Ki Teitzei: What the Torah Expects of You

 I want to begin by acknowledging that I've been off the blog for several weeks. In part, it was sort of a summer hiatus, and in part I am trying to decide how and if to continue this blog. I've been writing about the weekly Torah portion for thirteen-plus years now, and it may be time for a new topic and/or format. Your feedback and opinions are welcome, by the way. In the meantime, I will continue writing through the end of Deuteronomy, but will likely stop writing after that, either temporarily or perhaps more permanently. I just wanted you, my readers, to be aware. Thanks for your understanding!

This week, our Torah portion offers a series of laws that have a common theme. I find it interesting that the text doesn't outright *name* the theme (though it does so elsewhere), yet it's hard to miss it when you put all the pieces together. Our synagogue follows the triennial cycle of readings, so our Torah portion this week begins at Deuteronomy, 24:14, and here's how the reading starts off (I'm paraphrasing for brevity):

- Do not abuse a needy or destitute laborer, whether a fellow countryman or a stranger.
- Pay people their wages on the same day (i.e. in the proper time).
- No one should not be put to death for someone else's crimes, even family members.
- Do not subvert the rights of vulnerable people in society.
- Leave some of your field for the poor and the needy.

I imagine you can see the theme as well as I can, right? Take care of those who either can't take care of themselves, or who have a lower status than you in society. You may be in a position to take advantage of them - clearly the ability is there and you won't face immediate consequences - but God will know, and just don't do it. The reason why I wanted to highlight the theme specifically, is because I think sometimes people get bogged down in the details. "Oh, sure," someone might say, "this applies if I own a field, or am meting out capital punishment, or have laborers working on my property... but I don't live in ancient times! None of this applies to me." Which is why I want to divert our attention away from the specific scenarios and instead focus on the overarching principle.

The idea that the Torah is putting forth, is that every person in society has obligations towards that shared community. In America, we hear a lot of people touting individual liberties above everything else, and the concept of certain "inalienable rights." Now, I would never disagree with each person's rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit (though not guarantee...) of happiness. However, the Torah is reminding us that our personal desires and interests are not the only factor at play. We are also part of a network of interconnected parts and people, and sometimes we are required to focus less on ourselves and more on the system as a whole.

As we work our way through the Jewish month of Elul, in which we prepare ourselves daily for the upcoming holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur (blowing shofar in morning minyan and reciting a Psalm for the Season of Repentance), I urge each of us to think about this concept. Don't get too focused on the literal subjects of day laborers, courts punishing people, and what you're supposed to do with your field. What about sharing your income, resources, time, and energy with people less fortunate than you? What about speaking up on behalf of people who are being abused or taken advantage of, either within our country or around the world? Or abused animals, or the very planet itself? These laws in Deuteronomy 24 really do apply to all of us. We are never asked to be perfect or flawless, but we are indeed expected to strive to be better; to aspire to keep making the world (around us as well as globally) a little bit better every day. And that idea never gets old.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Publicdomainpictures.net
2. Picryl.com
3. pxhere.com
4. Smart Chicago Collaborative on Wikimedia Commons (it's a quote attributed to Albert Einstein that states, "Strive not to be just a success, but to be of value.")

Sh’lach Lecha: Who Puts the "Ger" in Stranger?

One wonderful and infinitely complex aspect of the Torah text - in general - revolves around the issue of interpretation. It’s so hard to say “the Torah says…” because every time you translate something, you have to choose between synonyms to decide the nuance, tone, and intention of what you think the original text says. This week, we find a critical example of this ambiguity in one pivotal word that affected our ancient ancestors and still (maybe more so) affects us today. It caught my eye, because the Torah restates this commandment in back-to-back verses. Ok, so let’s “ger” right into it, shall we? 

In Numbers, chapter 15, verses 15-16, we read: 

“15: There shall be one law for you and for the resident stranger; it shall be a law for all time throughout the ages. You and the stranger shall be alike before Adonai. 16: the same ritual and the same rule shall apply to you and to the stranger who resides among you.”

Perhaps surprisingly, the ambiguous word in those verses - and indeed throughout the Torah - is “stranger.” The word in Hebrew is “Ger,” and a big question that we need to clarify is, who is the stranger? Is it just someone who is unfamiliar to you personally? Or someone who resides with you temporarily, but not permanently? Is this someone who was not born Jewish but who converted? Or a non-Jewish individual who has no intention of converting, but who nevertheless lives with you? What complicates the matter is that it’s used in all of the above ways throughout the Torah. In Genesis, Abraham refers to himself as a Ger, meaning he’s an outsider with no claims to land and no status among the Hittites where he lives (but he certainly hasn't converted to their religion, nor does he have any plans to). In Exodus, the Jewish People are repeatedly reminded by God that we were “strangers (Gerim) in the land of Egypt.” But again, the Israelites weren't converts TO Egyptian culture, but merely status-less outsiders. Yet when the text later talks about Gerim living among us - like in our parashah - most commentators translate this as “convert” or “proselyte.” And the implications are significant.

Why does this matter? Well, when the Torah commands us to take care of the poor, the orphan, the widow... and "the stranger" in our midst, is it talking only about converts (and thus perhaps only concerned with taking care of fellow Jews), or about all people, including non-Jews? Most classic rabbinic commentaries defer to the convert-translation. One of the most famous of these was Rambam (or Maimonides) who wrote a thousand years ago: "All [occurrences of the term] 'Ger' which are said regarding gifts to the poor are nothing other than a 'Ger Tzedek' (i.e. a convert)." Personally, I am dismayed by this assertion, because I read our texts as absolutely commanding us to be kind and considerate to *all* people, regardless of religion, race, ethnicity, or any other defining characteristic. How unfortunate that, when our texts already have multiple instances of commandments directing us to take care of fellow Jews, and here we have an opportunity to expand the circle and extend God's Love more broadly, so many authorities choose instead to read it as yet another example of taking care of our own.

