The Meaning of Our Bible

On Shabbat Behar-Behukotai we presented our sixth graders with their own Tanakh.  What follows is my sermon marking this occasion.

This evening we will present our sixth graders with a Tanakh.  Each will receive a beautiful Hebrew Bible, containing the Torah, Prophets and Writings.  This will become the foundation for their future studies.  I am not of course only talking about bar/bat mitzvah studies.  I am speaking about their future Jewish lives.

Our lives as Jews revolve around two books.  Most people of course think that our Jewish lives revolve around one place, the synagogue, or maybe around one person, the rabbi or the cantor.  But this is not the case.  Although we are overjoyed to be sharing this sanctuary with our Jericho Jewish Center friends, this is not what makes us Jewish.

This is the place where we might feel most comfortable asserting our Jewish identity.  This is the place where we learn more about being Jewish, and where we of course pray, together, to our God.  This is where we feel most keenly the power of community.  But if our Judaism ends here, if it ends when we leave these doors, then it offers us nothing.

For our Jewish lives to have greater meaning it must be carried out of these doors.  It must be taken to our homes, to our businesses, to even the most mundane of activities, like greeting others on the streets.  This is why two books are central.  It is because these can be carried.  These two books are: the Siddur and the Tanakh.  The Siddur you received in fourth grade.  Tonight you will add to your Jewish backpack, the Tanakh.

These are meant to be carried.  They are not intended to collect dust on your shelves.  They are meant to be used; they are meant to be taken with you.  They are meant to accompany you.

While you can of course write your own prayers, and offer any prayer of the heart, sometimes (and Judaism would say, more often) it is better to offer the familiar.  It is better to stand on the shoulders of those who traveled before us.  There are many prayers for peace, for example.  But it is easier, and more comforting, to stand on the shoulders of Shalom Rav.  Then we are connected with previous generations, and future generations.  Then we are connected with Jews throughout the world, who like us offer this prayer in the evenings.

It is the same with the Tanakh, the Hebrew Bible.  Recently one of my students asked me about our different Torah scrolls.  I began by explaining the differences in calligraphy styles.  But he was curious about something different.  He wanted to know if there are different Reform and Conservative versions.  Of course not, I exclaimed.  But a good question nonetheless.  We have different prayerbooks so why not different Bibles.

Sometimes the differences in the Jewish world make one think that we are reading different Bibles.  It certainly appears this way at times.  But the point of being Jewish and calling the Jewish people our own is not the interpretations we arrive at but where we start.  And we start with Torah; we begin with the Bible.  That has always been the opening, the beginning, the gateway to a Jewish life.

People too often think that the gateway is the door to a synagogue.  But in truth it is one book, even more than that second book.  The Siddur varies from community to community, from country to country, from generation to generation.  It would not be Jewish prayer if the Shema was absent or the Amidah.  There have to be those landmarks so that all of us can find our way through Jewish prayers.  Still there are differences depending on who you are praying with.

But this book, the Torah is the same for everyone.  Jews throughout the world are concluding the Book of Leviticus this Shabbat.   All are reading Behar-Behukotai.  That is what connects us to Jews throughout the world.  While I might say that a certain verse means one thing and someone else another, we begin with the same verse, we begin with the same portion.  We begin with the same book.

The secret to our success, the secret of our survival is this book.  The fact that we could carry it with us from place to place, that it could be  handed literally from one generation to another, and that it could be interpreted differently for different times and different circumstances ensured our survival.  If everyone had to shlep to one holy place we could never have made it.  So instead we carried this Bible with us.  That more than anything else sustained us.

Two books hold the secret to our survival.  One, the siddur, we rewrite in each and every generation.  The other, the Tanakh, we reinterpret in each and every generation.  Carry them both in your backpacks and our Jewish future will be guaranteed.

Then you can stand anywhere.  And anywhere can become your Jewish home.

Behar-Behukotai

The Book of Leviticus that we now conclude is filled with details about the sacrificial cult, the establishment of the priesthood and the maintenance of the sanctuary.  Even in ancient times maintaining the temple was an expensive undertaking.  Thus scholars suggest that the final chapter (Leviticus 27) was an addendum to the book, saying in effect this is how we are going to pay for the preceding.   Everyone was asked to make votive offerings of silver or animals to help support the temple.  In this spirit I want to thank all who participated in last night’s dinner and fundraiser.  As in ancient days we as well depend on such offerings.  Thank you!  Most of all I continue to remain grateful for our spirit of friendship and community.

Within our portion we also find details about land ownership.  “When you sell property to your neighbor, or buy any from your neighbor, you shall not wrong one another.” (Leviticus 25:14)  The Talmud expands this rule to apply to more than real estate transactions and suggests that egregious overcharging is grounds for canceling any agreement.  (Baba Metzia 47b)  Even more interesting the Midrash expands this ruling further saying that you must not wrong another with harmful words. (Vayikrah Rabbah 33:1)

Thus you are not even supposed to ask a merchant the price of something when you have no intention of buying it.  Why?  First of all you might then deceive yourself into thinking that you can afford to purchase the item.  Most important you might raise the hopes of the merchant.  He or she might come to believe that you intend to buy the item.  In fact you might just be gathering information so you can buy it for less on the Internet.   While many stand guilty of doing this (including me!) we might be better served to heed the tradition’s caution.  Piety begins with our words.  It extends to each and every situation, each and every setting.  We cannot leave our sacred words in the synagogue, or even in our homes.  They must find their way to the streets and the stores as well.

Judaism has long taught that words matter.    With them we can raise someone’s hopes.  With them as well we can ruin someone’s day.  Even when it comes to business transactions our tradition believes that words must be used fairly and wisely.  We cannot say whatever we want, bending the truth, in order to make a deal.  Words are a priceless commodity.  Our culture trades them as if they do not matter, as if their valuation is zero.  Our Jewish tradition in contrast believes that their value is beyond measure.

We cannot use our words in one way in our personal lives and another in business.  In all contexts our words must reach for holiness.  They can break another’s spirit, or lift them out of despair.  The Midrash offers a metaphor: “Ben Sira said, ‘A glowing coal is before him.  He blows upon it and it burns; he spits upon it and it goes out.’”  Such are the power of our words.

We must always remember that with our words we can both ignite and extinguish.  In the synagogue, in our homes, in our businesses, in every situation our words matter.  With them we can wrong another.  With them we can right another.

Emor Sermon

This week’s Torah portion contains details about the priests.  There were extra requirements to serve as a priest.  It was not just a matter of birth.  An example: “The Lord spoke further to Moses: Speak to Aaron and say: No man of your offspring throughout the ages who has a defect shall be qualified to offer the food of his God.  No one at all who has a defect shall be qualified: no man who is blind, or lame, or has a limb too short or too long; no man who has a broken leg or a broken arm; or who is a hunchback, or a dwarf, or who has a growth in his eye…” (Leviticus 21:16-20)

This appears objectionable.  Of course we welcome the disabled to the bima.  I believe all, for example, should have a bar mitzvah.  Jewish law of course suggests that only someone who has the requisite understanding can recite the prayers or read from the Torah.  Therefore someone who is mentally incapacitated is prevented from these rituals.  But in our congregation we make sure that every child has this opportunity.  I believe that even an autistic child should have a bar/bat mitzvah.  This bima is open to all.

On the surface I therefore disagree with the Torah’s strictures.  Why should the priest have such stringent requirements? No touching the dead, marrying a divorced woman, no shaving in addition to the above.  The list goes on and occupies two chapters.

Then again, if we look not at the specifics of the list and instead at the principle, perhaps we can uncover meaning for ourselves.  We should expect more from our leaders.  Our leaders should live according to more stringent standards.  Since I focused on surgeons in my email let’s look at that again.  While we should not care if they shave their beards, we should care if we ran into them drinking and partying the night before our mother’s surgery.  Those who have extra responsibilities must live according to more exacting standards.  That is the point of the Torah’s restrictions.  For the ancients the priest was as important to a person’s and the world’s health as a surgeon is in our own age.  Extra responsibilities means extra standards.  That is the message in a nutshell.

This is why I do expect more from our politicians.  I expect them to live by higher standards.  While I am not surprised when powerful people go astray—we need only think of the Edwards trial or a past president’s indiscretions to illustrate this point. Or we can look at King David’s sinful behavior for a biblical example.  The Bible’s disappointment in David should mirror our own.  Just because we are not surprised by such behavior does not mean that it is permissible.  More responsibility means more standards.  That is the message.

