Let’s Dance Like Sunflowers

My new favorite flower is the sunflower. It’s not because of its seeds which I enjoy but instead because of a recent scientific discovery.

Apparently, sunflowers dance. Let me explain.

Every flower requires sunlight. When sunflowers grow together, they block the sunlight from each other. And so, scientists discovered they move around so that each is exposed to the sun. They do not do this when a building shades the sun. They do this when grouped together in a large patch of sunflowers. They dance in a coordinated fashion to make room for each other.

As we mark the first day of the Hebrew month of Elul and the approach of the High Holidays the sunflowers provide us with a model for how we might behave towards each other during this contentious and painful year…

This post continues on The Times of Israel.

Hearing Leads to Rewards

Hearing is crucial to understanding.

We live in a world of distractions. We are bombarded by images and notifications throughout our day that distract us from truly understanding those who stand before us. When others are talking, we are often only partially listening.

How many times do I ask Susie to repeat what she just said because I was busy scrolling through my phone? How many other times do I become distracted mid-conversation when I receive a text message that seems to scream, “Pay attention to me—now!”

We listen less attentively. And our understanding suffers.

The Torah proclaims, “See, I set before you today blessing and curse: the blessing when you listen to the command of Adonai your God with which I charge you today; the curse, if you do not listen to the command of Adonai your God.” (Deuteronomy 11) The root of the Hebrew word for listening and hearing is sh’ma. It is the same word as that found in the familiar Sh’ma prayer. We sing, “Hear, O Israel, Adonai is our God, the Lord is One.”

In this week’s portion, this word is usually translated as hearken or obey rather than listen, but it seems to me that the Hebrew is pointing us towards a greater meaning.

Hearing is crucial to receiving God’s blessings.

The Sefas Emes, a nineteenth century Hasidic rabbi, writes, “The reward of an observant life will be the ability to hear God’s voice among the conflicting messages competing for our attention in a noisy world.”

The more one observes, the easier it is to hear. The more one focuses on those sitting before us, the greater the reward.

Food Is Never Just About Food

The familiar phrase “man does not live on bread alone” is often used to suggest that we require more than food (or material wealth) to sustain ourselves. Spiritual fulfillment is fundamental to our existence.

The Torah adds emphasis it proclaims, “God subjected you to the hardship of hunger and then gave you manna to eat, which neither you nor your ancestors had ever known, in order to teach you that a human being does not live on bread alone, but that one may live on anything that the Lord decrees.” (Deuteronomy 8)

Our lives, and our spirits, are in God’s hands! Apparently, God even fashions the menu.

And yet much of our spiritual lives are dependent on a meal. The hallmark of a Shabbat dinner is a hallah. On Rosh Hashanah it is imperative that we have a round hallah, and often with raisins to add to the hoped for sweetness of the coming year. Chicken and brisket are favorite main courses for the holidays—at least in the Ashkenazi home in which I was raised.

In fact, many people think it is not a fitting meal if there is no protein. “What meat are you serving?” is a question I am often asked given that we mostly prepare vegetarian meals. Those of us raised in the last half century when chicken and beef (and even fish) became mass produced and inexpensive expect meat whenever they sit down to eat. Otherwise, it is not a meal.

We were raised with the notion that it is not a Shabbat meal without chicken and most of the time, chicken soup. But the reason we associate chicken with a typical Shabbat dinner is because that was the one day a week our relatives could afford to purchase chicken. What makes a meal a meal is a product of our cultural surroundings. And the so-called traditional meal is different depending on where your family came from. In the Ashkenazi family in which I was raised it was chicken.

Back to bread. It is not a seudah, a festive occasion, without a hallah and the most senior relative offering the motzi. The band leader declares, “And now Uncle Bob is going to come forward for the motzi.” In America we have added the super-size hallah to this moment. Where else but here would we bake one bread that can serve two hundred people

Then again it is not so much about the size of the hallah—although that’s America for you. It is not so much about the food. It is about being together. When we gather, we sustain our spirits. When we sit and eat, sing and drink, we create memories.

And when we cook, we sustain our spirits. We bring people, and family, together. Claudia Roden in her landmark cookbook, The Book of Jewish Food, comments, “Jewish food tells the story of an uprooted, migrating people and their vanished worlds. It lives in people’s minds and has been kept alive because of what it evokes.” When we cook, we sustain memory.

Food is never just about food.

Prayer Is About Mending the Heart

Why does it appear that one person’s prayer is answered, and another’s ignored?

Let’s look at two examples.

In the first, Moses pleads with God to be allowed to see the Promised Land.  He says, “Let me, I pray, cross over and see the good land on the other side of the Jordan.” (Deuteronomy 3) God does not relent.  Moses never touches the land.  

Why does God not answer Moses’ prayer?  We recall that not entering the land is punishment for when Moses lost his temper with the people. (Numbers 20) The people were complaining about the lack of water (again!) and Moses hits the rock. And yet, our hero’s plea is understandable.  Notice, he does not question the punishment and ask to go into the land.  He only wishes to see it up close with his own eyes.  God ignores his prayer.

In the second example, Hannah prays for a child.  We read, “In the bitterness of her soul, she prayed to the Lord, crying intently.” (I Samuel 1) God responds to her plea and she gives birth to a son who later becomes the prophet Samuel.  Hannah’s prayer is answered.  In fact, her words serve as rabbinic literature’s model for prayer and this passage is the Haftarah portion we read on Rosh Hashanah morning when we hope God will likewise answer our prayers.  

Hannah’s words are effective.  Moses’ are not.  Why does God answer Hannah’s request and not that of Moses?  Who could be more deserving than Moses?  He does everything God asks of him even though he did not want the job.  He leads the people for forty years through the wilderness.  Sure, he loses his patience every once in a while, but the people complain a lot and he is probably hot and thirsty too.  

Why of all people is Moses’ plea denied?  We do not know.  The question continues to baffle us.

