Yom Kippur Eve, 5783 - Kol Nidrei Sermon

One of the things that greatly surprised me when I first started as the rabbi at Ohev Shalom, was learning how many people at the synagogue had never been to Israel. At the time, even our Cantor/Education Director had never been! To be fair, I grew up in Sweden, which was a shorter (and much less-expensive) flight away, and I also briefly lived in London in my 20s, and led trips to Israel from there too, so I admit I had a seriously unfair advantage.

When I came here, I learned that the congregation had done a trip just before I came to Ohev, but before that trip, it had been decades since the last one. That had to change… and I’ll tell you why. But first, let me say something about my own relationship with Israel. I experience a lot of internal struggles, personally, with Israeli politics; the divisiveness that unfortunately pervades much of modern Israeli society; the unbelievably fraught Matzav, the “situation,” with the Palestinians - both the people and their authorities on the West Bank and in Gaza; and especially regarding the tremendous polarization between the Orthodox and non-Orthodox segments of the population. I struggle. 

I’ve lived there twice - once, for a year, as a child, and then another year much later as a rabbinical student - and I can tell you it is a *tough* place to be a full-time resident. There is a good reason why Israelis call themselves Sabras, the Hebrew word for the prickly pear or cactus pear, a fruit that both grows on the outside of very inhospitable cacti, AND itself is covered in little spikes and thorns. If you can get past the exterior, the inside is a delicious, sweet fruit. Israelis love the image of being bright, lovely, kind people… on the inside… but you really don’t want to take on their natural defenses! In order to make it in the Middle East, you do kind of have to develop spikes and thorns and a tough exterior, if you’re gonna survive.

I’ve had mixed experiences there and many frustrations. It’s a complex place where challenges abound… and yet, despite all of that, I unequivocally call myself a Zionist. Because Zionism is about the millennia-old connection that we Jews have with the land, and which we have maintained uninterruptedly despite everything that has happened around us throughout world history, and to us as an oppressed minority… basically everywhere. Therefore, even when I grapple - constantly - with so many things happening there right now, nevertheless, as a firm and staunch Zionist, I love that place and feel closely bound to it in many, many ways. Medinat Yisrael, the State of Israel, causes me heartache and grief… but Eretz Yisrael, the Land of Israel? It will always be a part of my soul, my heart, and my very being. There is just something about that place that calls me back time and again. That’s how I know I am a Zionist. I feel it in my bones, coursing through my blood, and bound up with the very fiber of my Jewish being. 

That probably helps explain why, in my 13 ½ years at Ohev, I have led three trips to Eretz Yisrael. Not only for the selfish reason that my soul yearns to return there frequently AS a visitor, but also because it is a thoroughly indescribable feeling to bring other Jews to Israel for their first time. To see the beauty of the land, the cities, the culture, and the history through the eyes of people who’ve never experienced it before, makes my body tingle, both as I wrote these words on my iPad and saying them out loud to you now. 

Furthermore, I have a secondary agenda with my trips, and some of you have heard me say this before. A few years ago, I started proposing what we called “boutique trips” to Israel. I very intentionally did NOT want to only run first-timer trips, where we visit all the standard, touristy, obvious sites in Israel. In 2016, we did a foodie trip, called “Milk and Honey, Wine and Chocolate.” And in 2018, we did a trip focused primarily on the south of Israel, called “Into the Desert.” I have a couple of other boutique trip ideas too, by the way, like “The Ten Places You’ve Never Seen In Israel; a Tour Guide’s Hidden Gems,” and also “Israel by Night,” where we would take boat trips and explore how the cities come alive at night, and do incredible things like a desert night hike where the bright white limestone of the Judean desert practically glows by night, and so much more.

So what’s my hidden agenda? I need you all to know that Israel is not another place to put on your bucket list. It shouldn’t be something you tick off, like “we’ve been to Hawaii, the Galapagos, Israel, Thailand, and Paris.” It’s not the same. It’s not a place you visit once. It just isn’t. It is a part of you. And discovering the richness of its food, its nightlife, its topography, its people, and so, so much more is essential to us as Jews, and is vital to me as a rabbi. It needs to be an ongoing relationship; not just a one-off. 

There is a reason why Yehudah Ha-Levi, a Spanish poet, philosopher, and physician who lived a thousand years ago, famously wrote, “My heart is in the East, and I am in the utmost West.” He too longed for the Holy Land. Or why 2,000 years *before* Yehudah Ha-Levi, Psalm 137 in the Bible stated, “If I forget you, O Jerusalem, may my right hand cease to function.” To the Psalmist, Jerusalem and indeed the whole Promised Land, was like a physical limb, an indispensable part of the body. It’s simply not a place to go once, experience, buy the t-shirt, and then move on to the next destination on your traveling to-do list. 

