Choosing a Path, Choosing Life: Behar, 05-03-13

This portion of Behar toward the end of Leviticus is similar to the rest of the book. God continues to instruct the Israelites regarding God's statues and laws. Unlike the previous few portions, however, God's commands in Behar are meant for the entirety of the Israelite people, not just the priests.

God promises heaps of reward and blessing for following the statues.

God prefaces all of the blessings with this verse: If you walk in my statues, and keep my commandments, and do them... For 10 verses, God goes on at length about the various gifts that will be bestowed upon us should we follow God's commandments. In flowery language uncharacteristic of the Torah, God promises rain in its due season, plenty of food, peace in the land, the removal of wild beasts, death of enemies, the establishment of a covenant, a holy presence in the tabernacle, and a University of Georgia National Championship.

Ok, God does not promise a football title, but it seems that God certainly makes these laws desirable.

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After these 10 verses that fill us with hope and excitement, enticing us for the sweet carrot of reward that God promises, God tells us what will happen if we do not follow the commandments.

But if you will not listen to me, and will not do all these commandments ...

For the next 26 verses, God threatens us with horrible punishments that will befall us should we not obey. Here is just one of the punishments:

I will appoint over you terror, consumption, and fever, that shall consume the eyes, and cause sorrow of heart; and you shall sow your seed in vain, for your enemies shall eat it.

Blessing and curse, reward and punishment. God promises both. But as the end of Deuteronomy teaches us, the choice is up to us. In one of his last speeches, Moses tells us to choose life.

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Reform Judaism continues to struggle with these images of divine reward and punishment. The psalmist reminds us that the wicked flourish like grass. Many of us have experienced unfair tragedy and pain despite living righteously. We may not experience a reality of God rewarding and punishing us on granular level that the Torah would have us believe.

In fact, Reform Judaism has excised an entire paragraph out of the V'ahavhta because of this issue. Similar to this Torah portion, that paragraph of the V'ahavta provides a detailed list of rewards and punishments relating to our observance of the commandments. This paragraph is not in the Union Prayer Book. It is not in Gates of Prayer, and it is also not to be found in our current siddur, Mishkan T'fillah.

So what do we do with these themes of God's promises of unbridled reward and God's threats of harsh punishment?

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Let's go back to the third verse in the portion, which states If you walk in my statues and keep my commandments. Note the verb; If you walk in my statutes...

I think that this is important. The word halachah is used to describe the system of Jewish laws, the collection of the 613 Mitzvot as described in the Torah and debated in the Talmud. Halachah comes from the same root as the verb in our verse, taylaychu. Both have to do with walking. Halachah is commonly translated as the path, in that it is the path of holiness that each of us walks when we perform Mitzvot.

This conception helps me with the theologically troubling issue of divine reward and retribution. God may not dole out prizes and punishments based on our specific actions, but each of our actions are part of our life, our journey, our path. Each of us decides where we will walk, not God. It is up to us to read the Torah and determine its worth for our lives. Judaism teaches us that this choice is constant, and the choice depends solely on each of us. It doesn't just happen once. This is halachah, the path of Jewish holiness.

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Lao Tzu remarked that every journey begins with a single step. Each of our steps can lead to us walking further down a path of holiness. Each step can be part of blessing or curse. Let us choose the path of life, that each of our steps is part of a glorious halachah.

Rembering One Life, Remembering 6 Million - Yom Hashoah 03-05-13

Shabbat Shalom.

In the movie Grand Canyon, Steve Martin's character says, All of life's riddles are answered in the movies! This quote came to mind when I learned that Roger Ebert passed away.

Many of you know that Roger Ebert was a famous and popular movie critic. Along with his partner and friend Gene Siskel, he made an indelible mark on popular culture. Although a bit gimmicky, many continue to show opinions for a movie by giving it a "thumbs-up" or a "thumbs-down;" a practice started by Roger Ebert.

In 1975, Ebert won the Pulitzer Prize for distinguished criticism. This was the first Pulitzer given to a film critic. In 2006, he developed a cancer that took away part of his jaw. He was unable to eat, speak or drink. His continual fight and courage drove him to return to media, as he used Facebook and other social-media outlets to connect with others. He hired other actors to serve as his voice, and he continued to write for the Chicago Sun-Times.

In deciding whether to see a movie, I'd often read Ebert's review first. On many occasions, his review was the determining factor as to whether I would see it or not. Sometimes I'd see a movie that I didn't quite understand, or enjoy. I'd then read Roger Ebert's explanations and queries. More often than not, I'd come away with a new insight. If life's riddles are answered in the movies, Roger Ebert helped explain a myriad of answers. Ebert was our modern day Rashi, helping to tease out further meaning and beauty out of movies, just as Rashi does for the Torah.

Roger Ebert because he left a huge legacy behind him. He wrote over twenty books, and hundreds of insightful, humorous, sometimes scathing, but always thoughtful movie reviews. With integrity and courage, he fought cancer so that he could continue to teach, and inspire. I mourn his loss.

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I purposefully think of this one man tonight ... this one life ... as it is two days before we commemorate Yom Hashoah. Yom Hashoah is the day on which we commemorate of the Holocaust, in which 6 million Jews who lost their lives.

Roger Ebert left a huge legacy behind, but many of our 6 million brothers and sisters did not. Over 1 million children under the age of 16 died in the Holocaust. They were not able to write books, work for a newspaper, fight courageously against cancer, start a popular television program, or win a Pulitzer Prize.

Our Talmud reminds us that the loss of one life is akin to losing a universe. One life is full of infinite potential, and also for the chance to bring forth further life. We mourn one life because his life's work inspired us. We watched news reports of his brave battle with cancer. But what about 6 million lives?

Joseph Stalin famously remarked that the loss of one man is a tragedy, but the loss of a million is a statistic. Judaism screams at us, Al Tiscach! Do. Not. Forget. We feel the pain of losing those millions of universes - the dreams and creations, the possibilities and the achievements that could have been, but were snuffed out because of intolerance and hatred.

Yom Hashoah serves as a painful reminder that every life is precious, that every man, woman and child is filled with the ability to teach and inspire, to make us laugh, to make us question, to make us learn, to make us holy ... We mourn for those we know, but on Yom Hashoah, we mourn for those that we might have known. Those universes of life are now gone.

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Roger Ebert wrote a memoir last year called, Life Itself. In it, he wrote,“I have seen untold numbers of movies and forgotten most of them, but I remember those worth remembering, and they are all on the same shelf in my mind.

Judaism teaches us that each and every life is worth remembering. On Yom Hashoah, we remember them in our minds. We grieve for what they may have been. We mourn the loss to the Jewish people, and also to the world. We cry over the immense, almost unthinkable tragedy of 6 million souls lost to us, and lost to our families. Our sadness is heightened not only by what was lost, but also by what could have been.

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Our greatest consolation is ourselves. If we heed our dictum not to forget, we will not allow this to ever happen again. We will not allow other people to be targeted because of their religion, or race, or sexual orientation. The act of not forgetting is not only a mental one, it is a physical one, done with our Mitzvot, our deeds.

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I close with words of Roger Ebert, commenting on Steven Spielberg's movie, Schindler's List.

At the end of the film, there is a sequence of overwhelming emotional impact, involving the actual people who were saved by Schindler. We learn that "Schindler's Jews" and their de scendants today number about 6,000 and that the Jewish population of Poland is 4,000. The obvious lesson would seem to be that Schindler did more than a whole nation to spare its Jews. That would be too simple. The film's message is that one man did something, while in the face of the Holocaust others were paralyzed. Perhaps it took a Schindler, enigmatic and reckless, without a plan, heedless of risk, to do what he did.

