Va-Yeishev: Feeling a Little Unsettled

Earlier this week, at a synagogue board meeting, I gave a brief D'var Torah about this week's Torah portion. I observed to the board members that a major "character" in our Torah portion, more central and crucial than we often realize, is the very land

itself. Like his ancestors before him, Jacob attempts to settle in Canaan, and put down some roots. So much so, in fact, that the name of the parashah, "Va-Yeishev" *means* "And he was settled" (Gen. 37:1). But the Torah sure does love its irony, and the entire portion is about anything BUT being rooted, stable, comfortable, or settled. Not only is Jacob's "favorite" son, Joseph, sold into slavery by his brothers, who then deceive Jacob by telling him Joseph has been killed by a wild animal! But their very lives are threatened by a devastating famine, forcing them to seek food elsewhere. Remaining "settled" in Canaan is no longer a viable option. Food insecurity was a vital concern back then, and it still is to this day.

I would even go so far as to say that we ignore the role of the land itself in our Biblical stories at our own peril. God repeatedly

threatens us, saying that if we do not care for the land - abusing it or the other inhabitants with whom we share it - the land will "vomit" us back out! (E.g. Leviticus 18:28) God doesn't like to mince words. Time and again, our texts emphasize famines, floods, fires, plagues, and various other instances where the land - and our stewardship of it - are of PARAMOUNT importance. One of the things that's crucial, yet painful, to realize, is that the responsibility is on national governments, local municipalities AND every individual person alive today. There are big-scale problems that need addressing, and there are small-scale ones. When you start to think about this issue at length, you see hints and warning flags all around.

Even the Jewish holiday that is about to begin, contains an environmental message hidden within it. We don't often think of Chanukah as focusing on sustainability.

Yet, when you look past the military victory, the dreidel-spinning, the latkes-eating, the candle-lighting, and the Temple-rededicating - it is, in fact, right there! Our ancestors were certain they *needed* a certain amount of oil. Keeping the Menorah lit without it was simply impossible. Nevertheless, somehow, miraculously, the small jug of oil lasted long enough for new oil to arrive. So maybe we all need to reassess this notion of "need." Can we make do with less? Can we put less food on our plates, use less water to clean our dishes and our bodies, and extract less resources from our earth to fuel our civilizations? You don't notice it at first, but when you shift your perspective to notice this aspect of the Chanukah message, it seems plain as (organic, home-made, vegan...) pie.

To add one more layer to this conversation, I was reminded of a (rare) positive headline in the news lately, namely that Greta Thunberg was named Time Magazine's Person of the Year. In my mind, this story brings all these narratives together. She has become a household name,

and a role model to so many of us, because of the climate crisis we are currently in. Like Jacob's story, land - and our stewardship of it - is a central part of the issue; it fundamentally reshaped the world millennia ago, and it is changing our lives just as much today. In Genesis, Joseph becomes the young, upstart, unlikely hero, who gains fame by speaking truth to power. Generations later, Judah Maccabee is the young, upstart, unlikely hero, who also becomes a hero for battling greater forces and winning against all odds. Today, I venture to say that Greta Thunberg embodies that same spirit. She should inspire all of us to realize that WE can be change-makers. Anyone can make a difference, and the responsibility to try and do so is EVERYONE'S! As you light your Menorah, remember all these stories. And as we look ahead to the start of a New Year, let us all be fueled by their messages, and inspired to affect change for ourselves, our community, our country, and our world. Don't get too comfy; we've got work to do.


CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Michael Levine-Clark on Flickr
2. Ebrahim on Wikimedia Commons
3. Mariamichelle on needpix.com
4. Streetsblog Denver on Flickr

Va-Yishlach: Seeing You Again is Like...

I want to invite you to ponder something with me. The Bible is full of expressions - much like we have in society and in regular speech today. Sometimes they make total sense, even millennia later, and sometimes they don't.

There are no correct or incorrect answers here. I would even argue, the question of what something means, or sometimes HOW something means, is not even meant to be answered at all... but really pondered. So, our ancestor Jacob makes a statement in our parashah, and I want to share with you what previous generations of rabbis posited about his intent, and what I think he might have meant... but before we do any of that, I want you to just consider what YOU believe Jacob was trying to say. Again, no "right" or "wrong" answers here. Jacob says to his brother, Esau: "... accept this gift from me, for to see your face is like seeing the face of God, and you have received me favorably." (Gen. 33:10) What does he mean?

Ready to read on? Ok, but first promise me that you thought about it for yourself first!! I'm trusting you... Fine, then let's continue. The context of Jacob's statement is that he's meeting Esau again, for the first time, after 20 years! And last they met,

Esau swore to kill his brother for stealing his birthright and their father's primary blessing. But immediately upon reconnecting, Esau kisses his brother, embraces him, and seems to have forgiven everything. The rabbis, however, aren't so certain, which I think also reflects a suspicion and wariness on Jacob's part, hinted at in the text itself. Rashi, one of the all-time great commentators, suggests that Jacob slips in a reference to God, to inform Esau that just before they met up, he wrestled with an angel (in Genesis 32)... and won! Says Rashi: "In order that he (Esau) should be afraid of him saying, 'He has seen angels and nevertheless escaped safely! Now, certainly, I shall be unable to overcome him.'" I'm guessing that's not where you, in your own interpretation, went with it, is it??

Another later medieval commentator, Sforno, connects our text to a passage in Exodus (23:15), where the Israelites are told not to appear before God empty-handed. Naturally, says Sforno, when you're granted

an audience with someone important, you bring a gift! So Jacob is flattering his brother, treating him like a big Muckety-Muck, or even (nearly) as significant as God! I loved reading these commentaries (and others)... because that's not what I saw in the text AT ALL. I thought that Jacob - perhaps earnestly, perhaps for sentimental effect - was saying that after twenty years apart, seeing you again is nothing short of miraculous. E.g. "I no sooner expected to see God's Face than I did yours, and it has just filled me with such tremendous joy and contentment to see you again; please accept this gift." But I certainly could be wrong, as could Rashi and Sforno... I just don't think any of this is about being "right" to begin with.

No, instead, I think the point is to imagine ourselves in this story, as one of the characters, perhaps, or even as a bystander, but one who can perceive the emotions and tensions that are passing back and forth. Is Jacob sincerely elated

to see Esau... or is he being courteous, yet vigilant? And what might it mean to see the Face of God - or perhaps more pertinent to both this story AND to our own lives, what do we mean when we use an expression like, "seeing you is like seeing the Face of God"? I don't think it's meant so much as a theological or existential question, but rather a relational and emotional one. I always enjoy seeing what our ancient and medieval ancestors saw going on in the text, and then juxtaposing it with our perspectives. They are often so vastly different, which is sometimes surprising... and frequently terrific! I like it so much, in fact, that you might even say it's like.... (insert expression here).


CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Jespa on Wikimedia Commons
2. needpix.com
3. Joint Base Andrews
4. Ben Pollard on Flickr

L'Chaim (newsletter) article - December, 2019: Merry… Everything!