I want to share with you one story from the first trip that I organized to Israel, in 2011. (I’m actually going to tell a second story that also took place on that trip, but I’m saving that one for the Neilah service tomorrow evening. If you’re able to make it back, I think you’ll find it worth your while…) But this evening, I want to tell you about our trip to Masada. We did the usual touristy thing of trekking up the Snake Path at dawn, so that we could be at the top before the real desert heat blanketed the area. And then we had the amazing experience of davening shacharit, our morning service, at the top of Masada, in a secluded, ancient prayer space, overlooking the Dead Sea and the surrounding mountains, as the sun rose and glistened across the surface of the water. It was simply spectacular.

We had the special treat of celebrating a Bar Mitzvah that morning, and I also remember so fondly standing there reading Torah, next to Karen Stesis, of blessed memory; and I had the great privilege and immense joy of traveling to Israel - as well as to Europe - with Karen and Louis several times. As the service on Masada was coming to a close, I asked everyone to indulge me for a minute. I told them to close their eyes and actually envision *this place*, this Sanctuary here at Ohev Shalom. I remember it so clearly. I said to them: “Can you picture it? The cinderblock walls (this was before we had the mosaic panels), the Tim Burton-esque tree/menorah thing, the windows, and the pews?” I asked each person to pick a spot in their minds. Pick a specific row and a seat, and imagine yourself sitting down and looking around at all the familiar aspects of the Ohev Shalom Sanctuary. Then, I told those Ohev congregants to open their eyes and look at the breathtaking, sensational view that we had right there on the top of Masada.

I encouraged each person to find that seat when we get back home, and actually go and sit in the Sanctuary in your chosen chair. And then - when you’re back at Ohev - close your eyes and conjure up THIS view, here at Masada. I wanted their brains and their memories to link the two together. Standing on gorgeous, ancient, hot, sunny Masada, picture Ohev Shalom in Wallingford, Pennsylvania, SO THAT when you’re back in DelCo, you can teleport yourself to this spiritual, awesome experience in the Judean Desert, overlooking Yam Ha-Melach, the Dead Sea. THAT is the power of place. And that is what I want to talk to you about here tonight; the Power of Place.

This evening, I am continuing my sermon series with part three, after the first two sermons I gave on Rosh Hashanah, days 1 and 2. My theme this year is “to aspire,” by which I mean that the goal of these High Holidays, and perhaps throughout our lives in general, is not to achieve some state of perfection and bliss and then stay there forever.. I believe our task is to aspire always to be better, to increase kindness, knowledge, and equality for our fellow human beings, for animals, and for the very planet itself. God is constantly inviting us to be partners in Tikkun Olam, Repairing the World. On Rosh Hashanah, I quoted an ancient sage named Rabbi Tarfon, who wrote 2,000 years ago in Pirkei Avot, the Ethics of Our Ancestors, (Hebrew, then) “You are not required to finish the task, but neither are you free to desist from it.” In other words, we keep striving, we keep aspiring. It continues throughout life.

Whether you agree or not about the importance of aspiring, you might justifiably point to the High Holiday Machzor, the prayer book in front of you, and say “this thing doesn’t talk about striving; it focuses on repentance, judgment, and obeying God. And if that is indeed what the book says, and what people believe Judaism says, then I understand why so many people tune out. For many people here tonight, and likely in shuls all around the world, they just have no relationship - or interest in pursuing one - with God at all. I get that. I hear that, and I know where you’re coming from. But here’s my counterpoint: On Rosh Hashanah, I shared with you some observations from Rabbi Toba Spitzer’s book, “God is Here,” which endeavors - or perhaps aspires - to change the way we relate to the Divine. What if we could let go, entirely, of the idea of God as a Big Person, as a Being that guides, or controls… or manipulates our lives, and relate to the concept of a Force outside of ourselves in a completely new way?

Rabbi Spitzer offers several metaphors for God that look nothing like a King, a Shepherd, a Warrior, or any of those other images we see in the Torah, throughout the Jewish Bible, and indeed even right here in our High Holiday Machzor. Tonight, I want to introduce you to another intriguing God-metaphor. (If you want to read, or re-read, the first two, they’re already up on my blog) Spitzer writes: “When I ask people to tell me about their God beliefs, often they have no idea what to say, or simply say they don’t believe in God. But if I ask them to describe a spiritual experience that they’ve had, whatever that may mean to them, many will tell me about special PLACES in their lives.” Places, spaces can indeed be magically full of spirituality and meaning. 

I believe very strongly in the Power of Place, of having unique and meaningful experiences in a location where everything seems to come together perfectly. The sights, sounds, smells, and the feeling of being present right there create an awesome sense of presence that we hold onto long after we leave. That’s why I wanted to start my sermon tonight talking about Israel. No matter how much I grapple with it, the Power of THAT place has imprinted so many core memories on me that I can’t help but feel tied to it and bonded with it.