Why does God answer Hannah’s prayer but not that of Moses?  Why is one person’s prayer answered and another’s ignored?  Part of what we learn is that it is not about the person, but the feelings expressed in the prayer.  It does not matter who the person is or what successes they may have achieved.  It does not have to do character. It has nothing to do with merit.  It only has to do with sentiments and feelings.

And that observation makes me uncomfortable.  I have been a rabbi (and a person) long enough to know that there are plenty of people who pray with all their heart and yet their prayers remain unanswered.  Telling these people that they are in good company and that God likewise ignores Moses’ plea is unhelpful and even unfeeling.

Still, I continue to pray with all my heart.  I pray for instance every time we gather as a congregation, and several times in each service, that peace will soon be realized in every land, that hatred and bloodshed will cease even though the news and my head tell me otherwise.

I keep praying.

And I keep relying on the truth, found in our prayerbook. “Prayer invites God’s presence to suffuse our spirits, God’s will to prevail in our lives.  Prayer may not bring water to parched fields, nor mend a broken bridge, nor rebuild a ruined city.  But prayer can water an arid soul, mend a broken heart, rebuild a weakened will.”

Perhaps prayer is not about seeking answers but about striving for healing.  

It is about mending.

We Will Survive—Once Again

The Book of Job offers a mystifying tale.

We are introduced to Job and learn he is a righteous and blameless man. And yet he suffers unimaginable pain. His children are killed. His wealth is plundered. He is afflicted with a debilitating disease.

He wonders aloud about his horrifying plight and cries, “Perish the day on which I was born.” (Job 3) The remainder of the book offers a litany of responses to his cries of pain. All prove inadequate. Job’s friends suggest he is responsible for his own troubles.

Their theology is simplistic. Their words add to their friend’s pain. There are no words that can adequately respond to such suffering.

Perhaps this is why Sephardic congregations read Job this coming Tuesday, on Tisha B’Av. This day marks the destruction of the first and second Temples, as well as countless other Jewish tragedies such as the expulsion from Spain. And if one is to believe news reports Iran is also plotting to attack Israel on this day. Even though we know it was the Babylonians and then the Romans who destroyed the Temples and forced the Jewish people into exile, the reasons how this was allowed to happen remain mysterious.

Historians, and rabbis, debate. They argue about explanations. The rabbis suggest it was internal strife that provided the opening for the Romans to level Jerusalem. Jeremiah, like Job’s friends, suggests the Babylonians were God’s instruments chastising Israel for its sins.

After nearly forty chapters of give and take between Job and his friends, God finally responds and thunders, “Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundations? Speak if you have understanding.” (Job 38) God’s answer does little to quell the mystery.

Suffering persists. Its pain lingers.

Professor Jack Miles in his fascinating book, GOD: A Biography, writes,

Within the Book of Job itself, God's climactic and overwhelming reply seems to silence Job. But reading from the end of the Book of Job onward, we see that it is Job who has somehow silenced God. God never speaks again, and he is decreasingly spoken of. In the Book of Esther—a book in which, as in the Book of Exodus, his chosen people faces a genocidal enemy—he is never so much as mentioned. In effect, the Jews surmount the threat without his help.

And once again, we are left on our own.

The suffering and pain continue to defy explanation.

Tisha B’Av represents God’s withdrawal from history. The story we fashion since that terrible day is how we manage to defy history.

The threat lingers. We will surmount it once again.

The Ocean Lifts Our Spirits

Yesterday I enjoyed a wonderful swim in the Long Island Sound. And it reminded me how much I love the sea’s cool waters. Its salt and waves pull on my soul. I wonder why.

I turn to the ancient rabbis. (That is what Jews do when seeking answers to their questions.)

Rabbi Eliezer responds: “The entire world drinks from the waters of the ocean.” (Taanit 9b) I read on to discover that he and his colleagues debate where rain water comes from. Another rabbi argues with Eliezer. “But the waters of the ocean are salty, whereas rainwater is sweet.” The argument continues. Rabbis!

Perhaps Eliezer means his teaching metaphorically. Our spirit drinks in nourishment from the oceans. Every summer we wait in hours of traffic just to make our way to its beaches. It is calming. The waves are restorative.

The poet, Mary Oliver, offers a teaching. (This is where I also turn when searching for answers.)

I am in love with Ocean
lifting her thousands of white hats
in the chop of the storm,
or lying smooth and blue, the
loveliest bed in the world.
In the personal life, there is
always grief more than enough,
a heart-load for each of us
on the dusty road. I suppose
there is a reason for this, so I will be
patient, acquiescent. But I will live
nowhere except here, by Ocean, trusting
equally in all the blast and welcome
of her sorrowless, salt self.

The ocean is the antidote to grief. It is the answer to what ails us. No amount of tears can ever fill its depths. Its capacity to absorb tears is endless.

Rabbi Judah states: “A person who sees the ocean recites the blessing, ‘Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, who has made the great sea.’" (Berachot 54a) We are commanded to say a myriad of blessings. When seeing a rainbow, when eating an apple, when seeing a mountain, when sitting down to a meal, but regarding the ocean the sages offer a clarification.

A month must have passed since last seeing the ocean. Most people read this emendation as a warning. You should not say this blessing everyday as you should, for example, the motzi. I of course read it differently.

Don’t let a month go by without seeing the ocean!

Find its waves. Seek out its shores. Touch its waters. Cast your grief to its depths. Our souls require nourishment. Our spirits need renewal.

And it can be discovered a few short blocks from our homes.

Listen to Women’s Voices

Sometimes change is dramatic. More often it is incremental.

Zelophehad’s daughters bring a complaint against Moses. “Our father died in the wilderness… And he has left no sons. Let not our father’s name be lost to his clan just because he had no son! Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen!” (Numbers 27)

Moses appears baffled by their request. He inquires of God who then decrees, “The plea of Zelophehad’s daughters is just: you should give them a hereditary holding among their father’s kinsmen; transfer their father’s share to them.”

The law is changed.

God continues, “Further, speak to the Israelite people as follows: ‘If a householder dies without leaving a son, you shall transfer his property to his daughter.”

We move forward with tentative steps. God affirms.

And yet we continue to battle over the role of women.

Listen to the voices of Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah and Tirzah.