Counting the Omer: Measuring Time, Measuring Ourselves 03-29-13

Jews have always measured time.

The Mishnah informs us that we do not just have the one new year of Rosh Hashanah. Not content to only have one, Judaism has four different new year celebrations. There's Tu'bisvat, the new year for the trees. There is Pesach, the new year for our freedom. There is also the 1st of Elul. This date is the new year for animal tithes. You can think of it as the ancient Israelite's version of April 15. These three are in addition to Rosh Hashanah.

Looking back to Hannukah, the ritual of lighting the Hannukah menorah is demonstrative of the Jewish desire to count time, to measure the seasons ... to measure our lives.

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Starting on the 2nd night of Passover, we begin a ritual known as 'The Counting of the Omer.' Once the sun sets, we recite a blessing that marks that days place in that counting. We do this for 49 days days. On the day after the 49th day, we celebrate Shavuot, the day in which God gives us the Torah. Interestingly, Shavuot is the only holiday in the Torah that does not have its own Hebrew date assigned to it. We know, for example that Rosh Hashanah is the first of Tishrei, and that Passover is on the 15th of Nissan. But Shavuot is defined only in terms of Passover! This is why the holiday is called what it is; Shavuot means weeks. It occurs seven weeks after Passover. And so, for the next 49 days, we count toward the holiday.

But there's something worth noting about how we count. When I was a kid, I would always like to count the days until my birthday. I'd be sure to give my parents a constant update ... 5 days til my birthday! 2 days til my birthday!

In Judaism, though, we do not count like this. We count upwards. Again, hearkening back to Hannukah, Hillel teaches us that we light 1 candle the first night and 2 candles the second night to remind us that we should always go upwards in holiness. Thus, the counting that we do goes up. Even though it's mathematically correct to say that Shavuot is in 46 days, we should instead reflect that today is the third day of the omer.

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We also mark time in our liturgy.

For the past 6 months, we have added a line to the Amidah. During the second section, g'vruot, there is a short addition in which we ask God to cause the wind to blow and the rain to fall. But just as there is a time to plant and a time to sew, there is a time in Israel when rain is no longer considered a blessing. The sun needs to shine on the crops. And so, starting on Pesach, we no longer ask God to provide rain and wind. From now until Simchat Torah, we ask God to cause the dew to fall. You'll remember that as we davened the Amidah just a few minutes ago, we did change to this new blessing. The cycle of the Jewish calendar is a foundation for what prayers we say, and when.

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We measure time by our Torah portions. Each week, we read through the Torah, until we begin again with Genesis on Simchat Torah. Even if we know the Torah backwards and forwards, we are still meant to go through the Torah portion each week. One reason for this is that the Torah reflects new insights to us as we grow, as we mature, as we go through life's varied and wonderful experiences.

On this Shabbat, we read a special Torah portion from Exodus, deviating entirely from the weekly order. This is yet another example of how we Jews mark time.

But as we mark and measure time, we also measure ourselves.

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The Psalmist (Psalm 90) writes: Teach us to number our days, that we may attain a heart of wisdom. We do not count simply because we are excited about what's coming. We count so that we can grow into who we are becoming. We count so that we can grow upwards in holiness.

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We do not just count the days leading up to shavuot. We also are meant to learn, to act, to reflect. Just as on Passover we act as though we ourselves were freed from Egypt, right now we should act as though God is giving the Torah to us. We must deserve it. To merit the receiving of Torah, this period of counting is here for us so that we can abide by the Psalmists words, and attain a heart of wisdom.

Israelite's Freedom, Israel's Freedom; Reflections on President Obama's Israel Trip 03-22-13

Sometimes, particularly in this book of Leviticus that we started reading from last week, the Torah can seem convoluted, murky ... difficult to understand. When reading through or studying, we may wade slowly through whole sections listing the genealogies of who begat whom, or passages filled with seemingly endless delineations of measurements for the mishkan.

Often, however, the Torah screams to us one word, or one verse, that can provide spiritual nourishment from one Shabbat to the next. V'ahavta et Adonai elohecha b'chol l'vavcha; Love your God with all of your heart. Sh'ma Yisrael Adonai eloheinu Adonai echad; Hear O Israel, the Lord is your God, the Lord is One. Lo b'shamayiim hi; The Torah is not in heaven. And here is a verse from Deuteronomy which remains a foundational principle for Reform Judaism, Tzedek tzedek tirdof; Justice, justice shall you pursue.

On this Shabbat before Pesach, I reflect on this verse, as justice and freedom are the central themes of Passover. The matzah, maror, shank bone, the children's frantic search for the afikomen, our singing of the 4 questions ... all of these rituals help us fulfill Rabban Gamliel's dictum that each of us are meant to act as if we were slaves in Egypt, and that God freed us. Passover is not historical; it is experiential.

And so, on Passover, we think not only of the Israelite's freedom from Egypt. We reflect on our freedom, on our security. The freedom that God gave to us can be used ... should be used ... to enable the freedom of others. Tzedek, tzedek, tirdof. Justice, justice shall you pursue. Passover may be a uniquely Jewish holiday, but its themes are universal.

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Just yesterday, Thursday 3/21/13, President Obama travelled to Israel, the West Bank and Jordan. Politicos and pundits had the sense that the president would not outline any specific plans for a peace process in the Middle East. Expectations were at a minimum. So much so in fact, that members of the press corps gave a monicker to the president's trip: Operation Desert Schmooze.

I'm sure many of you heard the President's speech, or caught highlights of it on the news or the Internet. It struck me that President Obama began his speech by talking about our upcoming holiday of Passover and of our own struggle for freedom and justice. In fact, ever since he hit the campaign trail in 2008, the White House has hosted its own Passover seder, using but of course, the Maxwell Haggadah.

Just after the speech, another president, the president of our Union for Reform Judaism, Rick Jacobs, commented on the President's speech: As the leader of the largest Movement of Jews in North America, I want to thank President Obama for his vision, his energy and his leadership. We stand in support of the President as he works to help bring peace and security to the state of Israel.

President Obama was quite clear on the sustained security of the state of Israel: Make no mistake: those who adhere to the ideology of rejecting Israel’s right to exist might as well reject the earth beneath them and the sky above, because Israel is not going anywhere. Today, I want to tell you—particularly the young people—that so long as there is a United States of America, Ah-tem lo lah-vad.” (You are not alone.) Later in the speech, he strongly stated that Israel should not be expected to negotiate with those who demands its destruction. But he also mentioned that there is a window of opportunity. There is no easy solution that will negate thousands of years of mistrust and conflict, but there is a possibility, an opportunity. That possibility can begin a new chapter of history. Talking about the Palestinians, he said Their right to self-recognition, their right to justice, must also be recognized.

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These comments brings me back to that wonderful verse, Tzedek tzedek tirdof. Our Torah commentators saw this verse and asked, why is tzedek repeated twice? Surely it's obvious that we should pursue peace and justice. But what does it mean that the word for justice follows itself? One answer is that we must remember that just as we pursue justice, we must pursue justice with justice. The ends do not justify the means. President Obama reflected this notion when he said that the peace process must be a just process. We may not march through the Red Sea together holding hands, but we must walk through together.

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Quoting President Obama: There are always going to be reasons to avoid risk. There will always be people who provide an excuse not to act.

After the Exodus, we wander. a lot. It takes the Israelites 40 years to reach the promised land, the land of milk and honey, the land of Israel. But the journey from Egypt to Israel did not need to take 40 years. If you've ever been to the Middle East, you may know that It's only about a 240 mile trip to get from Egypt to Israel. Do the math - the Isrealites averaged a paltry 6 miles a year! Why?