When I think of Eretz Yisrael, I can feel instantly teleported to the Shuk, the bustling marketplace in Jerusalem that certainly overloads my senses. I recall breathtakingly beautiful drives around the Kinneret, the Galilee, on tour buses that somehow take hairpin turns down mountain paths at alarming speeds; I picture standing at different levels of the Baha’i Gardens in Haifa, or just gazing out at the mountain views from the top of the city; or returning to my most favorite place in all of Israel, Machtesh Ramon, a massive, naturally-formed crater in the south, in the Negev Desert.

Most of us have had incredibly powerful and life-changing experiences in special locations that are forever etched into our memory banks. Perhaps not in Israel, but someplace, at some time, you had a similar moment of unforgettable awe in a most magical place. Or, as Rabbi Spitzer wonderfully quotes the Beatles’ lyric: “There are places I remember, all my life, though some have changed…” But “hang on,” you might say, “God had nothing to do with my memory! I didn’t encounter God in that place! In fact, I never associated God with that experience in the slightest!!” Ok, but let’s stop and examine that for a moment. The God that wasn’t there was perhaps the “Big Person God” that I am seeking to unpack. What if God could be viewed differently, not as Something or Someone you have to try and bring into your experience… but the experience itself? What if God IS the place you remember all your life? Or what if Divinity and holiness can be found in simply BEING, simply experiencing something magnificent and jaw-dropping, and feeling our bodies tingle with the smallness of our own existence in the face of the enormity of a mountain range, a waterfall, a trip to the ocean, or insert-your-own-fantastic-experience-here? 

This may surprise you, but “The Place” is actually one of our names for God! When someone is in mourning, grieving the loss of a loved one, we say to that person, “המקום ינחם אתכם בתוך אבלי ציון וירושלים”- “May ‘The Place’ comfort you among all those who mourn for Zion and Jerusalem.” I’ve actually wondered about that phrase for many years. Ordinarily, we refer to God as Adonai, Elohim, Eil, YHWH, Yahwe, Shaddai, Hashem, Adonai Tzevaot, and many more. But why, in that most vulnerable and painful moment of experiencing death, do we use the Divine pseudonym of “Makom”? Rabbi Spitzer answers this for me beautifully.

She uses the story of our ancestor, Jacob, in the Book of Genesis, who wakes up from a dream in which he saw a ladder going straight up to heaven, with angels ascending and descending it, and he declares, “Mah Norah Ha-Makom Ha-Zeh! - How awesome is this place!” Spitzer even uses that phrase as the title of her chapter on place, and Rabbi Miller recently shared with us a beautiful melody, written by Rabbi Shefa Gold, for those words: “Mah Norah Ha-Makom Ha-Zeh!” Spitzer writes that envisioning God as Makom - Place, “emphasizes the nearness of God, [and] the ability to access God in moments of vulnerability and transition.” Just as we said last week, when we talked about God as Water, this is an image of God that isn’t transcendent, high up in the clouds or beyond space and time; this God is right here, closely residing with - and perhaps inside - all of us. 

Furthermore, even though I spent the first half of my sermon talking about Israel, and what a special and spiritual place it is, Rabbi Spitzer talks about the power of place being achievable anywhere. “The underlying irony,” she writes, “of calling God ‘HaMakom/The Place’ is that there isn’t just one place to encounter godliness - that can happen in any place.” A good friend of mine recently said that the ocean is her second synagogue. For her, that is indeed a holy place. Do you have to bring a Siddur and a tallit for it to be “officially” holy? Or do you need to hear a voice from heaven declaring “I approve this message,” for it to “count”? No, absolutely not. We can aspire to find God and godliness in any place. 

Makom is specifically God as intimacy, support, love, caring, and vulnerability. All of a sudden, it makes perfect sense to use Makom when comforting mourners. Because especially when we are grieving, or in pain, or lost, or experiencing any other form of chaos in our lives, we need a safe “place” to return to. In that story about Jacob in the desert, he felt tremendously lost, alone, scared, and anxious. Which is why he needed God to support and protect him in the midst of his vulnerability. Rabbi Spitzer writes: “[Jacob] learns that there is godliness even in places where we wish we didn’t have to be.” She also writes that, “We can think of God as a Place to which we retreat to find comfort and relief.” Or as we might say colloquially when we’re feeling stressed or anxious, we can “go to our happy place.” We may not think of that place as containing God, but just finding safety and security there might, in a sense, be godliness still.

I love this imagery. It is incredibly resonant for all of us, whether we’re thinking of a childhood home or other place in the past that was safe and reassuring, or some fabulous vacation memory that was blissful and peaceful, or our own homes right now, that are hopefully a place of solace, intimacy, and relaxation. But even more than that, think about this space right now. Not just the sanctuary in general, the one I encouraged everyone on Masada to envision, but your experience here tonight in our Kol Nidrei service. 