Listen to the voices of women.

Real People Provide Real Hope

On Sunday, I greeted the Jerusalem morning with news of the assassination attempt against former president Trump. We are grateful that the assassin was unsuccessful, and that President Trump was not seriously injured. We pray for the family of those killed (may Corey Comperatore’s memory serve as a blessing) and for the speedy recovery of those injured. Regardless of our political affiliation we must offer these words of thanksgiving.

Although we do not know the would-be assassin’s motives, this is not the first-time violence has been used in an attempt to settle our differences. We must affirm the conviction that such differences cannot be resolved through violence. Bullets are antithetical to democratic principles. We must cease the glorification of weapons. We must avoid celebrating violence. We must repudiate conspiracy theories.

In November, Americans will vote. And in January we will declare our unity behind the candidate who wins the most electoral votes—at least that is how our system is supposed to work. This occasion is an opportunity to offer thanks that violence has failed and to reaffirm our commitment to democratic principles.

We argue. We vote. We compromise.

On Tuesday, I traveled to Haifa to meet with participants in the Shalom Hartman Institute’s Shared Society initiatives. We met two teachers. One a Jew and another an Arab...

This post continues on The Times of Israel.

Jerusalem Dreams

Several weeks ago, I was riding through the rural roads of Pennsylvania, outside of Penn State, when I confronted a sign planted on a front lawn, “If the Zionists stole your land, you too would be fighting them.” And I thought to myself and screamed under my breath, “You have to be kidding. Even here!”

I am presently in Jerusalem studying at the Shalom Hartman Institute. Before attending the conference’s first lecture, I went for a run along a beautiful walking path that follows an old train route. The path begins in the city’s German Colony and snakes downhill through the Arab village of Beit Safafa toward Teddy Stadium and the zoo. This Arab village holds a special place in my heart. When I lived here in 1987, I taught English to a few of its high school students.

Prior to the 1967 Six Day War the village was divided in half. One half stood within Israel’s territory. The other in Jordan’s. It now sits within a unified Jerusalem. I often see its residents walking along this same path and I secretly hope that I might recognize one of my former students with whom I lost touch decades ago. I want to ask them how their views have changed…

This post continues on The Times of Israel.

Unity Before Ideology

If we celebrate Independence Day by hearkening back to the words of our founders, we often turn to the opening words of their Declaration of Independence: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

In doing so, we reaffirm our shared commitment to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. We reaffirm our dedication to the principle that these rights are available to all and are not dependent on wealth or privilege, education or class.

We tend to focus on the Declaration’s opening lines. We neglect the concluding line. “And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.” Our founders hoped to instill a keen sense that we are bound to each other.

Our lives and our fortunes are dependent on one another, and that this independent nation is sustained by our ability to see everyone as an American and not draw lines between ourselves. We may very well be independent of Britian and other nations, but we cannot thrive if we are independent of other Americans.

No matter how different we appear from each other, we are one.

Party affiliation and ideological commitment are not mentioned in this founding document. It is all “we” and not “I.” Their great complaint against King George was focused on self-interest. He believed the colonies were to serve him. The founders, however, wished to serve themselves. They believed that every person’s pursuit of happiness was as legitimate as a king’s. And they understood that we are bound together in this pursuit.

This is exactly why Korah is so forcefully punished for his rebellion against Moses. The opening words give away his selfish intentions. “Vayikach Korach—And Korah took himself.” (Numbers 16) The rabbis expand our understanding and fill in what is implied by this week’s portion. The medieval commentator, Rashi, explains, “Korah took himself to one side with the view of separating himself out of the community.”

On this July 4th I am hoping and praying really, really hard, that we can find our way back to this sense of commonality and civility and away from self-interest and political affiliation. I am holding on to the ideal that we are all Americans, regardless of religion or race, birthplace or language.

If we are to take our Torah’s message to heart and once again pledge ourselves to our founders’ principles, then we should see ourselves first and foremost as united. We may very well be varied and different, but we can only succeed if we are one.

If divine providence is to protect us, then we must stand united.

Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness is bound not to ideology but unity.

Faith Is About Perspective

Faith is a matter of perspective. It centers around the questions of am I strong enough, do I have enough.

There are people who have all the wealth in the world but are never content and there are likewise people who have little means but see their lives as blessed. There are people who regularly eat only a morsel of food and still give thanks to God and others who only eat the fanciest of foods and yet curse God.

Judaism wishes to inculcate the feeling that our lives are blessed regardless of how much or little we have. Think about the following commandments. Even the person dependent on tzedakah must give charity. And even before eating the smallest portions of food, we are instructed to say a blessing of thanks.

This contention stands in contrast to the messages of contemporary culture. We are inundated with advertisements urging us buy this or that with the promise that our lives will become more blessed. We are urged to up our game, fine tune our competitive drive and increase our work ethic to achieve more. Such inner drive is good but only to a point.

If the drive stands in the way of contentment, then it is for naught—at least as far as our tradition is concerned. If we are all drive and no thankfulness then, the rabbis suggest, we cannot achieve success. They counsel, only a soul filled with gratitude can stave off the terrors the world continues to throw at us.

The Torah offers the spies as an illustration. Moses commands twelve spies to reconnoiter the land of Israel. Joshua and Caleb offer only positive reports. The other ten come back with negatives. They say, “All the people we saw in the land are of great size… and we looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them.” (Numbers 13) They are so overwhelmed by fear that they no longer see the delicious grapes and beautiful pomegranates they discovered. They quickly forget that they also gleaned that the land of Israel flows with milk and honey.

Fear pushes aways even the most wonderous of blessings. Even though the taste of grapes and pomegranates is still in their mouths they become blinded by fear. They see themselves not as strong—God is on their side as Joshua and Caleb remind them—but small.

This is why Rabbi Meir urges us to recite one hundred blessings every day. His theory is that saying thank you over and over again strengthens the soul. If people repeatedly say I am blessed, then they feel strong—or at least strong enough. Seeing oneself as strong enough is the secret recipe our tradition wishes to teach.