It is why I also expect more of my country than of other countries.  The mission of America is not just to protect us, its citizenry, but also to rescue those in distress; we are to help the world.  Later we will look at Elie Wiesel’s speech about this mission.  In his eyes the lesson of the Holocaust is that we must reach out to those who are suffering; we cannot, we must not remain indifferent.

This is also why even though I am bothered when others, most especially our newspapers’ op-ed columnists, hold Israel to a different standard than every other country in the world, I remind myself that Israel should be held to a different standard.  If it sees itself as a leader of the Jewish people, as representative of the Jewish people worldwide, then it has responsibilities that transcend its protection of its citizens.  Both Israel and America argue that their meaning extends beyond their borders.  If we see ourselves as having more expansive responsibilities then we must live by more demanding standards.

That is the message of these lists of strictures regarding the priests.  But it is not just about our country, or about our leaders, or even our doctors.  It is actually about all of us.  When God first spoke to the Israelites at Sinai God said that the entire people must be a kingdom of priests.  That means that everyone must live by these more exacting standards.

You can object to the specifics of the Torah.  And we might as well have different specifics to add.  But I hope we will not object to the overriding message.  Every single one of us must live by higher standards.  We must live by more exacting strictures.

Our everyday moral choices really do matter.

We never know who might be watching—and who might be following us.  Each and every day every one of us is a leader.  We never know if our lives might depend on it.  We never know—the world could very well depend on us.  Everything could really depend on each of us living by these exacting standards.

That is this week’s message.  Let’s step up and not shy away from these exacting standards. Let’s do the more demanding.  Let’s live by the most stringent ideals.

Emor

Sunday’s Times featured an interesting article entitled “The Outsourced Life.”  Noted sociologist Dr. Hochschild argues that we seek professionals for more and more of our personal decisions.  “As we outsource more of our private lives, we find it increasingly possible to outsource emotional attachment….  Focusing attention on the destination, we detach ourselves from the small — potentially meaningful — aspects of experience. Confining our sense of achievement to results, to the moment of purchase, so to speak, we unwittingly lose the pleasure of accomplishment, the joy of connecting to others and possibly, in the process, our faith in ourselves.”

Years ago when I went to my first bar mitzvah there was no such thing as party enhancers.  My friends and I made the party.  It did not matter if we danced expertly or not, as long as we danced.  (There were no give aways as well, only sweaty hugs of joy when the evening ended.)  As the article makes clear, years ago there were no life coaches offering personal direction for a fee.  To help answer our questions of what we should do there were instead parents, siblings, spouses and friends.  Granted sometimes the advice and counsel was not solicited.  Still it was always free and offered with our best interests at heart. 

Hundreds of years ago many Jewish rituals were performed in the home and not in the synagogue.  To be certain these rituals were expertly observed the lighting of Shabbat candles and morning blessings for example were moved into the synagogue.  With this move from the home into the synagogue, more fell on the hands of rabbis and cantors. We turn to professionals to lead our rituals and celebrations.  We turn to experts for the most intimate of advice.  We are hesitant to dance if not led by the hand of experts.  

The Torah portion opens with details about the requirements of the priesthood.  In ancient days they and they alone performed our rituals. Only someone descended from Aaron, only a person without any perceived defects could offer a sacrifice.  “The Lord spoke further to Moses: Speak to Aaron and say: No man of your offspring throughout the ages who has a defect shall be qualified to offer the food of his God.”  (Leviticus 21:16-17)  These priests were trained in the intricacies of the sacrificial rites. 

The reliance on these experts was because the ancient Israelites believed that the world would collapse if the sacrifices were performed incorrectly.  They were in effect the surgeons of their day.  For such important and intricate work only experts would do.  Lives depended on their expertise.

There are of course those in the Jewish world who view today’s rituals in a similar manner and perceive them likewise as surgery.  A misplaced word, an incorrect blessing, a forgotten candle lighting and the world tumbles toward destruction.  Such is not my view.  Life is not surgery.  Prayer is not akin to the ancient sacrifices sacrifices. Rabbis are not priests.  Cantors are not the descendants of Aaron.  Our spiritual lives need not be left for surgeons.

I would rather we stumble and offer these prayers ourselves.  I would rather we join with our cantor and sing our tradition’s songs.  I would rather we dance—even when it appears out of step.  Let joy be our own.  Let our people’s rituals and prayers not be left to experts. 

Let living our lives not be left to surgeons.  Let our lives not be lived by experts.  There are times when life appears as hard and demanding as surgery, but in the end our lives should only be lived by ourselves.

Yom HaShoah Sermon

My sermon delivered on Friday, April 20, when we observed Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Commemoration  Day.

“Good is something you do, not something you talk about. Some medals are pinned to your soul, not to your jacket.”

I am, for many reasons, quite inspired by Gino Bartali’s story. In truth I remain inspired by so many of these stories of bravery and heroics. These stories comprise those of the Righteous among the Nations, Hasidei Umot Ha-olam.

There are many stories of course that help us remember the Shoah. Far too many of them are stories of death and murder. There are as well many stories of survival. Each year our students are privileged to hear Annie’s story.

I wonder, how many stories cannot be told by the six million Jews murdered. There are fewer stories still of those who saved Jews, of those who risked their own lives for neighbors and even strangers. On this evening I choose to recount another story of the righteous among the nations. I urge you to visit Yad VaShem’s website and read more of these stories.

Why did these people risk everything? Why did they endanger their own lives, their family’s? They were by and large simple, pious, everyday people. They were not for the most part university educated. The movie Schindler’s List captures this, portraying Oskar Schindler as an accidental hero. Schindler did not set out to be a savior. Thus all these righteous were the embodiment of that Italian cyclist.

Nearly 24,000 people have been officially recognized by Yad VaShem as righteous. The criteria are exacting. They must have risked their own lives; they must have done so not for financial gain. Furthermore Jewish witnesses must testify to their acts. Rather than offer a sermon interpreting the meaning of the Holocaust, I want to tell one more story. It is the story of Gertruda Babilnska.

Gertruda was born in 1902 in Belarus to a Catholic, working family. When she was 19 years old she went to Warsaw to find work. She found a job there with a wealthy Jewish family working as their nanny. The family decided to leave for Palestine and offered to take Gertruda along but she decided to stay in Poland. Soon she found work with another Jewish family, the Stolowicks. She took care of their baby daughter. Sadly the baby girl died at a young age, but Gertruda stayed with the family now helping to care for the mother, who was stricken with grief and despair. In 1936 they had a son, Michael, and Gertuda became his nanny.

In 1939 the Germans attacked Poland. Mr. Stolowick was in Paris on business and was never able to rejoin his family. Mother, son and nanny decided to leave Poland and make their way to Vilna. After a harrowing journey on bombed out roads they finally made it to Vilna. There they lived among the Jewish refugees. Gertruda managed to make a little money, helping the family to survive. Her command of German was apparently extremely helpful in finding work.

The mother, Lidia, soon fell ill and died in April 1941. She was buried in Vilna’s Jewish cemetery. Before her death she asked Gertuda to take care of her child and take him to Palestine after the war ended. Two months later the Germans attacked the Soviet Union. Now Vilna was also in occupied territory. Gertruda said, “I was left alone with a circumcised 5 year old child.”

Soon the killings began and the ghetto was established. Gertruda managed to live outside of the ghetto, securing false papers for Michael stating that he was a Christian and her nephew. The situation was to say the least extremely dangerous and difficult. On one occasion when Michael fell ill she was forced to go into the ghetto to find a Jewish doctor because she was afraid that a non-Jewish doctor might reveal their secret.

When the war finally ended Gertruda decided to fulfill her promise to Lidia and take the boy to Palestine. First she went with the child back to Belarus to see her family. They tried to deter her but she was adamant about fulfilling her pledge. She and Michael joined the Jewish refugees seeking to make their way to Palestine. They lived in a DP camp in Germany until finding a ship to set sail on. Since immigration to Israel was illegal they arranged passage on a Hagganah ship. Again despite assurances from the Hagganah that they would care for the boy, Gertruda insisted that she accompany Michael. They secured passage on a ship called the Exodus. It sailed from France in 1947 (Michael was 11 years old by then).

