Korach (repost from 2011): The Challenge of Feedback Continues

One of the hardest gifts to receive is critique. We talked about this a few weeks ago, when I wrote that Tochecha, rebuke, is a present that we give one another, that can help us learn, grow, and improve. But unfortunately, it's never as easy as that. Feedback gets taken the wrong way, someone feels offended, and relationships end in the blink of an eye. And so rather than dealing with the perilous realm of critique, we keep our mouths shut.

That was my blog post from a few weeks ago. This week, I would like to explore the other side of the same issue; the person refusing to accept the feedback. What if we're not the person trying to make a "friendly" observation; what if we're the one being observed? We need to ask ourselves: Am I willing to be open to comments, even if they're painful and might require serious introspection and maybe even change? In our current Torah portion, we see that even Moses - one of our greatest leaders - struggles with this very question.

At the start of the parasha, we are told that a relative of Moses, Korach, "betook himself... to rise up against Moses"(Num. 16:1-2). Together with his band of rebels, Korach declares, "You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord's congregation?" (16:3) The attack is directed squarely at Moses, and his role as the leader of the Israelites. Yet in Moses' response to the attack, he amazingly redirects the criticism, stating: "Truly it is against the Lord that you and all your company have banded together. For who is Aaron that you should rail against him?" (16:11) Aaron? Why does Moses claim the attack is against Aaron? Or against God? Could it really be that Moses thinks Korach is angry at both God and Aaron, yet not angry at him??? I am amazed at how Moses deflects the issue and paints himself as a mediator on the sideline.

But don't we ourselves act the same way? When someone tries to criticize us, we too find reasons why it isn't really applicable. The person was rude or crazy; the comment was unwarranted or unfair; we tell ourselves that other people do the same thing, so why was I being singled out for criticism??? We'll jump through endless hoops to avoid having to confront the possibility that we aren't perfect. How differently might this Biblical feud have ended if Moses had sat down with Korach and tried to understand his issues? Feedback, critique, even criticism; they all open the door for new opportunities. They give us a chance to grow and become better people.

The rabbis of the Talmud ask and answer an important question: "Who is wise? One who learns from all people" (Pirkei Avot, 4:1). Note that it says, "from all people." It's easy to learn from teachers, scholars, even an occasional rabbi. It's harder to learn from someone who is offering rebuke; though perhaps there is all the more to learn from that person. If/when you are feeling attacked, try to take a step back and not lash out right away. And don't deflect their observations. Be curious about your own emotions, allow yourself time to reflect on what they are saying, and try to seize the precious opportunity to learn something. You may be surprised at what you discover, and you may even wind up thanking them... well, maybe eventually.

Photos in this blog post:

1. CC image courtesy of erika g. on Flickr

2. CC image courtesy of paradiseranche on Flickr

3. CC image courtesy of barry.pousman on Flickr

4. CC image courtesy of Kissimmee - The Heart of Florida on Flickr

5. CC image courtesy of Lazurite on Flickr

Naso (repost): Feeling the Loss of God's Face

This is a repost of something I wrote in 2012, and I dedicated it then in memory of Henry Dickson, who was a member of the congregation and a good friend. It's hard to believe it's been ten years since he passed. I wanted to make sure to mention the tribute, because Henry is mentioned in the post itself. May his memory always be remembered for a blessing.

Our Torah portion this week is Naso, the second parasha in the Book of Numbers. One of the most famous sections in Naso is the Priestly Benediction, which still to this day is used by many parents to bless their children at the Friday night dinner table, and is also included in many lifecycle events. The Etz Hayim Chumash translates the Priestly Benediction as follows: "Thus shall you bless the people of Israel. Say to them: 'The Lord bless you and protect you! The Lord deal kindly and graciously with you! The Lord bestow His favor upon you and grant you peace!'" (Numbers 6:23-26) Now, Henry would have looked at that translation and said, "Is that REALLY what the Hebrew text says?" And of course my answer would be, "No." The Etz Hayim translators would probably argue that they're giving you the figurative meaning of the text, but personally, I like the literal meaning. And Henry was one of many people who, like me, wanted to know what the words were literally saying, and then he could make up his own mind about the interpretive meaning. So let's delve, shall we?

I'm ok with the first line, it is indeed talking about God blessing and protecting us. So far, so good. But the second and third lines have a fascinating wording that provokes a very different theological understanding: "May God shine God's Face upon you and be gracious to you! May God turn God's Face toward you and grant you peace!" Are we uncomfortable with the notion of God having a face? Is that why we gloss over this with a figurative translation? Let's instead sit with the challenge of this wording for a minute. What does it mean to see/experience/feel/know God's Face? And even if you don't believe in an anthropomorphic God (a tangible, human-like Divine figure), isn't there something we can learn from the concept of God turning towards us, rather than just asking God to show us favor?

One idea that jumped out at me comes from the Book of Genesis. After not having seen his brother, Esau, for nearly 20 years, Jacob is reunited with his sibling once again. As he tries to offer his brother a caravan filled with gifts, he exclaims, "Accept from me this gift; for to see your face is like seeing the Face of God, and you have received me favorably" (Gen. 33:6). To me, what Jacob is saying is that good fortune in life, special joyous occasions, and moments of thanksgiving - they are all LIKE seeing the Face of God. The Divine Countenance is also discussed in the Book of Psalms, a book filled with every human emotion across the spectrum. In at least ten different Psalms, the theme of God's Face features prominently, either as a Presence strongly felt (and therefore the source of joy, confidence, and safety), or a gaping void (and thus the source of agony, sorrow, rejection, and defeat). And it is the central focus of the Priestly Benediction, which has remained one of the most well-known Jewish prayers for over 3,000 years.