Even if we were to agree to read Ger as convert, I'm still bothered by it. We so often state that once someone has converted they are Jewish, plain and simple. No second-guessing, no questioning, no exclusions. So why would this text be talking about fellow Jews as "strangers" and "outsiders," just because at one point they converted into the religion?? Today, in our diverse and multicultural world, I firmly believe we need to emphasize inclusion. We can absolutely still acknowledge the differences between being Jewish and not, and I don't mind saying there are certain mitzvot and rituals that are exclusively performed by Jews during a Jewish prayer service. But we cannot, and should not, wall ourselves off from our neighbors all around us, no matter how different from us they may be. Clearly, not all authorities read it this way, but there is no doubt in my mind as to what the Torah (and God) meant here. And the commandment to treat all people the same was not only true in the time of the Torah, but is just as much true today in our modern world. If not more so.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Historical Thesaurus on Flickr
2. Nick Youngson on Pix4free
3. Wind-Struski on Wikimedia Commons
4, U.S. National Archives on Picryl

Kedoshim: When The Rule Needs a Little More Love

How you phrase something matters a lot. Changing your wording just a little bit can really shift the meaning and the outcome dramatically, and this week’s Torah portion offers us a pretty famous example of this principle. Parashat Kedoshim features the oft-quoted Golden Rule, which is, of course: _______ … hmmm… well, how would you articulate The Golden Rule? Take a moment and think about exactly how you, in your own mind, might express what you consider to be the Biblical maxim that we refer to as The Golden Rule. I say that, because I read a Torah commentary this week that really emphasized how important phrasing can be, and specifically when it comes to this famous concept. I thought it would be interesting for us to spend a few minutes looking out how different each formulation is, what each means, and how the outcome of which option we choose has direct impact on interpersonal relations in our world today. 

If you Google The Golden Rule, you will find that a version of it exists in almost every culture and religious tradition on earth. And, as I stated above, each group tends to express it slightly differently. A common example of the “negative” phrasing of it is: “That which you hate to be done to you, do not do to another.” And if you reconfigure it to a more positive statement, you might say: “Do unto others as you would have them do to you.” Those two are basically saying the same thing, right? And every other version of this principle is essentially identical as well, and we could call them all doctrines of reciprocity. The thing is, they’re actually not the same. Phrasing matters. I read a Torah commentary this week, written by Shaya Cohen, where he points out: “the negative construction of [The Golden Rule] does not require any engagement – you can fulfill the Golden Rule by simply leaving other people alone.” We see this in many parts of modern society too, right? “Live and let live,” we might hear people say. Or we might look at how siloed our society has become, where everyone does his/her own thing, but it doesn’t really entail any communal engagement or responsibility for one another. Essentially, just don’t get in each other’s way, and everyone will be fine. But will they?

Even the positive formulation might potentially lead you to a similar conclusion. Cohen observes: “it suggests a quid pro quo, doing to others as you want them to do to you. If you want to be left alone, then you can fulfill this rule merely by leaving others alone as well!” It’s articulated in a more proactive form, but ultimately this well-known version of The Rule still allows everyone to go to their own corner, wall themselves off from others, and just make sure to treat people with the same respect you’d want to receive from them. But yet again, no engagement or commitment is required. So then we get to the Jewish iteration of The Golden Rule, and the one found in this week’s reading: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” How is this any different than the others? Cohen posits: “love is an ongoing investment, not a mere thing or product.” Our Torah is challenging us to take this one (or maybe several…) step(s) further. Is it enough to just have a non-aggression treaty? To just mind our own business and let others do the same? I really don’t think it is. 

If we examine any of the major issues swirling around us in the world right now, the earlier two formulations of The Golden Rule just aren’t enough. Whether we’re talking about battling Covid, supporting people in Ukraine fighting to fend off Russian aggression, or even the ongoing debate about the Supreme Court ending Roe v. Wade and our country’s protections for abortions; in each of these instances, I contend that more is needed than just a “live and let live” mentality. We need the interactive and ongoing relationship that Cohen suggests comes with the word "love." In particular, think about what you would want or need to thrive in the world. It isn't enough for others to just get out of our way, because there are many, many challenges that we all face, and we need one another to really overcome obstacles and be successful. So it is essential that we consider how much phrasing matters, both in terms of how we express The Golden Rule, and then how we choose to implement it in our lives. Nearly every culture in the world has articulated this principle in one form or another, which tells us that it is really important... *and* that we all need to be reminded of it pretty frequently! It's been a vital teaching for several millennia, and continues to be an essential concept for us to learn, internalize, and put into practice. If and when we can do that, then it won't just be a rule to follow, but a shining, golden example of how to treat one another throughout the world.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:

1. GDJ on openclipart.org

2. Fractal Angel on Wikimedia Commons

Mikeitz: What Did Shimon Ever Do To You?!? Oh, wait...

The Joseph story in Genesis is *filled* with comeuppance. For Pharaoh’s courtiers, for Joseph, his brothers, their father (Jacob), and more. Various stories begin in one place, and then - some significant amount of time later - that earlier occurrence comes back to either haunt or honor the same people. Sometimes it’s overt, while other times it’s subtle and hidden. I think a fascinating example of the latter comes in the story of one of the lesser-known brothers, Shimon or Simeon. You don't actually hear much about Shimon, whether in this story or elsewhere. As a tribe, in later generations, Shimon melts away into oblivion. So much so, in fact, that by the time our ancestors put together the book we now call The Torah, and included Moses' final farewell blessings to each of the tribes; Shimon is left out entirely. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's go back to the man himself in the Book of Genesis.

The first time we really were introduced to Shimon, the second-oldest of all of Jacob's sons, was when he and brother #3, Levi, avenged their family's good name. Their sister, Dinah, was taken for a wife - by force - by a non-Israelite named Shechem. Surreptitiously, they plotted against Shechem, and indeed his entire clan, and killed all the men for what they had done to Shimon and Levi's sister. The reasoning behind their action is understandable, and certainly I have no interest in defending Shechem, but their methods and the end result are obviously shocking and reprehensible. I personally believe that violence only begets more violence, and even though their father, Jacob, doesn't really chastise them at the time, he recalls this gruesome event at the end of his life, and curses his sons for their bloody behavior. So before we even arrive at the Joseph story, we might have preconceived notions about Shimon's... temperament.

That all happened two Torah portions ago. Last week, when Joseph's lengthy narrative began, all the brothers together conspired to throw him in a pit and then sold him into slavery. They had grown furious (more hot-tempered behavior...) at him for being such a brat and flaunting their father's favoritism of him. And this story never singles out Shimon OR Levi... yet subtly it indicts him nonetheless. You see, the oldest son is Reuben, and the text, back in chapter 37, informed us that Reuben opposed the brothers' aggressive, violent plants. So if he wasn't the instigator, and we similarly heard that brother #4, Judah, also tried to mitigate the severity of their plans, then who were the ring leaders? It certainly seems plausible that the two remaining oldest family members - who also already had a history of rash, callous behavior - Shimon and Levi, were indeed the biggest culprits.

