I take from this Torah reading is that being connected to God means bringing blessing, not curses.

Is it helpful to be lured by negative voices that bring dire predictions?

Or might it actually be harmful, and help those predictions come true?

Let’s not stab ourselves in the belly, ending it before it’s even over.

Instead, let’s work on being more connected to blessing, and support those working actively to change our future.

Dr. Ruth was a voice of hope coming out of a very dire situation.

Can we each be a voice of hope that does the same?

If you’d like to be a voice of hope and blessing, please say Amen.

The Surprise of Faith & Hukkat

Oy: the presidential elections.

An aging Democratic incumbent who refuses (so far) to step out of the race.

But t’s undeniable.

He looks and sounds incredibly feeble.

Does it matter that Trump, too, is unfit for the presidency—though for different reasons?

Nobody seems to care.

The fact is, there comes a time when one must accept that it’s time to pass things on to the younger generations.

As hard as it is for one’s ego.

To be able to face aging and death straight on.

Of course, I have empathy.

(Will I have the courage to face it straight on when it’s my turn to turn things over?)

Then there’s fear—of a different sort.

For today’s world, and our future—near and far.

This week in Torah, Miriam, Moses’ sister, dies.

Immediately after, the wells all dry up.

In the ancient rabbinic mind, Miriam is connected with the wells and the flow of water.

Now that she is gone, there is no water.

The Israelites panic.

Again, they rail against Moses.

He speaks—or complains—to God.

God tells him, “Take you staff in your hand, and speak to the rock. From there, water will flow abundantly.”

Moses, in his frustration perhaps, in anger and resentment, hits the rock.

Water flows.

God is not happy.

In the ancient rabbinic mind, Moses claimed the miracle as his own rather than crediting God.

His words are even a little sarcastic: “Listen, you rebels! Shall we get water for you out of this rock?”

For this, God punishes him; he shall not enter the Promised Land with the people he has led for 40 years.

Later in the Torah reading, the people sing a song.

It is a different type of song from the Song at the Sea when fleeing to freedom.

Instead of their song being led (and controlled, as Rabbi Tracy Nathan points out) by Moses, they sing their own song.

Not only do they not use violence, they sing to the ground, asking it to bring forth water.

“Spring up, O, well—Sing to it…”

Instead of receiving manna from heaven, whose lesson was about learning to have faith, they learn a different lesson (again, Tracy Nathan).

The Israelites have learned to bring forth water by themselves, in a community effort—something they can take pride in.

Miriam had taught them about community building, according to our sages.

Water spread out throughout the camps in rivers, reaching everywhere, not just springing from one source.

In essence, the people have learned to create their own grass roots movement.

And now.

It is time to pass the mantle to the next generation.

We deserve better presidential choices—not just between two old white men who either want to destroy our country and/or are out of touch with what younger generations cry out for.

Climate Change/Climate Disaster, for one.

Peace, for another.

After eight months of bombing and deprivation, it is proven that Netanyahu’s war will not bring about the live release of hostages.

Nor was it ever meant to.

Yet the war machine continues to be fed.

What about feeding a peace machine?

But we mustn’t despair.

Remember the last-minute shock of the Far Right losing in France just this week!

We face our own dismal predictions, but we don’t have to believe them.

But maybe we can take courage from the lesson of manna and faith from the Torah given by God.

Or like water springing from a rock.

And maybe we can take courage from the ability of young people to build grass roots movements of peace.

From the ground up.

We don’t know what miracles abound.

Let’s get ready to be surprised.

And say Amen.

The Potential for Celebration & Korakh

As we enter the 4th of July, we are supposed to be celebrating.

I came to my friends at the beach for the week—and to see the fireworks.

It will be fun to see after so many years of not.

But I find it hard to celebrate our country’s history at this point in history.

Maybe I’ve always had a hard time celebrating our country’s founding.

I wasn’t brought up to revere our Founding Fathers.

Am I unpatriotic?

Absolutely not.

Just as I won’t let the far Religious Right co-opt the word “religious,” so I won’t allow anti-gun control, anti-abortion people co-opt the word “patriotic.”

I love my country, and I demand that it be better—that it do better.

It has to do better.

As much as I hope to enjoy watching fireworks on a beach, I also have a real problem with them.

They’re terrible for the environment.

They’re terrible for the air, terrifying to animals (birds might abandon their babies, dogs either hide and can potentially be killed running from them…)

They also have the potential to terrify humans.

Not to mention the increase in mass shootings on and around July 4th.

Many people—maybe all Americans at this point—have PTSD due to gun violence.

I know that whenever I hear fireworks in New York, I never quite know if it’s fireworks or a gun I’m hearing.

I’m sure my blood pressure rises.

Then there’s the Supreme Court ruling that gave Trump immunity for all past acts.

That bit of news doesn’t add much to the potential for celebration.

The potential for a future king in a country that is supposed to despise kings…well…

Interestingly, there’s something about power-grabbing in this week’s Torah portion.