God's Face is not theologically problematic to me. Because whenever good things happen in life, it can indeed feel as if the Face of God is shining on us all. And when we are alone in our grief, mourning the loss of wonderful people, it certainly can feel as if God's Face is hidden, and the world is just a little bit emptier. The people who bless our lives with their presence, they are the embodiment of God's Light shining in our lives. And knowing that the light can come and go forces us to cherish them while they are around. So make sure to identify the people who represent the Face of God in your life, who light up your existence and spread warmth, joy, comfort, and positivity. Treasure every precious moment that you have with them, and be grateful always.


Photos in this blog post:
1. Image of the Google Translate app courtesy of Rabbi Gerber's iPad.
2. Image courtesy of Rabbi Gerber's iPhone on a gorgeous afternoon.
3. Image courtesy of Rabbi Gerber's iPhone... but the gift courtesy of Ohev Shalom's awesome Confirmation Class 2012!
4. CC image courtesy of The California National Guard on Flickr

Tazria (Ha-Chodesh and Rosh Chodesh): Take Out the Babysitting; Keep the Gratitude

We’ve ticked over into April. In general, that’s a very good thing, though it does also bring with it some anxiety - for us as Jews - because Passover is just *that* much closer. We might especially feel the coming of the holiday over the weekend, because this Shabbat includes a special reading, known as Ha-Chodesh (meaning, “The Month”), basically heralding the approach of the festival. I talked about this special Torah reading last year as well, but I find myself returning to it yet again, for reasons that I hope will become clear as you read on. The particular text that we read for Shabbat Ha-Chodesh comes from the Book of Exodus; specifically the first twenty verses of chapter 12. God instructs Moses to inform the Israelites - while still in slavery - that something really monumental is about to occur. This month will become the first month of our soon-to-be-established Jewish calendar, because of this huge upcoming event. God’s instructions for them will be enshrined as “a festival to Adonai throughout the ages; you shall celebrate it as an institution for all time.” (v. 14) You understand what this means, don’t you? “Throughout the ages” and “for all time” means that you and I, today, in 2022, here in the United States, are obligated to observe all these rituals and commandments as well. So it’s probably good to do a quick review of what God has actually commanded us to do, don’t you think?

It gets a little tricky though, I’ll be honest with you. God does lay out some specific rituals for the pre-Exodus Israelites (which I’ll lay out in a second), but one question I have is, are we required to observe every part of these instructions forever, or just the celebration of the holiday *itself* for all time? They seem very still-in-slavery specific, so I’m a little unclear on what we’re meant to do. The text states in verse three that each family needs to “take a lamb” on the 10th of Nisan, and then “watch over it until the 14th day of the month” (v. 6), and then slaughter it at twilight. So right off the bat, I have not done a good job with my four-day-lamb-babysitting duties, nor have I brought it to slaughter before the holiday. I’m guessing you haven’t been observing that one either. Then we’re told to “eat it [the lamb] roasted over fire with unleavened bread and bitter herbs” (v. 8). Honestly, we’re all doing ok on that one. We have the bone (Zeroa) on the Seder plate to *commemorate* the paschal lamb offering we no longer consume, and then we *do* eat the bread (matzah) and herbs (maror) as prescribed. Good job, us!

Then it gets dicey again, because the Torah instructs us as follows: “This is how you shall eat it: your loins girded, your sandals on your feet, and your staff in your hand, and you shall eat it hurriedly…” (v. 11) Oh, and I forgot to mention back in verse seven, that we were supposed to paint the doorposts of our homes with lamb’s blood. I’m being a little flippant, but I do want to make a genuine point here: God instructs us to keep this holiday, and it is worth our taking a few minutes to stop and think about which aspects of these observances have survived across the millennia, and which have changed. It’s both fascinating to see that some rituals have indeed been enshrined, while others have outlived their usefulness or lost their meaning. But even if we no longer paint blood on our doorposts, babysit lambs, or wear our sandals on our feet as we scarf down our food, the importance of the holiday for us as a people -  for all time - has not been lost on us. It was monumental back then, and I think our ancestors would genuinely be awed to discover how central it has remained for us “throughout the ages.”

There is value in looking at both sides here; the underlying meaning of the holiday as well as its practical observances. I think constructing our Seder to, in as many ways as possible, truly mirror the Exodus story can be magical, inspiring, and fun. In years past, I have put strips of red paper on the door posts, actually marched around the Seder table (as many Persian and Iraqi Jews still do), and I know people who sit on pillows on the floor to make it feel more “Middle Eastern.” So going through the motions and inclining (or reclining?) our rituals to actually feel more ancient or connected to our ancestors can be really meaningful for participants of all ages. At the same time, we should talk about the underlying message, which is slavery, freedom, and gratitude. To put it succinctly: We were severely oppressed, and we no longer are… and therefore we should be grateful. And one way that we show our appreciation to God is by “paying it forward,” and looking out for others who are enslaved and/or oppressed and/or in need of rescuing. This year, I encourage all of us to mention Ukraine at our Seder tables, to really think about how we can do our part to help others who are living under oppression, and who are - so tragically - starting their own Exodus away from everything they previously knew. Even as our rituals and observances have changed, aspects of Pesach have endured throughout the ages, and for good reason. It is our job to keep talking about those reasons, going through those ritual motions, and embodying those critical values in every generation, and yes, for all time. 