The lighting falls just so, as the afternoon sky turns to dusk and then nighttime. The beautiful sounds of Mara’s and Bruce’s playing still rings in our ears, as do the notes of Rabbi Miller’s fantastic voice, singing the familiar, mournful, solemn notes of the Kol Nidrei prayer. We are surrounded by family, friends, fellow congregants, and perhaps thinking about previous years with others who are no longer with us. Everything about this evening is just infused with spirituality and holiness. 

Mah Norah Ha-Makom Ha-Zeh - How awesome is this place! How powerful is this moment right now, with all of us here together? And now imagine that you don’t have to therefore - because of this experience here tonight - subscribe to the Book of Life idea, or that God controls our destiny, or any other aspect of classical, traditional theology. We spend so much time grappling with God; wrestling, arguing, challenging, and demanding accountability for hurricanes, pandemics, recessions, and of course, the Holocaust. What about dedicating some time to just be, to just experience a moment of connection, spirituality, and meaning, and not have to challenge or question it? Let the godliness find you, just by residing in a place that is imbued with meaning.

To me, the point of all these new metaphors for God is that we’ve let other people dictate for us how we’re supposed to feel about God, or about our own mortality or the origins of our world, and so on. Opening ourselves up to new possibilities allows us to aspire for something different. Something personal and deeply meaningful… and something you don’t have to struggle to find or hold onto. It might just exist in the very place where you stand or sit.

I began tonight’s sermon talking about Israel, because that is such an impactful place for me. I *also* struggle with the politics and the religious oppression, the constant fighting and the tough exterior that one experiences in Israel. But then I also have an immensely strong relationship with the Makom, with the place itself. And no matter how angry or frustrated I get about the stuff in the newspapers and the opinion pieces, I will always strive to maintain my Zionist passion for the Makom. That relationship is too precious to me, too vital to my identity as a Jew, to ever relinquish.

That may not be your experience of Israel. I’m not trying to make you feel what I feel, regarding Israel, God, or anything else. But I do want to challenge you to reconsider some of the notions you’ve been taught, and which simply may not resonate with you. God can be found and encountered in any space and at any time.We can bring spirituality and meaning into any situation, even by just closing our eyes and imagining ourselves in an incredible place we once visited. By connecting back to that memory, you can bring holiness into the present. We should aspire to find opportunities to exclaim to ourselves: “Mah Norah Ha-Makom Ha-Zeh!” 

Rabbi Spitzer writes about that phrase, stating: “To live in the reality of “how awesome is this Place” is to live our lives open to the possibility that there is a spark of the holy - a bit of wisdom, a deeper understanding, a sense of connection - available to us in any place, in any moment, even the most difficult.” God is not meant to be about judgment, criticism, or rule-following, but rather as a resource to help us get through life, appreciating the wonderful moments and persevering through the tough ones… maybe even finding a way to bless the good AND the bad, because of how it helps us grow and become stronger. When we are in relationship with ourselves, delving into what’s going on inside me, in Judaism we call that the connection “Bein Adam La-Makom,” which is often translated as, “Between a person and God.” There it is again, the name “Makom” being used for God! In part, it’s because your private introspection is seen as being only between you and God, and perhaps it’s yet another time when you need a lot of support, kindness, and acceptance. At the same time, I also think it’s because it’s really about a relationship between yourself and The Right Now, this moment in this very space, this Makom.

Standing up there on Masada, I wanted everyone to know that all you have to do is close your eyes and you can return to that Makom. I used that exercise again on a later Israel trip, standing on a pier in the Kinneret, the Sea of Galilee, watching the sky change color as we sang Lecha Dodi and welcomed in Shabbat in that incredibly holy space. Again, I wanted people to be able to return there whenever they wanted or needed to. And I would like to invite you all here tonight to do the same; to close your eyes and hold onto the holiness of this evening and this beautiful place. Take that feeling with you into the year ahead, and let it elevate the good times with a blessing of “Mah Norah Ha-Makom ha-Zeh,” and let it strengthen you in the bad times as well.  

Then it will become more than just a “happy place” you can go to, but one filled with sparks of holiness and incredible meaning. You also don’t have to search for God OR reject God. Just be present, in the experience you’re in, firmly rooted in your Makom, and it will create a memory you’ll remember all your life. That is the Power of Place.

Shanah Tovah!

Rosh Hashanah, 5783/2022 - Second Day Sermon

The shofar reminds us

of the ram in the thicket.

Where are we ensnared?

It shatters complacency.

It wails with our grief,

stutters with our inadequacy.

The shofar cries out

I was whole, I was broken, 

I will be whole again.

Make shofars of us, God!

Make us resonating chambers

for Your love.

That poem was written by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat, who writes a blog online under the fabulous pseudonym, The Velveteen Rabbi (if you’re not familiar with Margery Williams’ lovely children’s book, it’s called the Velveteen Rabbit). I’m actually not going to focus this whole sermon on the shofar, but rather on the concept of Kol, meaning Voice in Hebrew, but it seemed almost ridiculous to deliver a sermon about the power of one’s voice on Rosh Hashanah without beginning with the shofar!! 