They don’t line up every year, but once in a while it happens: The Clash of the Titans! At the end of this month, the two “biggest” holidays on the Jewish and Christian calendar will fall at the same time - Chanukah begins on Sunday night, December 22nd, and two days later, it’s Christmas Eve. Not only that, but Chanukah ends on December 30th, one day before New Year’s Eve, so this year we’re “battling” a major secular (Gregorian) holiday as well! War of the Winter-festivals indeed…

It feels like this sometimes, doesn’t it? Like some people imagine our holidays are pitted against one another, somehow in conflict because they fall at the same time. Jews will often roll their eyes and point out that Chanukah isn’t our #1 holiday; it isn’t even in the top tier! Ironically, religious Christians will roll their eyes right back at us, and point out that Easter is actually a much more significant holiday to them as well. So much for the Duke-Out in December…

But I think what bothers me even more than feeling misunderstood, more than having to explain year after year that Chanukah is NOT a focal point of the Hebrew calendar, is the unfortunate idea of the two “clashing.” I know that for some interfaith families, celebrating both CAN present additional challenges… but luckily Chanukah is eight days long, so you don’t necessarily HAVE TO observe both on the same day. Or - heaven forbid - what if an interfaith family brought a Menorah to Christmas dinner, and lit candles and sang the blessings AT THE SAME OCCASION?!?!

My point is, even though the High Holidays (our ACTUAL main observances…) are far behind us, I hope we can all hold onto a notion I shared, namely being “Jewish and…” We are not in conflict; no one needs to “win,” because there’s no real dispute. I much prefer the image of a children’s birthday party: When we explain to children (or adults) about Christmas and Chanukah (and Diwali, and Kwanzaa, and…), we can describe it like attending someone else’s birthday party. We all sing, don’t we? We wear party hats (if that’s still a thing), give presents, and send birthday cards. I can celebrate, even though it’s not MY birthday! No one imagines that attending someone else’s milestone celebration undermines one’s own!! So why might we feel so besieged by our neighbors throwing (essentially)  a serious birthday bash?

“Jewish and” can sometimes be difficult. Our gut instinct tells us to defend and protect, to not give an inch! But practicing “Jewish and” might instead yield a stronger self-confidence in our own traditions. An ability to say “Merry Christmas” to someone, without worrying they might think you are therefore a co-celebrant, or that your holiday doesn’t matter. Ultimately, we are not in battle at all. We’re all just slightly-chilled homo sapiens, spreading some light and warmth at a particularly dark and cold time of the year. We just use different imagery to do so, and we sing slightly different songs. Oh, and the party favors look pretty different too!

Sincerely,

Rabbi Gerber

Va-Yeitzei: Well, well, well.

I've always found it interesting that in modern lingo, we sometimes refer to gossip taking place "around the water cooler." The idea being that people gather in an office around the coffee machine or the water fountain, and it's viewed as a mini-break, and thus 

a time to chat about non-work things, the latest drama, politics, sports, and whatever else. I find that fascinating, because it is also true that animals gather at the watering hole, say out on the savanna. It is one of the only places where animals of every variety (and taste...) converge at the same time. There too, it is a place for intrigue and drama, though more often of a carnivorous sort, and with greater life-and-death consequences! Furthermore, in the ancient world, the place to congregate, communicate, and get every juicy update, was also - you guessed it - the place where they would draw water, namely the well. It should not surprise us, therefore, that many of our Biblical plots advance and develop specifically (and not coincidentally) by a well.

The Torah describes how both Abraham and Isaac dig wells, and then get into ownership disputes with the locals over said wells. Abraham's servant locates a wife for Isaac by a well, Moses meets his wife by a well, and this week we read about Jacob also finding love by that most romantic of all places, the watering hole. I want to 

highlight two particular incidents that take place, both relatively subtle, but also significant for the plot. First, we've been reading about Jacob running away from home, and heading for his uncle's residence in Haran (possibly somewhere in south-eastern Turkey). He's a stranger, an outsider, a nobody. And yet, when he arrives and meets some herders near our famed well, he accidentally reveals something very important about himself. He comes from a wealthy family. We know this, because the first thing he says to the locals (who know the region, but who are also not prominent people in society) is: "It is still broad daylight, too early to round up the animals; go water the flock and take them to pasture.” (Gen. 29:7) Clearly, they sense his stature, because they listen to him! They don't tell him off for his audacious (chutzpahdik) commands! Who the heck is he to instruct them what to do with their flocks?!? Perhaps based on his clothing, his speech, or how he carries himself (or just by virtue of having the gall to tell them what to do...), they can tell that he is used to giving orders, and that he is someone they should respect.

Then, Jacob looks up, and the Torah offers us the classic slo-mo, cue-the-romantic-music, rose-tinted-shot, hair-flipping moment where Rachel arrives. She is, of course, the love of Jacob's life. The Torah has a very clever - and kind of adorable - way of  

demonstrating Jacob's immediate infatuation. But first, some context: Wells were crucially important in the ancient world, and thus needed to be protected. (Hence the ownership disputes mentioned above...) One oft-implemented security measure was to cover the mouth of the well with a giant boulder. That way, only when a critical mass of (trusted) herders arrived could the well be accessed. When Jacob meets the herders, they tell him they can't water the flocks, because not enough people are present (presumably to move the giant rock). However, when Rachel arrives, Jacob is so overcome with emotion and love - as well as the cliche male need to impress his love interest - that the text tells us: "...when Jacob saw Rachel... Jacob went up and rolled the stone off the mouth of the well, and watered [her] flock." (v. 10) Ah, the power of love...

I suppose one reason why I like highlighting moments 

like these in the Torah, is because they are so human, so relatable. Despite taking place millennia ago, among sheep herders, by a dusty well in the desert, it's still ultimately a tale of social hierarchy, love, intrigue, real estate, and good ol'-fashioned male pompousness! It also reminds me that we are all linked together, whether animals out on the plains, office workers by a water cooler, or ancient nomads by a well; so much remains similar and familiar. At their core, the Biblical stories are all about life, values, individuals and societies. The scenery might change, as may the players; but what binds us together is eternal. 

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:

1. OWS

2. Kelley Lynch (USAid Ethiopia) on Flickr

3. pngimg.com

4. bettyx1138 on Wikimedia Commons

Chayei Sarah: If You Would Just Listen....

Listen up, people! If you've been following my blog for a while, you might have heard me discuss my pet-peeve of imprecise translations. I know it's challenging

to translate anything with perfect accuracy - I hear that - but sometimes there are subtle intentions in the Biblical text, secret messages conveyed in the use of specific terms or linguistic choices, that are easily lost in translation. It's hard enough to listen for these patterns in the Hebrew; they become essentially inaudible when transferred into a different language. I imagine some of you, reading this, have already picked up on a little repetition of my own, just in this first paragraph. Have you caught it? Can you hear it? It's meant to hearken back to my subject from our parashah, and how that topic can easily be muted or ignored, if the translation isn't drawing your attention to it. Lend me your ear, and I'll tell you what I mean.

Our reading includes a peculiar little vignette, where Abraham negotiates the sale of a burial plot for his wife, Sarah, after her death. It's a brief opportunity for us

today to glimpse what ancient haggling and business dealings might have looked like, and it includes one particularly odd little feature: The verb "to hear" or "to listen" is used repeatedly (in various forms) within a span of 11 verses. Unfortunately, many translations render at least two of them as "agree" and "accept," which don't sound like synonyms of "hearing" at all! So you'd be forgiven for missing this figure of speech in the English, yet it's worth spending another minute on in the Hebrew.  Abraham approaches a local tribe, the Hittites, and asks to purchase a burial plot. Thus begins a little verbal "dance," of sorts, almost like a rap battle, between Abraham and the Hittites. And it all centers on the word "to hear," which repeats six times from 23:6 to 23:16.

The Hittites declare, "Hear us (Sh'ma-einu), my lord..." Abraham responds, "... if you agree (Sh'ma-uni), please intercede with Ephron [a Hittite] to purchase a burial plot..." Ephron, who is sitting right there, joins the rap battle and declares, "No, my lord, hear me (Sh'ma-eini), I [want to] give you this field..." Abraham sings back, "If only you would hear me out (Sh'ma-eini)..." to which Ephron responds, "My lord, do hear me (Sh'ma-eini)..." and finally names his price. The ballad concludes with Abraham "accepting" (va-Yishma) Ephron's terms. I know it's kind of subtle, but once you pick up on the rhythm, the meter of it, it's quite unmistakable. So what is the point of it all??