And now, time for the comeuppance. Years later, Joseph has survived his enslavement as well as time in an Egyptian prison, and has risen to become the second-most powerful man in Egypt. When a famine devastates the entire region, and everyone comes to Egypt for provisions, Jacob's family arrives at Joseph's doorstep like everyone else. And when he plots his own revenge, he tells the brothers that one of them must remain in bondage in Egypt, while the others may return home to fetch their youngest brother, Benjamin. Who does Joseph seize? Our text states: "... he [Joseph] returned to them and spoke to them; and he took Shimon from among them and had him bound before their eyes." (42:24) Coincidence? I think not. I believe Joseph knew the personalities of his brothers, and he knew who was the biggest threat. And he also clearly remembered - and still bore the scars from... - when his brothers sold him as a slave. Which face was most prominent in his mind? His hot-headed brother, Shimon. I'd like to think that Shimon recalled all these events as well. Sitting alone in prison, feeling abandoned, forgotten, and at the mercy of an ill-tempered bully, perhaps he finally felt true remorse for all the things he had done. And perhaps in that moment, he too had to acknowledge the comeuppance and poetic justice of what had befallen him.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Anthony Jauneaud on Flickr
2. pxhere.com
3. Michael Hiemstra on Wikimedia Commons
4. Prettysleepy on Pixabay

Va-Yishlach: Jacob is so two-faced... and so is Israel!

In our Torah portion this week, a Divine messenger - an angel - attempts to change our ancestor, Jacob's name to "Yisrael." Oddly enough, it doesn't "stick." In Genesis, 32:29, the angel renames him... yet in the very next verse, the text begins, "Jacob said..." A few chapters later, God tries this again; yet this time coming down to change Jacob's name to Yisrael once and for all! Chapter 35, verse 10, states unequivocally: "God said to him, 'You whose name is Jacob, you shall be called Jacob no more. But Israel shall be your name.' Thus God named him Israel." Surely it'll work this time, no?? Four verses later, we read: "and Jacob set up a pillar at the spot where God had spoken to him..." (v. 14) What the heck is going on here?!? God has changed people's names before, and will do it again later, and every time the shift has worked. So how come Jacob - I mean, Israel - stubbornly refuses to let go of his birth name???

I had the pleasure of studying this text with Ohev's new rabbinic intern, Amotz Kohlmeier, this week, and we stumbled upon an interesting commentary. The Hebrew professor and Biblical scholar, Robert Alter, recently came out with a new translation and commentary on the Torah text, in which he discusses the life of Jacob... sorry, "Israel." He offers this fascinating insight when talking about the famous scene of Jacob (pre-name change) wrestling with the angel: "The image of wrestling has been implicit throughout the Jacob story." Alter refers to Jacob and Esau wrestling in their mother's womb; then Jacob stealing Esau's birthright and then their father's blessing; later, Jacob fights constantly with his uncle, Laban, and Laban's herdsmen; and now his life of struggle is made EXPLICIT with this name change. Another great commentary, that of Everett Fox, even translates the name "Yisrael" as "God-Fighter." It sure sounds like strife and contention are the hallmarks of Jacob's - dang it; Israel's! - entire life.

It sounds burdensome and exhausting to be constantly fighting like this, and yet I also find it incredibly human and relatable. None of us behave in one way, all the time, with every person in our lives. How we are with our parents differs from our interactions with friends, and is not the same as how we treat our children, which deviates from exchanges with students, colleagues, or co-workers. Does this make us two-faced? The implication of which is disingenuous, fake, hypocritical, and even devious? Personally, I think to be human is indeed about learning to interact differently with the various groups of people in our lives, and maybe that *is* two-faced (or three- or four-faced), but I don't think it necessarily has negative connotations. In the Torah text, our patriarch seems to hold onto *both* identities at the same time; sometimes feeling like Jacob and other times like Israel. On occasion, he is strong, confident, and a leader... while other times he cries, messes up, and is frightened. Isn't that true for you and me as well?

It isn't easy to balance these multiple identities. Having acknowledged all of the wrestling that Jacob (argh! ISRAEL!!) did throughout his life, things don't exactly get easier for him. There is more fighting, deception, and strife ahead. And again, I think there's an incredibly valuable lesson for all of us in this narrative. Maybe the goal isn't to achieve Oneness. Perhaps that is exclusively the realm of God. Our task is to strive for harmony and balance. We embrace the occasions where we feel fearful and insecure, and accept that it's ok to frequently NOT have all the answers. We also need to be present to our successes and our achievements, and allow ourselves to feel pride and gratitude for the things we are able to do well. The goal may be to find a sense of balance and equilibrium among these disparate emotions, personas, and characteristics. I think by the end of his life, Jac... *Israel* learns to embrace his various components. He isn't done wrestling or arguing... but at least he comes to an understanding about his varied roles and relationships. It seems to me that is a very good goal to which each of us can strive. After all, we are the Children of... Israel, aren't we?

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. JamieHarrington on Pixabay
2. Filip Lachowski on Wikimedia Commons
3. Wannapik.com
4. bertomic on Pixabay

Shoftim: Royally Accountable!

I guess we should have seen this coming; the number of Covid cases has risen sharply again in the US. One of the most infuriating things about this latest surge is how preventable it was. Our country was never able to bring the vaccination rate above ~50% - nowhere near the 70-80% needed to possibly achieve herd immunity - and so this awful pandemic wears on. I think a major hurdle that we cannot seem to overcome is a pervasive mistrust of government. It isn’t *every* American, or all the time, but it’s probably been grafted onto the American psyche since we broke away from British rule. It hasn't improved much over the centuries; take, for example, Ronald Reagan's famous quote about the nine scariest words in the English language being, "I'm from the government, and I'm here to help." I don't know that I have any great solutions to this problem in my back pocket, but I definitely appreciate how the Torah proposes at least ONE way that our authority figures can try to earn our trust. Lord knows, they (and we) need all the help they can get...