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. The Magnes Collection of Jewish Art and Life on Flickr (picture from ca. 1920)
2. symkin on Depositphotos
3. pxhere.com
4. Studio Sarah Lou on Flickr

Pekudei: An E(a)rnest Thank You.

This week, I want to pay tribute to the worker bees, the behind-the-scenes folks, and all the people who aren't always visible, but who *really* get things done. I will be mentioning one person in particular - a congregant who recently passed away - but I really mean for this to be a big "thank you" to all the people who fit this description. The reason I'm focusing this blog post on these doers in our communities, is because it's a theme in our Torah reading. Not a central theme, mind you, or a major focal point in any significant way... but that's really the whole point, isn't it? Even when we don't emphasize them or zero in on their contributions, so many people put their time, energy, effort, and support into making community work. We may not see them; but we wouldn't be here without them. In the parashah itself, we're talking about the incredible work of Betzalel ben Uri. "Who?" you ask. Exactly.

When it comes to the Exodus story, the "big names" are really Moses, Aaron, Miriam, and Joshua, and maybe a few others as well. But none of those people actually constructed the Mishkan, also known as the Tabernacle. This was the holy space where God's Presence dwelt, to which sacrifices were brought, and where Moses and God conversed throughout the wanderings in the wilderness. It was also the tent wherein the Ten Commandments where kept. So, safe to say it was a pretty important structure. And the Torah tells us that God called Betzalel - by name - to oversee the work. But we don't honestly know that much about him. His name means "in the shadow of God," which is kind of an interesting mental image in and of itself... especially for the quintessential behind-the-scenes character. He also has an assistant, named Oholiav, who is equally obscure to us, the readers. Despite their importance, and the essential nature of their building project, Betzalel is only ever mentioned six times in the whole Torah! And Oholiav comes up five times. Considering that the Tabernacle - which later morphed into the Temple in Jerusalem - was the central location of all Israelite worship, and takes up basically the entire Book of Leviticus, one might have thought these architects would be featured more prominently. But they are not.

And this is where I see the lesson of valuing people at *every* stage of a project. What makes them valuable is not their fame or prominence, but rather their absolutely invaluable contributions to the final project. Academy Awards are given for costume design, makeup, and a slew of technical categories, because movies aren't made by actors, directors, and producers alone! Betzalel and Oholiav represent all those people who make the magic happen, but who aren't visible and sometimes don't get the thank you's they deserve. When we stop and take the time to recognize them, what we're actually doing is about much more than just expressing gratitude. We are also pausing to acknowledge that most things in our lives are more complex, nuanced, and detailed than we often give them credit. It is important to step back and see the bigger picture, and to notice the many parts that make up the whole. That is especially true when we look at community.

This Shabbat, we are celebrating our annual Kabbalat Ha-Siddur ceremony, where the third graders in our Hebrew School receive their own prayer book and help lead Saturday morning services. The architect of this ceremony, and our third grade teacher for years and years, was Karen Ernest (of blessed memory). Karen was a long-time Ohev member who was always doing, helping, building, cooking, preparing, and teaching. Last year, she was still battling illness when the third graders were getting ready for their service. Karen pushed through her pain to attend the ceremony; that's how much the service, the kids, and teaching meant to her. She was a true Betzalel, who took great pride in her work, often contributed behind the scenes, and probably didn't get thanked as often as she deserved. There are people in our lives, like Karen Ernest, who are precious in what they do and who they are, and I am immensely grateful to have worked with many people at Ohev who are dedicated, passionate, and proud of their community - just like Karen was. The ceremony will continue this year, because it's an important annual tradition here at Ohev... but it won't be the same. For many of us, Karen's shadow will always be a part of it, as she will be - and very much is - deeply missed. 

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Sy on Flickr
2. Matt Moloney on Stocksnap
3. kalhh on Pixabay
4. Ohev Shalom's Centennial Book

Tetzaveh: One on One with God

Tetzaveh, this week’s Torah portion, has the unique (ignoble?) distinction of being the only parashah - from Exodus through the end of the Torah - without a mention of Moses. He’s IN the story, mind you, but God only ever addresses Moses as “you.” Nevertheless, it’s peculiar to find an entire Torah portion without the word “Moses” appearing even once. As you can imagine, there is A LOT of discussion about this in rabbinic literature, and right now I'd like to offer my own take on this peculiar omission. We hear an awful lot about God and Moses speaking to one another, but it always feels like there’s someone else intruding on that conversation as well... us! It’s supposed to be just the two of them… so why are you and I there, rudely eavesdropping?!? If we’re privy to all their conversations, how is it a special connection just between Moses and his God? 