It’s in the story of Korakh and the people who join him in rising up against Moses.

Do they deserve the harsh punishment they get, being swallowed up by the earth at God’s command?

On the other hand, do they deserve immunity for their actions?

Do they want shared power with Moses, or do they want total control?

That, we can never know.

But what we do know is that we would all like there to be potential for celebration.

To me, this is not one of those moments, but I want there to be.

May there be a reason to celebrate our country in the coming months.

And until then, I’m going to hang out with my friends, and be in community.

I hope you do, too, however you feel about what’s going on in our country.

And please say Amen.

Throwing Phones & Shlakh Lekha

This morning as I was sitting in the park, a shocking thing happened.

I was talking to a friend on the phone, and from the corner of my eye, I see a child running toward the lake.

As he runs across the beach, his mother pursuing him, she yells, “Stop! Stop!”

Slowly, I understand what is happening.

He is carrying her cell phone, and as he gets to the edge of the water, he raises his arm over his head.

Before she can reach him, he launches the phone with all his might into the water.

Just a second too late, before retrieving the phone, she hits him on the head, yelling.

With a smile of deep satisfaction on his face, he retreats to where his sibling is sleeping in a baby stroller.

The mother goes to the water, searching, and picks the phone out of the dirty water.

Then she returns to her son where she chastises him again, but only barely.

This in itself shocks me. (If it had been me and my child…)

The boy stands there with the smile on his face never waning.

It is evident that he feels great power in this moment.

The family continues walking and stops at a bench further down the path.

I tell my friend blow by blow as I’m watching this all happen, and we begin immediately evaluating what has just occurred.

Is this some evil, sociopath with no care for how his mother feels?

My friend asks the child’s age.

I look at him: around five.

How can he have absolutely no sense of remorse, we wonder?

Or fear?

Then, another possibility: he is angry.

Why, then, is he so angry?

He must have a sense that this phone is his mother’s connection to the world!

Does he not know the gravity of what he’s done?

Now, in retrospect, it seems obvious.

The cell phone, for him, is the thing that keeps his mother occupied with everyone and everything—except for him.

On the other hand, for her, the cell phone, as it is for every parent, for every single person, is that which distracts her from what is right in front of her.

From what is present in the moment.

My friend and I started reminiscing about the old days when we were parents.

Before cell phones, before the omnipresent smart phone.

Would we have been the same kind of parent as we see others are today?

Constantly on the phone, talking, talking, listening, listening, reading, reading, not looking at their child?

We remembered the isolation.

The loneliness.

The difficulty in finding community as we cared for our infants and toddlers.

The intense need for adult interaction that did not exist in our way of life as American parents choosing (and with the luxury) to stay home caring for our own children.

We reminisced about the old corded phones, and cords so long that we could stretch them across the kitchen, or from one room to another.

Cords so long, we could wash dishes with the phone in the crook of our neck, pressed against our ear.

Ah, the old crook of the neck, hurting.

But how good it felt to have company while doing chores, but also to be multi-tasking.

How powerful and competent we felt.

How many times were we as parents talking on the phone while our children clambered for our attention?

Then the cell phone came along.

And they became smaller and smaller.

No more would they fit in the crook of your neck.

Now they are omnipresent in ear buds, but still represent one-sided, anonymous conversations.

And they sleep by our beds, if not in our beds, ever-ready with new information, ever-ready for “doom” scrolling.

There when we wake up, and when we go to sleep.

My friend then asked another question with some hesitation and discomfort.

What ethnic group did this mother belong to?

I understood her trepidation, because I had considered mentioning it, but then had changed my mind.

Why was this important, after all?

We talked about that, too.

That our children are right to push back and to question our need to know.

The need to resist the temptation to put people in a box, and type-cast them.

Yet, there was significance to the answer as well.

I told her she was an African immigrant wearing traditional dress.

And so we attempted to tell her story for her.

It led us to wonder about how this cell phone connected her, not only to others in the city, to employment perhaps, but also to family and friends across continents.

This cell phone was, in a sense, this woman’s whole world.

Her lifeline.

As they have become for all of us.

They have become our lifeline in a strange and disharmonious way that keeps us tethered to something ourside of ourselves, and outside the present moment.

They have become an object we cannot live without that brings us all the information we seem to need in the world.

And also information we don’t need but think we do.

A source of disinformation, misinformation, and panic.

Whether it’s the weather, or the air quality we can check on several times a day…

Or the pop-ups of “Breaking News” items that come in several times an hour.

All meant to grab our attention.

All meant to put us into a place of panic so we keep coming back for more.

This was the story we told about this particular mother and her little boy.

And about ourselves.

And now I come to the story of this week’s Parsha.

The story of the spies.

These are spies, or scouts, sent by Moses to scout out the Promised Land.

What kinds of vegetation and fruit is there to find? (And make sure you bring some back!)

What kind of people live there?

What kinds of cities do they have?