This is the reason: In the book of Numbers, God sends 12 scouts to look at the land of Israel and report back to the Israelite people. God hopes that the scouts will report excitement and hope, eager to go into this new chapter of their lives. But instead, 10 of the 12 scouts share feelings of fear and negativity. They scare the other Israelites. At one point, the Israelites even beg Moses to let them go back into Egypt! The Israelites were scared to move on. They were still trapped in Egypt. Not physically, but spiritually. In fact, the Hebrew word for Egypt, Mitzrayiim, reflects this sense of being metaphorically imprisoned. The word is a conjunction of three words: Mi, tzar and -im. Mi means from. Tzar means a narrow place. and the suffix -im is a plural ending. Taken together the words Mitzrayiim means from the narrow places. Passover helps to take us out of our own Mitzrayiim.

Judaism teaches us to act, sometimes in spite of our fears, and sometimes despite the risk involved. Regarding Israel and its future, let us be like Joshua and Caleb, the two scouts who had the courage to venture into the unknown, with its risks and with its challenges, but also with the faith that it would be a holy, blessed journey.

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In a moment of vulnerability and humility, President Obama said: And let me say this as a politician, I can promise you this: political leaders will never take risks if the people do not push them to take some risks. You must create the change that you want to see. Ordinary people can accomplish extraordinary things.

Our holiday of Passover teaches us that God communicates with us when we communicate with God; when we perform mitzvot; when we take action.

My favorite midrash occurs just before the splitting of the Red Sea. The Israelites can hear the thundering approach of the Egyptian army. They are trapped, because the expanse of the Red Sea is in front of them. As fear and dread grow, the Israelites pray to God as fervently as they know how. And nothing happens. After a few minutes, a man named Nachson pushes his way to the front of the crowd. Already he is singing the words of Mi Chamocha, Mi Chamocha ba'elim Adonai, Who is like you Eternal God? He wades into the water, prayer and song still on his lips. And just as his head goes under water, God splits the Red Sea, and the entire throng of Israelites join Nachson in song. What's the takeaway of this midrash? Prayer is not enough. As Obama said, quoting Ghandi, Be the change that you want to see in the world.

May Passover challenge all of us not to be shackled to the Mitzrayiim of the past. May we, like Nachson, wade through the murky waters of the unknown future with songs on our lips and prayers in our hearts. We will not go back to Mitzrayiim. We will go forward, to a promised land of peace and security. It is this Israel that we should dream of at the end of our seders, when we joyously say, L'shanah haba'ah Birushalyaim; Next year in Jerusalem.

A Different Version of the Passover Story ..

I Call to God, God Calls to Me: Vayikra 03-15-13

One of my favorite Torah passages occurs in the first portion of Exodus. Moses had just killed an Egyptian taskmaster, and Moses ran away to escape Pharoah's wrath. These short verses are a watershed moment for the Israelites.

... the people of Israel sighed because of the slavery, and they cried, and their cry came up to God ... And God heard their groaning, and God remembered his covenant with Abraham, with Isaac, and with Jacob.

This early passage from Exodus suggests that God does indeed hear prayer. And God does not only listen. God reacts. God mentors a young shepherd named Moses. God performs 10 acts of miracle and might in the land of Egypt, culminating in the splitting of the mighty waters of the Red Sea. God frees the Israelites.

But, God only frees the Israelites after God has heard their prayer.

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This week's parsha is the first portion of Leviticus, the third and central book in the Torah. In this portion, God describes the different sacrifices the Israelites are to offer. The Hebrew word for sacrifice is korban. The three letter root of the word is kuf-resh-vet and it also signifies nearness, or proximity. By performing korbanot, sacrifices, the Israelites become closer with God. Now, tonight, we will sacrifice no bulls, or goats ... but we do pray. Our prayers are meant to be an offering of our mouths and hearts. Our prayers and songs are indeed korbanot.

This third book of the Torah is titled Vayikra, stemming from the first word of the portion:

Vayikra el-Moseh va-y'daber Adonai elav mey-ohel moed ley-mor. And the Lord called to Moses, and spoke to him out of the tent of meeting, saying.

We know that God talks to Moses a lot in the Torah. Typically, it will say Va-y'daber Adonai el-Moshe ley-mor. And the Lord spoke to Moses, saying.

But in this verse, in this one instance that begins the third book of the Torah, God does not just talk with Moses. God calls out to Moses. God's conversation with him is one of kavanah.

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The understanding of this word, kavannah, is crucial. Kavannah changes the recitation of Hebrew words into prayer. It can change a declaration of love into an awareness of love. And it transforms moments of life experience into holiness.

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The word kavannah comes from kivun, meaning direction. Having kavannah implies a direction of intellectual and emotional thought.

Judaism's system of mitzvot, rituals and customs heighten kavannah in our lives.

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We have looked at two divine encounters. In the book of Exodus, the Israelites cry out to God. After 420 years of slavery, they shout to God their pain, their agony. God hears their prayer, and initiates a course of action that eventually leads not only to freedom, but to a land flowing with milk and honey. This example from Exodus reminds us that We. need. God.

This is the first step of our religious development. Just as children need their parents for shelter and support, our ancestors needed God's support, care and love. We acknowledge our need of God. God hears our needs so that we can continue on our journey.

That journey leads us to Vayikra. Here, it is God who needs us. God calls out to Moses. This is emblematic of the brit that God first made with Abraham. And so, whereas Exodus teaches us that we pray to God. Vaykira teaches that we communicate with God.

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That communication can only happen with kavannah. Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlov commented that he felt God's presence whenever he allowed himself to feel God's presence. Similarly, we can communicate with God whenever there is kavannah.

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We're looking at just this one word ... Vaykira. This one specific word teaches us so much. But remember this: Moses was in the desert and saw an area of burning shrubbery. Many would have walked by, thinking that the desert heat caused a bush to ignite with flames. But Moses paid attention. He saw the burning bush for the miracle that it was. Similarly, we should display kavannah to our Torah, so that we continue to learn insights and messages from this Tree of Life, so that we continue to offer korbanot so that we may get closer to God, and finally, so we learn that just as we cry out to God, God cries out to us. May each of us have the kavannah to be able to hear God's voice.

Judaism in 8 Minutes: Tzedakah, Charity and Righteousness

Enough Already! Vayakhel/Pekudei 03-08-13

A few years ago, I got into electronic music production. I have what is known as a MIDI keyboard, a piano keyboard that plugs into my Mac via a USB chord. The keyboard itself is not a synthesizer; it makes no sounds on its own. But when paired with a program like Garage Band, or the more advanced Ableton Live, Cubase or Pro Tools, magical things can happen. Most modern music that we listen to is at least partially created through such tools.

People come into my music studio and ask me what I've created. It's a bit embarrassing, but after a few years of tinkering, purchasing and experimenting, I only have a few pieces that I would even deem to call songs. Recently I worked on a musical idea and was excited about the formation of my wonderful opus of creativity and expression. Upon presenting this nascent piece to my girlfriend, Emily, I was dismayed when she likened it to ... well ... a mastodon call. I'm not going to become Quincy Jones anytime soon.

There is a huge learning curve to this hobby. There are books, tutorial courses on the Internet, a constant influx of hobbyists posting tips and tricks on YouTube. And if that's not enough, there is a seeming limitless arsenal of new virtual instruments to demo and download, starting the process all over again.

And so, I spent a good amount of time watching the YouTube videos, reading reviews of new software ... and in the process, I'm learning a great deal. But I'm not making music.