The reality is, we are not all that great at listening. I venture to say that everyone THINKS s/he is a good listener, but we can't all be! And, in fact, many of us

are quite poor at it, at least occasionally. Yet it is SUCH an important skill; to help someone else feel seen, known, accepted, and valued. More than just hearing the words and the concerns someone might be articulating, attentive listening can help you pick up on undertones, hidden feelings, and struggles that are hard to articulate. We're often so busy crafting our own narrative(s) or planning a clever response, that we don't truly HEAR the other person, or give them our full and undivided attention. So take a moment to notice the fascinating, ancient cultural exchange between Abraham and his Hittite neighbors, and hearken to the message it is trying to convey to us all. Don't just assume you're a good listener; notice yourself in relation to someone else, and especially work on giving them your complete focus. Ya hear me? Good.


CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Max Pixel
2. Eli Duke on Flickr
3. Adam Buhler on Flickr (Thomas Hart Benton's "The Ballad of the Jealous Lover of Lone Green Valley")
4. geralt on needpix.com

L'Chaim (newsletter) article - November, 2019: Benefits of the Buddy System

From time to time, congregants tell me they SHOULD attend services more, they SHOULD come to Bible class or the monthly Lunch n’ Learn, and they SHOULD spend more time in the synagogue building. As you (hopefully) can imagine, I’m not a big fan of “should’s.” Yet I also understand where that guilty feeling may be coming from, and I want to discuss one barrier in particular that may keep people away from Ohev. And I’d like to offer a potential remedy...

Some people are daunted by the prospect of walking in alone. Maybe you aren’t so familiar with the Hebrew, the tunes, the regular attendees… or all of the above. Well, what if you weren’t entirely on your own? And where I USED TO think a solution might be partnering you with someone more familiar and comfortable in the service, I now wonder if people might prefer to enter with someone equally nervous and out of their element?? What if you connected with another congregant – a contemporary or not – who also wanted to gain more familiarity with services, and the two (or more) of you could stumble along and learn new skills TOGETHER????

Recently, two Hebrew School families genuinely inspired me in this regard. Each family was preparing for its first Bar Mitzvah ceremony, and the parents decided to lean into their mutual feelings of anxiety, and began to partner on nearly every aspect of the Big Day preparations. Neither was the expert; neither was the mentor! Just two families – and two individuals in particular – sharing all aspects of the stresses and successes, the frustration and fun. When the Bar Mitzvah weekend for each family arrived, the other family came to Thursday morning minyan, Friday evening services, and Saturday’s main service to support one another. It was marvelous to witness, start to finish!

But there’s no reason this needs to be limited to families preparing for a Bat or Bar Mitzvah! What if you just wanted to attend a Friday night service? Or the Congregational Dinner? Or an Ohev Players performance? It’s a little intimidating to walk into ANYTHING alone, feeling like an outsider. And while a mentor-mentee relationship is sometimes beneficial, I think a buddy-system, when you’re slogging along as equals, can be equally powerful and empowering… if not more so!

I invite you to give it some thought. If you’re considering exploring some aspect of Jewish and/or synagogue life, but aren’t sure how or where to get started, maybe you can partner up with someone and figure it out with your new “buddy.” This isn’t meant to become another “should” on your to-do list, but an invitation to feel more at home at Ohev. You may start out as buddies with one goal in mind, but you could potentially wind up with a new life-long friend!

Sincerely,

Rabbi Gerber

Va-Yeira: What are You Trying to Tell Me??

Communication is the key to basically any and every relationship. The better the communication - the more honest, direct, kind, and vulnerable - the stronger

the relationship. So then why is it so unbelievably hard for us to speak our minds and just express what it is we want??? Sometimes we don't truly know what it is we want, or we're not being completely honest with ourselves, but even when we DO know, it can still be excruciatingly difficult to come out with it. Why?? Boy, do I wish I had the simple answer to that one! Wouldn't that be great?? But I guess it is just a little bit comforting to see God having trouble in the very same way. At least it's not just us! And in our Torah portion this week, I find it especially hard to decipher what it is God is trying to convey.

It's actually a problem throughout the Torah reading. I want to highlight one, often-ignored example, but in truth it happens over and over again: The parashah begins

with God sending three "messengers" (poorly disguised angels...) to visit Abraham, though not revealing from the outset who they really are, or why they are there. And the latter half of the reading focuses on the infamous Binding of Isaac story. Again, I would argue that God's intent is veiled, because various aspects of the text seem to pivot back and forth between indicating that Abraham shouldn't have argued with God, should have, was expected to, was invited to, was being challenged not to, and was being bated into! But between the two stories mentioned above, there is a third one that also hides its meaning and message. What is God trying to tell us??

Perhaps you're familiar with the gist of this scene, where Abraham petitions God to save the people of Sodom and Gomorrah from destruction. What I wanted to focus on, though, is the very first part of that ordeal, where God inexplicably asks God's Self a rhetorical question, and we, the readers, get to hear it. Right off the bat, it's worth

pointing out that this is NOT a common occurrence! I therefore find it even MORE fascinating, that even when we get to hear God's inner monologue, we STILL don't really know God's intention!! The text tells us: "Now Adonai said, 'Shall I hide from Abraham what I am about to do, since Abraham is to become a great and populous nation and all the nations of the earth are to bless themselves by him? For I have singled him out, that he may instruct his children and his progeny to keep the way of Adonai by doing what is just and right, in order that Adonai may bring about for Abraham what has been promised him.'” (Gen. 18:17-19) I have many questions: First of all, why does God refer to "Adonai" in the third person? That's odd. Second, God appears to be positing that because Abraham has been chosen (for something), he should get to know ALL of God's plans. That's curious, no? Third, I don't get where God is going with this.

The reasoning for why God reveals this specific plan to Abraham, is because he is so righteous. But I'm already confused, since God is disclosing a plan of destruction and annihilation! And then when Abraham begins to petition God NOT to punish them, God doesn't appear surprised or taken aback at all.

Ok, so maybe God WANTED Abraham to push back. That's certainly possible... but it makes it all the more troubling when God later demands that Abraham sacrifice Isaac, and no protest is raised or (seemingly) expected. Now, I don't want to be enigmatic about MY feelings (that would be ironic, in a post about good communication...), so I'll tell you that I feel there's a lot of entrapment going on here. Sometimes Abraham - and by extension, all of us humans - are supposed to question, and sometimes we are not. How are we supposed to know when total faith is expected, versus moral outrage warranted? Again, I don't have an easy answer. That would be great. I don't. I DO believe, however, that all of these texts are inviting us into dialogue. We cannot throw our hands up in exasperation; that would be the opposite of working on communication. We need to lean in. Sure, God's wishes and desires are confusing... but so are the feelings of basically every human EVER! I don't know what God wants, but I know God wants to talk. And so do I. So let's chat.


CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Szilas on Wikimedia Commons
2. Felix the Cat on Flickr
3. VIRIN on Airforce Medical Service Website
4. DeeDee51 on Pixabay

Noach: The Greatest (of THIS Generation...)