Are they strong or weak? (i.e. How hard will it be to conquer them?)

The reports are generally good.

Until the naysayers speak up.

“These people are so big, they are giants, and we are but grasshoppers to them.”

And panic sets in.

The people wail through the night.

“Why, God, did you take us out of bondage only to die here? Things weren’t so bad there! What is this false promise you made?”

But the panic uncalled for because the story is false.

What about our stories?

What about our panic?

There are very real, horrifying things happening in the world today.

And we need to take action.

But we must also be careful not to be sucked in by the media meant to simply get our attention by making us panic.

Do I need to know how bad the air quality is moment to moment?

Don’t I already know that, most of the time, it’s not very good?

Yet, it is so much better than it was in the 1960’s and ‘70’s when I was growing up in New York City.

So good things can happen.

We can effect change for the better.

We are capable of this.

Do I need to know that fascism is a real possibility in the (possibly near) future of this country?

Yes.

But I also need to find ways of disconnecting from the constant barrage that comes from my phone.

Yes, my phone is my connection to the world.

To my own little world, and to the wider world.

But maybe it shouldn’t take throwing the phone into the water to get back to the present moment.

And maybe we can rewrite the story of our country and our world.

Because our stories are very powerful.

And they can effect change for the better.

Shabbat Shalom, and please say Amen.

Missed Opportunities, Hearts and Roses, & B’Ha’alot’kha

I’ve been thinking a lot this week about last week.

About how I missed an important opportunity.

Over a year ago, I made a big deal in my ordination speech of addressing the sexism, the homophobia, the Jewish triumphalist attitudes of the Torah.

I didn’t want to miss that opportunity of facing the flaws of the Torah straight on.

Because so often we want to deny the bad and only focus on how great we are.

How spiritual, how deep, how loving.

I don’t like pretending that religion—mine included—is all hearts and roses.

And last week, as I searched for inspiration upon entering the holiday of Shavuot, I found little, if any, inspiration in the Torah reading.

Especially, as I pointed out, in the story of the sotah, the woman accused of cheating on her husband.

But I missed something.

I missed that sometimes things aren’t as they seem.

That within this sexist attitude of blaming the woman and putting her to a test of loyalty to her husband, that perhaps this “test” was in fact an effort at protection.

Because, whether she was innocent or guilty, her thigh wouldn’t sag, nor would her belly distend, just from drinking some cursed water!

Correct?

(I mean, unless you believe in spells, which I’m not saying I do or I don’t.)

In other words, this story put a hypothetically jealous husband in a position where he would have to hold back a potentially violent rage.

And the woman would be protected from his violence by having to present herself before the priest.

Then, she would walk away physically unharmed (though most likely humiliated, which isn’t nothing).

But it was progressive for its time.

This week, we end the Torah portion with Miriam, Moses’ sister, taking the sole blame for gossiping about Moses’ wife—because she is a Cushite woman, not an Israelite.

She alone breaks out in a rash, and is put in isolation outside the camp until she heals—even though her brother Aaron is equally guilty!

So this seems like true and pure sexism, unlike perhaps the example from last week.

It’s a good thing, at least, that God does not look favorably upon the gossip—perhaps gossip in general—nor upon their prejudice against the non-Israelite woman married to Moses.

And the Torah makes a point of saying that the Israelites could not break camp until Miriam was back in the fold.

There’s something else that’s been on my mind.

Which is, the “perfect” rescue of the four Israeli hostages a couple of weeks ago.

How “perfect” could it have been when almost 300 Palestinians were killed in the process, not to mention the Israeli commander who headed the mission?!

So much joy—alongside so much pain.

At times, it’s true; the Torah teaches us not to care about the lives of our “enemies.”

But there are other times, like in this week’s parsha, when we are taught that, even speaking against someone not officially a part of our tribe is despicable.

Not only is intermarriage between the tribes permissible; it should not become a subject of judgmental talk, according to this version of the God of our Bible.

This week on This American Life, I heard the update on the developing story of Yousef and his family.

For some reason, it hit me hard this time.

Who knows why, when I’ve been hearing the same information for eight months.

It’s not new that Gazans literally have no escape from the bombing and the starvation.

That there is literally no exit—

—except if you can come up with tens of thousands of dollars—in cash—for your family to maybe be allowed into Egypt!

(All top secret, not to piss anybody off.)

So how is it…

How is it the case that so many people are walking around unable to see—unable to feel anything for all the lives being lost (whether they’re hostages or Palestinians!) and all these people being starved—where a bag of flour costs 200 American dollars?

Where is our collective conscience?

Yes: religion is misused and abused.

For exclusivity, for hatred, for triumphalism.

But we can choose to use religion in different ways, just as we choose to listen to, or open ourselves, to certain pieces of information and not others.

Because religion also teaches us to open our hearts.

To love.

Isn’t it enough already?

Enough suffering for the hostages and their families?

Enough suffering for Gazans and their families?