As we know the British refused to allow the Exodus passengers to disembark in Palestine. The boat was forced back to Hamburg. And Gertruda and Michael again found themselves in a DP camp. Still undeterred she made the journey again, arriving in Israel with Michael in 1948. She settled in Israel where she raised Michael as her son. She lived in a small room and made a living cleaning houses.

Although Gertruda remained a devout Catholic until her death, she fulfilled her promise to Lidia. She continued to raise Michael as a Jew. In June 1962 Gertruda helped to plant a tree in her honor at Yad VaShem.

At Yad VaShem the avenue of the righteous is flanked by trees honoring such heroes. It lines the walk to and from the museum. In coming to terms with the enormity of the Holocaust, if that were ever possible, we must always speak about the extraordinary evils that were perpetrated by one person against another. We must pledge never to become naïve to these evils. We must remember that such evils can be found within the human heart. But we must also speak about the extraordinary good that same heart is capable of. Ordinary, everyday people can risk everything to save another.

On this Yom HaShoah I look to that heart, the heart capable of extraordinary good. I remember Gertruda Babilinska. I remember Gino Bartali.

“Good is something you do, not something you talk about. Some medals are pinned to your soul, not to your jacket.”

Yom Haatzmaut Sermon

My sermon delivered on Friday, April 27th when we celebrated Yom Haatzmaut, Israel Independence Day.

I have often wondered why sympathy is more compelling than joy. Why does Yom HaShoah appear to be more observed than Yom Haatzmaut? Why does our people’s suffering draw us in more than our celebrations? We appear to respond more to the call of Jewish suffering and victimhood than to our joys and celebrations.

A friend could be a case in point. He will respond to my posts about the Holocaust with comments such as, “That was an amazing video.” Yet about my love of Israel he will say, “You are going there again!?”

I worry about American Jews’ ongoing commitment to Israel. About remembering the Holocaust I have less doubt given the extraordinary number of Holocaust museums that dot the American landscape. We live in an age where high school students across this land read Anne Frank’s diary and Elie Wiesel’s Night. Even in school districts where there are no Jews, students learn about the Holocaust. That was part of the power of the film “Paper Clips.”

My friend Reverend Hart could be more evidence of this truth. He read these books growing up in Holland, Michigan. Yet the first Jew with whom he had a lengthy discussion about these events was with his friend the rabbi. How many have read Shai Agnon, Amos Oz, AB Yehoshua or David Grossman in their schools? Such Israeli authors are relegated to college classes on Israeli literature.

And so seeing the Jews as victims, even seeing ourselves as victims still holds greater appeal. This is what the Zionist revolution was intended to cure. Its goal was to end Jewish victimhood and replace it with Jewish power. But these days we appear offended by Jewish power. We recoil when we see images of Israeli soldiers hitting protestors. We should of course be offended by such abuses of power. We are upset when we see Prime Minister Netanyahu wave his finger at President Obama and lecture him on Jewish history. We should be upset by such a lack of diplomacy. It would be better to offer such lectures in private. But this should not mean that Jewish power is offensive.

One should not confuse one soldier’s mistakes with the Israeli army’s mission; one should not confuse its leaders’ occasional missteps with the legitimacy of history’s first Jewish democracy. Israel has succeeded in restoring the Jewish people to history. Because of Zionism we are writing our own history—for better or worse.

The reality of Israel is messy and imperfect. A story. Only yesterday I joked about Israeli brashness with our sofer. The Torah scribe was at our offices to repair our scroll. For me it was also an occasion to learn more about his craft. We spoke about a computer program that checks the Torah scroll for errors. He shared with me that when he first used the program it kept telling him that he was making his koof wrong. Apparently his are more curved than the program’s programmed angular dimensions. Every time it saw his koof it would scream, “Mah zot—what’s this?” I joked, “It must be an Israeli program.” If it was made here it would say, “Please check your koof.” It was of course made in Israel.

Our American sensibilities are uncomfortable with Israeli brashness, with its vigorous debates, with its yelling and screaming, its imperfections. The reality of Israel cannot be so easily packaged.

Israel is no longer some idealized memory of a distant past. While it is tied to ancient Israel and its kingdom, it is not a memory, it is not a dream, it is no longer only a prayer. This is part of the dilemma. The Holocaust is a memory. And memories can be fashioned. Israel is a living, every day, reality. And realities can not be packaged. This is why more often than not our support for Israel is couched in terms of portraying Israel as a victim in need of our support. That is appealing—that fits into our programmed packaging. We receive letters asking for our support of Israel because it suffers Hamas rocket attacks—still, and is threatened by Iran’s nuclear weapons. I am not trying to suggest that Israel does not face grave threats. I am not trying to minimize the need for the IDF to remain strong and vigilant, and for us to advocate for the US to continue its unwavering support of Israel.

I do however object that these appeals strike this note of suffering and victimization. I think it only feeds Palestinian rejectionism. For decades the Palestinians and their leadership have portrayed Israel as a European transplant in the Arab Middle East, as Europe’s guilt offering for the Holocaust. Our continued use of this language of suffering and victimization undermines the very support we seek to engender.

We speak of Israel as a victim in need of our saving. And then we are saddened when Israel does not fit into this image, when it does not live up to its highest ideals. We are embarrassed when we see it fall short of our idealized visions. We grow distant when its leaders speak more like conquering kings intoxicated by the holiness of the land rather than compassionate prophets intoxicated with the sacredness of the pursuit of justice. I find such occasions to be instead moments to engage even more with Israel; I find them to be moments not of distance but of nearness. I believe it is my duty to support Israel and to help it live up to its self-proclaimed vision.

Israel’s Declaration of Independence states: “Israel will be based on freedom, justice and peace as envisaged by the prophets of Israel; it will ensure complete equality of social and political rights of all its inhabitants irrespective of religion, race or sex; it will guarantee freedom of religion, conscience, language, education and culture…” We desperately want it to be perfect, to fit into some neat packaging. When it does not, we grow distant. Too often we then revert to a language of victimization. We cry, “Israel is under attack.”

We are then presented with two apparently conflicting and opposing choices: either justice for a better Israel or security for a safer Israel. Support AIPAC (American Israel Public Affairs Committee) or NIF (New Israel Fund). Why not both? Why must they be in conflict? Why can’t I advocate for a more secure Israel and a better Israel?

When Ben Gurion was prime minister there was the infamous White Paper that Britain issued limiting Jewish immigration to Palestine. Some argued that the early Zionists should not therefore fight alongside the British against Hitler’s Germany. Ben Gurion observed that he would fight the White Paper as if there were no war and the war as if there were no White Paper. Leon Wieseltier reminds us of this story and then states: “To be sure, the settlements are a terrible blunder, but centrifuges are spinning in Iran. To be sure, centrifuges are spinning in Iran, but the settlements are a terrible blunder… We should fight the centrifuges in Iran as if there are no settlements and the settlements as if there are no centrifuges in Iran.”

The Jewish community appears organized around these two choices. We are presented with what we are told are two conflicting choices. Choose one. Choose security or justice. I however forever want both. I want a more secure Israel and a more just Israeli society.

We are left with an Israel that is not neatly packaged. It has its flaws. This should not distance us from the state. It should be occasion for us to engage even more. Yes Israel faces threats. This does draw our support, although not our visits. And so we must visit even more.

I believe these two days of Yom HaShoah and Yom Haatzmaut mark the twin pillars of a modern Jewish identity. Both must be observed. We must remember the Holocaust and celebrate Israel. Israel is a nation of real people; it is not perfect. It is loud and boisterous. Most important it is not about being victims. And I refuse to compel my support by such portrayals. I want only the living reality—with all its achievements and all its imperfections.

I can celebrate Israel—even though it does not comport to all my dreams. There is much for us to continue to work on. That should be the case with every dream. Everything requires continued refinement.

I will continue to work to better Israel. And I will defend Israel. I will clamor for a more secure Israel. And I will advocate for a more just Israel.

Most of all I will sing, and I will celebrate Israel, because no imperfections can ever deter me from this love. No risks will distance me from this place.

We live in an unparalleled age. We are indeed a free people in our land, the land of Zion and Jerusalem.

Acharei Mot-Kedoshim

The holiness code detailed in Leviticus 19 opens with the command: “You shall be holy for I the Lord your God am holy.”