I have known people of great stature and renown who appear small and others of little fame and prominence who stand tall. And I have come to understand it is all matter of choice. Does one see the grapes and the pomegranates and recall the land indeed flows with milk and honey or does one fixate on how overwhelming our opponents seem?

It is all about perspective.

And the most important ingredient to building a life of faith is how one sees oneself.

The path to seeing oneself as tall enough and strong enough, or even wealthy enough, is to say thank you.

Gardens of Hope

My garden is my teacher.

This fall we planted garlic in our backyard garden. And so, a few weeks ago I snipped off the scapes curling from green stalks. (I pickled them. Some people liked these pickled garlic scapes. Most did not.) If one does not trim these tops the plant focuses too much energy producing flowers rather than the bulbs with which we are familiar. In about a month, I will harvest the plants and then dry the bulbs so that I can have homegrown garlic for the upcoming year.

This makes me wonder about this week’s complaint from the Israelites. “The riffraff in their midst felt a gluttonous craving; and then the Israelites wept and said, ‘If only we had meat to eat! We remember the fish that we used to eat free in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic.’” (Numbers 11)

My teacher instructs. Garlic and for that matter, onions, leeks, melons and cucumbers require cultivation. They demand a landed, agrarian society that has the time to tend to such crops. Perhaps the Israelites’ complaints are not so much about the tasteless, albeit sustaining manna, but instead about their wandering. They are tired of living as nomads.

They just want to have a home. They want to be so settled that they can plant a garden. Of course, they forget that the delicacies for which they pine did not come from their own gardens but instead from those of their Egyptian taskmasters. Or perhaps they looked back at their Egyptian taskmaster’s meals and imagined they were their own. The imagination of yesteryear is not always an accurate portrayal of past experiences.

Collard greens are for example staples of African American cuisine because these were one of the few vegetables slaveholders allowed their enslaved Africans to grow for themselves. Their bitterness is transformed by even this modicum of freedom. Scraps of vegetables dished out by slaveholders do not taste the same as those grown with one’s own hands.

There is a taste of freedom in a garden. Supermarket vegetables are not the same as homegrown! This is why building community gardens is so meaningful. They are liberating. These gardens provide people with space to plant their own vegetables, to be less dependent on the prices of store-bought goods. They offer ownership of one’s own food. They provide glimpses of freedom. Freedom sweetens the taste of even the most bitter of vegetables.

Planting vegetables even in a modest garden such as my own, is in some, small way a statement of faith in the future. It is saying, “We will be here long enough to tend to these crops. We will be here next season to enjoy these garlicky delights.”

This is why the early Zionists invested so much in the kibbutz movement. Tending to crops, planting trees, and most especially fruit trees, are about looking years into the future. “We will be here even several generations from now when we can enjoy this fruit together.”

The wanderer can forage. The Israelites gathered manna and there is a measure of delight and wonder in wandering and exploring. “The forest is the menu,” I was advised by the waiter at a Madrid restaurant that centers mushrooms for every course, including dessert.

The gardener, however, can plan. The wanderer explores.

The garden can restore hope in the future.

We are here to stay.

And soon, if I have done everything right, and continue to do everything right, and of course the weather cooperates, it will also grant me some tasty garlic.

The garden provides hope.

Have faith in the future!

Thank You for the Invitations

What follows is my speech from the celebration marking my twenty-fifth anniversary at our congregation.

For this evening, I asked that we not have a parade of speeches. I want this event to be a celebration filled with enjoying each other’s company and of course dancing and perhaps some tequila. So let me honor my own request and not make this a lengthy High Holiday sermon, although like every sermon it will have the requisite three points.

First, I wish to acknowledge the events of October 7th and the difficult year we as a people are experiencing. Although on this evening our hearts are rightly filled with joy, they are also tempered like the wedding ceremony’s broken glass by this tragic and painful year. We are once again facing the dangers of antisemitic hate. We grieve. We fear for our future. Our hearts are bound to the hostages’ fates. Our compassion is sparked by the suffering of ordinary Gazans. Israel’s ongoing war chips away at our hopes each and every day. And yet I have faith that our people will once again survive these challenges.

Second, thank you to our synagogue’s leadership and especially to our current president Marty and the Gala committee and its co-chairs, Edra and Mike. I am grateful for your devotion to Congregation L’Dor V’Dor and your friendship. I have been fortunate to partner with many lay leaders so allow me to acknowledge those past presidents who are able to be here tonight and who I remain privileged to call friends: Mike, Ben, Jeff, Josh, Debbie, Marie, Lisa and Brian. Thank you for your continued support. I wish I could thank every one of you who served on our Board over the past twenty-five years and every synagogue member by name but then I would be ignoring my own request. Know that I remain grateful for your ongoing support, dedication and friendship.

Our synagogue is blessed to have a devoted staff. Li knows everyone and makes each member feel comfortable and keeps the office humming along. Ozzie, our newest addition, brings a wonderful enthusiasm to our workplace. Anne Marie continues to offer levelheaded advice and counsel. Every Friday Justyna greets me with her enthusiastic smile as she readies our sanctuary for the weekend’s activities. Jen makes teaching even the most challenging seventh grade a wonder and joy. And our cantor’s voice remains unparalleled. Talya never fails to lift our hearts with spirit and song. I am very fortunate to work alongside such a talented staff and devoted lay leaders.

I am also grateful to my parents, and in laws, who drove here from St. Louis and Baltimore to celebrate this occasion with us. I am happy they arrived here safely. My sister-in-law Sandee traveled all the way from New Rochelle and my sister-in-law Leslie from Detroit’s suburbs. And of course, my brother Michael is also here. We are the best of friends. I turn to him for rabbinic advice, but also wardrobe suggestions and cocktail recipes. I am so very grateful that my family can be here tonight.

My daughter Shira is here. Although Brooklyn can seem like a different world, Ari actually lives on a different continent. Shira and Ari did not of course choose to be part of a congregational family, let alone two congregational families, but they embraced it. They learned that for rabbis the line between work and home can often become blurred and that sometimes our congregants’ pains become our own. And Susie is obviously here. She is the voice in my ear simultaneously telling me she loves me and maybe it would have been better if I did this or that differently. I did not know this could be possible, but I am more in love now than I was then.