Do we need any sort of test (of loyalty, perhaps, to an idea or a group?) in order to stop the violence?

Let us—all of us—not miss an important opportunity to stop looking at Israeli families, or Jewish families, or Palestinian families as separate from each other.

Let us—all of us—not miss the opportunity to see everyone as part of the human family.

Let us not choose to include some, and put others outside our camp to suffer alone.

And say Amen.

Hoping for Inspiration for Shavuos & Naso

It’s hard to find inspiration for writing so early in the week.

It would be easier if I could wait until Shavuos is over.

Especially since it’s the holiday of revelation and inspiration.

Yet, I know that after the holiday, on Friday, it will be too late for my blog.

So what do I have so far?

The stories of the Torah this week are not particularly appetizing—or inspiring.

The woman accused by her husband of sleeping with another man because he’s flown into a jealous fit?

Who is then given an almost literal witch trial (not quite like the one Donald Trump claims to have just gone through).

She is made to drink “waters of bitterness” by the Temple priest—who has cursed them.

If she has not “gone astray,” she will be unharmed by the spell he puts on her.

If she has, her belly will distend and her thigh will sag.

Not much for inspiration.

I could also go with the stories by a neighbor I ran into in the park just now.

He’s a young Jewish ER pediatrician at Harlem Hospital, within which the entirety of societal problems are encompassed.

In just one ER.

No, none of that will be inspiring as we go into Shavuos to receive enlightenment.

He told me of the mind-boggling situations he deals with.

Of his incredible frustration with individual parents in his ER.

Yet, he seems to understand systemic racism, and that slavery didn’t end two hundred years ago.

He said, no, Black people are still living it today.

Then there was the Israel/Gaza war that came up in our conversation.

He and his new wife lean “more strongly towards release of the hostages,” but also recognize that Israel is not innocent.

Now, that actually was inspiring.

We actually agreed that this is way more complex than most people want to admit—because it’s easier to “take sides” and be black and white.

We agreed that history matters.

And that, if the New York Times publishes an article about abuse of Palestinians happening in Israeli prisons, then it’s probably true.

And we should own it.

Mostly, we agreed that empathy should not be lost on “both sides,” for both peoples.

And it wasn’t hard to get there with him.

That warmed my heart, coming from someone, I’m guessing, who comes from a conservative, Zionist background.

So.

There is one little section in this week’s Torah reading that coincides perfectly with all this.

And with Shavuos.

God gives instructions to the Temple priest to bless the people.

They are the words that have become famously known as the Priestly Blessing by Jews, and the Priestly Benediction by Christians.

May the Lord Bless you and keep you!

May the Lord deal kindly and graciously with you, shining the light of his face upon you.

May the Lord bestow his favor upon you and grant you peace.

Thus they shall link My name with the people, I will bless them.

May it be so for us all.

And may good things be revealed for us in the near future.

Happy Shavuos, and Good Shabbos.

A Righteous Fight, Done With Hate, & Bamidbar

Two big things happened for my family this week.

First, over the weekend, there was a wedding.

A young cousin on my husband’s side of the family got married in Pennsylvania.

Of course, they’re my family, too, now, for over three decades.

I love them.

Every time we go out there to the Ecuadorean family, so different from my Jewish family, it’s like another world.

We belong there in that we love them, yet we are not a part of their world.

Oswaldo’s cousin was so grateful that we made the trek for her son’s wedding.

It meant a lot that it meant a lot to her.

I want—I think we all want—them to know that for us, they count.

Even if we live very different lives.

And we had a beautiful time.

Then, my daughter Rebecca graduated from college.

Another incredible family event.

It was emotional to be among thousands of families, the majority of whom are like my huband’s:

First generation immigrants.

And from all over the world!

It felt like such a gift.

For Rebecca to get an education among so many people who are struggling just to make it.

To live in a place where you experience the incredible diversity of the world—and of our country—all in one place.

To be surrounded by families that couldn’t even imagine, perhaps, that one day they would have a child who graduated from college!!

In the United States!

Students that maybe had to hold two—or even three jobs while making it through college!

And for them to be honored for their accomplishments despite all odds!

Just like my husband had.

And that he could proudly then help his own children get through college.

For him and all those people to be recognized as counting in our society.

So, yes, it was very emotional.

And a beautiful celebration.

(You can see photos here on my Facebook page if you haven’t yet.)

The main speaker, a Black Judge, Carlton W. Reeves of Mississippi, invoked the Civil Rights Movement.

This was easy, in a way.

Easy to talk about and easy to hear about.

We’ve been there already.

We look back on its historical struggles for justice and equality with gratitude, and even fondness.

A righteous fight fought by brave young people on university campuses.

An example of how to be in the world in order to effect change.

But then.

Then the Hunter College president spoke.

And when graduating students walked out in protest of the war in Gaza, she ignored them.

Her microphone was turned up, and she spoke louder in order to drown out the cries of protest.