The chapter then goes on to describe in exquisite detail the means to achieving holiness.  Surprisingly these laws are not by and large about rituals but instead about ethical precepts.  Do not steal.  Do not place a stumbling block before the blind.  Love your neighbor.

Throughout, the words of neighbor and fellow, stranger and poor are repeated.  We are commanded to love the neighbor. Do not hate your fellow in your heart.  Leave the gleanings of the field for the poor and stranger.

In ancient times it was not only a mandate to give tzedakah to the poor but to allow them to gather their own food.  Farmers were commanded not to pick their vineyards bare or gather the fallen crops.  These were left for the poor and stranger.  This not only allowed them to gather necessary food but preserved their dignity as well.  It is this command that is one of the opening dictates of chapter 19 and therefore creates the framework for the entire holiness code.  Concern for others is this chapter’s overarching theme.

Curiously there is also an introductory command about the shelamim offering.  On the surface one would think that this is about rituals and not ethics.  However the Torah also commands: “[The offering] shall be eaten on the day you sacrifice it, or on the day following; but what is left by the third day must be consumed in fire.  If it should be eaten on the third day, it is an offensive thing…”  (Leviticus 19:6-7)  One might surmise that the basis of this law is a concern for health.  In an age prior to refrigeration it would be disgusting to eat meat that was sitting on the table for three days!

This however is not the intention of the law’s prohibition.  The shelamim offering was a voluntary sacrifice that was offered by individuals or families in order to thank God.  Much of the sacrificial animal was eaten and enjoyed in a grand feast.  Wine was of course served.  The Torah deems it offensive if it was not a shared meal.  It was not acceptable for there to be leftovers.  That could only mean that not enough people were invited.  In a chapter that mandates the gleanings of the field be left for the poor and stranger how could even portions of a festive meal likewise be left uneaten?

This shelamim offering was meant to be shared.  The circle must be enlarged on occasions when we offer thanks.  One’s gratitude is expanded by sharing it with others.  The framework of this chapter and its fundamental teaching are that all the laws come to solidify our commitments to the larger community.  The chapter opens: “Speak to the whole community of the children of Israel…”  Edah, community, is its primary concern.  Every detail contained in its verses comes to strengthen the bonds of community.  We reach out to the neighbor and fellow.  We welcome the stranger and poor.

Even if a sacrifice emerged from private gratitude it only gained its true meaning by being shared with others.  It is not a proper thank you if it remains private.  Joy and gratitude must be surrounded by neighbors and fellows.  Even the poor and the stranger must be invited in.

Holiness is about sharing.  It is about drawing others into community.  And that is why the shelamim offering shares a root meaning with shalom, peace.  

Tazria-Metzora

Public figures appear to speak with increasing regularity and extraordinary confidence about God’s ways.  How can one be so sure about such mysteries?  How can a human being be certain about God’s judgments?

This week’s Torah portion speaks at great length about leprosy, a disease seen in ancient times as divine punishment.  The Torah advises the following if one’s house becomes infected:  “When you enter the land of Canaan that I give you as a possession, and I inflict a leprous plague upon a house in the land you possess, the owner of the house shall come and tell the priest, saying, “Something like a plague has appeared upon my house.”  (Leviticus 14:34-35)

The Hasidic master, Rabbi Kalonymos Kalmish Shapira, suggests this interpretation: “Even if he is a scholar and knows the exact definition of a leprous plague, he must still use the phrase, ‘like a plague,’—for a person is never able to tell whether what is happening to him is a curse or an event.  All he can say is that it looks like a curse….” (Sacred Fire, Metzorah, April 13, 1940)

Who in fact is to say that such a disease is a punishment from God?   Such things are beyond human understanding.   They remain a mystery.  Yet many speak confidently of God’s ways.  And many people blindly follow such prognosticators. 

Primo Levi, an Italian Jewish chemist and author, writes: “It is, therefore necessary to be suspicious of those who seek to convince us with means other than reason, and of charismatic leaders: we must be cautious about delegating to others our judgment and our will.  Since it is difficult to distinguish true prophets from false, it is as well to regard all prophets with suspicion.  It is better to renounce revealed truths, even if they exalt us by their splendor or if we find them convenient because we can acquire them gratis.  It is better to content oneself with other more modest and less exciting truths, those one acquires painfully, little by little and without shortcuts, with study, discussion, and reasoning, those that can be verified and demonstrated.” (The Reawakening)

Truth is revealed not in pronouncements but through hard work.  Discerning truth requires debate.  It requires teachers and students.  It requires learning. Truth is never granted without effort. 

Primo Levi survived Auschwitz. Rabbi Kalonymos Kalmish Shapira was murdered in Trawniki.  Both of their writings continue to be studied.

And I will continue to study and learn.  One day, I trust, glimmers of truth will become revealed.  That trust is my faith.

Yom Haatzmaut

64 years of independence deserves celebration!  64 years of Jewish sovereignty is cause for us to fill our sanctuary with music and song!

The Prayer for the State of Israel opens with the words: “Our Father in heaven, Rock of Israel and its Redeemer, bless the State of Israel, the first flowering of our redemption…”  This prayer was composed soon after the State of Israel was established in 1948.  Although its original version is attributed to the chief rabbis of the time, Rabbis Yitzhak Herzog and Ben Zion Uziel, it is widely believed that the Nobel Laureate, Shai Agnon, actually authored the prayer, especially this opening line.

Agnon remains the only Israeli author to be recognized by the Nobel committee for his achievements in literature and thus the only author recognized by them for his mastery of Hebrew.  In his 1966 acceptance speech he proclaimed in this reborn language: “As a result of the historic catastrophe in which Titus of Rome destroyed Jerusalem and Israel was exiled from its land, I was born in one of the cities of the Exile. But always I regarded myself as one who was born in Jerusalem.”

All Jews are bound to the city of Jerusalem.  All remain connected to the State of Israel.

Agnon continued: “In a dream, in a vision of the night, I saw myself standing with my brother-Levites in the Holy Temple, singing with them the songs of David, King of Israel, melodies such as no ear has heard since the day our city was destroyed and its people went into exile. I suspect that the angels in charge of the Shrine of Music, fearful lest I sing in wakefulness what I had sung in dream, made me forget by day what I had sung at night; for if my brethren, the sons of my people, were to hear, they would be unable to bear their grief over the happiness they have lost. To console me for having prevented me from singing with my mouth, they enable me to compose songs in writing.”

And thus Agnon reclaimed the power of the Hebrew language, weaving Jewish history and a mastery of biblical and rabbinic images with the modern experience.  He reminds us that our return to the land of Israel has restored music and song to our people.  It is our most fervent dream realized.

Israel represents the beginnings of our redemption because it signifies the Jewish return to our sacred land.  There we have reestablished Jewish sovereignty.  His prayer captures this tenant of our modern Jewish faith, the centrality of the State of Israel.  It is certainly not a perfect place, but Agnon reminds us that the chain of history was reclaimed by the modern state and there our faith restored.

The Palestinians’ denial of the Jewish historical connection to the land of Israel is one of the great stumbling blocks to making peace.  Their insistence that Israel represents a foreign, European transplant in the Arab Middle East, that Israel is only about recompense for the Holocaust, stands in the way of many efforts to establish peace between two peoples who both have legitimate claims to the same land.  Denying the other’s claims will never lead to peace!  We must therefore never do likewise.         

It is true that there are many things that are new about the modern State of Israel.  Yet it is also a fundamental truth that its meaning hearkens back to ancient days.  It represents not a rupture in history but an unbroken chain, stretching from God’s promise to Abraham to the modern day Knesset.  Some might become uncomfortable when ascribing such religious meaning to a modern state.  But the danger is only when we begin to see modern events as a reenactment of ancient days.  Then we begin to erode the democratic character of the State of Israel.  Israel must forever remain both democratic and Jewish. 

One can derive great meaning from standing in the very city that King David proclaimed as his capital.  But we are not King David.  And these are not messianic days.

They are only the beginning of our redemption.  And that is a great start, and one worthy of great fanfare and celebration.

Leon Wieseltier: The Lost Art

Leon Wieseltier: The Lost Art | The New Republic
My teacher Rabbi David Hartman often jokes that we should criticize Israel like a mother not like a mother in law.  A mother criticizes in order to refine.  A mother in law criticizes for the sake of criticizing and even belittling.  Even though this is not my personal experience it contains an important lesson about how we approach Israel.  Criticizing with love is the goal.  The notion that our love is negated by our criticism comes from a deep insecurity about our relationship with the State of Israel.  We must criticize.  But we must not only criticize.  We must also defend.  We must do both.