We still learn the laws in this section, specifically about the High Priest’s garments and the ceremony for his installation. But by leaving out Moses’ name, the text may be suggesting that he had some one-on-one time with God as well; just the two of them. There’s the content itself, but then also a larger message about Moses developing a personal connection with the Divine. Only when we notice Moses' absence do we take the time to reflect on his experience... and maybe see him from a changed point-of-view. As with so many things in the Torah, it isn't just about the people IN the story, but about us, the readers, as well. We are invited to create a unique, individually tailored relationship with God as well. It isn’t meant to be reserved for a Moses or a Miriam, a David or a Deborah (Judges, chapter 4). Each of us is given the opportunity to develop a spiritual life, to genuinely walk with God, and to gain a deeper understanding of our purpose on this earth. 

Sometimes people ask me, "Why don't we hear God's Voice these days, like it's presented in the Bible?" Well, part of me wonders if we're listening for it? Would we trust that what we heard was actually a Divine source, or would we just think we were going crazy, or someone was playing tricks on us?? I also feel like so much of the public discourse these days pits religion and science against one another, as if they are competing on the same playing field. But it would really be like debating which subject was better in school, math or history! They're dealing with different basic premises, and they're trying to discern totally different things. There's really no need to see them as competing or clashing. I consider myself a believer in science, rational thinking, and the theory of evolution. Yet I also need to make room for faith, the Bible, and a personal relationship with God.

Maybe this week's Torah portion is trying to teach us about stepping back from the normal way of doing things. What if, like Moses, we focused on silence, contemplation, and self-reflection, instead of talking and DOING all the time? To me, the notion of conversing with God isn't about receiving a Divine mission or discerning the future. It's about humility and mindfulness. It is just as much about being in relationship with our true selves - hearing our inner voices and thinking about where we're going in life - as it is about hearing a Voice From Above. We are, after all, created in God's Image, so maybe forming a bond with God can be as simple and straight-forward as looking in the mirror and really *seeing* ourselves fully? Talking about God isn't easy... even for me, and I'm a religious professional! But I think it's actually really important, and I haven't talked about God enough in this blog. So I'm going to try to change that, just as I'm also going to dig a bit more deeply into myself. Not all of it will make it into the blog, mind you. Some of it is just between me and God, because I get to have that one-on-one time too. And if you're ready for it, so do you.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. j4p4n on Openclipart
2. Thirsty in LA on Flickr
3. CTLiotta on Wikimedia Commons
4. Boston Public Library on GetArchive

Yitro: Layers of Meaning Hidden Under *The* Place

Greetings, everyone! I've been on a bit of a break from the blog, but wanted to get back into it. As I hit the 650 (!!) blog post mark, I'm thinking about possible ways to mix things up, change my focus, or in some other way restructure the blog. Please feel free to reach out with any thoughts/comments/suggestions. Thanks!

Over the years, I've several times found myself reflecting on "famous" quotes from the Torah. These are verses (or parts of verses) that, for any number of reasons, caught someone's attention and made their way into other texts. Sometimes they can be found in the prayer book, other times a zemer (a special Shabbat song), or some part of the Jewish lifecycle. As a result, these verses may stand out in the text, almost like a well-known movie quote that you all of a sudden get to hear in its original context. I stumbled upon one such verse in this week's Torah reading. In this particular instance, the meaning in the parashah and how it has become used in Jewish life are quite different, which makes it an excellent candidate for a blog post! :-)

First, let's look at the context: The Israelites are in the desert, having passed through the Sea of Reeds and are about the receive the Ten Commandments. (That momentous occasion *does* occur in our Torah portion as well, but I decided to focus on something else this time around...) Our text begins with Moses receiving a visitor. His father-in-law, Yitro, comes from the land of Midian, bringing with him Moses' wife and two sons. While there, Yitro sees Moses presiding over every legal dispute and question that any Israelite may bring up. And he strongly encourages him to instead appoint various levels of judges, to essentially create a hierarchy of lower courts, appellate courts, a supreme court... and MOSES. The last thing Yitro says to Moses is that this new-and-improved system will be easier for everyone, and adds, "[if you do this,] you will be able to endure, and all these people too will return to their homes in peace." (Ex. 18:23)

Initially, I just passed over this verse and kept reading. But I glanced at the Hebrew, and noticed something familiar. The phrase about people returning home in peace reminded me of something else, so I looked it up. Sure enough, our ancient rabbis "borrowed" this sentence for a surprisingly different purpose. When I officiate at funerals, and we have finished lowering the casket into the grave, it is customary to say "Al Mekomo Yavo v'Shalom," which is exactly the same statement in our text. I find this fascinating, because the expression is being repurposed in a clever way. At some point in Jewish history, our ancestors began using the word "Makom," which literally means Place/Spot/Location, as a euphemism for God. When someone dies, we console them by saying: "Ha-MAKOM Yinachem Etchem..." - "May God comfort you..." Again, we use the word "place" as another Name for the Divine; perhaps imagining that God is the *ultimate* place; the home to Which (or Whom) we all return after death.

It just intrigues me that this text about judicial proceedings - and about people returning back to their tents after receiving a verdict from Moses or one of the other newly-appointed judges - was seen as a good candidate for a burial rite at the graveside. It is not, by the way, unusual for the rabbis to extract new meanings from Biblical texts. This is a good example of them mining the Tanach for recyclable material! Context was often less significant, and if a quote could be used in an entirely new way - as long as you weren't jumbling the words around and actually manipulating the meaning of the text. If the phrase reads correctly, then by all means interpret it to connote something *completely* different. To me, this is one of the truly beautiful features of our ancient texts. It creates layers upon layers of meaning; constantly shifting as time passes. What the text comes to mean for one generation may be entirely different from the previous generation, the one before that, and countless others before that. It makes our ancient texts come alive, and invites us to scour the text for our own meaningful passages, regardless of what it used to mean to our forbearers. I think it is a subtle, but fantastic aspect of our heritage... and you can quote me on that! 