She pretended it was business as usual, never acknowledging their cries.

It was like those students didn’t count.

Their concerns didn’t count.

The civilians dying in Gaza didn’t count.

She talked about her ancestors’ survival in the Nazi camps, and their rescue at the end of the war.

She talked about how, when given the chance for revenge, with guns placed in their hands, they put them down and walked away.

Instead of shooting the Nazi guards that had been their torturers, they said, “Enough. We’re done with hate.”

It was an emotional thing to hear.

But its meaning was lost when it couldn’t be applied to innocent lives being lost today in Gaza.

Its meaning was lost when the student protesters became insignificant in her eyes.

When their voices didn’t count as part of the historical strength of students fighting a righteous fight.

In this week’s Parsha, as we begin the book of Numbers, Bamidbar, or In the Wilderness, all the Israelites are counted.

Each tribe.

Each and every individual within each tribe.

The heads of the tribes are named, and on and on.

I only wish we could take this lesson into what’s happening in the world today.

I know we’re living in unprecedented times.

I know it’s a wilderness of uncharted territory.

But then again, is it?

Don’t we know about the cycle of hate and revenge?

And can’t we, also, decide to be done with it?

I want to bless us that we may live to see a world—and a country—in which we can be done with hate and revenge.

May we live to see a world and a country in which we can celebrate diversity, and help everyone achieve success—without working three jobs.

And be done with war.

Please say Amen.

And Shabbat Shalom.

The Whispers of B’khukotai

As a newish rabbi, when I learn new things, there’s always a sense that I was supposed to know it already.

And then I remind myself not to feel ashamed.

Because I came into the game of Judaism and rabbi-ing very late.

And learning goes on for a lifetime.

I’ll never know it all, so it’s really okay.

And then I let go of some of the shame.

So, this week I learned something new!

That for this Torah portion, you’re supposed to whisper while reciting it.

This idea spurred a very interesting conversation among my Jewish Women Clergy Collective.

Why do we whisper this Parsha?

Why do we whisper in general?

When do we whisper?

Is it only when we’re telling a secret?

Or when we don’t want everyone present to hear what we’re saying?

What about when we are ashamed of something we’re saying or sharing?

When we’re afraid of something “going out into the universe?”

This week’s Parsha is full of curses.

The curses are so horrible, so horrendous—that the custom arose of reciting them in a whisper.

Maybe it’s a kind of protection against the evil eye?

These curses follow last week’s Parsha in which we are told of all the good that will come once we “enter the land.”

All the good that will happen—as long as we follow the laws we are given.

Remember?

Like giving a rest to ourselves and the land and animals and workers on the Sabbath and during the Sabbatical year.

(Yes, the idea of teachers getting a sabbatical comes from the Torah—pretty cool, right?)

Also, like freeing all slaves (Hebrew ones, I must clarify), and returning all propertys to its original owner at the end of 49 years, the Jubilee.

But this week it’s all about what will happen if we don’t follow these laws.

Like, we will be running from our own shaddow.

Like, we will be so hungry, we will eat our own babies.

Yes, that kind of horrible.

So we can understand why we might not want to say all this too loudly.

But can whispering it also be a kind of turning away, a denial, a not wanting to hear it come out of our own mouth?

A recognition that what we are saying is literally unspeakable?

Perhaps like when we turn a blind eye to what is happening in Rafah now.

The way our government administration is doing.

Perhaps the way we stop talking about the climate emergency because we feel helpless?

Or take on the language of “natural disaster” when it’s anything but natural.

Perhaps we should think more about how we “enter the land,” who we are hurting in the process, and recognize it.

And maybe now is a time to actually feel ashamed.

Perhaps, just perhaps, we should listen to our Torah, even if, or especially when, it comes out in a whisper.

Because it’s really not okay.

At Least Try & B’har

Every time I visit my friend Debra in Connecticut, I am reminded what it means to live more in harmony with the Earth.

Or at least try.

That’s kind of her whole purpose—besides encouraging, teaching, and helping others do the same.

I hadn’t been there in three years.

Too long.

I’m sure I’ve introduced you to her before.

She has a dairy farm with the most beautiful Jersey cows.

She used to sell her raw milk.

It’s called Local Farm (“More Than a Memory” is her slogan).

(You can still visit her and she’ll be more than happy to show you around! Find some photos of our time together and of the farm here and also see her amazing piece of art that is her Earth Scroll on Facebook, which she tours around when asked!)

While there, I had her cows’ milk in my coffee, watched her make cheese, and got to eat it.

Together, we ground wheat berries with an old grinder on her porch.

Then she baked bread with the flour (one became a challah loaf for Shabbos!).

We ate it with her own butter.

She had me taste her homemade sauerkraut to see if it was ready.

Then we ate tons of it with the burger meat that came from her cows.

We ate eggs from a neighbor.

And mixed in wild greens she picked from the road and behind her house.

We walked many miles every day, some of them barefoot through the woods.