Every week, when I sit down to write my blog, I spend a few minutes perusing the archive, to see what I wrote in previous years on this same Torah portion. This is my
eleventh (!!) year of writing, so these days it actually takes me a while to scan through earlier installments. Considering how much I've written about each parashah, I was surprised to discover something I haven't addressed before in our Torah reading, about Noah and the Flood. I've mainly covered the flood itself, its aftermath, and the final story of the Torah portion, about the Tower of Babel. But this year, I wanted to take a few minutes and talk about the man himself - the Ark-builder, the patriarch, the wine-enthusiast, the animal-lover, and perhaps the last worthy person on earth, pre-Flood - Noah. Noah was truly a righteous guy, blameless even. And we know this because... the Torah kinda-sorta praises him for it? At least, I think it does...

The very first verse of our parashah states, "This is the line of Noah.—Noah was a righteous man; he was blameless in his generation; Noah walked with God." (Gen. 6:9)

See??? A perfect statement! Noah was righteous and he walked with The Lord. Pretty unmitigated praise, right? Soooo, why does the text then need to add "blameless in his generation"? A website where I frequently read the Torah portion AND find good rabbinic commentary is www.sefaria.org. One neat feature of their site is that you can click on a verse in the reading, and up pops a handful of commentaries on THAT verse, from various rabbis throughout the ages. If you're lucky, you may stumble upon a verse with 20, 30, or even 40 different commentaries. I clicked on Genesis 6:9, and the page displayed 99 (!) different opinions on this one verse. So yeah, a lot of people had strong opinions on this one...

Rashi, one of the most famous commentators of all time, can explain better than I what the issue is: "Some of our Rabbis explain it to his credit: he was righteous even in his generation; it follows that had he lived in a generation of righteous people he would have been even more righteous owing to the force of good example.

Others, however, explain it to his discredit: in comparison with his own generation he was accounted righteous, but had he lived in the generation of Abraham he would have been accounted as of no importance" (cf. Sanhedrin 108a). And I find this a really intriguing philosophical question: Is it MORE commendable to be a model citizen when NO ONE ELSE is, because you're sticking to your morals and your good behavior in a place where you are all alone? Or is it more impressive to live among really phenomenal people, and have your righteousness be SO incredible, that you even stand out among other, incredibly qualified candidates??

In other words, is this like being a professional basketball player, and showing off by "schooling" a group of 12-year olds? Or is it more like being the gold medal winner at the Olympics, where you pitted your skill against the best of the best, and you STILL won?

Was Noah the one-eyed man in the land of the blind, and thus not REALLY so impressive (just by comparison), or should we be especially impressed that he remained righteous, even in a wholly corrupted world? We humans are easily swayed into following the norms and expectations of society, and going-along-to-get-along. Blend in, don't stand out. In some ways, I think maybe it doesn't matter which of the two encapsulated Noah's behavior. He STILL made an effort. And it is especially important to remember that we do not get to pick the times in which we live. Comparing our lives and our world to a different era is kind of an exercise in futility. The real question is, RIGHT NOW, at this moment, in this reality, in our current climate, can you make your voice heard and be a difference-maker? We are so, so, SO tempted to say "no." It's easier; it's less risky. "Someone else" will step up, if I don't. But what if the answer could be "yes"? Noah was only unique because he CHOSE to set himself apart. Your generation is going on at this very moment, good or bad. Are you able to stand out? Only you know the answer to that question.


CC images in this post, courtesy of:
1. Rabbi Gerber's iPhone (screen shot)
2. Manual on Uniform Traffic Control Devices on Wikipedia
3. offnfopt on Wikimedia Commons (Presidential Citizens Medal)
4. Eileen on Wikimedia Commons

B'reisheet: Creation, Take Two

Happy New Year - Shanah Tovah! The High Holidays have all come and gone, and the Jewish year of 5780 has officially begun. The last holiday that we celebrated (just a few days ago) was Simchat Torah, where we read
the very last verses of the Book of Deuteronomy; thus concluding all Five of the Books of Moses. We rejoiced upon completing the cycle of Torah readings once again, and celebrated this achievement by... starting the whooooole book right back over again! Which means, of course, that we are back at the famous story of God creating the world, along with the Garden of Eden and the first humans, Adam and Eve. I say "famous" because even people who aren't so familiar with the Bible tend to know at least something about these original ancestors and their paradise-like starter-home. Sooo... how come the facts in the actual text don't match up with what we "know"?

Well, wait a minute. That can't possibly be true, can it? I mean, maybe we don't know ALL the in's and out's of the text, but there are at least a few basic plot points that we all
KNOW to be true, right??? Let's see... well, for instance, most people know that Adam was created first, correct? He was formed out of the dust of the earth, and God blew spirit into the nostrils of this lump of clay and POOF! Instant Human. Sometime later on, God decided Adam shouldn't be alone, so God took out one of Adam's ribs and turned into a second human, Eve. I mean, so far that's all part of the original story of humanity... isn't it? Well, no, actually. Not exactly. You see, all of the details I just mentioned happen in Genesis, chapter TWO... but there's an earlier creation story - back in Chapter One - where the specifics are surprisingly different.

In Genesis 1:27, the Torah states: "And God created the (hu)man in God's Own Image; in the Image of God, God created him; male and female, God created them." My translation may be a bit awkward, in my attempt to avoid male pronouns for God,
but nevertheless, two things are certainly true: the text does NOT indicate a source-material for this new creation, AND female and male versions were created TOGETHER! Traditional commentators will try and explain that Chapter Two is just a recapitulation of the verse I just quoted, but the inconsistencies continue. In Genesis One, the last thing God creates on Day Six is human beings, but in Genesis Two, the story BEGINS with God forming Adam out of dust (v. 7), and only subsequently describes God adding plants and animals (vs. 8-9, 19) to the picture. So which one is the REAL creation story???

The answer (of course) is "both." Aspects of each narrative have made it into the "common" wisdom about our origin story, while parts of each have also fallen by the wayside. To me, the lessons in all of this are quite powerful: There's never just ONE,

true version of how something happened. We like to imagine there's an objective "truth" out there, but even the very FIRST origin story of our entire world has multiple versions. There are gray areas in EVERY story. I also think this teaches us that even God doesn't get everything right the first time. The Divine, Omnipotent Creator of All also has restarts and second takes and do-overs. On the one hand, this seems like shocking information, upending a lot of what we believe we "know" about the Creation story. But on the other hand, I hope it can also serve as something of a relief, to know that even God makes mistakes, changes God's mind, and has multiple versions of how it all began. And surely, if The Source of Everything, The Lord of the Universe, The All-Powerful, Omnipresent, Divine Originator, GOD gets to be flawed from time to time... can't we afford ourselves, and one another, the same leeway? Happy New Year!


CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Richard Cahan on Flickr
2. Pixnio
3. RAZ Zarate on Flickr
4. Horia Varlan on Flickr

Chol Ha-Moed Sukkot: A Frail, Yet Unbreakable, Structure

Right now, as I write this blog post, Delaware County is getting knocked around by wind gusts of up to 50 mph! Needless to say, it's not the greatest weather in which

to build - or try to preserve intact - a Sukkah. It is, almost by definition, a fragile, impermanent, flimsy structure, designed to last (we pray...) eight days before it is stored away again for another year. And inevitably, the week of Sukkot is filled with rain, wind, debris, and other hazardous conditions. How are we possibly supposed to eat our meals outdoors? According to some sources, we're even meant to SLEEP outside in this poor-excuse-for-a-camping-tent; which isn't considered kosher unless the roof is intentionally porous?!?! There is honestly no good reason why Sukkot should be as popular, wonderful, cozy, intimate, and enjoyable a holiday as it most definitely is...