Leon Wieseltier offers these insights in his recent, brilliant article:

So Israel must be defended and Israel must be criticized. Almost nobody any longer practices the lost art of doing both at the same time, with similar emphasis, out of equally intense convictions, in a single breath. Instead there is the party of security and the party of justice, as if the country, any country, can endure without both. The debate is a stale contest in cursing between gangs, a tiresome exchange of to-be-sure sentences, uttered by people with anxieties about credibility, or worse, with no such anxieties at all. To be sure, the settlements are a terrible blunder, but centrifuges are spinning in Iran. To be sure, centrifuges are spinning in Iran, but the settlements are a terrible blunder. When I studied the history of Zionism as a young man, I was impressed by Ben-Gurion’s remark, about Britain’s restrictions upon Jewish immigration to Palestine even as Hitler was conquering Europe, that he would fight the White Paper as if there were no war and the war as if there were no White Paper. It seemed almost impossible and altogether correct. There is never only a lone danger or a lone ideal. We should fight the centrifuges in Iran as if there are no settlements and the settlements as if there are no centrifuges in Iran. Welcome to the gang of no gang.

And we must always celebrate Israel's existence.  We live in remarkable times.  There exits a sovereign Jewish state!  But nothing, and no one, is ever above criticism.  And many things, most especially the modern State of Israel, is deserving of our love.

And of course my mother, and my mother in law.

Shemini

The rabbis often spin mountains of interpretation from one phrase, a sermon from a single nuance or a new teaching from a seemingly insignificant word choice. The story of Nadav and Avihu contains an interesting example in this long list of interpretations.

This week’s Torah portion describes in brief detail the brothers’ sacrifice and death at the “instance of the Lord.” Aaron’s sons bring sacrifices and are then killed. The Torah offers no reason. Rabbis are left to ponder. Some suggest it was because they brought an “alien fire.” Others surmise it was because God had not explicitly commanded this sacrifice. A number even write that they must have been intoxicated even though the story does not mention such an infraction. The prohibition against priests drinking alcohol while offering a sacrifice follows soon after this episode. And so a thin connection is made between the two.

The list of possible interpretations is endless. The young priests were overly ambitious. They sought to usurp their father Aaron’s and uncle Moses’ jobs. Lost however in these interpretations is a focus on the Torah’s word choice. “Now Aaron’s sons Nadav and Avihu each took his fire pan…” (Leviticus 10:1) It does not say that they took their fire pan. Each stood alone, apart and by themselves, when bringing the offering before God.

Their sin was that they did not pray together. They did not consult each other. They did not even defer to their father. They only saw themselves. They each acted independently. Perhaps this is why they were punished.

I don’t of course believe that death is a fitting punishment for those who lead a solitary existence, whose spiritual pursuits are in the singular. Solitude can sometimes be beneficial. It offers quietude and often much needed inner contemplation. The Jewish contention however is that solitude leads to a death of the spirit. We are never at our best when alone. Even our ideas require others. Otherwise we only hear the agreement of our own voices.

Buried in one of the many recent articles about the sale of Instagram was a comment by their venture capitalist, Steve Anderson. The original idea for the company came from Kevin Systrom. Before funding his venture Anderson insisted that Systrom find a business partner. He worried about the echo chamber of a one-person start up.

Even the greatest of ideas need others to help refine them. If you only talk to yourself about your thoughts and creative impulses then you only hear agreement. In addition if you have been blessed with a healthy dose of self-confidence then too often you hear praise and adulation ringing in your ears. Ideas do not emerge from our minds in perfect form. They are perfected in discussion with others. They are refined by sacred disagreement.

In order for new ideas to become great ideas they require others. This is why professionals need to go to conferences. This is why I travel every summer to Jerusalem to study. There I can sit and talk with colleagues. There the music is not the chords of praise and agreement, but instead those of disagreement and challenge. There, I hope, a few ideas are fashioned into great ones.

Had Nadav and Avihu held one fire pan together their sacrifice might have been received. The fact that it was an alien fire might even have been forgiven. Working together, standing as one, is always better than standing apart. Brothers should be able to stand together, especially when saying thank you to their God.

While solitude is not a sin, greatness is only achieved when two stand as one.

Wiesel Rejects Holocaust Analogy

Elie Wiesel Rejects Netanyahu's Comparisons of Iranian Threat to the Holocaust | The Times of Israel
For years Wiesel has steadfastly rejected any comparisons to the Holocaust.  He has argued that the Holocaust is unique in its evils.  There have of course been too many examples of genocides throughout history and even since Auschwitz.  Yet none are the same as the Holocaust.  The Holocaust should only be used to describe one historical event, namely the systematic and intentional destruction of much of European Jewry by the Nazi regime and its supporters.  Loosely calling other evils and threats holocausts or potential holocausts diminishes the meaning and import of the Holocaust.  Such is Wiesel's point.  He said, “Only Auschwitz was Auschwitz. I went to Yugoslavia when reporters said that there was a Holocaust starting there. There was genocide, but not an Auschwitz. When you make a comparison to the Holocaust it works both ways, and soon people will say what happened in Auschwitz was ‘only what happened in Bosnia.’”  The comparison becomes especially dangerous when applied to threats.  Although Iran and its nuclear ambitions represent a grave existential threat to the State of Israel and its citizens, as well as to the United States, comparing it to the Holocaust actually brings about harm by limiting Israel's strategic options.  In this manner the Holocaust is used to belittle naysayers and those who might advocate non-military action.  I do not pretend to know what the best way of dealing with the Iranian threat might be, but calling it a potential Holocaust suggests that only the military option will suffice.  That might very well be the best and only option, but let that be because that is the best strategic option.  Let not our careless use of language limit our responses.  Only Auschwitz is Auschwitz.  Wiesel's caution is well taken.

Yom HaShoah Siren

In Israel there is a moment of silence that marks the nationwide observance of Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Commemoration Day).  At 10 am the air raid siren is sounded for two minutes.  Many stand at attention, even stopping their cars in the middle of the highway.

Yom HaShoah

In our never-ending pursuit of health and fitness we enter cycling races, triathlons and masters swim meets. Even our weekend golf games become fierce competitions as we bet on the winners of each hole. For many, and in particular middle-aged men, even the healthiest of exercise regimens can turn into such competitions. Marathons have become so popular that gaining a spot in New York City’s has become increasingly difficult. Participation in triathlons has increased ten fold, surpassing two million competitors this past year.

Training for such endurance sports, or perfecting one’s golf game, or playing just about any sport these days, requires time, commitment and investment. Despite my well-known passion for cycling and its events, I sometimes forget the primary purpose of my life. Simply put that purpose is to bring a measure of goodness to an increasingly fractured world.

On the days that I forget this command I remember the story of Gino Bartali, an Italian cycling legend. One might think that I admire him for his extraordinary cycling accomplishments. He won the Tour de France in 1938 and 1948 and the Giro d’Italia in 1936, 1937 and 1946. In addition he won the Giro’s mountain stages a record seven times and stood on the winner’s podium over 170 times. He accomplished these feats despite the fact that he could not compete during the most promising years of his career.

Yet it was precisely because of what he did during those years, during the years of World War II, that he is my hero. It was during those years that he helped to save hundreds of Jews from the Nazis. Yad VaShem is still researching the details of his story in order to determine whether Bartali merits the designation of Righteous among the Nations, the highest honor given to those non-Jews who risked their lives to save Jews. I first learned of Gino’s story from a fellow cyclist. Here are the details of that story.

Gino Bartali began working for the underground in September 1943 after the Germans occupied much of Italy. During this time over 10,000 Italian Jews were deported to concentration camps.  7,000 died there. His clandestine job was to smuggle documents to a convent that produced false papers for persecuted Jews. And so Bartali rode from his home to the convent, from Florence to the outskirts of Assisi and back again, with these smuggled papers hidden in the frame of his bicycle. He convinced the soldiers guarding the road that he was on a 235-mile training ride. He rode this route at least 40 times. On other occasions he also rode to Genoa (145 miles from Florence), where he would pick up money to distribute to Jewish families.