We slept in hammocks on her porch in the moonlight (or at least tried).

We prayed together and sang together late into the night.

We laughed together.

We cried together.

Sometimes we were two women alone.

Sometimes we were three or four or five, talking about what’s real.

And that’s a good piece of my story of our almost-four days together.

A piece of the Torah this week in the Parsha called B’har (on the mountain), we get a good dose of what it means to live in harmony with the Earth.

And with our community.

Or at least try.

We are given the laws of Shabbat, of the Sabbatical, and then the Jubilee.

We are told we must rest, our animals must rest, those who work for us must rest, those within our community must rest.

And that the land must rest.

We are told how to fair with transactions and how to treat those in need.

And when the Jubilee comes, all houses and property go back to their original owner.

No ifs, ands, or buts.

So.

In this fraught time, when everything is so tense and frightening and uncertain, we must find time to rest.

And refresh ourselves.

Or at least try.

In whatever way that translates for each of us.

And if you’d like to share with me how you are finding time to take care of yourself, and trying to live in harmony with the Earth, I welcome your comments.

They are always meaningful to me, and I thank you.

Shabbat Shalom.

Nothing New Except You People & Emor

Is it okay if one week feels like it just blends in to the next?

And I feel like there’s nothing new to say?

Same old, same old in the news, except worse.

Nothing much new in my life.

Except that, for some reason, from someplace in Cyberspace, I learned of a movie called “You People.”

I read about the critique of it, and it peaked my interest.

(It’s been at least a month since I’ve watched anything. I like to tell my husband how superior I am because of that (lol).)

The movie is about a couple in California: Jewish guy and a Black-American Muslim woman.

It got terrible push-back from the Jewish community especially.

Being truly curious, I watched it.

It’s got some famous actors, for one.

The Jewish mother (from Seinfeld and SNL) treats her new future daughter-in-law like a token to be shown off.

She embarrasses herself and her family perpetually with her ignorance.

I’M embarrassed by her.

The Black father (Eddie Murphy) tries to ruin the relationship deliberately.

The whole thing perpetuates SO many stereotypes.

Yes, it brings out some important themes: 1. Take responsibility for learning about what it’s like to be Black. 2. If you’re white, you will never, ever know what it feels like to be Black in America. 3. You should never compare the Black experience with the Jewish experience.

But the Jews in the movie are unreasonably wealthy and the Black people curse way too much and want to get easy money.

Neither group seems to try to live by the tenets of their religion in any practical way.

(Which bothered me especially.)

Though heartwarming in the end, it actually makes both Jewish and Black people look awful.

And truly solves no problems at all for the world.

A few quick thoughts on this week’s Parsha:

Emor ends with a strange little story.

A fight breaks out in the camp between two (young?) men.

One is half Israelite/half Egyptian.

The other is full Israelite.

The latter blasphemes God’s name.

For such a crime, it is clear that the punishment is death by stoning.

Whether you’re an Israelite or not, as long as you are within the walls of the Israelite community, the same rules apply to all.

(A fact that is always interesting to me.)

Everyone within hearing is to lay their hands upon the guilty one.

Meaning, everyone is responsible, according to ancient commentary.

The Israelite’s mother is Shelomit, daughter of Dibri.

Other ancient commentary says that her name infers, besides peace, that she talks too much, causing problems (an interesting contradiction, don’t you think?).

Why her son is then the problem, I’m not sure, except maybe that our gossip creates and spreads problems.

The Rabbis make a big deal out of speech.

They remind us repeatedly about its effects.

For, with words, the world was created.

Thus, the world is repeatedly, constantly, renewed and re-created.

So we must never underestimate the power of our words.

What follows this little story of the fight and a stoning are the famous verses, “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”

Not meant to be taken literally, but rather to say, an even exchange.

I leave you with questions.

How can these ideas be applied to our lives?

Our world?

Ideas about witnessing as a way of taking responsibility?

Ideas about the power of speech and the effect of our words?

And about, well, I guess, retaliation?

Or making up for what harm we’ve done?

How should we apply these ideas in our personal lives?

And in the world?

Do you have anything you’d like to share with me?

Please leave a comment below.

Shabbat Shalom.

Weddings, Campus Protests, Holocaust Remembrance Day, & Kedoshim. (You know what I mean?)

I’m putting the campus protests aside for just a moment.

Even though I’m obsessed.

I’m putting aside the idea that perhaps all that we are hearing, even in mainstream media, is not completely accurate.

That perhaps there is instigation and fear-mongering for political gain (for a helpful read, take a look at this and this).

Right now, though, I need to tell you about two weddings I officiated this week.

(But please stay curious, because I will circle back around before the end.)

On Saturday night, it was a Jewish-Indian wedding in Queens (NYC, for those who don’t know).

Tuesday evening, it was at a beach wedding out on Long Island.

(Very different vibe, both gorgeous, and you can check out a few photos here.)

In both cases, the bride was Jewish and the groom was not.