Its origins are pretty straight-forward, right? We build the Sukkah to remind ourselves of the temporary shelters the Israelites built (and rebuilt) for 40 years of wandering in the desert. But the symbol shifted. A generation later, when the people were settled in Israel, the Sukkot were again constructed out in the fields
during harvesting time, so they could maximize their yield at this most crucial season. Our liturgy then also refers intermittently to the Ancient Temple as "David's Sukkah." Still later, our rabbinic ancestors spoke of God's protection feeling like a Sukkah covering us, and yet other texts imagine the Sukkah as a metaphor for life itself. So, in fact, it is quite the versatile symbol. Perhaps this is one of the keys to its longevity and staying-power, despite its vulnerability in the face of Mother Nature?

There is a wonderful reading in our Lev Shalem prayer book, included in a special section for Sukkot. It is entitled "Impermanent Dwellings" and was written by I. Michael Hecht. This poem includes the following juxtaposed lines:

"Life is frail as a sukkah: we are insubstantial as a harvest hut. Exposed to the ravages of nature, we are impermanent... But life is also strong as a sukkah. We are enduring as a harvest hut; often beaten down, we rise again." I love this image! The Sukkah gets smacked around by wind... but no matter what, it'll be back next year. Or maybe we need to take a year off? It'll still return the year after, or a decade later, or 500 years after that. Some of my own fondest childhood memories are of sitting in our Sukkah in Stockholm, Sweden, covered in snow, shivering around a small space heater! Sure, it was cold, but it was also cozy, it was filled with a different kind of warmth... and as a child, it felt like quite the adventure!

Perhaps most importantly of all, the Sukkah may remind us of life, and of our own struggles, challenges, and victories. Life is filled with uncertainty, admissions of our own weaknesses and vulnerabilities, and obstacles that sometimes feel as if they're being hurled at us, like 50-mph gusts of wind!

But not only do we continue to rise, like a Sukkah being built again and again, generation after generation. Eventually, we even realize that the struggles MAKE US resilient! Like the Sukkah, our ability to endure, to persevere, and to keep dusting ourselves off and marching on, that in-and-of-itself is a source of strength. The metaphor would be lost, if we suddenly decided to build the Sukkah like a concrete bomb shelter. Its frailty IS its strength... and our vulnerabilities are our "super power." And like our little, rickety harvest huts, that ability will allow us to rise again and again, no matter how hard the wind may blow.


CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Matthieu Aubry on Flickr
2. zeevveez on Flickr
3. Crystal A Murray on Flickr (yes, that IS a snow-covered Sukkah!)
4. Ewald Caspari on Pexels

Yom Kippur Morning Sermon, 5780

Here it is, the final sermon of the High Holiday season! As a quick reminder: If you aren't already familiar with my High Holiday writing, I always choose a theme, and then present four sermons on/related to/surrounding that theme. Included below is Sermon #4; the final piece of the puzzle :-). Feedback and responses are always welcome! Happy and Healthy New Year!!

Yom Kippur Morning 5780 - Main Sermon

Shanah Tovah.

“Jewish and Imperfect Humans.” That is my topic for this morning. Many of you have probably heard by now, that my theme for this entire High Holiday season is “Jewish and…”, looking at various ways that our individual AND communal identities are multi-faceted. They need to be. We are not, nor can we be, one thing all the time. We’ve talked about skin color, sexual orientation, religious history and culture, all of which add nuance and difference to our conglomerate identities. We also discussed our congregation consisting of Jews AND non-Jews, and that our obligation to our neighbors and ourselves is to keep expanding our fences, widening our circle, and examining who we are. To be in relationship, we need to make (more) space for ‘And.’

Yesterday, I also talked about being Jewish AND American AND a Zionist… AND often quite conflicted. But it also took me nearly half my D’var Torah before I finally named the topic! So today, I wanted to shift my approach. I led with the title instead: “Jewish and Imperfect Humans.” Not only are we multi-layered as people and as communities… but we also have to learn to accept our limitations. ‘Accepting’ is even too passive a term. Perhaps one might wish we could leave it at that; “Ok, I accept that I am limited, that I am not perfect. I accept it…” The problem is, it just isn’t enough. You have to LEAN into it. If, and when, an opportunity presents itself to stare directly at some uncomfortable, unpleasant realization about ourselves… we need to cultivate ways to run TOWARDS that opportunity. Because running away isn’t working. It may feel like it, for a time, but it isn’t. Yom Kippur comes to tell us that being imperfect and making frequent mistakes, ones that potentially hurt both ourselves and others, IS an integral part of being human. And sometimes we’re even begrudgingly willing to accept that; acquiescing that it’s an unavoidable aspect of being a homo sapiens. But actively run TOWARD it?? That’s too much. Isn’t it?

You know, we have a lot of brilliance right here in our community. Not perfection, of course, because we already know that’s impossible. But scholarship, wisdom, accomplishment, expertise; we’ve got it all! Recently, two members of our community demonstrated their talents in a new joint publication. Rabbi Helen Plotkin and Stephen Lehmann worked together to translate and annotate a never-before-published set of essays written by Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel. Fifty years ago, Heschel was one of the most recognizable figures in America, marching arm-in-arm with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and both speaking and writing publicly in support of social causes and against hatred. But before he fled from the Nazis just before World War II, Heschel lived in Germany, and was a prolific writer there as well! But much of his early writing was never translated out of the German. Enter the crack team of Lehmann&Plotkin, together with another translator, Marion Faber. And I bring up this new volume, entitled “In This Hour,” because Heschel wrote these compelling articles in Germany in the 1930s, yet they carry unspoken weight that even he couldn’t have imagined, but which we - on the other side of the Holocaust - feel SO powerfully. He is writing in a moment in time… but his reflections resonate to this very day, and beyond. In her introduction to the book, Rabbi Plotkin writes, “Even as he teaches history, Heschel teaches more than history: the old becomes new, and the struggles of one era shed light on another… his words address the issues of his own time and speak urgently to ours.”

And I thought about this concept a lot. Back in June, for Shavuot, Stephen came and presented some excerpts from the book, which were truly fascinating. And some of what Stephen presented back then directly informs what I wanted to say to you here today. Why must we run TOWARD our imperfections and our insecurities? Why can’t we just talk about, say, the weather, the suddenly successful Eagles, or about infuriating traffic conditions around the county? Because we cannot escape the flaws we need to see. Running from our challenges actually makes them WORSE. Heschel writes, “as they flee, they are losing the last remnants of their dignity and piling misery upon misery. We have been challenged by the darkest powers, and no indignity could be more shameful than crawling away. What is our answer?”

Now, you might want to respond, “But Heschel is talking about fleeing something MUCH more terrifying and tangible!” Well, I would respond that Heschel isn’t suggesting armed rebellion, but introspection and self-reflection at this crucial time… In This Hour. Furthermore, if Heschel urged the Jews of THAT moment to face the horrifying reality of their situation, how could you and I possibly claim that our demons are too scary to look at or face?

Here is another reason why it is so important to talk about how we are “Jewish and Imperfect Humans”: We need to interrogate our own stories. We tell ourselves that we are strong, courageous, independent, and open-minded… but THOSE people, The Others, are intolerant, ignorant, hypocritical, and they stay in their silos, their echo chambers, and don’t consider others’ opinions! These are all stories we tell ourselves. Because life is made up of stories. We each have a narrative that is ours; origin stories of where we grew up, and journey stories of how we came to, or remained at Ohev. We have stories about our professions, about our country, and mythical stories in our families that get retold and retold over and over again. Stories are fundamental to who we are, to human existence… and every story crashes.