Florence was liberated in August 1944 so in one year’s time he rode over 10,000 miles. His efforts helped to save some 800 Jews. Only yesterday it was also revealed that Bartali hid a Jewish family in his cellar during that painful year of the German occupation.

Giorgio, then a young boy, still remembers the day the British entered Florence and he was able to leave Gino Bartali’s basement and walk the city’s streets. “I went out and saw a British soldier with the word ‘Palestine’ and the Star of David embroidered on his shoulders. [The soldier was a member of the British Army’s Jewish Brigade.] I went up to him and started to hum the Hatikvah. He heard me and spoke to me in English. I understood that we were free, thanks to Gino…”

Bartali remained humble and even secretive about his clandestine, and dangerous, wartime efforts. On one occasion, however, he offered a few words about his remarkable deeds. Bartali said, “Good is something you do, not something you talk about. Some medals are pinned to your soul, not to your jacket."

Let that be a temper to my competitive spirit and my efforts to ride faster and farther. We must always remember that refining the soul is always better, and far more important, than polishing any trophy.

One of the greatest and most successful professional cyclists understood this. Let his example be my inspiration!

Addendum

One might wonder how the details of Bartali's heroics came to light.  Here is that convoluted story.

Despite the fact that he was secretive about his wartime efforts, he did share a number of details with his son Andrea. As they would ride their bicycles together Bartali would sometimes point out where he had hid in a ravine, but always insisted that his clandestine efforts never be revealed. It was his son, who after his father’s death in May 2000, began sharing what he knew.  Even he did not know all of the remarkable details.  The son only broke his pledge of silence because of an unusual circumstance. Paola Alberati, an Italian professional cyclist and political science student, met Bartali’s mechanic, Ivo Faltoni, who was one of the only people who knew of Bartali’s clandestine wartime efforts.  I imagine that the mechanic helped him hide the documents in his bicycle frame.  And so Faltoni began researching the details of the Italian cyclist’s heroics. The political science student uncovered police records detailing their suspicions about Bartali and revealing the dangers that he faced.  Newspaper stories followed and witnesses emerged.  One Jewish survivor said to Andrea, “I wouldn’t have been born if your father hadn’t helped and protected my parents.”  And that is why we are only now learning of Gino Bartali's greatest achievements.

Omer

Counting is considered bad luck. The tradition counsels that the more we count the more we come to think we lack. How many people check their portfolios and think to themselves, “Look how blessed is my lot!” I suspect that most instead look at their accumulated wealth and think, “Will there be enough for my family?” How often do we look at the people sitting with us at Shabbat services and think, “Look at my friends sitting beside me!” More often we say, “There should be more people here.” Too often counting leads to feelings of longing, of desires unfulfilled.

Yet, on the second evening of Passover we begin a tradition of counting. Moreover this counting is commanded in the Torah. We count the days from Passover until Shavuot. We count seven times seven weeks. We count 49 days—each and every day.

This tradition dates back to our people’s agricultural roots. Passover was associated with the barley harvest and Shavuot the wheat. The intervening weeks were viewed with great trepidation. Will there be enough grain? Will the harvest be successful. Thus we count.

When counting the Omer, we first recite a blessing: “Blessed are You Adonai our God Ruler of the universe who sanctifies us with commandments and commands us regarding the counting of the Omer.” Then we announce the day. If it is, for example, the 33rd day of the Omer we say, “Today is thirty three days, which are four weeks and five days, of the Omer.”

The question is why in this instance is counting not only allowed but commanded. It is to teach that the freedom of Passover must be linked to the giving of Torah celebrated on Shavuot. It is to remind us that those seven weeks in between leaving Egypt and Sinai were in truth aimless wandering. It is in fact for the exact same reason that counting is discouraged. For 49 days our Jewish lives are unfulfilled. It was not until the giving of the Torah that our freedom gained its true meaning.

The Jewish contention is that freedom is meaningless unless wedded to something greater. Most people think that Moses appeared before Pharaoh and said in God’s name, “Let My people go.” In fact Moses said, “Let My people go so that they may serve Me.” We are not free to do whatever we wish. Our freedom’s purpose is not to fulfill our own desires but instead to serve something greater and larger than ourselves.

Passover without Shavuot is empty. Freedom without service is meaningless.

Pesah

It is axiomatic to say that food is central to Jewish life. We love our holiday meals: the matzo balls, brisket, gefilte fish and jelly rings. Such is the customary fare at the seders we will observe tomorrow evening. Yet food is also integral to the Jewish tradition. There are blessings for all kinds of food. We say a blessing before eat fruits or vegetables. The blessing is tailored to whether the food grows on a tree, a vine or the ground.

We say a blessing before eating cookies or cake. “Blessed are You Adonai our God Ruler of the universe who creates different kinds of nourishment.” For bread alone, the staple of any meal, we recite the motzi. Regardless of the formula the purpose of the blessings is clear. We are to give thanks for the food we are about to eat. We pause and reflect. Before enjoying our meal we say thank you. Food is an enjoyment. Eating is a pleasure. For these gifts we thank God.

Interestingly none of these blessings contain the formula asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu: “…who has sanctified us with the commandments and commanded us to…” There are only two blessings over food that contain this formula and that are thus viewed as commandments. We recite them at our seder tables. They are the blessings over matzah and maror, over the unleavened bread and bitter herbs. They are the only times that the act of eating is viewed as a commandment.

You might say that the reason is clear. When eating matzah, especially after a week, it could only be an obligation that keeps us searching for new and inventive ways to prepare this unleavened bread. As our eyes water and our tongues burn after biting into the horseradish root it could only be a command that calls us to eat this food, and then again on the second night. “Blessed are You Adonai our God Ruler of the universe who has sanctified us with the commandments and commanded us regarding the eating of the bitter herbs.”

Still it cannot simply be about their taste. This of course is subjective. There are plenty of people who do not like brussel sprouts or broccoli. The tradition still demands that we give thanks and say a blessing in such instances: “Blessed are You… who creates the fruit of the earth.” The question is why is the eating of matzah and maror commanded. There must be a deeper meaning beyond their bitter and bland taste.

Everything arrayed before us on the Passover table helps us accomplish the twofold purpose of the seder: to remember slavery and be thankful for freedom. Each symbol on the table serves one of these two purposes. The wine reminds us that we are free. The grand meal, patterned after the ancient Greco-Roman banquet with its reclining and dipping of foods, recalls our freedom. The matzah and maror point to our slavery. The central mitzvah of the seder is to tell the story of our going out from Egypt, of our traveling from slavery to freedom.

Only those who are free can eat whatever they like, whenever they wish. Eating is of course a pleasure; only on Passover is it a commandment. Thus on this night we are commanded to eat certain foods, even—and especially—those we do not like. By eating these particular foods we are reminded of the pleasures of eating. By making this night different from all other nights, we remind ourselves that we are free. We do so by eating what we do not desire. The essence of the teaching is clear. You cannot appreciate freedom if you have no experience of its opposite.

In an age of unparalleled freedoms this rabbinic insight should gain even more importance. Too often in our own day we take our freedoms for granted. On this Passover we are commanded to pause and reflect about the gift of freedom.

This is why we are commanded to eat the unleavened bread and bitter herbs. Their message is simple, yet profound. You cannot appreciate freedom unless you taste slavery.

Tzav Sermon

Years ago I was attracted to Buddhism and in particular the Zen masters.  Then I discovered some of the vows that were required of them so that was a short lived fascination.  Nonetheless my attraction was about the sanctification of the everyday that I saw in Zen.  Even the most mundane activities can be infused with holiness.  That is the point of the Buddhists’ beautiful rock gardens.  Even the everyday is holy.  It might be better to say that their perspective is that holiness is more often found in the ordinary, everyday than in sanctuaries and cathedrals.  You can find it here in what you must do today.  You need not search elsewhere; you need not travel far.

That was when I also realized that I did not have to look elsewhere for such teachings.  They are found as well in our Jewish tradition.  Such ideas are especially prevalent in the Hasidic masters.  Martin Buber writes in Hasidism and Modern Man.  (This book continues to be one of the most influential books in my spiritual life.)  “In life, as Hasidism understands and proclaims it, there is, accordingly, no essential distinction between sacred and profane spaces, between sacred and profane times, between sacred and profane actions, between sacred and profane conversations.  At each place, in each hour, in each act, in each speech the holy can blossom forth.”