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Which brings me to our Torah portion.

In this double portion, Vayakhel/Pekudei, the Isrealites put the finishing touches on the tabernacle.

The Isrealites are still bringing things to the tabernacle, as they were commanded in T'rumah. They bring more embroideries, sculptures, and paintings. They donate gold, silver and bronze, bracelets, earrings, red skins of rams, goat skins, blue, purple and scarlet linens, onyx stones ... You get the idea. In that portion of T'rumah Moses commands the giving of gifts (trumah) to anyone whose heart so moves them. This is the result of Moses' exhortation.

In the throes of this generosity of sprit, in the midst of the trumah, Moses puts a screeching halt to the process.

And Moses gave commandment, and they caused it to be proclaimed throughout the camp, saying, 'Let neither man nor woman do any more work for the offering of the sanctuary.' So the people were restrained from bringing. For the stuff they had was sufficient for all the work to make it.

It was time to stop. Even though the Israelites were still bringing valuable items to the Mishkan, the purpose was fulfilled. It was time to move on.

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When we are fully engaged in something, it's very difficult to stop. Kal V'Chomer, all the more so for something that is worthy, or spiritual. The Israelites were building the Tabernacle; there aren't many more worthwhile endeavors than that! And yet, despite the Israelites generosity, despite their passion and spirit, Moses puts a halt to it.

Moses' action teaches two very important lessons. The first lesson is one Moses learned a few portions back. If we hearken back to when Moses fled Egypt, Moses had an interesting encounter with his father-in-law, Jethro, for whom the portion Yitro is named. Jethro gives Moses advice. Jethro saw that Moses was in a hamster wheel, going round and round in exhaustion. Once listening to Jethro, Moses was able to be a better leader. So the first lesson is this: We need people to shake us from what we think is the right thing to do, or the normal thing to do, or the routine thing to do. Moses' willingness to allow another to mentor him is a model for all of us. Moses learned the lesson because now he serves as the mentor to the Israelites.

The second lesson is simply this: We need to move on.

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You may think, But in this portion, the Israelites are doing amazing things. They're giving of themselves and their hearts! Why should they stop?

We get so caught up in things that sometimes we need someone telling us it's time to stop. We have to think about what the overall purpose is. When God freed us from Egypt, the story does not end. In fact, our sages suggest that this is where our Torah really starts! In this portion, the achievement is not in the building the Mishkan. The goal is to pray together in the Mishkan.

Moses reminds us that there is some truth to having 'too much of a good thing.'

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The tinkering that I do in my music studio brings to mind this lesson. Because even though I'm learning, I'm not fulfilling the real goal, which is to create music.

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Moses ensures that the Israelites have a sense of perspective. The Mishkan is a means to an end. Regardless of how beautiful the tabernacle is, it is still a building. What matters most is the connections that happen inside the building - the connections between the Israelites, and the connection to God.

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Here we are, like the Israelites, constructing a mishkan. It's a little different, of course. We're not building a building, brick by brick. We're not asked to measure cubits of thread, or donate precious jewels and metals. But we are building a community.

As each of us is participates in Temple life, Moses challenges us to remember our over-arching holy goal. This is as true for all of us: a Sisterhood member, an organizer of a Havdalah program, a bar or bat mitzvah student, a rabbi, a board member ... all of us can be like Moses in that we each are sometimes blind to what we should be doing, And, all of us can be like Moses in that we each can have perspective, helping to show others that whereas what we might be doing is good, it is nonetheless time to stop, look at what we've done, and move on.

The Holiness of Broken Tablets: Ki Tissa 03-01-13

Holiness.

We often think of holiness as the pinnacle of our achievements, such as when we are at our best, our most thoughtful, our most patient, our most spiritual.

Holiness represents the best that we can be. Just a few minutes ago, we all stood for the Amidah, the central prayer in Jewish worship. Our Rabbis suggest that whereas the Sh'ma talks about God, in the Amidah, each of us talks to God. The Amidah allows each of us to have an individual audience with God, concluding in a very personal and intimate silent prayer.

Our services do not begin with the Amidah. The Amidah is a climax to our Shabbat service. We need to build up to it because the achievement of holiness and theological connection take a certain amount of effort. We have to earn our audience with God. And so, we engage in some warm-up spiritual exercises, eventually reaching the heights of the angels.

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We can't always be at these high spiritual levels, however. Each week, each Shabbat, we have to go through the process of starting with Kabalat Shabbat, moving forward through Bar'chu and Sh'ma, recounting the history of our redemption with Mi Chamocha, and only then are we ready for the Amidah. We may stand on peaks of holiness and spirituality, but we must realize that we get there only after the efforts of climbing. Secondly, we must descend.

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This is the case with the Israelites.

Egyptians enslaved the Israelites for 420 years. God performed a series of 10 miracles and signs for them, and then just as it all seemed for naught, as the Egyptians came bearing after them with horse and chariot, God miraculously split the Sea of Reeds. Following this celebratory march of freedom, the Israelites stood under Mount Sinai, hearing God's voice give them what would be known forever as the Ten Commandments.

But then things change. It gets quiet. There are no public displays of God's miraculous power. There are no plagues, no miracles. For 40 days the Israelites have no direct experience with God. In addition to that, Moses left the group as well. Without God's presence and Moses' instruction, they do not know what to do.

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Understanding all of this helps to explain what happens next: the worship of a golden calf. Along with Aaron's help, the Israelites build this golden idol, so that they can recapture those powerful feelings of holiness and spirituality.

When Moses finds out about this, he is upset. He is so enraged, in fact, that he throws down the two tablets containing the Ten Commandments. The tablets crash at the base of the mountain, splintering into thousands of pieces.

After calming down, Moses crafts a new set of tablets, and these new tablets accompany the Israelites on their 40 year trek toward the promised land.

...

And here is where the story takes an interesting turn. In Numbers, the Torah recounts that the Israelites journeyed a three-day distance and that the Ark of the Covenant journeyed before them a three-day distance. Rashi's comments invoke some serious head-scratching: The broken pieces of the Tablets were placed in this ark.

According to Rashi, when Moses shattered the original set of commandments, the various shards and pieces were gathered up and protected. Just as Jewish newlyweds save the shards of the destroyed glass at the end of a marriage ceremony, the remains of the original tablets were saved, protected, and placed into the Ark of the Covenant.

...

I started all of this by talking about holiness.

The incident with the Golden Calf teaches many important lessons. Tonight, however, I want to focus on just one: Holy experiences are not limited to the high moments of our lives. Holiness does not only happen when God splits the Red Sea, or when we gather to hear the Ten Commandments. Holiness can also take place during the next 40 days - the period of quiet that comes after the encounter with God, after the epiphany. Holiness can be part of "normal" life.

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That is why I continue to find it so insightful that the broken pieces of the tablets were placed into the Ark of the Covenant. Those broken pieces challenge us to be holy even after the personal audience with God at the Amidah, even after the life-cycle event, the wedding, the baby-naming, the bat-mitzvah.

Our lives are not lived crossing the Red-Sea, standing under Mount Sinai or having a 40 day summons with God to create the Torah. Most of our lives are similar to the Israelites' experience of those 40 days; quiet ... routine ... normal. We should not strive to fill our lives with the epiphanies of holy moments. We should fill them with holiness. And as we march forth in our lives, let us carry the broken tablets with us, reminding ourselves that we can be holy anywhere, if only we choose to be.