Nearly a year ago, I was at a conference in New York, and heard an incredible presentation by Lannie Solomon, a teacher at a school called SVARA. Their website states: “SVARA is a traditionally radical yeshiva dedicated to the serious study of Talmud through the lens of queer experiences.” And whenever new students come to learn at SVARA, they always begin by hearing “The Crash Talk.” Solomon gave us the abridged version… which I am now going to abridge further for you. Lannie Solomon explained what I just shared; we all tell stories. And, they said, every story crashes.
Think about it, as young children, we often think our parents are invincible… until we become teenagers, and that idea crashes. We believe that what we learn in school is all fact, and not at all biased by history or politics… crash. The role models we idolize at one point or another - whether musicians, actors, politicians, world leaders, activists -  they are supposed to be flawless and beyond reproach, impervious to scrutiny!! Crash. And people often say to me some version of: “I know that Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, Moses, Miriam, Esther, Deborah, King David, all those people were fearless, brilliant, and sin-free, but I just can’t live up to that standard…” Crash. Ok, well, at least God is perfect, right? Never messes anything up??? … crash.

Then, SVARA teaches, there are three responses to the inevitable crash. One is, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There is no crash. I see nothing. My world is perfect. I’m not wrong, YOU ARE! Everything is great!!! La, la, la, la, la, LAAAAAA!” Willful ignorance and radical insistence that some crashes Simply. Cannot. Happen. Period. Option two is, run like hell. Abandon ship, erase all evidence, burn the surveillance tapes, delete, delete, delete!! The coping mechanisms in our brain, the fight or flight instinct, says pretend none of this ever happened, and never, EVER look back. Sometimes this feels right. Anything else just seems too, too scary. Though we cannot forget what Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote, in December of 1939 in London, that “no indignity could be more shameful than crawling away.” That is when SVARA introduces option three.

It’s called “The Torah.” Several generations later, it was also presented in the form of Midrash. Last night, I talked about anti-Semitism, and all the many times that our stories crashed… violently. Later today, in our service, we’ll be reflecting on the Eileh Ezkerah, a part of the service that memorializes the martyrs of so very many generations of our ancestors who were killed, and whose stories were literally burned to the ground. But the texts of our tradition talk directly ABOUT those destructions; they do NOT shy away from them. They talk about our ancestors’ flaws, their insecurities, their narcissism, and all their worst choices and decisions, AND it incorporates those weaknesses into a new story.

That is SVARA’s brilliant reframing, which blew my mind. You can’t actually say “no crash happened.” Nor can we really say, “forget this, I will never tell another story as long as I live.” No, the only real option is to look squarely at our history, our lives, our truths, accepting the good AND the bad, and incorporating ALL OF IT into constantly-generating new stories. The first generation of rabbis were the ONLY ones in their time to say, “Yeah, this just happened. Our Temple was destroyed, sacrifice is gone. God seems to have thrown us to the wolves… But we also love the Torah. We aren’t ready to be done. So we bring it with us, and we write a new story that ALSO mentions destruction, sin, rebuke… AND then rebuilding. Lannie Solomon said, and I thought this was SO powerful, that the Talmud itself is like a guidebook or a work plan to survive any and all proverbial “end of the world” scenarios. Crashes WILL come and go. They just will. But we are still here. Let’s write a story about it.

We here at Ohev Shalom are the inheritors of one such incredibly powerful story. It is about a small town in Moravia, deep in Czechoslovakia, that was destroyed nearly 80 years ago. By now, many of you are familiar with the town of Lostice, which, I must tell you, makes me so happy.
Their community was annihilated by the Nazis in the early 1940s, their Torah scroll was saved by the Jewish Council of Elders in Prague, who offered to catalog for the Nazis all the stolen artifacts they had looted from the smoldering ashes of Jewish life that they left behind. Secretly, the Prague Council was hoping to delay, delay, delay, so that all their work would be a damning indictment of the Nazis, if the world should ever recover from this lunacy, and somehow be able to begin telling a new story.

After the war, over 1,300 scrolls sat in a warehouse in Prague, forgotten, ignored, left to rot, and slowly disintegrating. But by sheer luck, they were rediscovered in the 1960s, and eventually brought to Westminster Synagogue in London. Then, in 1980, a dynamic, young rabbi from Wallingford, PA, wrote to the Memorial Scrolls Trust, based at that synagogue, asking if his congregation could be so honored as to care for one of the rescued scrolls. Soon enough, Rabbi Louis Kaplan was bringing a Torah to Ohev Shalom, where it found a new home, and began a new story.

When I came to Ohev in 2009, the scroll was being kept in a glass case in the lobby. One of my first executive decisions as Ohev’s rabbi, almost immediately when I arrived, was to take it out of that display, and put it back in the ark. The Nazis had a plan to turn our texts and our traditions into museum objects; I get a chill down my spine every time I see a Torah scroll kept permanently behind glass. (And no, that is not the situation with the scrolls you think you see in our hallway either…) A few years ago, we were able to add many, wonderful new chapters to the story of this Lostice Scroll, which I urge people NOT to call a Holocaust Torah. I wish I could share all of them with you here, but hopefully many of you have attended our annual Lostice Shabbat, in the spring, or heard me read from Megillat Lostice, a scroll (of sorts) that I wrote in four chapters, to tell the “official” story of the Torah. Or you’ve heard me tell of the incredible coincidences of Fanny Neuda, the wife of Lostice’s rabbi in the 1850s, who wrote a prayer book for women nearly 170 years ago. Copies of which, miraculously, have found their way into our congregation RIGHT NOW.

I can’t tell you all of that right now; I so, so wish I could. My main point to you today, however, is that the story of Lostice has been reborn after one of the most dramatic and terrifying crashes in human history. And in line with SVARA’s interpretation of how rabbinic tradition has worked for millenia, incorporating the crash and rebirth into OUR story has been a powerful force at Ohev Shalom in Delaware County, PA, in the 21st Century. This is our Jewish process; looking squarely at our crashes and figuring out how to weave them into new, and therefore more powerful, stories. Our lives are like the Lostice Scroll. We go through many phases in life, some filled with joy and celebration, others laden with tragedy, illness, scandal, and death. We COULD pretend they never happen… we could run as fast as we can in the opposite direction… or we could embrace the imperfect, flawed, torn, damaged parchment that constitutes who we are, and stitch it together into something new.

Indeed, many of you are already aware that our Lostice scroll is having a new chapter added to its story right now. It is literally being written for us! Thanks to an incredibly generous donation by Phyllis and Alan Schapire, the scroll is in Florida, as we speak, being fully restored for the first time since it was stolen from Lostice. I also want to highlight that the Schapires made this fabulous gift in memory of Phyllis’ parents, Sheila and Benjamin Garberman, who were both Holocaust survivors, and actually fought as Bielski partisans in the forests of Nazi-occupied Poland. In reminding myself of their incredible story, I found an article from a New Jersey Jewish newspaper online, from 2014, after the Garbermans had told their stories of survival to local religious school students. The article ended by stating: “The Garbermans explained that they never kept their difficult past from their children. They wanted them to know what happened so it would never be forgotten.”

The stories of death, persecution, chaos, pain, and suffering, are hard to hear. They are some of the most intense and difficult examples of crashes. The enduring power of our people, however, can perhaps be summed up in our ability to weave pain and suffering INTO the fabric of our continuing, undying narrative. To clean off the damaged parchment surface, wipe away - with tears in our eyes - the old, crumbling letters that have fallen off the parchment. But then we write new words in. We stitch the scroll back together, whether we’re talking about a literal scroll from a small town in Czechoslovakia, where an inspiring woman wrote prayers for women, and local artisans made a super-stinky, but famous cheese. Or about painful experiences in our own lives, or perhaps in the life of our community.