Indeed, the ram’s horn is a powerful example of sound resonating all around us as well as within us. As Rabbi Barenblat describes in her poem, “it shatters complacency, it wails with our grief, stutters with our inadequacy.” The three sounds of the shofar - Tekiah, Shevarim, Teruah - are indeed supposed to mimic various emotions. The long, clear, three-second blast of the tekiah is clarity, wholeness, strength. But then, Shevarim, a name that literally means “broken,” three shorter blasts that slice that long Tekiah into three, demonstrating that even when we strive for the clarity and strength of that single blast, much of the time we fall short - or at least we tell ourselves we did - and we feel broken and in pain, sometimes even like we’ve been cut or sliced with a knife. And the last one, Teruah, stutters out nine, tiny blasts, symbolic of how we try to march along and imagine everything is fine… right up until we start to stumble. And one stumble leads to another… There are a lot of pressures and stressors all around us. In the face of the pandemic, Russian invasion in Ukraine, environmental disasters, political turmoil and uncertainty; we viscerally feel the sputtering and floundering of the Teruah inside ourselves.

But then we end with the long call of the Tekiah Gedolah, which - like my High Holiday theme this year - reminds us to keep striving and aspiring to reach wholeness and holiness, to keep going and keep working on improving our lives. As Rabbi Barenblat states in her poem: “The shofar cries out: I was whole, I was broken. I will be whole again.” The blasts and cries of the shofar are indeed powerful examples of how sound can affect and reflect our moods. 

As you may know, if you attended services yesterday, my sermons this High Holiday season develop the concept of aspiring, through four metaphors for God, as articulated by Rabbi Toba Spitzer, in her terrific, new book, “God is Here.” Yesterday, we imagined God using the symbolism of Water, and now I would actually like to skip Spitzer’s second metaphor (for those of you who know the book…), which I will instead discuss on Yom Kippur, and today move on to her third metaphor. The chapter in the book is called “If You Truly Listen,” and is indeed about the power of voice, and of listening…  and of silence.

As I mentioned, I thought the shofar would be an excellent place to start; though perhaps for a reason that you might not have anticipated. In her book, Spitzer quotes a sound expert named Julian Treasure, who writes, “The human body is 70 percent water, which makes us rather good conductors of sound.” That makes complete sense to me… and yet I never before thought about the water inside us making our entire bodies into sound conductors. 

But then I discovered that Barenblat’s poem kind of intimates that in her last line, where she says: “Make shofars of us, God! Make us resonating chambers of Your love.” Filled as we are with water, we are indeed brimming chambers waiting for a resonating sound wave to penetrate into and flow through us. 

Rabbi Spitzer adds a spiritual dimension, writing: “We humans are conductors of the Godly Voice.” Though, in truth, I did write a note for myself in the margin, “potential conductors, anyway.” We can strive to emanate that Godly Voice, but too many human beings instead choose to use their voices to shame, mislead, attack, spread fear, and bully mercilessly. Nevertheless, our bodies are conductors; we just have to aspire to make them godly. It is not a given; it is a daily choice. 

If you didn’t feel impacted during our Shofar service yesterday, I encourage you to prepare yourselves for later, when our shofar blowers will again sound out their powerful blasts. I invite you to hold this intention: Close your eyes and visualize that you are indeed made up of 70 percent water; it surrounds and fills every organ, muscle, and bone in your body. And when the shofar rings out, see if you can feel it inside your physical being, not just hear it with your ears. Because the shofar isn’t just meant to be a sound, it should hopefully make your whole body reverberate, and really feel affected and moved by the Kol Shofar, the Voice of the Ram’s Horn.

Rabbi Spitzer begins her chapter on Voice by highlighting God speaking to the Children of Israel at Mount Sinai. Talk about a resonating, booming Voice… Yikes! There’s a very odd claim in that section of the Torah, in Exodus, chapter 20, where it states, “וכל העם ראים את הקולות - And all the people *saw* the *voices*” (v. 15). In our Bible class last week, when we were discussing Spitzer’s chapter, someone suggested this was synesthesia, an actual medical condition where the five senses get all jumbled up. You can hear a word and see a color or a shape, or you can see sounds. I realize this might come across a bit psychedelic, but Spitzer reframes it, quoting another rabbi, Darby Leigh, who is profoundly deaf, and who does indeed watch people’s lips or how they sign words with their hands in order to “hear” them. 

Rabbi Leigh interprets the word “Kol” here, not as sound or voice, but as “vibration.” It’s reminiscent of the stories told about Ludwig van Beethoven, who sawed off the legs of his piano, so it would lay directly on the floor and he could feel - and almost hear - the vibrations in his brain and in his body. 

Back in that passage in Exodus, where the Israelites heard God speak to them, the text refers to the people “trembling” and even the mountain itself “trembling” as well, but now I’m wondering if maybe we should translate it instead as “reverberated.” Their bodies are, after all, very good conductors of sound.