Every Tradition Begins with a New Idea: How Camp Coleman Made me a Rabbi→

I was asked to contribute the following piece to URJ Camp Coleman's blog:

How Camp Coleman Made me a Rabbi

Daniel's Bar Mitzvah Video ... Too Much? Not Enough? Shabbat Zachor 02-22-13

If you have not already, please first watch the video above.

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Earlier today, I sent my congregation a link to a video on YouTube. As of this afternoon, over 243,000 people have watched an Atlanta kid rap about the Braves, keeping kosher, musing about the Torah and commenting on the fact that he's allergic to penicillin.

Daniel and his family are members of The Temple in Atlanta. This three minute video features cameos by basketball stars, a rap artist, and the mayor of Atlanta, Kasim Reed. It was produced with high production values and was endorsed by his rabbi, my colleague and friend Peter Berg.

There has been a swarm of comment and controversy surrounding this video since it was uploaded two weeks ago. The CNN belief blog posted a comment by one woman: Gag. This would be cute if it weren't so excessive. I'm embarrassed on behalf of The Temple (the synagogue Daniel's family attends), my home city and southern Jewry.

On the YouTube page, there are 658 "likes" for the video and 238 "dislikes." It's common understanding that a video does not get a "dislike" unless one finds it tasteless or offensive.

Since sending the congregation the link to the video, I've heard from several about it. I will quote the first two emails that I received. The first, This is awesome! The second, This is disgusting! Two Jews, three opinions ...

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My opinion ... I like the video. I admire the creativity and follow-through of Daniel and his family. As a Jewish educator, I like the fact that the rap speaks of Judaism and Torah and different mitzvot. I also like that Daniel takes ownership over his process of becoming a bar mitzvah. His video invitation is not only about the party.

HuffingtonPost.com contains the following headline: Daniel Blumen's Bar Mitzvah Rap Is Probably Not What The Forefathers Had In Mind. And this is my point. Daniel's bar mitzvah needs to be meaningful for him. Yes, he has to complete synagogue requirements and Torah study and prayer literacy. But these are only the stepping stones to a greater achievement; a personal connection and understanding.

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It strikes me that this video is garnishing so much attention now, just as we are about to celebrate the holiday of Purim.

During Purim, and during this month of Adar, Judaism suggests that we not take ourselves so seriously. That's why we will alllllll dress up tomorrow night ... it's why we scream when we hear Haman's name, and it is why our service tomorrow night will be full of mirth and frivolity.

Many Jews like to joke that there is a mitzvah to get drunk on Purim. Whereas this is true, it's not the whole story. The exact commandment is that each adult is to drink until they do not know the difference between Cursed be Haman and Blessed be Mordechai.

You may have heard of the word gemmatria before. Gemmatria is the Jewish numbers game. Each letter in the Hebrew alphabet is assigned a number. Alef-1, Bet-2, etc ... Yud is ten, Kaf, 20, and so on. Rabbis and scholars often find semantic connections between words in the Bible based on their numerical gemmatria. Many will add up the gemmatria in their Hebrew name and then find a word in the Torah with the same numerical equivalent.

All of that being said, the gemmatria for Cursed be Haman and Blessed be Mordechai is exactly the same. The Hebrew letters of both phrases add up to 502.

Sure, this is an intellectual curiosity, and it hopefully serves as an interesting tidbit to pull out as part of a Shabbat sermon. But Judaism suggests a meaning to this mathematical equivalence. The holiday of Purim teaches us that even as we are certain of a judgement or opinion, we may not have all of the information. We may think of something as a blessing, but a deeper reality suggests that it's a curse. And likewise, we may see something as a curse, but in fact, it really may be a blessing.

...

Such is the case with Daniel and his video.

Some may have the opinion that the video is inappropriate or tasteless. I don't agree, but it is certainly a valid opinion.

I do argue, however with the comments that Daniel is not taking his bar-mitzvah seriously, or that all he wants to do is have a party, or that his priorities are in the wrong place.

I disagree because to be frank, we just don't know. A three minute video is not enough to judge the integrity of the religious identity of one twelve-year old boy.

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Esther, the book we read on Purim, is the only book in the Hebrew Bible that does not mention the name of God. One rabbinic teaching is that God is hidden in the story; God is hidden through the deeds of Esther and Mordechai. God may not be seen or experienced, but God is still present. The story seems to be one of ribaldry, bawdiness and chaos, but there is holiness present. We need just be open to see it.

...

The same is true for Daniel's bar mitzvah.

We make a quick and harsh judgement, and this is the consequence: We hide from ourselves a fuller picture and a more nuanced opinion. Purim is so holy because on it we embrace the known and the unknown, the visible and the hidden. But too often we do not acknowledge the fact that we need more information before making a judgement. We simply rely on what is right in front of us.

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We sometimes also forget that Judaism's very foundation is controversy and disagreement. I don't mean this in a self-deprecating way. The Talmud is filled with rabbis disagreeing with each other, sometimes virulently so. These disagreements are often not resolved. We are left to wrestle with what we think, with an interpretation that makes sense to us.

This video was seen by over 250,000 people. Many of them are Jews. Even if you find the video upsetting, I bet that your reaction to the video has caused you to think about the meaning of ritual, the tension between technology and tradition, or the role of a rabbi in mentoring a young Jewish student. It forces a conversation, a dialogue, even an argument. But that's not a bad thing; it's a Jewish thing, and a holy thing.

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Purim is incredibly multi-layered. Tomorrow, to say that we will not take ourselves seriously is an understatement. But we will take our Judaism seriously. The humor, the costumes, the drinking, the Purim schpiel ... all of these remind us that there is more than meets the eye. The story of Purim may seem ribald and convoluted. God seems not to be present. And for some of us, Daniel seems not to take his bar mitzvah seriously enough.

Let us come out from the hidden corners of our judgements and prejudices. We may not understand any deeper reality, but we can at least sense a deeper reality. We can sense God, hiding in the town of Shushan. We can sense blessing even as we might otherwise only sense curse. And we can wish Daniel a Mazal Tov and Yasher Koach for helping us have this conversation.

You. Are. Talented. T'rumah 02-15-13

I have always loved talent shows. A few years ago in Omaha we decided to do a coffee-house talent show after a Havdalah service. I approached various congregants about participating. Often, someone would say, But rabbi, I'm not talented!

There are all sorts of talents. Singing, dancing, gymnastics, the ability to write poetry, amazing mathematical feats, freestyle rapping (which I will attempt next Saturday at Purim) ... these are all different skills or talents. And judging by our inability to do them, or often the unwillingness to do them, some of us toss off that self-deprecating statement, But I’m just not talented.

I do not like this response. You are talented. You are a good friend. A good husband. A good daughter. You have 7 trillion cells that work together to constantly recreate you so that you are even able to say, “I’m not that talented.” If that’s not talent, or magic, I don’t know what is.

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This weeks Torah portion forces us to acknowledge and share our talents. This is the Torah portion in which the Israelite community begins to build the Mishkan, the tabernacle that the Israelites will pray in. God promises that if they build it, God will dwell amongst them. This Mishkan is the precursor to our synagogue.

But before it gets built, the Israelites need time, talent and money. They need donations.

Everyone is expected to contribute. It doesn’t matter how much money you have, how old you are, or anything else – if you’re a member of the community, you contribute. But there's a kicker ... See if you can spot it in the translation of the verse that begins our Torah portion.

God spoke to Moses, saying 'Speak to the children of Israel that they shall take a donation for me. You shall take my donation from every man whose heart will move him.'

Did you catch it? God only wants donations from people whose hearts are motivated. This is akin to Maimonides admonishing us for giving tzedakah begrudgingly. It's better not to give than to give and not believe in the cause.