My main point to you all is, the crashes ARE inevitable. We are human, and thus flawed, imperfect, sometimes stupid, afraid, vulnerable, and we can injure one another. We are all those things AND we are Jewish, and one way that our ancestors have survived all the other “And’s” is to keep telling our story, and to keep incorporating joy AND pain, victories AND defeats into those stories. As we embark on this new Jewish year, let us not run from the challenges facing us as individuals, a community, a nation, or a planet. Let’s also stop pretending the problems don’t exist, or that they can somehow be ignored. They cannot. But let’s write new chapters and whole volumes, filled with “And’s” and bursting with life, honesty, and compassion. In this hour - in this moment in time in this holy place - let us begin yet another new story. It’s gonna be a great one, I guarantee it.

Shanah Tovah!

Kol Nidrei Sermon, 5780

Dear all,
I apologize for not writing a new blog post last week or this week. However, now that the High Holidays have concluded, I am posting my sermons from Kol Nidrei (the evening of Yom Kippur) and Yom Kippur morning, in case anyone is interested. As a quick reminder: If you aren't already familiar with my High Holiday writing, I always choose a theme, and then present four sermons on/related to/surrounding that theme. Included below is sermon #3 out of 4. Feedback and responses are always welcome! Happy and Healthy New Year!!

Kol Nidrei 5780 - Main Sermon

Shanah Tovah.

Well, really, the full greeting should be “Shanah Tovah U-Metukah,” “May you have a Good AND Sweet New Year.” Or, I guess if we’re being REALLY fastidious about it, now that it’s Yom Kippur, we should really say “Shanah Tovah U-Metukah... Ve-G’mar Chatimah Tovah,” “May you have a Good AND Sweet New Year, AND May You be Inscribed [in the Book of Life] for Good.” In addition, for good measure, we could also throw in, “Ve-Tzom Kal,” “AND May You have an Easy Fast.” But all that is a pretty serious mouthful, so “Shanah Tovah” works just as well. Or even better: the Yiddish catch-all, “Gut Yontif.” 

But if we DID want to extend all these protracted greetings to one another, the way we would keep adding phrases in Hebrew, is to add a single letter between each new salutation - the letter Vav. Most often, we translate this single letter, when it functions as a prefix and a conjunction, as “And.” Depending on context, however, it can sometimes mean “but,” which arguably is the exact OPPOSITE of “And”! This one letter can also mean “However,” “Nevertheless,” “Indeed,” “Yet,” and even “if”! It can almost be used to express any conjunction imaginable… all depending on context. Therefore, you can probably see how this creates some challenges if you’re trying to interpret a text and don’t know which conjunction Vav is meant to signify!

BUT, they are all related, right? Every conjunction connotes A relationship, whether connecting or separating, and in some ways, the Torah - in using Vavs for so many things - is perhaps reminding us that the POTENTIAL for relationship is always there. The building blocks for “And” are present, we have the means to create meaning and purpose and holiness all the time… however, if we don’t value it, or cultivate it, it can also become destructive and toxic. Vav is indeed an important letter.

This past June, I marked the occasion of being Ohev Shalom’s rabbi for ten years. An entire decade. Amy and the leadership team did a wonderful job of acknowledging this at our congregation’s annual meeting, and I want to publicly thank them for that. Many of you are also aware, though, that there was a lot going on over the summer, and it was challenging to be fully present to that milestone a few months ago. Many of you know this from personal experience, that when people go through difficult times they come to appreciate what they have. Today, I want to genuinely express how much more grateful I am for you, the Ohev Shalom community, and for all the relationships that we have built here, together, over these ten years.

I mention all of this because I want to raise up something that went a bit unnoticed then, but which I feel deserves more attention and gratitude. YOU gave me a present. (Maybe you didn’t know you did. But it was very thoughtful of you. Thank you.) I am, in fact, wearing it right now - my new tallit. I want to formally thank Alan Schapire for helping me pick it out on behalf of the congregation, back in October, when we were in Israel on our synagogue trip. And I love that Alan himself, as well as Allan Baron and Arnold Steinman, each got tallitot from that same store, because it kind of feels like we have a secret (though now NOT so secret…) little talles club! I bring up this tallit in order to say “Thank You” to you all, AND to highlight two things about it that speak to my overarching theme for these High Holidays AND my specific theme for tonight’s sermon. 

A brief origin story: This is a hand-made tallit from a small shop in the Old City in Jerusalem, called Weaving Creation, and Yosef, the shop owner, told me I could have the “Atarah,” the neckband along the top, embroidered with essentially any prayer or phrase I would like. It came to me instantly, a quote from Pirkei Avot, the Ethics of Our Ancestors, chapter 1, teaching/mishnah 12, spoken by the great sage, Hillel: “Hevei Mi-Talmidav Shel Aharon; Ohev Shalom VE-Rodeph Shalom.” We actually read this quote every single morning in services, right before the Kaddish d’Rabbanan. It means: “[Strive to] be one of the disciples of Aaron [the High Priest], loving peace and pursuing peace.” Besides the fact that it’s a nice quote, and it speaks to an important mission which I’ll get to shortly, it also contains the phrase “loving peace,” or “Ohev Shalom.” I wasn’t sure if it would be too blunt a statement… but then I thought: “This IS my Ohev Shalom tallit!” For the rest of my life, this tallit will always, always keep me intertwined with Ohev Shalom. And I will cherish that connection - that Vav - forever.

BUT this sermon isn’t about me. I haven’t even told you the topic yet, for goodness sake! Well, many of you know that my High Holiday theme this year is “Jewish and…” focusing on all the ways we are multi-faceted, nuanced, interconnected people, and more than just any, one, single thing. Tonight, I want to take all that I’ve already said about the letter Vav, and about my tallit, and about loving, as well as pursuing, peace, and I want to weave these ideas together into my topic for tonight, which I’m calling: “Jewish AND American… AND Zionist… AND occasionally conflicted.” You see, the very existence of a Vav - of an “and” after the word “Jewish” - has been a source of huge pain, suffering, and persecution for us over the course of millenia. AND (or BUT…) it has ALSO held us together, and enabled us to survive DESPITE that oppression; and we need to stop and acknowledge both. 

Four thousand years ago, when our ancestors were happily living in Egypt, the very beginning of the Book of Exodus tells us that a new Pharaoh arose and turned against the Israelites. His specific accusation, 1:10, is chilling. We have heard this same anti-Semitic slur from essentially every enemy, using some version of these same words: “[speaking to his fellow Egyptians:] We must make a plan to keep them from growing even more. If we don’t, and if war breaks out, they will join our enemies and fight against us. Then they will escape from the country.” In the Hebrew, the text tells us “v’Nosaf...”, “v’Nilcham...”, “v’Alah...” Three vav’s for three central accusations: They will join [the enemy], wage war [against us], and then get up [and abandon us]. After the Egyptians it was Assyrians, Babylonians, Persians, Greeks, Romans, Church leaders, Crusaders, Mamluks, Cossacks, Nazis, and alt-right Neonazis. The verses change, but the refrain remains the same: we are backstabbers, we are disloyal, and we’re not REALLY part of the people. After all, we’re always “Jewish and…” Can we ever TRULY be trusted?? 

Fascinatingly, this argument wasn’t even just raised by external voices, but internal ones as well. The battle between assimilation and exclusionism is at the center of the Chanukah story, over 2,000 years ago when we were dealing with Assyrian Greeks. Jews trying desperately to run from that “And.” During the Spanish Inquisition, Jews would convert out and try and shed their previous religion, only to be violently persecuted to make SURE we weren’t “Spanish AND still Jewish.” 