Yesterday I told you that I didn’t just want to present these new metaphors for the Divine, but most importantly think about how taking them in and contemplating them can also lead us to developing a new relationship with God. Too often - meaning “constantly” - our texts refer to God in one way or another as Big Person Who Controls Our Lives. Whether that’s a King, a Judge, a Vindicator, a Father, a Shepherd, or whatever imagery you’ve heard or read or sung throughout your life. Think, “Avinu, Malkeinu - Our Father, our King.” 

I know you’ve likely seen God that way your entire life, whether it has led you to believe in God or reject the notion of God entirely, or maybe somewhere in the middle. But what if we shake up those outdated metaphors for God? Again I want to reiterate, if we change the image, it can also change the relationship. Spitzer comes back to this time and again in her book, for example right here, in talking about God’s Voice booming at the people on Sinai. She quotes a rabbinic midrash (story) from Exodus Rabbah, stating that every person present at Mount Sinai heard the Divine Vibration differently. She states: “Each person present received what they needed to hear in that moment.” 

Then comes the meaning-making; the shifting of relationship. Spitzer writes, “this rabbinic tradition makes clear that speaking and listening is an interactive process that depends as much on the listener as the speaker.” Too often we think of religion and religious laws as one-directional. “Thou Shalt…” and “Thou Shalt Not,” and “Thou” definitely shouldn’t question or waver! But if we don’t see God as a Big Person, but rather a voice, a vibration, a force that flows through us and resonates within us, AND which depends as much on our listening as on what is being spoken; that changes things quite a bit, doesn’t it?

Of course, you might respond, “How can there be a voice without a Speaker? Someone’s got to be on the other end of that microphone, no??” Well, that is perhaps coming from an entirely human frame of reference. For me, personally, God does not conform to those standards. The very beginning of the Torah has God speaking all of Creation into existence, and we never hear of any aspect of God’s Being, other than this Kol, this Voice, declaring “Let there be light” and so on. God can indeed be just the voice itself, moving us, not from outside, but from within our very bodies. 

When we’re talking about voices and sounds and hearing, we of course can’t leave out our Jewish creed, the prayer we sing aloud three times a day, and which is often the very first thing we teach children to recite: “שמע ישראל ה׳ אלוהינו ה׳ אחד - Hear, O Israel, Adonai our God, Adonai is One.” It’s not a prayer directed at God, but rather to our fellow Jews: Shema YISRAEL. Furthermore, the Shema is not just a command to listen, but a call to action; we are meant to feel compelled to turn that listening, that reverberation that can make our whole body tremble, into Tikkun Olam, partnering with God in repairing our world. That’s what makes the Shema so potent and efficacious. 

Does that sound like an exaggeration? Well, Shema Yisrael, listen up, people of Israel (and specifically, people of Congregation Ohev Shalom) - our voices carry tremendous power. Words are tools that can heal or harm. You may have heard me say this before, but I think we need to reverse the famous children’s rhyme: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.” In fact, sticks and stones - and physical pain - can ONLY hurt my body, a body that can and will recover. But the sting of mean-spirited words? The deep wounds that we can never forget of being maligned or smeared or talked about behind our backs? Our voices, our words, and our intentions do indeed contain immense force. So too, by the way, does our silence. When our world leaders choose to remain silent in the face of oppression, persecution, and the killing of innocent people - or the attempted overthrow of our Democracy - that silence is absolutely deafening. Its reverberations are felt long, long after the moment has passed.

So voice and sound and hearing - and even silence - are actually very potent resources, and it is imperative that we see them as such. Certainly in a prayer setting, there’s no question it affects one’s experience. Take, for instance, the Kol Nidrei prayer on the eve of Yom Kippur. The words themselves are actually quite dry and not very spiritual. It’s essentially a legal formula denouncing any vows we may make from this Yom Kippur to the next. So why do people love it so much? Why does it feel like each and every one of us is right where we need to be, as soon as we hear those first few notes: “Kol Nidrei…”? Because of the power of song. Rabbi Spitzer writes about this in her book, and these could also be my words, relating to my lived experience here at Ohev Shalom as well: “I have heard many times from my congregants,” writes Spitzer, “ that while they don’t always understand the Hebrew words of our prayer book, they feel a sense of spiritual connection when we sing those words together.” Sound familiar at all? The Kol Nidrei isn’t about the words, almost at all, it’s the melody, the memories it evokes, and the feeling inside us when the song penetrates to our heart and our soul. 

How wonderful that music, singing, chanting, even wordless niggunim, can have such a transformational effect on us! Again, what if we let go of the image of God as Commanding Ruler, Who demands that we recite every prayer correctly and at its appropriate, appointed time? What if we instead focused on a Divine Vibration that we let run through our bodies and fill us with connection, meaning, and spirituality? I think a lot more people would seek a relationship to God if theology was expressed more like that. 