This week's parashah, Shoftim, includes some best practices for selecting a monarch. Interestingly, choosing an earthly leader is not a mitzvah, a commandment, or even something the Torah encourages. It is more like an acquiescence to the human desire to have a regent: "If, after you have entered the land that Adonai, your God, has assigned to you..., you decide, 'I will set a king over me, as do all the nations about me,' you shall be free to set a king over yourself, one chosen by Adonai, your God." (Deut. 17:1-15). The Torah goes on to say, if you *must* have a royal ruler, then here are the rules s/he must follow: They can't amass too much wealth, keep too large a harem of wives, or stockpile tons of weapons (foreshadowing postscript: "try as they might..."). So there are several restrictions and boundaries for said regent, but interestingly, the text only commands *one* obligation, something our new ruler MUST do. We read: "When he is seated on his royal throne, he shall write a copy of this Teaching (the Torah) for himself... Let it remain with him and let him read from it every day of his life, so that he may learn to fear Adonai, his God, to observe faithfully every word of this Torah, as well as these laws." (v. 18-19)

I find it fascinating that it isn't enough to keep a copy of the Torah, but *each* new leader must physically write (though pretty quickly they added a loophole that it could be commissioned instead) her/his own copy... and then lug it around everywhere they go! Talk about a physical reminder of the 'burden' of leadership... The Torah also greatly values humility, suggesting that the higher your office, the more humility you'll need... and maybe the increase should be exponential! The emphasis is also squarely placed on service, on the idea that our leaders must never forget that they serve the people, and their first priority has to be the good of the broader population. If nothing else, our regents - then and now - desperately need to learn, repeat, and commit to memory the Golden Rule: "Love your neighbor as yourself." (Lev. 19:18)

Sadly, the Biblical kings and queens more often proved how right the Torah text was to be concerned. They mainly served their own interests, and went out of their way to hoard wealth, power, and weaponry. Sounds painfully familiar, doesn't it? Yet to this day, leaders remain essential, especially when we need a centralized authority to help *everyone* survive and rebuild after a catastrophe or a pandemic. Millennia ago, it was hard to impress upon someone that they would be given tons of power... yet would remain beholden to their constituents. Finding that complicated balance hasn't gotten any easier. But perhaps encouraging our leaders to carry around constant reminders of their obligations could be a good start? And not just a small booklet to keep stashed at the bottom of a bag, but something more like a massive scroll, impossible to ignore. It wouldn't solve the whole problem of people not trusting their own governments, but maybe it would be a start? Next time there's a major gathering of world leaders, remind me to send them a few quills and a TON of parchment paper...

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Marco Verch Professional Photographer on Flickr
2. Alan Schapire (scribe visit to Ohev Shalom, January, 2020)
3. Adam Cohn on Flickr
4. Mushki Brichta on Wikimedia Commons

R'eih: Maintaining a Delicate, but Crucial, Balance

Sometimes I like to pose the question - to myself and to members of my congregation: Is the Torah focused on situations as they *are* or as they should be? Is it existing in the real or the ideal? And, in true rabbinic (and possibly infuriating...) fashion, my answer is: Both. Because one of the central messages of the Torah is that we should be grounded in our current reality, with our eyes wide open to the pains and challenges of the world, while always mindful of all the blessings and opportunities we have, right here, right now, in our lives. Simultaneously, we can never give up hope of things improving, evolving, and growing continuously towards a better future for ourselves and for the next generation. We must hold these two in balance; fully present to today, yet also ready to work with our hearts, minds, and bodies for an improved tomorrow. How do I know it's both? Well, let's look at two contradictory verses in this week's Torah portion and see what you think.

In Deuteronomy, 15:4, the Torah (through Moses) clearly states: "There shall be no needy among you." The text goes on to say that IF you obey all of God's mitzvot and stay loyal and faithful to Adonai, there will be no poor, no hungry, no oppressed people in Israel. Yet just seven verses later, the Torah also declares: "For there will never cease to be needy ones in your land..." (v. 11) Sooo, which one is it? If we do everything right (big "if," I know...), isn't the Torah saying there will be no more poverty? So how can the text also proclaim that there will ALWAYS be need and hunger?? No matter what you do! Do you see how it's a question of balance, of holding two seemingly contradictory messages and truths in mind at all times? We are not allowed to forget what we know to be a REAL truth about our world; that there will "never cease to be needy ones in your land." It is simply the reality of life on earth, basically as far back as the origins of our species! Nevertheless, we are not allowed to despair or give up hope. We STILL have to work constantly to alleviate the suffering of those in need. The real *must* be balanced with the ideal.

By the end of this weekend, we will have begun the Jewish month of Elul. It is the final month leading up to Rosh Hashanah and the start of a new Jewish year. Yup, it's panic-time for rabbis... (!!!) To remind us that we should be preparing ourselves, spiritually, for the High Holidays throughout this month, we add a special psalm (#27) to every daily prayer service, and we also blow one set of shofar blasts each morning as well. Furthermore, the ancient rabbis look at the name of the month, Elul, and see a hidden acronym. The four letters of "Elul" in Hebrew are Alef-Lamed-Vav-Lamed, and they see it as standing for "Ani l'Dodi, v'Dodi Li." "I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine," from Song of Songs (6:3). In their mind, "beloved" isn't just a love interest or a spouse; it refers to the importance of interpersonal relationships throughout our lives. We do not live in a vacuum, and as we prepare ourselves for the High Holidays, we must not only focus on improving ourselves or our own lives. We must commit to these visions of social betterment, clearly outlined in the Torah, to perform the sacred work of Tikkun Olam, repairing the world.

Again, we need to hold up these two challenging concepts at all times; the real and the ideal. It can be unbelievably frustrating and discouraging to look around and acknowledge the amount of pain, oppression, poverty, and unfairness that exists in our world. I alone cannot change all of it. I can't even affect a fraction of it! But I still have to try. Certainly in today's reality - as we continue to battle a deadly, global pandemic - we realize perhaps more than ever how interconnected we are with all other people on earth. And with the planet itself. It is inescapable. We cannot shut out the ills of the world... but we can't let ourselves be crushed by their weight either. So as we prepare to enter Elul, and we remind ourselves how intertwined we are with all the "beloveds" who inhabit this earth beside us - including animals that walk, swim, or fly around us AND the vegetation growing under and above us - let us each examine ourselves. How do you balance the ideal with the real in your own life, and in the world you see around you? And as we prepare to begin a new Jewish year with a fresh start, how will you do your part in Tikkun Olam, in repairing our collective home and making this a better place to live for everyone? Welcome to the start of the High Holiday season, everyone!

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Solo Shutter on Stocksnap
2. pxhere.com
3. Folio Creations on Etsy
4. elycefeliz on Flickr
 

Pinchas: What About MY Point-of-View??

How could anyone be expected to appreciate another  person’s perspective, if s/he never knew there was another way to see things? As human beings, we are conditioned since birth to see the world through our own eyes, our cultural lens, and our inherited biases. That’s how you develop a sense of self, identity, and pride in who you are. However, EVERYONE’s point-of-view is different, so we eventually have to learn to take others into account, in order to learn empathy, compassion, and curiosity. It’s fine to expect the world to think/act/behave like you when you’re four years old… less so when you become an adult. 