I need not search in other traditions for this important understanding of the spiritual life.  Everything can be infused with holiness.  There is no sharp line between religious and not religious, between the holy and ordinary.  This line is part of the difficulty of religious life in our own day.  People tend to draw lines between business and home, between synagogue and street.  But there need not be any such distinctions.  All of life can be infused with the holy.

That was part of the power of the sacrifices we read about in this week’s portion.  They were hands on.  You had to carry your sacrifice to the altar.  You had to bring your unblemished animal to the priest.  You could in a word, touch and feel your prayer.  You took this ordinary, everyday, valuable animal and transformed it into a prayer.

Today we don’t of course slaughter animals on the altar.  And I am thankful that my job does not involve killing your animals.  But we have lost something in the move from animal sacrifices to the prayerbooks’ words.  While we hold on to the prayerbook, we can’t hold these words.  Our prayers appear ephemeral and perhaps other worldly.  They appear to belong only in the synagogue.  They should only be sung by a cantor or read by a rabbi.  The ideal spiritual life then appears to be divorced and set apart from the everyday.  But Judaism seeks to bring these prayers into the everyday.  They should not remain here.  They must not remain here.  They should be spoken and sung by everyone.  They should be heard in each and every place.

Let’s look at but one example.  The blessings for eating illustrate this point.  You are supposed to say a blessing before you eat anything.  Everyone is familiar with the motzi.  “Blessed are You Adonai our God Ruler of the universe who brings forth bread from the earth.”  Less familiar is the Birkat HaMazon, the blessing recited after eating a meal.  A meal is so significant that is wrapped in blessings just like the morning’s Torah reading.  If you want to see what Judaism deems really important see what we have a blessing for both before and after.  These are enveloped in blessings.  The Torah reading and a meal are but two examples.

The question is: why do we say these blessings?  The blessing before serves to raise our awareness.  We pause and give thanks before eating.  Unlike animals we don’t just eat to satisfy hunger.  We can also give thanks.  We reaffirm this with the blessing that follows our meal.  We give thanks to God again and again.

There is an even more important reason why we say these blessings.  The rabbis argued that when the Temple was destroyed and with it the sacrificial system we had to move the altar to another place.  The synagogue service came to replace the sacrifices of old.  But even more important the home came to also replace the Temple.  The table where we sit to eat our meals became an altar.  We transformed the ordinary, everyday act of eating into something holy.  It was no longer just eating, it was a meal.  Our tables became altars.  Our homes became sanctuaries.

Everything is holy, even eating.  Every place is holy, especially our homes.  The power of this worldview is that there are things in all of our lives that we have to do and that we don’t like to do—not eating of course, but perhaps gardening, or cleaning.  I would not suggest that you have to like chores or menial labor.  You don’t have to love to do such things.  But if you refrain from calling them unholy or beneath you, as something that you must never do, then even the tedium and chores are transformed.  Then even the most mundane is sanctified.  Everything contains a spark of holiness.

If you think that you might only find such sparks in a synagogue or a service, or a grand and beautiful destination, then you will miss seeing it each and everyday.  If you wait for the spark to unfurl itself when you travel from your home or go out to a fancy restaurant then you will miss seeing it standing before you in your home.  Such sparks are not just found at the Grand Canyon or Le Bernardin.  They are in the here and now.

Back to the ashes that someone had to bend down and remove from the sacrificial pit.  Not a great job I would imagine.  But even that was done by the same priest who offered the sacrifices.  The priest was privileged to do the lofty and he also had to do the lowly.  The distinction as seeing one job as privileged and the other as a burden was not his worldview.  Both tasks were holy.

The Hasidic master, Sefat Emet, teaches: “The commandment here to remove the ashes hints that as we burn up the waste in our lives we are uplifted each day, and then we are given new light.  This redemptive process is with us every single day.”  The removal of ash made room for the fires to burn.  Likewise we must make room for our fires to burn, for our passions to ignite.

It is here.  It can be found today.  Sparks of holiness are no longer in sacrificial fires.  But they are also not just here in these songs and prayers.  They are to be found each and everyday.  They are to be found in our homes, in the everyday tasks that we perform.

It is only a matter of not calling them tasks or burdens.  It is as simple as seeing each and every moment, each and every job as holy.

Tzav

Our Torah portion offers us more sacrifices and perhaps an additional lesson.

This week we learn that the sacrificial fires must be tended and kept burning day and night. “The fire on the altar shall be kept burning, not to go out: every morning the priest shall feed wood to it.” (Leviticus 6:5)

Rarely noted is the preceding command that the ashes must be removed almost as frequently. I am sure the job of tending the fire’s flames was more glamorous than that of removing the ash. But both are required. Both are holy. You can’t have a fire if its fuel is not continually replenished. You can’t as well build a fire in a pit that is filled with ash. The lowly work is required just as much as the lofty.

But who likes to clean? Everyone of course likes to wear clean clothes (except perhaps young boys), but who likes to do laundry? Everyone likes to eat a great dinner, or even cook a delicious meal, but who likes to do the dishes? Perhaps part of the lesson is that you have to also do the dirty work in order to gain the rewards. Passover is of course not just about the seder. It is also about the mundane tasks of cooking and cleaning. It is just as much about the preparation as it is the grand meal.

Interestingly it was the priest himself who cleaned out the ash. “The priest shall then take off his vestments and put on other vestments, and carry the ashes outside the camp to a clean place.” (Leviticus 6:4) Tending to the sacrifices and their fires involved both the glamorous and the mundane. Both were the job of one person.

The Hasidic rebbes were known for cleaning their synagogues themselves. They did not view the mundane tasks of maintaining the buildings as beneath them. They saw each and every aspect of their work as holy. Like the Zen masters who toiled over rock gardens, even sweeping the floors was a religious enterprise. Nothing was ever beneath them. Thus they taught by their example that nothing is beneath anyone.

Too often a spiritual life is seen as lofty and on high. Hence the architecture of so many synagogues and churches has towering pulpits and impressive sanctuaries. Hasidic synagogues by contrast were more often non-descript homes or even rooms. The lesson is clear. Our spiritual pursuits also involve the mundane and everyday. They must at times even involve what appears beneath us. Is it any less important, and holy, to cut up the potatoes at a soup kitchen than to serve the meal? Is it less holy to dress the Torah than to chant its words?

Again an example from recent funerals. There I am often awed by who is thanked. Thanks are frequently extended to those people who cared for the deceased in his or her last months and perhaps years. This person is rarely a family member. I often discover that these caregivers are people of deep, but quiet faith. They do things that we cannot do. It is not that this work is beneath us. Instead it is that sometimes the most intimate care requires a distance that a loved one cannot sustain. Nonetheless it seems to me that there is no holier work. It is certainly not as glamorous as the doctor who offers expert wisdom or even as lofty as the rabbi who visits with his (or her) prayers. Yet I am grateful to these people who like the priests of old who stooped to remove the ashes from the sacrificial fire pit.

Everyone always looks at the fires and exclaims “Ooh…Ah.” Too often we forget about the mundane, and even dirty, work that is required to achieve those exclamations. Too often we forget about those who stooped low to keep these fires burning.

Let us not forget about the priests who walk among us cleaning up the ashes that we cannot. Let us always remember that their work is as holy as tending to the brightly burning fires.

Vayikra Sermon

There are many sacrifices detailed in this week’s Torah portion.   There is the burnt offering, everyday sacrifice, the meal offering, sin offering and guilt offering.  The ancient system was built on sacrifices not on prayer.  The ancient Israelites believed that the world was sustained by this system.  If it was done wrong, if there was a miscue, a wrong sprinkle here or there, the whole world might collapse.  In traditional circles these sacrifices are still seen as the ideal.  We just can’t do them anymore because the Temple was destroyed.  When the messiah comes he will rebuild the Temple and re-establish this sacrificial cult.

I have no desire for a return to this system.  Likewise the Reform movement changed these traditional prayers that hoped for this rebuilding.  The question still remains: why was this seen as the ideal?  The first answer is because religions in general and Judaism in particular see the past as the ideal.  What we did yesterday is better than today; what was said long ago is better than what is said today.  The closer you get to Sinai the more wise are the words.  There is an idealization of the past.  My Reform perspective however is that sometimes the past also holds us captive.  Sometimes we must change.  Sometimes we must be influenced by the past but not beholden to it.  Nowhere does this seem more true than when reading the details of these sacrifices.