And it can be! None of us are required to accept the theological depictions put forth in our Torah or our High Holiday prayer book, the Machzor. One of the amazing things about Judaism is that we do not mandate belief. There is no singular creed or dogma that we must declare and accept as true and immutable. We have practice and ritual, tradition and history, music and social action and caring… but not required beliefs. Which is why I encourage, and even urge, us all to be more flexible in our theological understanding of God. You can of course still reject the notion of a Divinity, remaining an atheist or an agnostic. I know religion has done some terrible things, and the Bible can often sound really harsh and not believable. 

Yet, a lot of that comes back to a rigid, insistent view of God as a Big Person, possibly in the sky, commanding and deciding. And our liturgy will continue to talk about God writing our names in the Book of Life or the Book of Death. So I know it’s hard to get away from that depiction. That’s why we aspire! Yesterday, I proposed we see these concepts as metaphors, not as a factual reality that Judaism insists we adopt. What if the Books of Life and Death are really for all of us to write ourselves into, with our actions, our commitments, and yes, our voices. Do not abdicate that power to anyone else, even God! Rabbi Spitzer writes, “The power of Kol (voice) is wielded both by God and by human beings, and seems closely linked to the ability to discern right from wrong.” We can lift up others, heal relationships, and lower tensions, simply by using our God-given voices… or we can use our words to injure, scar, and even cause permanent damage. Sounds a whole lot scarier than some sticks & stones, or even broken bones…

Speaking of “broken,” let us return to Shevarim; the shofar blast that means “brokenness.” It reminds us that there is a lot that is shattered in our world. Even our Jewish term for Social Action, Tikkun Olam - Repairing the World, assumes there is brokenness all around us that needs our help to become whole again. The shofar blasts are indeed a call to wake us up from our lethargy and apathy, and really make a difference. And the Kol Shofar, the Voice of the Shofar, reminds us that we too have a Kol, we have a voice as well. It is, in many ways, the spark of the Divine in all of us. And we should aspire, every day, to use our words to speak with kindness, honesty, and courage. To use our silence to hear - Shema - other people and genuinely listen to what they are saying and be there for one another. And sometimes to listen to the still, small voice inside ourselves, that can help us find our true-north when we feel lost and aimless. 

We all have the capacity to become - like Rabbi Barenblat’s poem suggests - resonating chambers of God’s Love, sending and receiving Divine Vibrations to heal the brokenness of our world. We can aspire to grow in this new year, to use our shofar-like voices to help and to comfort, and to truly listen to others and to ourselves. We can become whole again. 

Shanah Tovah!

L'Chaim (newsletter) article, October, 2022: Making Sukkah Memories

Greetings from our synagogue Sukkah! Ok, it isn’t actually built when I’m writing this (in early September). However, if you’re reading this article after October 9th, just picture me sitting on the Ohev Sukkah terrace, enjoying our lovely communal hut, filled with decorations made by our Mispallelim religious school students. It looks fabulous!

Every year, we rebuild this structure for a mere eight days, yet it leaves memories that people still sometimes share with me from years past. Like the legendary phoenix, the Sukkah gets dismantled and disappears when the holiday is done… only to be “reborn” again a year later. Our synagogue Sukkah is really quite wonderful, but its true splendor comes, not from the decorations themselves, but from the love and dedication put into the project by all its contributors. What makes Sukkot such an enchanting holiday is its focus on creating a shared experience. The Sukkah is open for all to enter. Its simplicity radiates warmth and accessibility, and its educational message is not hard to grasp or difficult to make relatable: We are connecting to our ancestors who also dwelt in booths during the Exodus from Egypt, built them again later in the Ancient land of Israel, and have continued to do so throughout Jewish history. Even in this era of increased security and distancing, it’s nice to return to holidays that really feature hospitality and welcoming.

There is something wonderfully tactile and natural about the celebration of Sukkot. It’s the perfect holiday to help us transition away from the themes of Yom Kippur. Where Yom Kippur is solemn, Sukkot is joyous. Yom Kippur focuses on the mind and the internal, personal relationship to God; Sukkot celebrates community and the physical acts of building, dancing, and shaking a lulav. Yom Kippur has us fasting; Sukkot makes us forget hunger pretty quick!

Yet like Yom Kippur (and every other Jewish holiday), Sukkot also affords us a chance to reminisce about experiences of this holiday in different places, with cherished loved ones, in years long since past. I remember huddling around a space heater in a snow-covered Sukkah in Sweden. I recall a young (and slightly eccentric) visiting rabbi in Stockholm, who built a mini-Sukkah on a window ledge six stories above the ground, with no railing… and he slept in that Sukkah for eight nights!! I am reminded of many years spent in the largest Sukkah in North America, at JTS in New York, where pine needles rained down into our food from the schach, the Sukkah cover. The more hard-core among us just considered the pine needles an added garnish in the soup… And I also call to mind walking the streets of Jerusalem as a rabbinical student, seeing rows and rows of rooftop Sukkot, overlooking the Old City and the most breath-taking sunset imaginable. How about you? What do you think of, or remember, when we talk about Sukkot?