This week, the Torah wants to teach us the value of multiple perspectives… and in particular emphasizes how critical it is that people who don’t feel seen or acknowledged speak up and advocate on their own behalf. Our specific example comes in the form of five daughters (with wonderfully unpronounceable names…) whose father died in the wilderness before the Israelites could enter the Promised Land. These confident women approach Moses (and God) and point out that since their father is dead, and they have no brothers, their families will receive no land allocation once they enter Canaan. They declare: “Let not our father’s name be lost to his clan just because he had no son! Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen!” (Num. 27:4) Moses brings the matter before God, and God agrees with the daughters. 

What I find especially striking here is the notion that God hadn’t considered this before! Or any issue, for that matter!! It never occurred to God that families with only daughters could lose their inheritance? The idea of God learning and adjusting is unique in-and-of-itself, and I kind of love it. If even God can be persuaded… shouldn’t we humans be willing to hear new ideas and allow our thinking to shift and evolve? But even if that *isn't* the case, and God DID already know, I still think there’s a powerful lesson here: Speak up for yourself! Advocate on your own behalf, because someone else truly might not have seen it from your vantage point. Perhaps they did… but you’re never gonna know until you step up, come forward, and let others know what you’re experiencing. 

And from a leadership perspective I think the lesson is equally crucial! You don’t know what others are seeing or feeling. There’s simply no way for you to know! So you have to solicit feedback and create an environment where people feel their input is valued and heard. For me, as a white, straight, cisgender male, I need to invite anyone and everyone to offer their opinions - their own Takes on Torah, if you will… - to enrich and expand my outlook. I can’t know what it looks like from your seat, so please tell me. But it isn’t all on you to speak up. I’m not released from any obligation to be inclusive, just because others haven’t spoken up. It is absolutely my responsibility to create the space and vulnerability for others to know their input is welcome and appreciated. This Biblical story is about one, ancient, brave, trailblazing, confident group of women; but right now, today, we all can truly learn from their example!

Naso: Fighting... whether Philistines or Palestinians

Our Torah portion this week, Naso, includes a peculiar set of laws (in Numbers, chapter 6) regarding the nazirite. This isn’t a tribe or a separate people, but rather a title; a conscious choice that someone might make to *become* a nazirite. They vow to abstain from drinking or consuming any byproduct of wine or grapes, to not cut their hair, and to not go near a dead body. We honestly don’t learn much more about what it means to make this choice... and perhaps most importantly WHY. But the Haftarah, assigned to this Torah portion by the ancient rabbis, is the story of the most famous nazirite, Samson. Well, it’s *almost* the story of Samson; it really tells the tale of his parents, in the Book of Judges, and it ends with his birth. If you’ve read about the escapades of Samson (and not just that he had long hair and super-strength), you probably understand why the rabbis thought it best to just end with him being born. (He’s kind of a violent fellow...) I thought maybe we could look at Samson here though, for just a little bit, especially considering the uncomfortably apt fact that he fought the Philistines in Gaza.

Before I get into it though, a word about the Philistines and the Palestinians: Historically speaking, it is both true and false that the two terms are linked. The Biblical Philistines - enemies of Samson, Saul, and David - were a sea-faring people who lived along the Mediterranean coast for several hundred years, before they were defeated by the Assyrian Empire in the 6th Century BCE. Even after the people were gone, and their culture along with them, the region retained the name “Philistia.” It was not, however, until the Roman emperor Hadrian put down a Jewish rebellion in 135 CE (so seven hundred years later...), that he officially renamed the area “Palestine.” And it’s likely that Hadrian did so specifically to stick it to these pesky Jews who challenged his authority, and therefore named the region after an ancient Israelite enemy. Not until the Ottoman Empire, into the 20th Century, did the local non-Jewish residents begin referring to themselves as Palestinians. But I also want to make it abundantly clear that even though the modern-day Palestinians may not be direct descendants of the Philistines, they reasonably DO share DNA with them, and they absolutely have legitimate and long-standing claims on the land. 

My point, therefore, is NOT to discredit the Palestinians right to statehood in Gaza and the West Bank. Rather, I want us to observe that history repeats itself, and what we see going on today, in 2021, feels eerily similar to the wars and conflicts of our Biblical predecessors from nearly 3,500 years ago. And just like today, it is hard to parse out who-started-what-and-when, and who is “really” to blame... if such a thing even exists. Over the course of three chapters in the Book of Judges, Samson battles the Philistines repeatedly, and often single-handedly. They wrong him, he kills a lot of people in retaliation, which leads them to threaten - and perpetrate - violence, which sets him off again, thus angering the Philistines, and round and round we go. Sounds a little familiar, doesn’t it? And so tragically and pointlessly current. Both peoples have been in the region for millennia. No one is leaving, no one will concede, and everyone continues to fight. 

There is also something terrifyingly prophetic about how the story of Samson ends. He is ultimately captured by the Philistines, and subsequently blinded. In one final act of vengeance, Samson regains his Herculean strength for a moment, and demolishes the Philistines’ idolatrous Temple of Dagon; killing himself and thousands of his enemies in the process. And yes, all of this took place in - you guessed it - Gaza. So I think we have to ask ourselves in 2021: is this all one, big suicide mission? Today there is a cease-fire, but soon enough Hamas will resume terrorizing Israel with thousands of rockets, while the Israeli military will continue its relentless assault on Hamas targets in Gaza... often nestled in civilian neighborhoods and municipal buildings. Will it ever end? History does not offer us a lot of comfort in response, that much is clear. But maybe - just maybe - our ancient texts can challenge us to break the cycle. We’ve tried annihilation for millennia. In the end, they are still here and so are we... just with a lot more grief and mourning for the civilian casualties. I pray fervently that the leaders in that region look to history for some guidance and cautionary tales. And I hope and pray and plead that they do so before they demolish the proverbial temple; before it is too late, and they have killed everyone. Only time will tell...

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of: 
1. wannapik.com
2. Bukvoed on Wikimedia Commons
3. 周小逸 Ian on Flickr
4. Matanya on Wikimedia Commons

Pesach, Post #613, and a Poem Against Hate

I can't believe I am writing these words: This is my 613th blog post. Yup, 613; like the number of mitzvot that our Jewish tradition says are in the entire Torah. Now sure, some of them were reposts from previous years, some were "guest bloggers" like my brother, Benjamin, Cantor Steve Friedrich, Rabbi Kelilah Miller, and others, and a few were holiday greetings or poems or articles. Nevertheless, 613 times, in 12 years, I have hit the "Publish" button in the top, right-hand corner. That's honestly pretty hard to wrap my head around. I recently said to my *other* sibling, my awesome sister, Nomi, that I don't care for the expression, "It goes without saying." Especially when it's something meaningful, heartfelt, or emotional. I propose, instead, that it should go WITH saying! So even though I've expressed this before, let me again say "thank you" to all of you for reading my blog. What a joy and a privilege it has been to write these Takes on Torah all these years! Six-hundred-and-thirteen posts. Hard to believe. Thank you.