Centuries later, at the time of the European Enlightenment, it was the philosophy du jour to renounce all differences and just be 100% French, or German, or Italian. In rabbinical school, I wrote an extended paper, specifically looking at the Swedish Jewish community, where I grew up, in the early 1900s. Before the State of Israel was established in 1948, many Jewish communities were very, VERY nervous about Zionism. It was brandished by the anti-Semites as a clear example of “Jewish and…” Or rather “blank-and-Jewish.” They might say: “You told us you were French! Or German! Or Swedish! Or American. But now you ALSO want to talk about Zionism, which at its core longs for a homeland in Israel?!?! Homeland for whom??? If an enemy rises against us, are you going to join them, wage war against us, and then abandon us for the Zionist State???” 

We were deathly afraid of that accusation. I found my old essay, from 2005, and a quote that stood out for me came from the late 1800s, when the Jewish community of Sweden was attempting to petition the Swedish government for full citizenship, and made the declarative statement: “To us, there now exists no other native country besides Sweden.” Even at the Jewish Theological Seminary, where I received my ordination (AND my previous tallit), it is well-documented that faculty and leadership opposed political Zionism before 1948. Jacob Schiff, a prominent JTS board member, wrote in 1907: “Speaking as an American, I cannot for a moment concede that one can be at the same time a true American and an honest adherent of the Zionist movement.” We could not (and some still hold this fear today!) declare too loudly that we were/are “American AND Jewish,” or “Swedish AND Jewish,” because others may use it against us, and could say - once again - that Jews are disloyal spies… who will eventually stab their neighbors in the back.

As I mentioned earlier this evening, even this very service at which we sit now, the Kol Nidrei, was used in many generations as a covert way for Jews to return to the faith. Conversos in Spain, and later many forced converts throughout Europe, would come back to synagogue on the evening of Yom Kippur to declare: “Kol Nidrei!!” “ALL the vows which I have declared (for someone else…) are hereby renounced!” No matter what we went through, or how we were persecuted, we held onto that Vav. We insisted always that we were “Jewish and.” 

So what does any of this have to do with my tallit? Well, there’s a Vav in there. “Ohev Shalom VE-Rodeph Shalom,” which I think is quite critical. “Ohev” can be a more passive stance; to accept, to reconcile, to love. “Rodeph” is a more active and action-based word, to pursue, to go after, to chase down. But in order to create peace - among our people, between us and our neighbors, and around the world - we need to do both. We need to insist that we are absolutely “Jewish and…” We are ALSO Americans, or Swedes, or Mexicans, or whatever. This is our synagogue’s Centennial year! Ohev Shalom has been “Peace-loving” for AT LEAST a hundred years, and our community members have been present for some truly monumental moments in American history, by being stitched into the fabric of the city of Chester for decades. The city’s motto for several decades was “What Chester makes, makes Chester,” and certainly our ancestors helped produce FOR and WITHIN Chester, and thus helped make Chester what it was for a long, long time. 

Just walk down our hallway, to the parking lot entrance, and on the right AND left you will see names and photos of congregants who fought - and some died - to protect the values which this country stands for. Many people here remember Larry Edelstein, of blessed memory, who survived the Holocaust together with his good friend, Yaakov Farkas, who is here today. Larry just barely survived, like so many, then made his way to America, only to put on a uniform, turn around, and head right back out to fight for his new country. If that isn’t “Jewish and,” I don’t know what is!!

What Larry understood is that we do indeed need to be Ohev Shalom, peace-loving, AND we also need to be Rodeph Shalom, going out and pursuing just and rightful causes, to actively help bring about that peace. At the same time, as loyal as we have been everywhere we’ve lived, our ancestors have often needed a place of refuge, a homeland… and we needed to fight for that as well. We are both-and; we absolutely consider ourselves Americans and defend this country, but we must also be careful students of history, and remember ALWAYS that the anti-Semitic trope is never gone for good. We must also always remember our misguided Jewish ancestors who were embarrassed about our differences, and who thought, if we could just convince our neighbors that we had renounced that Jewish-stuff, that Promised-Land-silliness, maybe they would accept us fully. They often found out the hard way, that simply doesn’t work. We ARE different, we ARE multi-faceted, we ARE “Jewish and,” and that is never going to change.

When the Alan’s and Arnold and I purchased our tallitot in that tiny little shop in the Old City of Jerusalem, I messed up. You see, the shop owner asked me what phrase to put on the tallit, but didn’t tell me how much space I had. I was so pleased with my little Pirkei Avot quote, that it never occurred to me how short it was. When the tallit arrived, months later, it looked kinda empty. And I was, in truth, somewhat disappointed. Then this crazy little notion flitted through my head. Could I ADD to the tallit? Put my own little “Vav” on it??? Long-story-short (but I AM a rabbi, so if you want the full version, just let me know after services…), Elsa Wachs, who is a congregant, an Ohev fixture for many decades, and a world-renowned artist, agreed to enhance my Atarah. And boy did she sew meaning, spirituality, and relationship into the fabric of this cloth!! She even wrote me a note to explain the depth of meaning in her symbols. A pomegranate, sliced open, with half at either end; which I see as a symbol of the land of Israel, our Zionist homeland, where my tallit was crafted. The two halves also represent the Jewish Shabbat candle blessings of “Shamor” and “Zachor,” “Protect” and “Remember.” I would add that, like Ohev and Rodeph Shalom, one is active, to protect the sabbath, and one is more passive, to remember it. And both are needed there as well.

There are five seeds inside each open pomegranate, so ten in total. According to Elsa, this is both a celebration of our years together AND a symbol of a minyan. There are then 36 more pomegranate seeds adorning the Atarah, representing two-times-chai (18), with which Elsa sent me a message and wish that my (and I would say OUR) “journey through life be filled with bountiful energy and accomplishments.” Now, perhaps more than ever, I hope and pray that she is right. 

As if the tallit wasn’t already special enough, linking me to all of you, Elsa has embellished and enhanced it that much more. It is overflowing with “And.” You know, in modern Hebrew, “Vav” is also a noun. It likely comes from the origin of the letter itself, beginning as a hieroglyph with our “friend” back in Egypt, Pharaoh. It was the Egyptian picture/symbol meaning “hook,” and THAT is what it means in Hebrew today, a pin, a peg, a hasp… a hook. The letter Vav links things together, it hooks them up, one to the other. “Ohev Shalom VE-Rodeph Shalom” - we love peace AND we pursue it vociferously. “Shamor v’Zachor,” we protect our Sabbath AND our Jewish identity as well as our strong, enduring connection to the Land of Israel AND we remember what we have been subjected to. We remember that we cannot shed our “Jewish and”; but rather, we must embrace it. We are proud citizens of this country AND we hold a special place in our hearts for our people’s homeland, where we can commission hand-woven tallitot and learn about Aaron the High Priest, and our ancient history. That same “hook” also links together our complex, nuanced identity, where we are Jewish AND American AND Zionists… AND conflicted. It’s not easy keeping one foot in each of these varied places… we only have two feet!!

We remember AND protect our history as well as our identity. We recall what Kol Nidrei meant to generations of our ancestors. But it holds new meaning and holiness for us today; we are part of the Jewish tapestry as well! Kol Nidrei, our service tonight, can send us off into the new year, full of hope and energy, ready to love AND pursue peace. Let us pour forth like the 36 seeds of this pomegranate, manifesting two-times-chai or maybe ten or even A HUNDRED times chai - creating life and peace and relationship in our shared community. That’s my “hook” for all of us here tonight. 

Shanah Tovah!