There was no other officiant other than the rabbi (that’s me!) in both cases, so you can’t totally call them interfaith.

The brides really wanted their Jewish wedding.

The one they had dreamed of.

And the grooms were very happy to go along with it.

Their faith, in either case, is not very strong.

Yet their identity as Jews is important enough for them to want a rabbi.

Again and again, I hear of rabbis yelling at couples like these.

What they all seek is someone to support them spiritually and Jewishly, and also appreciate and fully welcome their non-Jewish partner and family.

Not just half-assed. You know what I mean?

In both cases, the families loved and supported their children’s choices wholeheartedly and joyfully.

It’s the way most of us would like to see the world.

Everybody getting along. You know what I mean?

Both times there was absolutely no awareness (forget regard) for kosher food and what that means.

There was pork sausage and cheese (in the same dish), shrimp, and meat in cream sauces…that kind of thing.

I tried my best to keep within my own, personal guidelines, and worried momentarily if others were watching what “The Rabbi” was eating.

Then I realized they weren’t. And couldn’t care less.

For them, I was no less of a rabbi for what I might be eating—than for being a woman.

The couples heard Jewish prayers, circled each other, and sang Jewish songs, said Hebrew words, were lifted up in chairs, and danced their horah.

And nobody worried about just how Jewish or not-Jewish it all was.

They were curious, but not judgy.

You know what I mean?

(Where did those melodies come from? That feeling they got when everyone sang together?)

And the couples had their dream come true.

This week in Torah (yes, here it comes), we are reminded not to follow practices of “other nations.”

And to “love our fellow as ourselves.”

(Even the “stranger in our midst.”)

When I first thought about officiating at weddings, I thought it would be a (perhaps) good way to monetize on my rabbi skills.

I thought of it as maybe just a little bit frivolous, like people were just creating their “dream wedding.”

A little Disney-like.

But it’s been confirmed for me again and again, for most people, that it’s so much more.

At the beginning of each wedding, I’ve made it a custom to point out that at the end of the ceremony, the couple will break a glass.

I point to the feeling that we all have, right now especially, perhaps, that the world is very broken.

(Everyone nods and sighs. Or sighs and nods.)

Then I tell them of the Jewish mystical teaching that the world was created with a broken vessel.

And that we Jews, and humans in general, are a tiny piece of that vessel.

That we are meant to participate in repairing this vessel, and thus repairing the world.

Each in our own small way.

I also bring in the Jewish mystical idea that every couple is Divinely arranged.

And that each match carries with it the potential for Tikkun, or repair.

At the end of the day, what I realize is that I am not only offering the idea that the couple can play a part in the Tikkun of the world, but I am as well.

I help open space in the Jewish world where there is often judgement and exclusion.

Where there is hierarchy of “purity,” and patriarchy.

Let’s take this a step further.

Let’s think about what we’re saying not only to each other, but about each other—within “our own” people.

Remember, we are commanded to love our fellow as ourselves.

Yet, the vicious (yes, vicious) speech of my fellow Jews toward each other is hurtful, harmful, and divisive.

Regardless of who’s right, who’s wrong, who’s doing more harm, who’s more hateful.

It’s infuriating.

To read on social media, or hear with my own ears, as Jews hurl insults at each other.

That others should claim that their fellow Jews who “deny Zionism must also deny their Jewishness.”

Do we have the right to define other people’s Jewishness for them?

Are these same people claiming the right to define another’s gender or sexual orientation for them?

Or the right to define another’s nationality or peoplehood for them?

If others do this to Jews, and we don’t like it, should we do it to them?

For instance:

Are Jews a religion or a nationality?

Are Jews a people?

A race?

A culture?

Are Palestinians a “legitimate” people, or is that “fake”?

Does any of this even really matter?

Isn’t what matters most is that hostages are still being held, and may not come out alive?

Isn’t what matters most is that people are dying of starvation, being killed and displaced?

Isn’t what matters most is that people are being traumatized?

How can we proclaim that we are a peace-loving people as Jews when we participate in judging and insulting each other?

I don’t really care in this moment who is right and who is wrong.

What I do care about is misinformation.

I care about the press (including mainstream media!) going after the “sexiest” stories without actually talking to students on campus, for instance.

I care about politicians (who couldn’t care less about Jews and antisemitism) taking advantage of a situation for their personal gain.

I care about social media becoming a place for hate speech and insults—and more misinformation.

I care about whether we are willing to consider the possibility that what we are hearing or reading might not be entirely true.

I care about whether we can be open to information from sources outside what is the norm for each of us.

Information that might make us uncomfortable because it challenges our sense of self.

Our sense of identity.

Our sense of safety, and keeps us inside our own little bubble.

But what if our bubble keeps us in a place of fear?

Are there people who profit from our fear and want to keep us there?

I wonder if Holocaust Remembrance Day has been used to reinforce that fear.

But let me be clear; I in no way belittle the fear.