This weekend, we are still celebrating Pesach. We have yet another couple of days of matzah left... hooray. Obviously, we already spoke about the "reason for the season" at our TWO Seder dinners, as well as in services last weekend AND throughout the week. Even so, we continue to remind ourselves that we celebrate Passover because God redeemed us from slavery in Egypt, brought us into the wilderness, gave us the Torah, and led us into Canaan to establish a new nation. Furthermore, the main reason why we keep emphasizing this story, is because it is SUPPOSED TO create in each and every one of us a sense of obligation. God did this incredible, miraculous thing for us... and now it's payback time.

Our texts, prophets, rabbis, and Jewish ethics are pretty clear about this part: The way we repay God is by taking care of the less-fortunate in our own societies. The poor, the orphan, the widow, and the stranger/alien/immigrant in our midst. While it may be a human tendency to praise our own success and only want to look forward once we've "made it," Judaism is insistent that we remember our humble, vulnerable, at-risk beginnings, and step up - emphatically and forcefully - for others who are similarly defenseless. Right now, in the United States in 2021, that means speaking up for Asian-Americans. Recent acts of violence and disgusting rhetoric have targeted Asians and Asian-Americans as the "spreaders" of the Coronavirus, which is just horrific. We have been maligned, vilified, slandered, attacked, and persecuted in ways that are all TOO familiar to what's going on today. We have to speak out. The Torah demands it of us, and specifically *because* of our history as slaves, and as a people who had Someone stick up for us. It's payback time... or rather pay-it-forward time.

I'm going to pause my own writing at this time, and instead share with you a poem written on behalf of the Asian-American community. This piece was written by the Jewish poet and liturgist Alden Solovy:

For the U.S. Asian Community:

Oh people of conscience,
Cry out.
Cry out against hatred and anger.
Cry out against violence and oppression.
Cry out against the rising tide of brutality against
Our Asian American brothers and sisters.

Author of life,
Source and Creator,
Grant a perfect rest under Your tabernacle of peace
To the victims of the massacre
In Atlanta, Georgia,
Whose lives were cut off by violence
In a rampage of aggression beyond understanding.
May their souls be bound up in the bond of life,
A living blessing in our midst.
May they rest in peace.

G-d of justice and mercy,
Remember the survivors and witnesses of this attack,
Witnesses to shock, horror and dismay.
Ease their suffering and release their trauma
So that they recover lives of joy and wonder.
Grant them Your shelter and solace,
Blessing and renewal.

Look with favor, G-d of love,
Upon Asian American communities throughout the land,
And all communities targeted for violence.
Grant them Your protection.
Remember them with comfort and consolation.
Bless them with wholeness and healing.

Heavenly Guide,
Put an end to anger, hatred, and fear,
And lead us to a time when
No one will suffer at the hand of another,
Speedily, in our day.

Amen.

To donate in support of and solidarity for our fellow citizens, the Asian-American community, please check out:

ADL's support for the #StopAsianHate campaign

#StopAsianHate GoFundMe Campaign

https://stopaapihate.org/

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Fenng(dbanotes) on Flickr

2. Rabbi Gerber's iPhone (and Seder table)
3. Victoria Pickering on Flickr

Mishpatim: It's All About Me... isn't it?

Ordinarily, when I write a D'var Torah or a blog post, I try to focus in on *one thing* that I want to speak about. Less is more. Have an interesting and/or funny beginning, make one good point, stick the landing, and get out of there! Maybe that sounds a bit trite, but let's face it, it works. When someone instead feels the need to make six individual arguments, and include a plethora of citations, it gets a bit... lengthy... and boring. This week, however, I had the unique opportunity to work with nine third graders in our religious school, who are going to be giving the D'var Torah at services on Saturday. Each child is going to mention a different mitzvah from our parashah, so I felt I was given the chance to examine nine separate commandments, rather than just focus on one. Yet interestingly, a single common thread still emerged, and a singular value floated to the surface of this mixture of Biblical laws.

This Torah portion is quite commandment-heavy to begin with. After having focused mainly on narrative and stories for all of Genesis and half of Exodus, this reading begins a lengthier section of Biblical text that center instead on rules and guidelines for creating a society in Ancient Israel. Slavery is now in the rearview mirror for our ancestors; now they have to start figuring out how to form a sustainable community. On Saturday, our Gimmel (3rd grade) class will touch upon laws related to treatment of foreigners and disenfranchised individuals in society; gossiping, lying, stealing; a person's obligations vis-a-vis the larger community (e.g. responsibility for animals, one's home and property, and what constitutes ownership); idolatry, blasphemy, and even the rules for holiday observance and sacrificial offerings. It sounds like a BIG undertaking, but I promise you, they're up to the task!

After we had decided on all the mitzvot the kids would be covering, we spoke for a bit in class about what connects them all together. Is there any underlying value that winds its way through all these rules and ordinances? The answer - which perhaps doesn't altogether surprise you - is "yes." If I had to phrase it in one sentence, I would say, "it isn't all about you." Whether the Torah is proscribing idolatry, describing holiday observance, decreeing rules to govern a society, or admonishing wealthier, more influential community members against taking advantage of those who are weaker - the message is actually the same. You must consider the needs of others, and what works best for you personally is simply NOT the only consideration. What perhaps *also* isn't all that surprising, is that as simple and straightforward as this message may be, it seems very difficult to learn and live by. And you and I both know I'm not just talking about people in Ancient Israel...

There is an interesting and complex balance at work here. On the one hand, we are mammals; hard-wired to stay alive, avoid potentially lethal situations, activate our fight-or-flight instinct at a moment's notice, and constantly prioritize survival. At the same time, we also pride ourselves on being civilized and peace-loving. We teach and preach compassion, kindness, sharing, manners, and teamwork. Not too infrequently, these basic values conflict. In those moments, our conscience and our sense of right-and-wrong is supposed to, ideally, determine if this is a life-threatening situation. And if it isn't, we should put aside those survival instincts and share our resources and means with those around us. Sometimes - and this is ESPECIALLY hard for some to fathom - we are actually meant to be altruistic EVEN when it may be a dangerous, potentially lethal circumstance.