And now to the third point about the celebration at hand. Let me state an unspoken but obvious truth. You cannot have an anniversary celebration without two parties. Not only did I stay here for twenty-five years but you kept me for twenty-five years. And so, I remain grateful to you for calling me your rabbi and for inviting me into your lives. You ask me to be there at your best moments and your worst. And I never take that for granted. I see my calling as an enormous blessing. It is a gift with which you have provided me. Thank you.

I can experience a lifetime of memories in a week. In a single week I can dance with a wedding couple, grieve with children mourning their parent, kvell with the family of a b’nai mitzvah student, console another couple contemplating divorce, report back from a beleaguered Israel, and celebrate a birth with yet another family. It is an existence that sometimes demands too much heart. But I only know how to give all my heart.

Those of you who hired me back in 1999 saw something in me that I did not yet see in myself. Most young rabbis begin serving a congregation under the guidance of a more experienced rabbi. They begin as assistants. Although I had already been a rabbi for eight years, I spent my days teaching at the 92nd Street Y. I had not spent more than an evening or a morning in a synagogue and then only when giving a guest sermon. I had only officiated at the occasional funeral and the rare wedding. I was a teacher with some very strong ideas about the right ways and wrong ways of leading and serving a congregation but no experience putting such ideas into actual practice.

I imagine they said to themselves, “Well he seems earnest and most certainly energetic. Let’s hope he figures out the rest of the stuff.” Perhaps they also said, “He is really passionate. Let’s hope he does not upset too many people with some of his ardent convictions.” Then again, if everyone agrees with everything I say I would not be fulfilling my duty. I am called not only to comfort and cajole, but challenge. The sermon is not supposed to be about what we want to hear but what we need to hear—or to be honest, what I think we need to hear.

And yet I recognize that I could not have said any of what I said if you had not continued to place your faith in me. Thank you for affirming that friendship and agreement need not go hand in hand, that love and concern can overcome even the most strenuous of disagreements. Together we have tried to make sense of the world’s struggles. Along the way I have sought to offer some grain of wisdom, some fleeting inspiration to which we can take hold and perhaps even a different angle with which to look at a problem anew.

Together we can find meaning. It is to be found among us. Together we have discovered the power of community. We have come to understand that if a group of people stick together long enough we may not be able to overcome all of life’s challenges but the bonds we create can make them feel slightly less weighty. It’s not going to hurt any less, but it can feel slightly less overwhelming if we have each other. This is what community offers.

All we have to do is not let go of one another. And that’s what we have done. This not-so-secret power of community is what I continue to believe in and what I most endeavored to model and teach. To put it more succinctly, you can’t dance the hora by yourself!

But I have not only taught you. You have taught me.

Your tears have been my teachers. Your joys have offered me unexpected lessons. Your love and support have sustained me. We have learned a great deal from each other.

And yet, our story is still an unfinished story. There is more to learn. A lot more to say. And more to do.

Thank you for continuing to call me your rabbi and for the enormous gift of inviting me into your lives. Being your rabbi remains a privilege and a blessing.

May we continue to celebrate many more anniversaries together. Let’s dance!

Loving God

Recently we helped Susie’s uncle pack up his apartment. He has lived in this New York City apartment his entire life. He shared the apartment with Susie’s grandparents who died many years ago. We tried our best to help him determine what was worth saving and what might be valuable on the antique market. At one point Billy protested that there are no antiques.

Susie retorted that everything in the apartment is an antique as she pointed to the rotary phone still affixed to the kitchen wall. “Mid-century modern is in these days,” she added. We then discovered a drawer in the beautiful dining room piece containing warranties and owner’s manuals to appliances long ago replaced. Among these papers we also found never before seen old pictures and even love letters.

Among these treasures were ten letters written by Susie’s grandfather, Justus, to his then girlfriend, Diane. In July and August of 1939, they spent the summer apart while Diane worked at Camp Woodcliff, and he began his medical practice. On July 3rd, Justus writes,

Darling, I miss you so! Since you have gone, I lead a model life. It would be ridiculous for me to see any ‘babes’ as they would be inconsequential by comparison with you. Please write soon, dear and tell me about yourself, your hopes, your plans, camp, the kids, the food, the water and anything else of interest. Love, Justus.

Sandwiched between this stack of letters is their engagement announcement from October 1939.

The Jewish tradition views the relationship between God and the Jewish people as a loving relation, akin to marriage. It weaves this understanding into its explications of the holidays. Passover represents the beginning of the romance between God and the people Israel. This is why we read Song of Songs, the Bible’s beautiful and lyrical love poem.

Your lips are like a crimson thread,
Your mouth is lovely.
Your brow behind your veil
Gleams like a pomegranate split open. (Song of Songs 4)

The holiday of Shavuot which begins this evening represents the marriage between God and Israel. There is a Sephardic custom that an interpretive ketubah is read. Sanctuaries are sometimes decorated with roses. (The customary foods of cheesecake and blintzes have nothing to do with this theme of romance.) We read the Book of Ruth.

In this book, Ruth not only chooses to become Jewish but pledges loyalty and love to the mother of her deceased husband. Ruth says to Naomi:

Do not urge me to leave you, to turn back and not follow you. For wherever you go, I will go; wherever you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die, I will die, and there I will be buried. Thus and more may the Lord do to me if anything but death parts me from you. (Ruth 1)

On this holiday we celebrate the Torah as a testimony between God and Israel. In its words one can see the unfolding relationship between the two. God is figuring out how to relate to the people. And the people are struggling with what it means to be devoted to God. At times it goes well. Other times the relationship becomes distant.

The love never wavers. It transcends generations.

“Darling, I miss you so!”

Open a New Translation

As people grew less familiar with Hebrew it became necessary to translate the Bible into the vernacular. The earliest effort is the Septuagint, a Greek translation authored in the third century BCE.