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. https://psycatgames.com/magazine/quotes/short-quotes/
2. ArtsyBeeKids on Pixabay
3. Page from my rabbi's manual about including this verse

4. Carol M. Highsmith on rawpixel
 

Va-Yechi: Bless *this* Moment

This week’s post will be my last of 2021. Thanks to all of you fabulous readers for sticking with me for yet another year of Take on Torah. It boggles my mind that I’ve posted well-over 600 times over these 12+ years. Thank you. 

I also want to add that I’m dedicating this post to the Daled (fourth) and Hey (fifth) grade classes in our Hebrew School. They put together a terrific D’var Torah for this Shabbat, and truly inspired this post. I feel really blessed to get to work with such awesome students! 🤩🤩

What does it mean to bless someone? Is it just something nice you say to them? “I think you’re great!” Or “you look lovely today.” Are those blessings… or just nice compliments? These were some of the questions I discussed with our Daled & Hey students over the last few weeks, as we prepared a D’var Torah together for this parashah. I think what really threw them for a loop (along with basically anyone reading Genesis, chapter 49…), was how our ancestor, Jacob seemingly intended to offer blessings to his children before he died… but then cursed and scorned several of them! Some of his “blessings” were pretty terrible... perhaps even mean. So that really challenged us to discuss what it even means at all to bless someone. I invite you to take a moment for yourself and think about how you would answer that question…

First of all, Jacob only blessed his sons, which upset everyone in the class. What about his daughter, Dina?!? Patriarchal society, sure, but total silence?? However, we then read the first couple of “blessings,” and decided that maybe Dina actually dodged a bullet. He started off telling his oldest son, Reuben, that he’s the firstborn and deserving of honor (v. 3). BUT then proceeded to chastise him for something that happened *years* earlier (4), and ended his words with rebuke and a curse, all because of this grudge he never could shed (or even express aloud!). As if that wasn’t bad enough, his second… um… “blessing” (?) was even worse. He admonished his two sons, Simeon and Levi, also for something that happened years prior (5-7), and finished his statement by declaring that he did NOT want to be associated with the two of them. Ever. Yikes. 

Some of his subsequent declarations were much more kind and praising… but in some ways that just made the bad ones sting even more! Many of the students in the class were incredulous, and when they each took on the persona of one of the children, and expressed how that person felt about their father's words, even the ones who got good blessings mostly just expressed how badly they felt for their “siblings.” So having read all of Jacob’s… er… opinions, we came back to this challenging question of what it means to bless someone. And we discussed how it could indeed be praise or filled with kindness, yet we also acknowledged that sometimes it can be about saying something hard to hear. Perhaps Jacob meant to challenge his more rebellious children; bluntly telling them that if they don’t shape up, bad things will befall them? Or even if he didn’t intend it that way, we talked about how the recipients of these reproaches could choose to reframe them for themselves, and vow to prove their father wrong! In a way, that too could serve as a blessing, regardless of intent. As a wakeup call, an eye-opener, or a jarring rebuke; it could *still* prove beneficial if the person took action or changed their behavior, to ensure that the future would be better than the prediction.

My favorite part of this endeavor - other than the wonderful responses the students created for each Biblical character - were the blessings their parents offered them. The class teacher, Allison, and I asked each child’s parents to offer a short blessing for their child, using the guidelines our class had discussed about what is, and is not, a blessing. What they wrote was truly beautiful. And it reminded me that blessings can be incredibly powerful. Our words can lift someone's spirits… or scar them for life. And when phrased as a blessing - one that actually intends to help and inspire the person - it can be an incredible force in their lives. So my final takeaway from this Torah portion, and this wonderful class (and the end of 2021...), is to not let any moment go to waste. We should bless one another now, later, and as often as we can push ourselves to think of it. It can be an immense gift to share with someone, and it costs us absolutely nothing. At this holiday season, and as we prepare to enter a new year, let’s think about the gifts we give one another. Let us perhaps move away from the material presents, and instead offer a blessing and some inspiration to one another, which can really help each and every one of us start this new year in the very best way possible. 

I'll offer you an intention to conclude this post: We often say that kind things "go without saying." They're obvious and known; why mention them? I challenge us all to have our sentiments of goodness, kindness, praise, and support instead go WITH saying. Even if/when you think they know it already, take a moment and say it. Out loud. Trust me. May you all have a blessed AND HEALTHY start to the new year!