Why would I want to slaughter an animal and sprinkle its blood on the altar?  Of course it would be really awesome if I sinned and I could then just bring a goat and give it to the priest and he could slaughter it and I would be forgiven.  That would be great of course if I had any goats.  But it would be terrible if I did not do the really hard work of correcting my failings.

This of course points to the meaning of sacrifice.  The sacrifice was all about offering something that is really precious.  You don’t offer your scrawny, unhealthy, runt of the herd.  You have to offer the unblemished, best of the flock.  You had to search and search for the best.  That was part of the power of the sacrifice.  Searching for the best; choosing the unblemished, perfect animal must have been an enormously powerful undertaking.

With the exception of soldiers we rarely if ever do this in our own lives.  We offer little to others, to our community, to our country.  When have we ever taken something that is most precious and given it to another?  This week I have been thinking that as much as dislike all of the blood and guts of the sacrifices maybe we would be better served to rediscover their deeper meaning.  We elevate our own lives, we make our lives more holy by giving up, by relinquishing control, by sacrificing for others, all in the name of the greater good.  That is what the ancient Israelites understood.

It is for example my belief that democracies cannot wage wars, especially long wars, if only soldiers are asked to sacrifice.  If the general population is not asked to sacrifice so that the nation will succeed the wars become unsustainable.  There are of course a lot of problems with the recently ended war in Iraq, or at least our involvement in it, and the soon to be ending war in Afghanistan.  But one of the greatest problems is that everyone was not asked to sacrifice.  There is a disconnect between those who fight and those of us who continue on with our merry lives.  If all are not asked to sacrifice then these wars become unsustainable.  You might say, they should never have been waged.  But that is not my point.

My contention here is only about sacrifice.  We succeeded in WWII not because of D-Day or the few soldiers who withstood the Battle of the Bulge or ran up the hills on Iowa Jima but because the entire country fought that war and sacrificed so that we might succeed.  If we cannot summon everyone to sacrifice, if we refuse to ask everyone to participate even in the smallest of ways, then we will fail.  You can send in the Navy Seals for this skirmish or that but you cannot sustain a war without everyone sacrificing.  Until all are asked to sacrifice in the current struggle we will fail.

That is my contention.  That is part of the lesson of this week’s portion.  A nation, a country is built on sacrifice.  It is the same with a community.  The group is greater when individuals sacrifice for the larger good.  It is the same with our individual lives.

In order to achieve greatness you have to sacrifice.  You want to earn more, you want to achieve more, then work harder, then sacrifice.  It is a traditional formula; but it works.  There is no lottery ticket for an easy way to success.  To be really honest it does not even work all the time.  Sometimes you might work really hard and sacrifice a lot and still not have great success.  But you will still achieve a measure of meaning.  That can be my only contention.

Sacrifice is about giving something up for the sake of something potentially greater.  There is no guarantee about the potential for greatness.  The key is that it involves giving up.  And that is something we are unwilling to do in our current society.

There are two possible examples of modern sacrifice.  We can sacrifice money when giving tzedakah.  In giving money to others I could be giving up a piece of my retirement.  But in order for it be a sacrifice I have to be losing something.  I might have less to spend on myself, my family, my future in order to give to others.  It is only sacrifice if I actually lose something that I also value.

I could as well sacrifice my time.  How many times do we sacrifice time with family, friends for the sake of a stranger?  You might say that family and friends are more important.  And that is true.  But in order for it to fulfill the definition of sacrifice I must give up something I love for the sake of something else.  My time with my family, with my friends, is most precious.  Giving up my time with them is then a real sacrifice.

There are times when we must offer this on the altar.  And these are our modern sacrifices.  Even strangers are to be loved says the Torah.  To live by that command I must sacrifice what I hold most precious.  I can think of nothing we value more than our time with family.  This is what we might offer.  This is pushed aside so that we might love the stranger.

Another name for sacrifice in Hebrew is olah.  It is the term for the everyday sacrifice, usually translated as burnt offering because the entire offering is burned up on the altar.  It is because it is all turned to smoke and the smoke ascends to heaven that it is called this.  Olah means to go up.

This gives another hint at the ancient meaning of the sacrificial rituals.  In order to raise our lives to lives of meaning we must add the notion of sacrifice.  In order to elevate our lives, we must give to others.  Not only what they need but also some of what is most precious to us.  Whether it be time or money we must sacrifice these on our modern altars.

The ancients had it wrong when it came to the animals and the blood.  But they had it right when they suggested that a meaningful life begins with sacrifice.  May we find the strength to sacrifice, to give to others, if only a portion of what is most precious to us.  Only in this manner we will discover the meaning we seek.

Vayikra

There is an ancient concept that in our own day has fallen into disrepute. It is called sacrifice.

We first read of this idea in the opening chapters of Leviticus. This week’s portion begins the lengthy book detailing these elaborate rituals. In ancient times one did not pray as we do today. One did not offer words. Instead one offered animals, or grains.

It was always the choicest of the flock that was chosen for a sacrifice. It had to be the most prized that was offered. The Torah demands that the animal be without blemish. That requirement was part of the power of sacrifice. One could not casually peruse the flock. One had to carefully examine the animals to choose the one perfect, unblemished animal.

Once the choice was made it was brought to the priest, who would slaughter the animal and sprinkle its blood on the altar. Imagine this. Your most valuable animal is slaughtered before your eyes. Moreover you rejoiced in this act. You took great pride and pleasure in this sacrifice. To be sure many ancient cultures believed that sacrifices were foods for the gods, appeasing them and staying their anger. There are hints of this even in our own Torah. As the slaughtered animal is turned to smoke on the altar, the Torah comments that it was a pleasing odor to the Lord.

All of this is foreign. I want nothing of these rituals. I want little of killing animals on an altar. Yet I long for the ancients’ comfort with sacrifice. We live in a society where we rarely if ever sacrifice for others. Our children especially do not know the meaning of sacrifice. Have we ever asked them to give up something they prize for the sake of another? We have struggled, and continue to struggle, so that they might not know want, that they lack nothing. But at what cost? Do they truly know the meaning of giving to others? Have we as well ever given up something we cherish for another? Can we discover the of meaning we seek absent of sacrifice?

At both of the last two funerals I attended there were military honor guards. Both funerals were for older men who served during Korea. Unlike prior generations of Jews so few of my generation serve in the military. The coffin was draped in an American flag. Taps was played. The honor guard carefully folded the flag and then presented it to the widow saying, “On behalf of the President of the United States and a grateful nation…” Tears roll down my cheeks every time I hear this. Why? It is because the essence of this ritual is about sacrifice. Here was a man who served our country in the armed services and was therefore willing to sacrifice his life for something greater. The honor guard gives voice to the ancient premise. The willingness to sacrifice gives meaning to our lives.

This is why the generation who fought in World War II and built the industries that made our country into a leading economy is called the greatest generation. It is because they sacrificed so much for others; they sacrificed for this nation. Even those who did not serve in the military were asked to sacrifice, to ration food and gas and to buy war bonds. The ancients were right about sacrifice and its meaning. The willingness to give up what is most precious leads to greatness.

I have said this before and I am certain I will say it again, we have been asked to sacrifice nothing in the ongoing war on terror. To be sure our lives have become filled with inconveniences and nuisances, especially when traveling. But ordinary Americans have not been asked to sacrifice for their country. Even much of the soldiering has been contracted out. A military contractor is a job. It is not the calling to serve something greater that is the defining character of a soldier. We have not been beseeched with the words, “Our brethren serving in the armed forces continue to die defending our nation and so we must drive less, eat less…” Ask me to sacrifice just one thing for the sake of our nation! This past week Specialist Daquane D. Rivers (21 years old) and Second Lieutenant Clovis T. Ray (34 years old) were killed in Afghanistan.

In Hebrew the word for sacrifice is korban. It is related to the word to draw near. The meaning is clear. It was believed that offering a sacrifice enabled the worshipper to draw near to God.

We often complain that we live in a world that is fractured and disconnected. Perhaps it is because of our unwillingness to sacrifice. The essential truth found in this week’s Torah portion is that when we sacrifice we draw near. And when sacrifice is not even part of our lexicon we only draw near to ourselves. Thus we find ourselves far more distant from ourselves, our community, our nation and even our God.

We must speak again the word of sacrifice. Its wisdom is not just for ancient times. It is needed today as well.