In the second century CE Targum Onkelos translated the Hebrew into Aramaic. In the fourth century, Jerome authored the Latin Vulgate. And then, in 1611, King James published the first English translation of the Bible, rendering, for example, the words of the Psalmist into the well-known, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” (Psalm 23)

The Hebrew for “shadow of death” is unusual and is a poetic term for darkness. Robert Alter, who offers exquisite translations of Biblical Hebrew suggests instead “vale of death’s shadow,” but we often find ourselves beholden to the familiarity of earlier translations. We bristle at alternatives. We become angered when the familiar is altered.

The music of familiarity offers comfort.

Translation is interpretation. And we are dependent on centuries of interpreters who have rendered our sacred texts into our familiar language. In recent years, more English translations have appeared. Many have cast aside the “thee’s” and “thou’s” of prior years. Others have removed masculine references to God. English does not have to be gendered. God is not a masculine noun and need not be translated as “He.”

This week we open the fourth book of the Torah: Numbers. Even its name is dependent on centuries of translation. It was the Septuagint that named it for the census which is described in its opening chapters. The Israelites are counted by tribes. Males over the age of twenty years are tallied. 603,550 is the extraordinary number.

The Hebrew name, however, is Bamidbar—in the wilderness. It’s not about counting. It is instead about where the events occur. Then again, the Hebrew name is more about finding the portion’s location in the Torah scroll rather than describing its contents. The name of the book is the same as the name of the book’s first portion. The Hebrew names are location guides.

Numbers suggest things are quantifiable. The Bible, and the interpretations it invites, cannot be measured. We think otherwise. Everett Fox in his landmark translation of the Torah notes, “Everyone who has ever taken the bible seriously has staked so much on a particular interpretation of the text that altering it has become close to a matter of life and death.”

As we begin a new book of the Torah, I find myself wondering. How are we to find ourselves back to the joy of interpretation and away from seeing each and every word as matters of life and death?

We find ourselves again in the wilderness.

Open a new translation. Invite new interpretations.

We forever wander and search.

We welcome the discoveries the wilderness affords.

Skipping through Rain Puddles

The poet Mary Oliver writes,

Last night
the rain
spoke to me
slowly, saying,
what joy
to come falling
out of the brisk cloud,
to be happy again”
in a new way
on the earth!”

There is joy to be found in the rains.  They nourish the earth.  They bring blessings to its inhabitants. I often console wedding couples who are lamenting moving the huppah indoors from their dreamed about outdoor location with the words, “Rain is good mazel.” 

The Torah connects rain and its waters to our deeds.  God states, “I will grant your rains in their season, so that the earth shall yield its produce and the trees of the field their fruit.” (Leviticus 26)

And I am thinking more and more about the rains.  It never seems to drizzle anymore.  There are only downpours and their resulting floods.  It’s more challenging to see such joy and blessings when it rains an inch in one hour!  Of course, one can always embrace the deluge and skip through the puddles but most of the time I find myself thinking, “This is way too much mazel!”

Rain is a fickle thing.  Too much water is a curse.  Too little is a catastrophe.  The rabbis understand this tension.  They argue about the meaning of the Torah’s phrase “in their season.”  They write, “This means that the earth will be neither drunk nor thirsty; rather, a moderate amount of rain will fall. For as long as the rains are abundant, they muddy the soil of the land, and it does not give out its produce.”  (Taanit 23a) The Torah’s promise is about the perfect amount of rain.

Then again, maybe it’s not about what the land needs but instead what is best for us.  The rabbis suggest, “in their season” means it rains on Friday nights.  On Shabbat evening everyone is in their homes and so the Torah’s promise means the rains do not interfere with people’s schedules.

The difference between blessing and curse revolves around our understanding of “in their season.”  It is not about whether or not it rains, but instead its timing.  Rain is a blessing if it happens in the right amount and at the right time. 

Maybe blessings are all about timing.  Seeing something as blessing is a matter of perspective. And perspective is more about a moment in time rather than the facts.  Some people see their illness as a curse.  Other people view the discovery of this same illness as a blessing.  “Thank God, my doctor found this when she did!” they say.

It’s all about the timing.  It’s all about perspective.

It’s all about the season.

And so maybe it’s time to get back to skipping through the puddles.

Let Us Bless the Land

The Zionist philosopher A.D Gordon writes:

At times you imagine that you, too, are taking root in the soil that you are digging; like all that is growing around, you are nurtured by the light of the sun’s rays with food from heaven. You feel that you, too, live a life in common with the tiniest blade of grass, with each flower, each tree; that you live deeply in the heart of nature, rising up from all and growing straight up into the expanse of the world.

Gordon believed that the Jewish spirit is renewed by working the land, and in particular the land of Israel. Likewise, each of us must find a way to reclaim the earth as our own, to regain a sacred connection to the land. Doing so can renew our spirit.

Too often we think of nature’s power and majesty when confronted by a hurricane, earthquake or tornado. Instead, we should recognize its majesty and proclaim it each and every day.

We can live deeply in the heart of nature!

This week we read about the sanctity of the land of Israel. So revered is this land that it, and it alone, is granted a sabbatical year. “When you enter the land that I assign to you, the land shall observe a sabbath of the Lord.” (Leviticus 25)

The purpose of this sabbatical year, a year in which the land lies fallow, is twofold. On the one hand it is a reminder that only God truly owns land. The land is lent to us by God. On the other hand, the sabbatical year teaches us that all of God’s creations, must rest. Menuchah, Shabbat rest, is a universal right. It is not just a Jewish obligation. It is instead a right that every living being must enjoy. The land too is a living and breathing creation.

Let us rekindle a reverence for the land and nature. The everyday majesty of the earth is too often missed by us. We revere nature’s awesome power, most especially when it is manifest in storms, rather than its everyday holiness.

You, too, live in common with the tiniest blade of grass!