Fear is very real, and based on a history of real trauma.

But often fear and trauma become a reason to be Jewish.

And do we want to stay stuck in a place of fear, consciously or unconsciously?

How is that helpful?

So I ask, can we simply be open to hearing?

In spite of our fear.

Can we challenge ourselves to stay curious?

In spite of our fear.

And in spite if what we think we know?

In spite of our historical and/or personal trauma?

And then decide what’s true and what’s not.

This week I want to bless us with being more open to different information.

To break out of our habits.

To be kinder to each other, and encourage others to do the same by way of example.

And thus, in one small way, to participate in the Tikkun, the repair, of the world.

Then maybe we can get closer to achieving the world we say we dream of.

May it be so.

Shabbat Shalom.

Expansiveness & Acharey Mot

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

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

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

As the Israelites did in the desert.

It sure is hard to live expansively in this moment.

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

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

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

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

Many Jews feel alone and abandoned.

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

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

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

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

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

All together, these things have everyone horrified.

Incensed.

In disbelief.

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

Nothing else matters.

Where is there room for expansive thinking?

Expansive feeling?

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

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

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

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

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

One is for God.

The other, for the mysterious “Azazel.”

The goat designated as Azazel is chosen by lots.

Is this Azazel creature a demon?

Our own “evil inclination”?

The things we say to slander others?

Our hate speech, maybe?

Is it a scapegoat?

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

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

Even their clothing must be washed afterwards.

Otherwise, the guilt will stick.

In other words, a total transformation must happen.

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

We come out the other end free.

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

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

It’s necessary.

People’s human rights are being violated.

Death by starvation and destruction are happening.

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

It’s not random.

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

This war is very deliberate.

The decision to continue the destruction is not random.

Nor is the decision not to free hostages.

So, clouds where God hangs out and hides.

Will you please reveal yourself so we can find truth?

And hate speech and scapegoating.

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

And fear.

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

Finally, can we keep an open mind?

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

Or did they ever?

Can we?

Shabbat Shalom.

A Passover Sacrifice & Metzora

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I keep hearing that for Israelis, it’s as if it’s still October 7th in terms of the felt trauma.

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

For Gazans, well…

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

Or a full-blown fight?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It shows up again in this week’s Parsha.

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

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

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

Because with words, God created the world.

With words, worlds are created.

Or worlds are destroyed.

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

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

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

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

Because with words, the world is created.

And the opposite.

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

And can we say Amen?

And a happy Passover to all.

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

I’m feeling very serious this week.

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

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

(Woohoo!)

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

Opportunities abounded for cool social media posts.

And for opportunists looking to make money.

(I bet those special eyeglasses made millions.)

And the earthquake we had last week?

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

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

Opportunities also abound for political action these days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then we talked about Gaza.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the rise of hatred against Jews.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And treated with disgust and disdain by passersby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And don’t even get me started on abortion.

Or police brutality and racism. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We know we must find a new way of living.

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

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

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



It's a sign of hope. 


So here's my blessing for the week: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I beseech you—I beseech us all.

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

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

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

And let us say Amen.

Just a Poem (for Shemini?)

This week, I got nothin’.

At least I don’t think so—or didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

Above and Below:

Before I could speak, I reached

for something shiny. And godlike

figures swooping in from nowhere

blew small winds in my ear.

Later my parents tried to tell me

there was no wind. It was our relatives

playing with me in my crib. But I know

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

arranged by movements of air. And kept

alive more than once by godlike things

swooping in from nowhere.

You see, things are always what they

seem and more. Like icebergs, above

and below. Like what we say. And what

happens to us. Like the ribbon of to-

morrow behind the winter trees this

instant. Just another day and the call

of all that is waiting out of view.

So when I chance upon an infant

I lean in close and close my eyes, let-

ting all the love I’ve known and dreamed

rise from the basin of my being. Until it

rounds the soft precipice of my mouth

and falls as a whisper that might

steer a life toward light when lost.

(From his book, The Way Under the Way)

Lessons of Bravery from Death & Tzav

This afternoon I led another funeral.

This woman was kind and brave and full of love.

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

She was an accepting person who did not judge others.

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

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

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

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

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

Many people who loved her thought she was giving up.

What she was actually doing was surrendering to the inevitable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It must not go out.

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

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

Yes, We Can Talk

Having loved enough and lost enough,

I’m no longer searching

Just opening.

No longer trying to make sense of pain

But trying to be a soft and sturdy home

In which real things can land.

These are the irritations

That rub into a pearl.

So we can talk for a while

But then we must listen,

The way rocks listen to the sea.

And we can churn at all that goes wrong

But then we must lay all distractions

Down and water every living seed.

And yes, on nights like tonight

I, too, feel alone. But seldom do I 

Face it squarely enough

To see that it’s a door

Into the endless breath that has no breather, 

In the surf that human

Shells call God. 

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

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

May we make a world where people die in dignity.

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

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

And say Amen.