It's deeply important that the Torah includes this addendum, whose heart so moves him. These few words also point to a powerful teaching; we do not just provide the gifts ... We are the gifts. ...

T'rumah is not only money. For some segment of the Israelite society, yes, there was a contribution of gold and silver. But, Artisans sewed beautiful threads. Sculptors brought their clay and chiseling tools. Musicians entertained with harp and lyre. Blacksmiths, chefs, dancers – everyone had their role to play. All of us have our roles to play.

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A few weeks ago, Caryl and I attended a conference together in Philadelphia. The conference invited synagogues that continue to manage a transition in rabbinic leadership. 19 Reform congregations, including ours were represented.

In one session, the presenter made a tangential aside that I find remarkable in the context of this Torah portion of T'rumah. He was talking about report cards.

In America, what happens if someone comes home and has a report card with two A's, two B's, and one C? Typically, a tutor will be hired to boost up the weakest subject, the one with the C.

He suggested that we learn from India's culture. There in India, the exact opposite is the norm: The same child would get tutored in his or her best subjects, not the weakest!

It seems counter-intuitive, doesn't it? In bringing this up, I'm certainly not suggesting that our children's grades should not improved. But there's something to the thought that we should encourage each other to develop our natural strengths, our affinities ... our talents ... our T'rumah. Of course there will weaknesses and growth areas. But I suggest that sometimes, we should play to our strengths, instead of focusing on improving weaknesses.

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I think about this when I think about all of the volunteer opportunities in a congregation. Just because someone is willing to do something does not mean that someone should do something. When approaching each other about roles in the congregation, we should ask the same question that God asks: Does their heart move them to do it?

This is exactly what Abraham Tesser and Angela Meltzer have been doing with regard to our Special Programs Committee. They have approached members of our congregation and have asked them to give small, intimate workshops based on their expertise, their passions, their gifts.

I am excited about these workshops, because they help us realize that our congregation is not about programs. It's not about putting various dates and events on a calendar and then hoping that people come. No ... it's about people. It's about engaging all of us so that we can bring our T'rumah, our gifts. When we share our talents and gifts with ourselves and each other, that's the important thing, the most important ingredient, the secret filling I'm the Hamantashen, as it were.

...

This room is a sanctuary. It is part of a beautiful building that serves as our spiritual home. But when our hearts are moved to bring our T'rumah to our community, we transform the walls, the rooms, the sanctuary. Only with our T'rumah does this room become the Mishkan, the place in which God dwells amongst us.

Which Hand Will You Pick? Mishpatim 02-08-13

All of us follow rules. One person speaks at a time. Raise your hand before you speak. Don’t hit other people. And, most of us, from time to time … don't follow rules. We speed – knowingly, see a police car, slow down, only to speed back up when the car turns away? These are examples of breaking rules.

How we decide what rules to follow and which ones to ignore is contained in the field of ethics. We don’t murder people because we think it’s wrong – it’s against our ethical code (at least we hope!) But speeding, perhaps cutting a corner or two on our tax returns, the occasional photocopy of copy-written material … quite often, these aren’t quite as clear cut.

In Judaism, our system of *mitzvot are similar. We decide which mitzvot to do based on any number of factors: meaningfulness, ease, and the ability to understand a reason for performing them, just as we follow rules and laws when we sense an underlying logic for them. One meaningful and powerful reason is often the fear of getting caught. Hence, we slow down when we see a police car. There's lots of other reasons - ethical, spiritual, educational ... The point is, if someone asks, Why do you follow such-and-such rule, my guess it that you have an answer. I'm sure the same is true if you are asked you why you go to Shabbat services, or why you study Torah, or why you will dress up ridiculously on Purim (cough cough).

This week’s portion, mishpatim, is all about rules. In our Jewish system of halachah, Jewish law, there are 613 rules and regulations to follow. Sometimes, they don't make sense. For example, there is the law of shatnez, the prohibition of wearing both wool and cotton on your body at the same time. With regard to mitzvot like these, I am often asked, Rabbi, what's the reason for 'X'? where X is one of our mitzvot. Often, there is not a set reason given in the Torah. The reason is simply because it is listed. These are what I like to call the 'Because I Said So' commandments.

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I was flipping channels the other day and came across a program that talked about how our minds work (or don’t, for that matter!) The narrator talked about the concept of ambiguity aversion. We typically don't do things that are ambiguous; we are more comfortable with a known and fixed outcome. A prime example of this is can be seen in football. It has been mathematically proven that football coaches should go for it on fourth down much more often than they do. There is ambiguity in the unknown possibilities, and because of the nervousness regarding the unknown, they punt.

Scientists discuss the Ellsberg Paradox. Imagine I have a group of marbles in each of my hands. In my left hand I have 4 red marbles and 5 white marbles. In my right hand, I have an unknown combination of marbles, but there is SOME combination of both colors. You choose a hand, and then from that hand, choose a marble while blindfolded. If you pick a red marble, you get $100. Which hand would you choose to pick from, my left or right? In deciding, you weigh the odds. The odds of winning in one hand are known – there are 4 red marbles, and nine total marbles, so your chances are just under 50% (assuming you have all your marbles.) But in the other hand, you have NO idea what the odds are – it is ambiguous. And because you know the odds for one of the hands, you choose it, even though you have no idea if it’s the better choice.

Now, what if I say that I’ll give you $100 to pick a white marble. Again, you know the odds in the left hand. And in fact, the odds are more favorable to pick a white marble than a red, as there are 5 white marbles and only four red. So again, you would probably pick the left hand.

Here's where it gets interesting. The reason it is called a paradox, is that in both cases, most of you picked the left hand. Herein lies the paradox; the left hand can’t be the better choice for picking both the red and white marbles.

We pick the hand that makes sense to us, because we hesitate to choose what is unknown.

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Speaking for myself, it’s often difficult to commit to laws that are irrational. These are the laws that are the “Because I Said So” laws. They don’t seem to add to my spiritual life, or make me more caring, or more appreciative. Some just don’t make sense.

Let's think about the mitzvot that we do perform. Fasting on Yom Kippur, celebrating Shabbat, conducting a Passover Seder ... These do make sense to us. They help us to grow, to be kinder, more appreciative, they are enjoyable. And if they're not enjoyable (Yom Kippur, I'm looking at you), they are certainly meaningful.

If we consider the Jewish laws that we do not follow, such as the prohibition to drive on Shabbat, or the law of shatnez, or any number of other mitzvot, I'm arguing that we don't do them because we have not discovered a reason that makes sense to do them. 'Because I Said So' is not good enough. With regard to these, we could say that there is ambiguity. We're not sure why we should follow them. We're not sure if God commands them or if God will reward or punish us accordingly. We may not be positive that they make us better human beings or better Jews. And so, because of this ambiguity, this seeming lack of a meaningful reason, we choose just like we did in the marbles experiment. We choose what is known, perhaps sacrificing something greater in the process.

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Our Torah portion this week, with its rules and laws, challenges us to experience the ambiguity and to follow our laws, even as we don’t understand them.

I do not suggest that we throw the tenets of Reform Judaism out, just so we can tackle our ambiguity aversion. Our Reform movement is founded on rationalism and critical thought. But sometimes, we are too rationalistic, and too focused on whether or not a particular mishpat, or rule is meaningful.

Let us stretch ourselves to occasionally perform mitzvot that we otherwise wouldn't. When the Israelites accepted the Torah, they said, Na'aseh V'Nishmah, we will do and we will understand. Our rabbis suggest the paramount importance of this word order. We will follow the laws, we will do them, we will life our life guided by them. And only after will we understand. Oftentimes in our instant-gratification culture, we feel the need to understand first. Let us embrace the ambiguity of some of our mitzvot.