Among many different groups and societies, this notion of "it's not all about you" is called The Golden Rule. It's phrasing may change slightly, but it's always the same principle. And yes, we know it contradicts an animal-instinct deep inside us. That's kind of the point. It isn't natural or obvious to lower your drive towards self-preservation, and instead emphasize your care and concern for someone else. But that is what makes us human, or at least has the potential to. I am grateful to these third graders for helping me see this, amidst all these disparate laws. And they got a pretty great D'var Torah out of it too!

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. The Good News Network
2. Pixabay
3. Gan Khoon Lay on theNounProject.com
4. Pixabay

5. Pixabay

 

MLK Speech 2021

On Monday, January 20th, I spoke at the Interfaith Prayer Service organized by the Archdiocese of Philadelphia. Included below are links to a video of the event (my part comes around the 30-minute mark), an article in CatholicPhilly.com with a few quotes, and then my remarks as well, if anyone would like to read them. 

https://catholicphilly.com/2021/01/news/local-news/mlks-dream-is-now-our-task-to-realize-says-archbishop/

Speech at Archdiocese of Philadelphia Interfaith MLK Service

St. Dorothy’s, Drexel Hill

Monday, January 18, 2021

Thank you very much, Mr. Andrews, and the Archdiocese of Philadelphia, for inviting me here today. I am honored to be a part of this Interfaith Prayer Service, especially at this tumultuous and historic juncture in our country.

Dear Friends,

Four years ago, I was invited to speak at Calvary Baptist Church in Chester, also on Martin Luther King Day. Dr. King himself was a seminary student when he preached from that very same pulpit in Chester, and I will admit, it was daunting and immensely humbling to be standing and speaking there. The previous year, I spoke at Crozer-Chester Medical Center, at their MLK event. The hospital stands on the site of Crozer Theological Seminary, where Dr. King studied, so again, I was awed and felt so blessed to be honoring his memory and his legacy in these places where he walked, where he studied, and where he was formed into the word leader, and indeed the prophet that he was. 

As you know, I am a rabbi, the religious leader of my Jewish community of Ohev Shalom, currently located in Wallingford. I say "currently" because the congregation wasn't founded in Wallingford, it has its origins in Chester. Records have been found that show Jews living permanently in Chester as far back as 1859, and Ohev Shalom was incorporated IN Chester in 1920 (in fact, we just celebrated our centennial last year… but our events were all cut short and postponed because of the pandemic), and the congregation only moved out of Chester in 1965. Though Ohev Shalom relocated decades ago, we are still "OF Chester," and we are proud of our heritage. 

I was ordained at the Jewish Theological Seminary, JTS, in New York City. One of the great leaders of JTS, in the mid-1950s, was a rabbi by the name of Abraham Joshua Heschel, who originally came from Germany, then lived in Poland, and eventually escaped the Nazi Regime of the Second World War, and came to New York to become one of the primary theologians and teachers at JTS. In those days, he was quite well-known around the country, even outside the Jewish community.

And one of the proudest things that all JTS students know about Rabbi Heschel, that students still speak of to this day, was his close personal friendship with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. The two men met in 1963, and according to Susannah Heschel, Rabbi Heschel’s daughter: “What brought them together was a piety that transcended differences, forged by their love of the Bible, especially the prophets.”  

In 1965, at the start of the Voting Rights March in Selma, Alabama, King and Heschel marched arm-in-arm for social justice. I wish there were more pictures of rabbis from the Jewish community and leaders from the African-American community linked together like that, but unfortunately we don’t see enough of those these days.

But Rabbi Heschel DID march with Dr. King, and it left a tremendous impression on him. There is a very well-known quote from Rabbi Heschel about the march – one that Jews aspire to emulate every time they engage in activism, civil rights, violence prevention, anti-poverty advocacy, or any other act of healing our world. Rabbi Heschel said: “When I marched in Selma, I felt my legs were praying.” 

We sometimes erroneously believe that only our mouths can pray, or perhaps just our minds, hearts, or even souls. But Rabbi Heschel powerfully reminded us that activism, the work of our hands and feet, can also be praying, devoted service to the Almighty God of the Universe. 

I have to say, I really love how each man, each of these incredible leaders, emphasized the Biblical prophets. It is something I speak a lot about in my congregation, at Ohev Shalom. We sometimes, in the popular imagination, depict prophets as predictors of the future. We read the Biblical books of Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel, and we see visions of what will be, almost as if they were soothsayers or oracles, writing about things to come in the near future or sometimes millennia off in the distance. 

But I tell you now, we’ve got it all wrong. The role of the prophet was NEVER really to emphasize the future. They would foretell gloom OR hope, depending on the audience and the need, to try and spur the people to change RIGHT NOW. The point isn’t the vision; it’s what the vision is cautioning you about your actions TODAY, in this very moment.

And believe you me, it was TOUGH being a prophet. They would tell it like it is. They held up a mirror to society and demanded that people see themselves for who they were and how they were behaving. And when people in Ancient Israel would tell the prophet to stop, to keep those stupid predictions to themselves, the voice would only get louder. Sometimes prophets wished they could stop; wished they didn't have this impossible job. Jeremiah tells us, in chapter 20: “Then I said, I will not make mention of God, nor speak any more in God’s Name. But the Divine word was in my heart as a burning fire shut up in my bones.” Prophets had - and maybe even today have - no choice. Once he or she sees the true nature of things, and sees the pain and suffering in the world, it has GOT to come out. 

A prophet stands in the breach, caught between God and humanity. Sometimes the prophet speaks to us on God’s behalf, and sometimes to God on our behalf. It is a TOUGH job. In March of 1968, just a few, short weeks before he was killed, Dr. King spoke to a gathering of rabbis, honoring Abraham Joshua Heschel. Heschel himself introduced his friend, Dr. King, and in those opening remarks he said the following: “Where in America today do we hear a voice like the voice of the prophets of Israel? Martin Luther King is a sign that God has not forsaken the United States of America.” 

I think each of them saw the other as taking up the call of the prophets of Israel. They saw in one another a kindred soul, someone else who saw the way things were, and who could not refrain from speaking out against violence, oppression, hate, or injustice. They each felt that fire in their bones; perhaps it was comforting to see someone else who carried that same burden.

Dr. King was supposed to attend a Passover Seder in Rabbi Heschel’s home mere weeks after that ceremony. Instead, Rabbi Heschel found himself with the tragic and heart-breaking task of reading a psalm at Dr. King’s funeral.

As you are likely aware, Passover celebrates the story of the Exodus from Egypt. In fact, in the Jewish community right now, we are reading that story in our annual cycle of Biblical readings. Starting in the fall, Jews around the world read one small section of our Torah, the Five Books of Moses that are the first five books of our shared Bible, each week, so that we end up back in the fall at the end of Deuteronomy, ready to restart our cycle again at the beginning of Genesis.