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. elycefeliz on Flickr
2. martialtribes.com (from the movie, The Matrix)
3. Jerney Furman on Flickr
4. kalhh on Pixabay

5. Zenaidy Castro on Wikimedia Commons

Va-Yeitzei: The Power of Biblical Karma

Karma isn’t something we talk about all too often in Judaism. But even when we don’t use the term, the concept is actually quite prevalent in the Biblical text… especially in Genesis. Time and again, the Torah wants its readers to understand that our behaviors and actions - all of them - have consequences. When we perform mitzvot and acts of kindness, we are often rewarded in one way or another. (And sometimes in ways we NEVER expected or could have predicted…) At the same time, when we behave deceitfully and hurt other people, a similar fate may indeed await us. Now, I think we all know this isn’t a one-for-one equation. You can’t observe a mitzvah and then be disappointed when you don’t see the immediate return on that “investment.” In fact, sometimes we may not notice the repercussions at all. Yet I personally feel that there is a lot of power in energy, attitude, and inclining ourselves towards the good. If you conduct yourself seeking out opportunities to love (all) your neighbor(s) as yourself, the compassion and kindness you are putting out into the universe DOES come back to you. And I would say that our Torah preaches that very same concept.

In this week’s parashah, Jacob has fled from his parents’ home, and he makes his way to his uncle, Laban’s house in Haran. It isn’t clear at first whether Laban knows what happened in Canaan, or why his nephew has shown up on his doorstep (tent-step?). Has word gotten back to him that Jacob deceived his father, Isaac, and stole his brother’s birthright and firstborn blessing? The text doesn’t reveal the answer explicitly, but the message is nevertheless conveyed loud and clear. When Laban tricks Jacob into marrying his older daughter, Leah, instead of the girl Jacob WANTED to marry, Rachel, Jacob complains to him about this dastardly thing that he has done. Laban retorts, “It is not the practice in our place to marry off the younger before the older…” (Gen. 29:26) It is possible that Laban STILL knows nothing of the drama back in Canaan, but it sure sounds like he’s throwing it in Jacob’s face: “Maybe you think that you, the younger child, can get away with anything you like back home… but that ain’t gonna fly around here, buddy!” Or, perhaps, phrased another way, the message that Jacob hears - and that really stings - is, “what goes around, comes around…”

But Laban isn’t exempt from this either. Every time we’ve seen him, he’s tricking someone, scheming something, or saying one thing while behaving in the opposite manner. Several times, he tries to ensnare Jacob or con him out of his wages, his livestock, or even his family! In the end, however, God helps Jacob keep what is rightfully his - due to hard work and honest behavior (maybe Jacob *finally* learned to improve his own karma…) - and punishes Laban for his dishonesty. By the end of Jacob’s twenty-year service, he has taken both of Laban’s daughters, his baker’s dozen of grandchildren, most of his flock, and more possessions still! I wonder if Laban had anywhere near enough self-awareness to see that his bad fortune was indeed the result of his own behaviors. He only had himself to blame for living by deceit and making his fortune through treachery. The end of his story brought him precisely the comeuppance he deserved…

What I especially like about this Biblical lesson is that it doesn’t apply to “bad” people in the Torah. Everyone, back then and even today, can be affected by the energy that we put out into the universe. Sadly, it doesn’t protect us from accidents, illness, pandemics, or tragedy. It isn’t a protective and impenetrable dome. Nevertheless, I believe our deeds matter, and in the long run, we DO experience reward for the mitzvot we perform and the acts of chesed (kindness) we commit to. If nothing else, we may earn the respect and gratitude of those around us, and from people who can see the true value of our character. Even then, bad things may befall us and we can always become the victims of bad luck… but I still stubbornly maintain that the karma we create follows us around through life. We certainly see it play out in the lives of Jacob and Laban, and it’s a message the Torah hopes you and I will take to heart as well.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Nick Youngson on Alpha Stock Images
2. Seth Lemmons on Wikimedia Commons
3. Zane A. Selvans on Jamesbeard.org
4. 8 Kome on Flickr

Ki Tavo: This Too Shall Pass… And This Too.

In the Biblical book of Ecclesiastes, we find the following insightful verse: “Be pleased when things go well; but in a time of misfortune, reflect.” (7:14) One of the central lessons of the entire Tanach, the complete Jewish Bible, is the value of mindfulness. Be present to your current experience - right here, right now, TODAY! - regardless of what’s happening. If it’s a time of celebration, peace, relaxation, and joy; fabulous! Good for you, enjoy it, and may more of these be in your future. Above all, be grateful and appreciative. And if it’s a time of uncertainty, pain, frustration, apathy, or grief, you should *still* be present to it. Don’t hide from such moments or try to numb them with distractions, willful ignorance, or - at the more extreme end - substance abuse. Instead, ask yourself what you can learn from this experience, and how it can make you stronger and a better person. Our Torah portion this week not only echoes this sentiment, but offers a formula to recite at precisely such moments.

We are approaching the end of the Five Books of Moses, and thus the moment when the Israelites will enter the Promised Land. Even though Moses himself won’t get to join them, he still has his gaze firmly set on what will happen to them when they cross over. And, as articulated above, he implores them to remain mindful and present to their experiences, be they good or bad. Moses prophetically looks ahead to a time beyond just their entrance, to when the people will eventually be settled, at peace, and comfortably in possession of this land of milk and honey. He instructs them: “When you enter the land that Adonai, your God, is giving you as a heritage, and you possess it and settle in it, you shall take some of every first fruit of the soil, which you harvest from the land Adonai, your God, is giving you, put it in a basket and go to the place where Adonai, your God, will choose to establish God’s Name… you shall then recite as follows before Adonai, your God…” (Deut. 26:1-2, 5) The formula/prayer/declaration that follows is one that later gets included - verbatim - in the Passover Haggadah. It begins, “My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and stayed there, and became a great and populous nation.” (6)