Take a Step Back: Moses, God and Tzimtzum: Yitro 02-01-13

We have Shabbat for many reasons.

First, and perhaps foremost, it is commanded to us. Not only that, it's commanded to us in this very portion, as part of the ten commandments, the 4th commandment to honor and remember the Sabbath Day, to keep it holy.

But I'd argue that's not REALLY why we decide to celebrate Shabbat. There are lots of commandments in the ouvre of Jewish laws that we don't follow, so why Shabbat?

It's joyous, it provides a fixed time to be with friends and family, joining in prayer and song with community.

Shabbat achieves another purpose, however ... Abraham Joshua Heschel talks about Shabbat being a monument of time. 6 days a week, we build things ... We make monuments of space. But on Shabbat, we honor time itself.

And so, today, and once a week, we are given a gift. We step back, we reflect, we take it all in. We step back.

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In this week's Torah portion, Moses' father-in-law Jethro gives Moses advice. In short, Jethro teaches Moses to delegate, explaining that if Moses keeps going the way he has been, he will be burnt out, and not be able to do the holy work that God commands of him. Jethro advises his son-in-law that he should appoint people he trusts to serve as magistrates and judges over minor matters, and thus Moses will only serve for the really important issues. Moses takes his advice, and becomes a better leader because of it.

Moses displays an incredible skill for all; the willingness to learn. The openness to change. He's willing to have someone suggest a new, different, and possibly better way of doing things.

In this portion, Moses stepped back, looking at himself and his works from another persepctive. It's not unlike what we do on Shabbat, relaxing and praying, yes, but also reflecting, as we look at our lives from a higher altitidude, a different perspective.

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This ties together with a Kabbalistic concept known as tsimtsum. To explain, we have to go back to the very beginning.

The Kabbalistic notion retells the creation story. It takes place just before God said, Let there be light.

The idea is that God was the universe. There was nothing else, no separation. And so, God could not create anything else, but God took up too much room; there was no place for anything else! You can look at our Kiddush table as an example. The tablecloth over the table represents God. There's not room for anything else, except for that tablecloth.

Because God wanted to create the universe, and ultimately human beings, God contracted Godself in order to make room. This process is the tsimtsum that I mentioned. God contracted Godself into 10 vessels. At this point, there was now space, metaphysically speaking of course, to begin the process of creation.

Put another way, God took a step back.

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None of us have all the answers. NONE of us. We need so many experiences and relationships to help us on our way. We need to be told from time to time that we're going to burn ourselves out. We need Shabbat. And like God, we need the humility to sometimes stand back and make room for something else.

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All of this brings us to this pivotal moment at Mount Sinai, hearing the 10 commandments.

The ten commandments, the mitzvot and the Torah are a means by which each of us can step back from ourselves, performing the same tsimtsum that God enacted in the very beginning. We take one step backward, and then, using the Ten Commandments and the Torah, take another step forward, toward holiness. Shabbat Shalom.

Every Tradition Begins with a New Idea: "Open House" Shabbat 01-17-13

A synagogue is going through a process of strategic planning, visioning for the future. The temple's leadership decides to talk to people about why they come to services.

The president first speaks with Goldstein.

Mr Goldstein, why do you come to services?

Why do I come to services? What do you mean, 'Why do I come to services?' I come to pray to God! I come because it is expected from me by Jewish law! I come to hear Torah! What a silly question!

Unfazed, the brave, stalwart president then goes to talk to Rosenblatt.

Mr Rosenblatt, why do you come to services?

Why do I come to services? What do you mean, 'Why do I come to services?' What a silly question! I come to see Goldstein!

Yes, we come here and we pray. But much more importantly, we pray with each other.

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From Exodus Rabbah, we see the following midrash, or story: 'Our Rabbis said that when Moses our teacher, peace be upon him, was tending the flock of Jethro in the wilderness, a little kid escaped from him. He ran after it until it reached a shady place. When it reached the shady place, there appeared to view a pool of water and the kid stopped to drink. When Moses approached it, he said: I did not know that you ran away because of thirst; you must be weary. So he placed the kid on his shoulder and walked away.'

In this story, Moses is not giving a grand oration to the Israelites. He does not command the adherence of Mitzvot, or threaten the Israelites should his words not be taken to heart. He does not speak on behalf of God. There are no miracles involved, no huge crowds listening to his every utterance. It's a quite different Moses than we see in this week's Torah portion, the Moses that serves quite publicly as the prophet of God. This midrash gives us a glimpse into Moses the man, not Moses the prophet, or teacher, or great leader. In this private setting, Moses' actions are even more important, as we learn about his true self.

And in this story, Moses demonstrates the essence of a warm, welcoming and holy community. As a shepherd, he is responsible for hundreds, perhaps even thousands of sheep. And yet, when one lowly sheep runs away, Moses runs after it. His interest is not in the larger majority. His concern is with one sheep.

But it's not only Moses' care that makes the story so powerful. It's his realization of what the sheep needs. Moses realizes that the sheep was parched and in need of drink. He also carries the sheep on his shoulder, ensuring that the sheep's thirst would not be further exacerbated by the trek back to the flock.

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This story epitomizes the essence of a warm, welcoming and holy community. Firstly, Moses cares about each individual sheep in his care. Secondly, Moses understands the needs of each.

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It's no coincidence that it is only after Moses' experience as a shepherd that his role shifts to become the the leader that we see in this week's Torah portion. It is Moses' delicate care and attention as the shepherd of Jethro's flock that merits his appointment as the shepherd of the Israelites. And similarly, he cares about each of the 600,000 Israelites that is led from slavery into freedom.

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The midrash is powerful because depending on circumstance, each of us may see ourselves as the sheep, or as Moses.

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On this Shabbat, we are proud to honor our new members. New members provide us with the opportunity to follow in Moses' footsteps, walking with our new members to see what their needs are, and their dreams. Similarly, our new members serve as leaders, teaching us their ideas, sharing their wisdom, shepherding us.

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Last week I had the honor of being installed as your rabbi. Bobby Harris, the URJ Camp Coleman director spoke about the fact that 21 years ago, both of us started working at Camp Coleman. In that first week of staff training, he gathered all of us together and asked us to stand in a circle, arranging ourselves by the number of summers we have spend at Camp Coleman.

Immediately, the regulars seemed to attach themselves to each other like filaments to a magnet. They organized themselves in the center room singing camp songs, screaming cheers and sharing private jokes. Traditions ran deep with this group. And then there was me. I had to ask someone from the office for directions just to get to this meeting! I was shy, and didn't know anyone, let alone the 'insider secrets' that those guys knew. I felt like the Israelites, being a stranger in a strange land.

Bobby let the merriment ensue for a little while, and then he spoke to the collective group. He talked about the important of memory, of tradition, and of history. This made the 'cool' kids very proud, because they are the ones that pass on the memory, the traditions, and the history. It seemed we had our work cut out for us.

But then Bobby spoke to us, the newbies. If I had known the midrash then, I certainly would have felt like that sheep that ran away from the crowd. He spoke about the importance of new ideas and visions, freed from the constraints of tradition and memory.

And then he looked around the room and said, Every tradition begins with a new idea.

Every tradition begins with a new idea.

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On this Shabbat as we celebrate our new members and welcome the Athens Jewish community to our home, we must remember this. This building is a static thing. It stays the same. But our synagogue, the synagogue changes constantly. It changes because of you. Because of us.