Next Saturday, on our Sabbath, we will read the story of the final three plagues, rained down on the Egyptians by God, and then the glorious story of the Israelites finally escaping slavery. 

Exodus, chapter 12, verse 37, informs us that “the Israelites journeyed from Rameses.” THAT, seemingly minor statement, is actually the precise moment where they finally leave. (Pause) And that is NOT the verse I want to highlight for you here today. The NEXT verse adds, “Moreover, a mixed multitude went up with them.” In Hebrew, the text uses the term “Erev Rav.” “A mixed multitude.”

I don’t know if you were already familiar with this statement. Perhaps you were. But if you weren't, it might have surprised you to hear that the Israelites, in fact, did not leave alone. MANY other people left with them. Other disenfranchised people – possibly slaves captured in one Egyptian conquest or another – seized the opportunity and escaped bondage WITH the Israelites. But I recently had another thought. Maybe some of the Erev Rav, the mixed multitude, were also Egyptians. They watched their leaders allow plague after plague to decimate them, stubbornly refusing to relent. Never caring enough about their people’s suffering to let go of their own foolish pride and self-interest. Pharaoh could never apologize, never admit defeat, never just put a darn mask on already for the good of his people! Oh, sorry, my mistake. That’s a different Pharaoh...

Anyway, so maybe the Erev Rav were non-Israelite slaves… but maybe they were just Egyptian citizens who felt abandoned and betrayed by their leadership. Whoever they were, this Mixed Multitude threw their lot in with ours, and we took responsibility for their ultimate destiny. Our fates were intertwined, and this motley crew of freedom-seekers had to learn to coexist, and even rely on one another for their very survival.

We cannot do this alone. None of us can. The story of the Exodus teaches us that we can only escape slavery and oppression together. As Dr. King so prophetically reminds us: “All men are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality.” OUR lives, all of us, NEED one another. All people desperately praying for herd immunity and an end to this modern-day plague; every voice that declares Black Lives Matter and who rejects the plague of systemic racism; every person living on earth, terrified of global warming and our looming environmental crisis; our survival and success is dependent on one another. It is inescapable. 

Today, WE are the Erev Rav, the mixed multitude. There are A LOT of things that enslave and oppress us, but like the ancient Israelites AND their fellow sojourners, desperately clamoring for a better future, we need to band together to defeat these plagues. And if we cannot defeat them right away, we must at the very least face them together.

And YET, we actually have to strike a difficult balance. It is true, We need to be like the prophets, with our eyes wide open and our hearts ready to tackle the truth of our situation. But what I also think is SO powerful about the teachings of Dr. King is his refusal to despair. So often today, I read articles and talk to people who say the situation is hopeless. Racism is too ingrained in us. Hate is too powerful, corruption too widespread, and the people too disheartened. Coronavirus cases mushrooming daily, insurrections at the Capitol, and just fear seemingly everywhere. But Dr. King would NEVER accept hopelessness. Dr. King faced unimaginable obstacles, hate, and oppression… yet he maintained his hope. We need that same attitude - to look honestly and starkly at our situation, AND never allow ourselves to lose hope.

Valerie Jarrett, senior advisor to President Obama was once asked about a famous quote by Dr. King, and a more contemporary rebuttal, offered by the profound writer, Ta-nehisi Coates. Dr. King said, “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.” And in his book, Between the World and Me, Coates retorted, “the arc of history bends towards chaos.”

And when she was asked about this, Jarrett said Coates wasn’t necessarily wrong, but that she refused to see the world that way. She refused to accept that the lesson of history is everything turns towards chaos. Like Dr. King, Jarrett said she insisted on staying positive. Not because she was ignoring the problems in our world, but because she maintained faith that we are moving in the right direction, and things ARE getting better. Today, it is easy for us to lose hope… but I yet urge us not to. 

Once again, we must engage in a balancing act. Honest, yet hopeful. President Obama, in fact, expressed this same sentiment in his book, "The Audacity of Hope," where he wrote: "To think clearly about race, then, requires us to see the world on a split screen... to maintain in our sights the kind of America that we want while looking squarely at America as it is, to acknowledge the sins of the past and the challenges of the present without becoming trapped in cynicism or despair.”

Today, on Martin Luther King Day in 2021, I must turn to all of you, and ask if this is something you can do. I think perhaps it is harder to do than we could ever have imagined. Nevertheless, can you maintain this split-screen with me? Can we talk about systemic racism, gun violence, the war on immigrants, the opioid epidemic, and all the massive problems that plague our society, YET all while refusing to become SO bitter, jaded, or cynical that nothing changes? Can we come to the table and speak honestly, holding up mirrors to one another, and challenging each other to be our best selves, to form new relationships and bonds across our various divides, to heal our country and our world together? 

I am not saying this to you because it is easy. It is challenging for me as a white, Jewish, male, straight, cisgender (let's face it) privileged person to speak about oppression and invoke the name of Martin Luther King, as if I've lived ANY of the hardship he endured. Or to represent a congregation, Ohev Shalom, that is "of Chester," but moved away half a century ago, and hasn't always maintained relationships in the community the way it could have, or should have, done all along. This isn't easy. In fact, maybe we do this BECAUSE it’s hard. The only way to begin this Exodus together, is to speak honestly, openly, and vulnerably. 

I share all of this with you today, because of my ancient ancestors, the Israelites, who marched out of Egypt arm-in-arm with a mixed multitude of people who rejected the status quo. I stand here proudly, because of my rabbinic role model, Abraham Joshua Heschel, who marched arm-in-arm with Dr. King. I speak aloud my own vulnerabilities and short-comings, because the ONLY way to start is with introspection and uncomfortable truths. And even though I know you can’t grasp it - because of Covid and such - I stand here with my arm (proverbially) extended, to ask others to link arms with me in this Erev Rav. 

My history reminds me that we cannot do this alone. We all need one another. We all share an "inescapable network of mutuality." Every year, on this day, we should recommit to Dr. King’s prophetic work of battling oppression and speaking out against injustice, AND, through our split-screen view, we should also defiantly refuse to lose hope that someday peace, love, compassion, acceptance, and inclusion will win.  Let us recommit again and again, as long as it takes, through plagues, pandemics, violence, crises, and pain, to build a better world. Let us use the visions and exhortations of the prophets - ancient and modern - together with the work of our hands, hearts, minds, and even our feet, to forge a new and better future that indeed will bend towards justice. 

Thank you.