Several rabbinic commentators focus on the beginning of this phrase, and the sentiment that our ancestor, Jacob, was once alone in the desert, impoverished and afraid. Even when the family moved to Egypt to escape famine, it was a small clan; a single family of outsiders in this mighty, foreign empire. The purpose of starting the declaration this way is so that the Israelite reciting it, now with land of his/her own, surrounded by allies and countrymen, may say: “And now look at us! Look how far we’ve come!!” Remembering how our ancestors had nothing is meant to evoke humility, appreciation, and most importantly gratitude to God. One medieval rabbinic commentator, Rabbeinu Bachya, writes on this verse: “The moral lesson implied in this whole recitation is that precisely at a time when one is prosperous and free from worry one has to look back upon what preceded this success and acknowledge Who it is that enabled one to achieve this well-being.” The “Who,” of course, is God.

Even then, part of the point that these rabbis are making (and that this rabbi writing right now is echoing..) is to be mindful regardless of what is happening in the present moment. We sometimes mainly think to offer prayers when we’re upset, concerned, or in need of something… but isn’t it also crucial to say a prayer in good times as well? One of my favorite phrases that expresses this perfectly is “This too shall pass.” When times are bad - whether because we’re wandering in the desert, enslaved somewhere, or enduring a pandemic - we can feel comforted in knowing This Too Shall Pass. But in times of joy, remember also that This TOO Shall Pass, and just savor it as long as you can. Change is inevitable, and time marches on regardless. So don’t waste a single second of it. Every moment is a chance to learn something, to grow, and to improve. We may no longer be wandering Arameans, or even Israelites offering the first fruits of our harvest at the Temple, but the message remains the same: Be mindful and grateful, and then our lives will be filled with meaning and purpose. Shabbat Shalom!

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Sheila Craan on Flickr
2. Nandhinikandhasamy on Wikimedia Commons
3. pxfuel
4. caramoulds on Flickr

Eikev: Thanks for the Grub - Yay, God!

Judaism considers it important to bless our food. We have short phrases to recite *before* we eat something (with specific wording for basically ANY food or drink you can imagine!), and then longer prayers that are recited or sung *after* we eat as well. So let's take a moment and ask ourselves, “why?” Well, the Biblical explanation comes from a single verse in this week’s Torah portion… but that only tells us part of the story. It can get us thinking about the importance of blessing our foods, but then we need to dig deeper still. Our ancestors believed a fundamental truth about how food relates to the Divine, to the earth, and to our bodies, so let’s examine their perspective and see whether it remains relevant for us today as well. 

You may be familiar with the traditional Jewish Grace after Meals, a.k.a. Birkat Ha-Mazon, a.k.a. “the benching” (Yiddish for "blessing") There are shorter versions and longer ones, with special additional paragraphs for Shabbat and holidays. Interestingly, in even the longest version, there’s only ever ONE verse that comes directly from the Torah. The benching does include psalms and other Biblical quotes, but in terms of material specifically from The Five Books of Moses, it’s just this one verse from our parashah: “When you have eaten, and are satiated, you shall bless Adonai, your God, for the good land which God has given you.” (Deut. 8:10) So back to our original question, why? Why do we bless God? Because the Jewish theology around food is quite clear - you don’t own anything that you eat. It all belongs to God, and you/me/everyone needs to express gratitude for our ability to eat and be satisfied. 

Maybe that concept seems obvious to you… or maybe you fundamentally disagree (and feel free to comment below and share your thoughts), but it has always resonated with me. Whether we grow our own food, support a farm collective, or buy everything from a store or online grocer; the food still isn’t ours. We really need to acknowledge that in our community today, many of us do not struggle with food insecurity, the way millions of people do across the globe every single day. We had no control over where we were born or in what era. Our financial means and our abundant access to food - all these things are miraculous gifts from God! Yet sometimes we let ourselves think that we made this happen. 

All around us, we hear sentiments in society that essentially amount to some version of: “Why should I share my resources with others who don’t deserve it?” The Torah’s resounding answer is, it’s not your decision. God gave you this bounty, not you yourself, and you are expected - required even - to thank God for all these blessings. There are so many dangerous pitfalls where we may be tempted to think we made our own successes happen. We contributed, sure, but God’s partnership was, and always will be, vital for anything to work. When we acknowledge that, we hopefully learn to be humble, and then ideally show compassion towards (all!) others who have less than we do. So many of us are truly blessed to not worry where our next meal will come from. That verse I quoted from Deuteronomy reminds us that when it’s effortless for us to eat, and obvious that we’ll get to feel satiety, we must then also bless God. Now, who’s hungry?

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. jimbomack66 on Wikimedia Commons
2. AllaSerebrina on Deposit Photos
3. pxhere.com
4. The US National Archives

Va-Yeishev (pre-Chanukah): Waiting For A Special "Elixir" to Arrive

Chanukah is a good example of an evolving holiday. It's probably about 2,200 years old, and when it was first "dedicated" on our calendar (the word "Chanukah" means "dedication"), it surely must have seemed like a new-fangled kind of thing. Some people were on board with adding a celebration, others curmudgeonly said everything was better in the old days when no new holidays were added by anyone EVER! Over the centuries, Chanukah has been viewed as a symbol of Jewish military might and perseverance; as a lead-in to discussions of assimilation vs. ghettoization; a sign of God's protective power to make the oil last; a joyous day to exchange gelt (real coins or chocolate) and eat fried foods; a worthy competitor to Christmas in preventing little Jewish children from pining endlessly in December; a cautionary tale about zealotry; and an opportunity for interfaith connections, as groups join together to celebrate Chanukah, Kwanzaa, Christmas, Diwali, and more. Did I miss anything?