The Native American poet, Joy Harjo writes:

Bless the destruction of this land, for new shoots will rise up from
fire, floods, earthquakes and fierce winds to make new this land
We are land on turtle’s back—when the weight of greed overturns
  us, who will recall the upright song of this land
Bless the creation of new land, for out of chaos we will be
compelled to remember to bless this land
The smallest one remembered, the most humble one, the one
whose voice you’d have to lean in a thousand years to hear—we
  will begin there
Bless us, these lands, said the rememberer. These lands aren’t our
lands. These lands aren’t your lands. We are this land.
And the blessing began a graceful moving through the grasses
of time, from the beginning, to the circling around place of time,
always moving, always (Joy Harjo, “Bless This Land”)

We must (re)learn how to bless the land and its everyday holiness.

Our Actions Are Our Lessons

This week we read about the stringencies the ancient priests observed. They could not, for example, come into contact with the dead unless they were a mourner. They could not shave their heads. They could not marry a widow or divorced woman. The list goes on and although only observed in more traditional communities, they offer us lessons.

The portion is introduced by the words, “Say (emor) to the priests, the sons of Aaron, say to them.” (Leviticus 21)

Why does the Torah repeat the command “say”? It cannot be a mistake. It must offer lessons.

The medieval commentator, Nachmanides, argues that the phrase is repeated because it runs counter to accustomed norms. In this case it is incumbent on everyone to attend a funeral and offer comfort to mourners. Because the priest must observe additional stringencies, the Torah repeats the phrase. It is as if to say, “Priest, pay attention!” These laws are not what we would expect. They are contrary to our inclinations.

The priest is expected to do more. The priest is held to a different standard. People expect priests to be more observant. They are expected to be more scrupulous in their behavior. People watch what they do, and what they don’t do. They emulate their actions.

Then again, perhaps the repetition teaches us something about leadership. When people assume a leadership role, they not only take on additional responsibilities but also added stringencies. What is permissible for others is not necessarily permitted for leaders.

We expect our leaders to act in the right way. We expect them to be model ethical action. It is not that we expect them to be perfect. They are of course human beings. But they can strive to be better. And when they err, they can admit their errors.

Leadership is not about being perfect. It is about striving. It is about admitting when mistakes are made. It is about serving as a model for how we can learn from our errors. Acting righteously does not mean acting perfectly.

Moreover, the Torah emphasizes to the children of Aaron. Perhaps this offers a lesson for parents. Parents can say all they want “Do as I say not as I do,” and children will always do as they do no matter what they say. Our actions are our lessons. They teach more than we even sometimes want.

If we are impatient and short tempered with others, then our children learn these behaviors. If we, on the other hand, are kind and compassionate, then our children will follow our example. If we are generous to charities, then our children will learn the value of tzedakah. Again, the list goes on.

If we are to be a kingdom of priests as the Torah suggests then we must strive to do more. We must be just as scrupulous in our personal ethics as any leader and any parent.

Our actions are our lessons.

I Am a Zionist!

As we approach Yom Haatzmaut, Israel Independence Day, I am struggling to make sense of this moment. Why is our people’s greatest success story, namely the restoration of sovereignty in our people’s historic homeland, the rescue of countless Jews from persecution and the flowering of Hebrew culture, begrudged us? Is the world only content if we are victims and not masters of our own fate?

Of course there have been excesses in Israel’s road to success. There is most significantly the lingering injustices Palestinians suffer. Many are culpable. Blame should not only be ascribed to Israel’s founders or its current leaders. Arab countries, the United Nations, world politicians and Palestinian leaders share guilt.

And yet there appears no sense of shared responsibility for these injustices. Our very existence, and most certainly our independence, are begrudged us. The injustices are all our doing. They are all Israel’s fault. Zionism has become a dirty word. To be called a Zionist is a slur. Young Jews hesitate to call themselves Zionists. They see only the flaws and not the successes.

In many Jewish circles what was once a font of endless pride is now a source of embarrassment and consternation. Our youth distance themselves from Zionism and the State of Israel. They were raised during the excesses of the war on terror. They came of age during the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, neither of which eradicated terrorism in general or the Taliban in particular.

And now Israel has taken up this fight. They struggle to see the justice in Israel’s response against Hamas. Military might does not necessarily produce security. No matter how justified more weapons do not always bring more safety. Their reality is framed by lock down drills!

To be a Zionist, however one need not embrace the particulars of Israel’s fight. It is instead to embrace the necessity of Jewish power. In this dangerous and violent world of nation states, the Jewish people require power. We are the only ones who can, and too often, will protect us. In addition, Zionism sought to provide the Jewish people with a home. We need not wander any longer. The Declaration of Independence states,

The catastrophe which recently befell the Jewish people — the massacre of millions of Jews in Europe — was another clear demonstration of the urgency of solving the problem of its homelessness by re-establishing in Eretz Yisrael the Jewish State, which would open the gates of the homeland wide to every Jew and confer upon the Jewish people the status of a fully privileged member of the community of nations.

We are no longer homeless. We have a home.

The tragic fact of October 7th is that we have now discovered our home is not safe. The sad fact is that Israel’s response to Hamas’ massacre has made Jews’ position throughout the world more precarious. I never imagined that antisemitism would gain such virulence and that it would be most directed at the very place meant to protect us from this hatred.

The State of Israel was intended not only to offer the best protection for the Jews (and Arabs) living within its borders but uplift the lives of Jews throughout the world. It is now struggling to reclaim these goals. I support its struggle even when I might disagree with some of its tactics.

Even though our home is beleaguered and besieged, we have returned. We are homeless no more. Even though decried by others, I remain steadfast. I am a proud Zionist.

Years ago, I used to soothe my baby daughter to sleep with the words of Naomi Shemer’s lullaby, “Al Kol Eileh.”

My Good God, keep these safe: the honey and the sting, the bitter and the sweet, and our baby daughter; the burning flame, the pure water, and the man returning home from afar.
Keep all of these safe my Good God: the honey and the sting, the bitter and the sweet. Do not not uproot what has been planted; do not forget the hope. Return me, and I will return to the good land.

Do not forget the hope. Al tishkach et hatikvah! We have returned.

I am a Zionist.

Fight for Life

What follows is Friday evening’s sermon marking Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day.