Like Moses, let's challenge ourselves to really listen to the needs of each other, to be proud of our history and traditions but to also remember that every tradition began as a new idea. I wonder what the next tradition will be.

Two Jews three opinions ... Why do we argue? Vayishlach 11-30-12

Jews often self effacingly quip about our penchant for arguing, for fighting ... whining. It's almost like a badge of honor: Two Jews, three opinions.

Argumentation is the very fabric of one of our holiest texts, the Talmud. It is written with snappy back-and-forth dialogue that would be worthy of a stage play. Rav Jehuda said this ... But then Rabbi Yonaton retorted that ... And then five hundred years later, Rava replied, quoting Rashi ...

We joke about our arguments, or discussions as some families call them, but there may be a deeper insight hidden behind our self mockery.

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We're going to take a look at Jacob. The third of the patriarchs, his life is probably the most complicated of the three, which is really saying something given that Abraham left everything he knew to go on a journey with no known destination and that Isaac was almost killed by his own father.

Jacob's fighting and arguing starts in the womb. He is vying for position with his twin brother Esau. The oldest son, the first out of the womb, will receive the birthright. As the Rebecca gives birth, Esau is just a bit ahead of Jacob, and Jacob pulls on Esau's heel to try and drag him down. But alas, Esau is born first. Jacob is named for this little maneuver, as ya'akov means 'heel.'

After Jacob swindles Esau out of his birthright for a bowl of lentil soup, he also tricks his dying dad into thinking that he is Esau. He and his mother glue hair all over his body so that he will resemble his hirsute older brother.

And after this, he runs away.

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In this Torah portion, Vayishlach, Jacob prepares to meet his brother for the first time in twenty years.

He travels with gifts of reparations for Esau - including 200 she-goats, 20 he-goats, 200 ewes and 20 rams, 30 camels. He also brings his two wives, two maidservants and eleven children.

But, on the night before he reunites with his brother, he is alone.

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The Torah wastes no time:

A man wrestled with him until the break of dawn. When he saw that he had not won against Jacob, he wrenched Jacob's hip at its socket. Then he said, Let me go, for dawn is breaking. But he answered, I will not let you go, unless you bless me. Said the other, What is your name? He replied, Jacob. Said he, Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with brings divine and human and prevailed.

Our ancestor has two names, and both revolve around this notion of arguing, fighting, struggling. While in the womb, he physically fought with Esau so that he would emerge as the first-born son. Later in life, he wrestles with a man, or being, or perhaps even God as many commentators suggest ... And after this wrestling his name is changed to Yisrael, literally meaning 'struggle with God.'

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In my first year of rabbinical school, a rabbi came and gave a talk. Over and over he said, Comfort is not a Jewish value.

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What could this possibly mean?

Surely there's nothing wrong with desiring comfortable lives: lives of financial security, physical well-being, surrounded by loved ones that we can count on and trust. These things provide comfort. An immeasurable amount of comfort.

And no, that's not what this means.

What it means is this: to have a holy relationship with God means that each of us must struggle with God. It teaches us that struggling is a holy endeavor that is equated to maturity and growth.

It's important that Jacob's name is not changed until after he struggles with God. We are Jacob's namesake ... We are b'nei Yisrael. We struggle, wrestle, argue.

...

I could spend another 800 words or so on the encounter that happens the next day, the meeting between Esau and Jacob, two brothers who have not seen each other in over twenty years.

Suffice it to say that it is an amazing moment of love and forgiveness. They both embraced and wept.

...

Isn't is possible that it was exactly Jacob's struggle which allowed for the moment of catharsis? It is precisely our arguing, our struggling, our discussions which help us become brothers, sisters, friends, congregational family members, b'nei Yisrael.

On this Shabbat let us live up to our namesake. Let us struggle with God. Let us struggle with what it means to be a Jew. And in the process, we too will receive God's blessing.

Is it Two People or a Cup of Wine? The Answer is Torah. Toldot 11-16-12

I love optical illusions. As a child, I would beg my parents to buy me the latest book filled with visible oddities and conundrums.

This is one of my favorites: If looking at the black space, the form of the image, it looks like two human faces, turned toward each other, looking like they are staring at each other with a fiery intensity.  But gaze at the white space, the area between the ink ... and one sees a wine chalice formed from the boundaries of these two faces that are gazing so intently into the other.

This is exactly why I love illusions so much; they highlight the fact that at one moment in time we see one thing, and at another, we see something totally different.  But you never see both at once.  You can know that both exist, but you can only SEE one.  Fascinating stuff. 

In Exodus, when God commands the building of the tabernacle, God commands that two cherubim shall face each other, gazing at each other panim el mul panim – face to face.  And between them, lies the ark of the covenant; the Torah, along with the ten commandments. A cherub is a kind of spiritual being. They are only mentioned a few times in the Torah, and they always signify the presence of God. 

So what's the point, and what does this have to do with our Torah portion, Toldot? I'm glad you asked.

When we gaze at the face of another human being ... when we listen to someone, learn from someone, even argue and disagree, we bring God into the conversation.  We bring holiness in.  When we have a meaningful encounter with another, we are akin to those cherubim, staring at each other. The result of that encounter is found in the spaces of the conversation, the argument, the love, the learning.  Whereas the cherbuim stared at the Torah, I argue that by metaphorically staring at each other, we create Torah. Symbolized by a chalice of wine ... what could be a better Jewish symbol for acknowlding the sweetness of our interactions with each other.

Our Torah portion this week, Toldot, begins with a narrative introduction: And these are the generations of Isaac, Abraham’s son: Abraham begat Isaac.  Simple enough.  It’s our ancestors version of once upon a time; it is a textual clue reminding us to pay attention. This portion concentrates on the generations (Toldot) that continue after Abraham and Isaac.

One book I have has no less than four different interpretations of this verse.  I’d like to share one, takin from the writings of Rav Yehiel of Alexander:

And these are the generations of Isaac, Abraham’s son: Abraham begat Isaac.  Isaac always thought that he himself was nothing, except for the fact that he was Abraham’s son.  He attributed whatever he was and had to his father.  Abraham, on his part, felt that he had never accomplished anything in serving God properly, and that his only merit was in having raised a son such as Isaac.  This was the way they thought: each believed that his merit derived from the other.

Rav Yehiel constructed this midrash because the verse from Torah is strange, if not downright repetitive. Of course Abraham begat Isaac! It's a strange verse, one that almost begs for interpretation. Which helps explain why just one book has four different meanings of this one verse.

Now, we could look at this midrash soley as an intellectual curiousity; nodding our heads thinking, “that’s interesting.”  But I think there’s something deeper to this teaching, something that reminds me of our optical illusion bringing our vision back and forth between cherubim and wine, between humanity and holiness.

The theologian Martin Buber talked about I-Thou relationships; relationships in which we recognize that each person’s sense of identity, sense of I, is as strong as our own.  Our challenge is to nurture that realization.  Every relationship can’t be like this; if it was, we would never leave the counter at Kroger.  But, some can be; our closest friends, our family, our loved ones, our religion and our God.  

Pirke Avot tells us that when three people sit to study Torah, God’s presence is with them.  Because when we look into another’s eye, when we acknowledge the divine presence within each other, there is holiness – whether symbolized by a cup of wine in an optical illusion or the presence of our Torah ensconced between two angelic cherubim, relationships create holiness.

Our midrash suggests that Abraham and Isaac were like the two cherubim. The space between them is filled with holiness ... it is filled with their toldot ... us.

Abraham and Isaac relied on each other for strength, support and faith; even for their own notion of self-identity.  Shouldn’t we do the same?