Oh, yes, I want to add one more: Chanukah, in more recent times, has also become a favorite holiday for environmental groups and Jewish climate change activists. Why? Because one of the central "miracles" of Chanukah reminds us that we all can make do with less. We "thought" we needed x amount of olive oil, and simply could NOT perform the rituals without it. Yet somehow, magically (or perhaps just more sparingly...) we figured it out. Is this not a central lesson as we head into 2021, and our country - please God - refocuses on our obligations to our earth? Chanukah invites us to reframe how we define "need." Rather than indulge in eight days of presents, and allowing ourselves and our children to satiate our cravings for more and more STUFF; maybe discussing the rationing of oil can lead to new thinking around what is sufficient, how to be content, and how to share with others and with our planet?

I actually want to add yet ANOTHER new perspective as well, a new and vital teaching that we can glean from our Festival of Lights. Right now, in the lead-up to Chanukah, all the nations on the planet are preparing for the release of a much-needed, much-anticipated vaccine against the Coronavirus. But we cannot all get it at once. This precious commodity won't immediately be ready to “brighten” all our lives. We have to make do. We have to make strategic, difficult choices about how to keep our society going, even as we desperately wait for more of this "elixir" to be produced. The parallels to the pure oil needed to rededicate the Ancient Temple are actually quite striking. All of what I said above could apply to the Chanukah story OR our current pre-vaccine predicament.

More than even the holidays of Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Pesach, Sukkot, or Purim, Chanukah teaches us about communal obligation. When we band together, we can defeat entire armies. But not only that, we can also figure out how to share our resources in a more well-thought-out manner that benefits everyone. Whether it’s olive oil, presents, gelt, the diminishing resources of our planet, or a miraculous vaccine that can put an end to this pandemic nightmare. Chanukah reminds us that we can, and must, *dedicate* and *rededicate* ourselves to one another, and to our shared benefits. When we do, we can make the most miraculous things occur.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. ModernTribe.com
2. Christmashat on Freeimageslive
3. Stevepb on pixabay
4. KateNovikova on depositphotos

Tol’dot: When You Get to be MY Age...

Context is very important. Sometimes it enhances our understanding, other times it broadens it, and occasionally it can even turn things completely on their head. I especially find context to be fascinating when we may be inclined to accept someone’s narrative, just because that is what they SAY (as loudly as they can possibly say it!). If we add history, community, geography, or any number of relevant facts, the picture may shift dramatically. Our parashah this week contains several well-known Biblical stories, but there are some underlying assumptions that cloud our reading of them. Let’s see what happens when we add context...

Essentially, our Torah portion focuses on Isaac, his wife, Rebecca, and their two sons, Esau and Jacob. The part we’ll be reading this weekend comes from the middle of the story, where Isaac attempts to give Esau, his favored son, a very special “innermost blessing” (Gen. 27:4) before he dies. Rebecca orchestrates a nifty plan to make sure HER favored son, Jacob, gets that blessing instead. It’s a story filled with high drama, twists and turns, and juicy intrigue. And it also holds a sense of urgency, because Isaac declares, “I am old, and I do not know how soon I will die” (v. 2). With the patriarch at death’s door, on his deathbed, with death waiting just around the corner, one son MUST get this blessing... before it’s too late!

So, here’s the funny thing about context. A quick summary of what happens next: Jacob successfully pilfers the blessing; but he has to flee for his life from his enraged sibling; he lives with his uncle for twenty years; has 13 children; then FINALLY returns home after quite the odyssey. And who is there to greet him when he returns? His father, Isaac! A full EIGHT chapters after our dramatic story, Gen. 35:27 tells us: “Jacob came to his father, Isaac, at Mamre.” And only soon after that does Isaac actually pass. Soooo, this little nugget of information kind of changes how we view our original story, where Isaac was an awful lot more spry than he let on... Maybe he was already a senior citizen, sure, but immanently dying might have been a SLIGHT exaggeration.

My point in sharing this insight with you is really to say this: Age truly is just a number. I know people in their 90s - even 100 years old! - who adjusted to life on zoom, and who let NOTHING stop them. And I know considerably younger people who, let’s face it, incessantly talk about how old, feeble, and ancient they are. Of course, life experience has a lot to do with this, as does illness, community, family, and many other factors. But the actual NUMBER of times you’ve circled the sun is just that; a digit. This story is a good reminder to us all to make the most of each day. Sometimes you feel sluggish, laden with trouble, and even depressed, and that TOO is part of life! Nevertheless, we should all strive to counterbalance those moments with joy, wonder, and experiences that challenge us to use our brains in new ways. Your story isn’t actually ever written by anyone else. You write it, every day, and you decide what those who come after will learn from your life. Happy writing!

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:

1. needpix.com

2. pixabay

3. pixabay

4. ESO/H. Zodet on Wikimedia Commons