Yesterday, to mark Yom HaShoah, the seventh graders, and I, as well as our dedicated principal, sat outside in Annie’s Garden to talk about the Holocaust. I taught them about Annie and told them some of her extraordinary stories and in particular a few details about how she managed to survive Auschwitz. She used to tell us that she and three other girls would share one cup of the dirty brown water that the Nazis claimed was tea and use it to color their faces so they would not look so pale. Looking healthy meant the promise of being chosen for one more day of life, Annie would say. Then they would divide the remaining three cups of dirty water between the four of them for the morning ration of fluids.

We spoke about how the Nazis only provided those interred in the camps with about 200 calories of food per day, just barely enough to keep them alive. The educator from the Holocaust Center in Glen Cove explained that this is the equivalent of about one to two Oreo cookies. All the students understood that this is less than they eat when they go to the kitchen cabinet for an afternoon or evening snack.

I told them how before reaching Auschwitz, Annie, and her father, jumped out of a moving train when they found out it was headed to a death camp. I will always remember, I told them, how she used to describe the feeling of her mother’s hand pushing her out of the train’s window. That was the last time she saw her mother and sister. They were both murdered by the Nazi death machine. She was supposed to be the first to jump among the girls, but the last boy in line became frightened and she took his place, and he then went after her. But the Nazi guard heard him jump and shot him dead. Annie would always explain that she survived in part because of such luck. If she had jumped when she was supposed to, she would have been the one shot instead.

And she survived because of the occasional kindness of strangers. There was the person who gave her a boiled potato. “It was the best potato I ever tasted,” she would exclaim. And every year, I would add that she also survived because she was blessed with an extraordinary dose of inner strength, or as we say, koach. I hold on to Annie’s memory, as one example among the millions. And now the students hold on to her memory.

I explained how the Nazi’s antisemitism was unique. It was unlike that of Haman’s for example who wanted to murder all Jews because Mordecai would not bow down to him because of his Jewish beliefs. Nazi antisemitism was racial. In their minds it was about blood. It did not matter if you believed in God or went to synagogue or even called yourself a Jew. If you had one Jewish grandparent, then you were a Jew and deserving of elimination. Many of the students shared what they are learning about the Holocaust in school and what they remembered from our sixth-grade curriculum. The Nazis built factories to murder people. Six million Jews. And six million others. Unimaginable numbers that I recently learned are not accurate. Yad VaShem experts continue to uncover evidence that the numbers are at least a million greater.

We then spoke about the Holocaust’s meaning. What does it teach us? The students surprised me. They are afraid. They don’t think what the Nazis did could happen here, but they are keenly aware of the growing threat of antisemitism. They spoke about the war in Israel and what is happening on college campuses. There were bits and pieces of facts and lots and lots of worries.

They peppered me with questions. “What did Israel do?” one asked. “What are they fighting about?” another queried. “Where is Palestine?” one student added. We spent the remaining time unpacking as many of their questions as we could tackle in the remaining time.

And then I said, “Do you see how much time it took us to answer a few of your questions? It took us fifteen minutes. That is far longer than a TikTok video or an Instagram post.” People want you to think that this can all be reduced to black and white. You are for Israel or against Israel. For Palestinians or against them. Nothing is so simple. As you can see it requires a lot of discussion and a lot of asking questions.

I continued. People seem to think that one can be anti-Zionist and not antisemitic, but you cannot. If a person believes that every one of the peoples of the earth deserve sovereignty and a state of their own except the Jews, then that is antisemitic. If one believes that all nation states are wrong and that they only lead to violent bloodshed over borders and deadly arguments about who was there first and that we should live in some sort of utopian borderless world then this is not necessarily antisemitic although terribly naïve. In this world of nation states there must be a Jewish state—and I would add, a Palestinian state. The Jewish people must have power in this violent and dangerous world.

There are many things that one can protest, I explained to the students, about how Israel wields its power. I may disagree with protestors who could criticize Israel’s use of too many bombs in civilian areas or the lack of food getting to ordinary Gazans, but when protestors blame a fellow Jewish student for the decisions of the Israeli government or prevent Jewish students from getting to classes or deface Jewish institutions then that is antisemitic. When protestors commit violence in the name of their struggle then that is wrong, and they should be arrested. Of course, we have to protect free speech but when it crosses those lines in can no longer, and should no longer, be protected.

Israel, and our people, find ourselves again in an existential moment. Hamas states clearly and unequivocally their genocidal intent. In a cruel, and antisemitic, twist protestors contort the discussion by accusing Israel of committing genocide and Israelis of being the new Nazis. They are not. Israel is not. I have misgivings and worries about how Israel is currently conducting the war. I no longer feel its actions will best guarantee Israel’s or the Jewish people’s future security or the release of the precious few hostages who remain alive and continue to be held in inhumane conditions. And yet I stand with the Jewish people and Israel in this moment. It is struggling, albeit under compromised and failed leadership, for its survival. Its purpose is not to kill all Palestinians but to destroy Hamas. Whatever our feelings about Israel’s direction, its decisions, and its actions (may God bless the memories of the World Central Kitchen’s aid workers!), whatever our sentiments about its political leaders, we must always be clear about this point. We must always say, we stand with Israel and the Jewish people.

As the petals of the beautiful cherry blossoms on our synagogue’s front lawn began to swirl in the evening breeze, the students screamed with delight and smiled with excitement. I then told them about the dedication stone in Annie’s Garden that reads “Annie Bleiberg; 1920-2018; Holocaust Survivor; She shared her story and inspired hope.”

“Do you know why the stone is placed on the right side of the garden?” I asked. None of the students could guess the answer. It is because when someone arrived in Auschwitz and got out of those foul smelling, crowded cattle cars, they were inspected by Nazi officers, the most infamous of which was Josef Mengele y”s. If you were deemed healthy enough to work, you went to the right. If not, you were pointed to the left and then to death in the gas chambers.

“To the right meant life,” Annie would tell us. And she would add, “Life is always worth fighting for.”

On this Yom HaShoah, we loudly and once again defiantly declare, may we continue to be blessed with life. And may the memories of our millions continue to offer our students countless lessons.