I hope you’ll come join a communal celebration in the Ohev Sukkah this year. It’s even a Covid-compatible holiday, because it’s all outdoors! In addition to daily services (not held outside) for the holiday, we have Bible class in the Sukkah, brown bag lunch discussions on October 12, 13, and 14, a Pizza in the Hut dinner, and to top it all off, the celebration of Ben Friedman’s Bar Mitzvah on the 15th. An added bonus is that when you’re sitting outside among bamboo poles, paper chains, and hanging gourds, you can’t help but feel that autumn is in the air. It’s a terrific way to begin the new Jewish year, and to dive right into all the programming taking place at Ohev Shalom. Though I do still miss the Nordic snow and the pine needle garnish…

Chag Sameach – Happy Holidays!

Rabbi Gerber

Devarim (Shabbat Chazon): Doom and Gloom… and Celebration Too

This Shabbat, we are starting the fifth Book of Moses, called “Devarim” or “Deuteronomy.” In addition, it is the Shabbat before Tisha b’Av, which is a day of mourning and commemoration on the Jewish calendar. And the Shabbat immediately preceding Tisha b’Av is always called “Shabbat Chazon,” meaning the “Shabbat of Vision.” The vision that we’re talking about, however, is unfortunately not an uplifting or joyous one, but rather the first prophecy expressed by Isaiah, filled with words of rebuke and predictions of doom. It isn’t easy to sit with these emotions of grief and sadness, but I think it’s really quite necessary. Tisha b’Av primarily recalls the destructions of both Temples in Jerusalem (in 587 BCE and 70 CE), along with many other calamities that have befallen our ancestors over the course of millennia. Is it fun to talk about death and destruction, or to have to listen to Isaiah’s words of anger and frustration? No, but think about what it can yield for us all on the other end.

It’s important to think of Tisha b’Av in the context of what we might call “normal” grief, i.e. when a loved one dies and we’re mourning a personal loss. If we don’t acknowledge our sadness and allow ourselves to cry, we can’t process what has happened, and it is very difficult to move on and begin to heal. For both our national grief and our personal grief, the goal is not to “get over” our mourning and forget about our loss, but rather to incorporate it into our lives in a healthier way. Tisha b’Av clearly isn’t joyful and celebratory, but perhaps by allowing ourselves to be fully present to what our ancestors endured, we can appreciate our festivities more completely. After all, if those calamities had been worse, we wouldn’t still be here to talk about them, so the very fact of our being able to remember and retell our history is a major cause for celebration!

I would also add that not every occasion needs to be about merriment and feasting. Tisha b’Av is always one of the most spiritual and impactful services for me personally, despite its unpleasant theme. We sit in a dimly lit sanctuary late in the evening (on Saturday night at 8pm), we chant the beautiful Book of Lamentations, and we reflect and introspect. I certainly enjoy many of our other holidays as well, but there is something ancient and powerful about Tisha b’Av that just doesn’t come out for me in many other days on our calendar. I know Saturday night isn’t the most convenient time, and maybe I haven’t sold it very well for you, but I nevertheless encourage you to come and experience it for yourselves. It’s really unlike any other observance we have.

Whether you’re able to attend or not, I also invite you to think about the importance of embracing the wide spectrum of our emotions. Some feel easier to sit with and enjoy, while others can feel painful or uncomfortable. I get it. But that’s also what it means to be a human being, isn’t it? I certainly know it’s a vital part of what it means to be a Jew. In fact, I would argue that our healthy, repeated, persistent engagement with ALL aspects of our history is one of the great powers of the Jewish People, and a major reason why you and I are still here, able to talk about it all! On Shabbat Chazon, we may be chanting a literal doom-and-gloom prophetic vision. And even though Isaiah’s prophecies did come true for the people living at that time, it is also true that we are still here. The Jewish People are still here and able to observe all the sacred occasions on our calendar, and experience all the emotions that come with them. So yes, we will be chanting a pretty sad text. But our very ability to chant that text is itself a cause for celebration. 

Chukat: I See Your Calf and Raise You a Snake

Even if you're not that familiar with the Torah or all the stories contained within it, you probably know a few central ideas. You might have heard of Adam & Eve, Noah, Abraham, slavery in Egypt, the Ten Commandments, and a handful of other key points. One such concept that I think is pretty well-known is that you're not supposed to make graven images. No idols, no statues for worshipping, no house gods of any shape or size, and just no bowing down to, or praying to, anyone or anything but God. And the most infamous example of what not to do has got to be the Golden Calf, which the Israelites built in the desert and venerated as if it were a god. And clearly, based on that story, we all learned that no such images or statues can be used in ANY way. Right?? Well... yes and no. This week, our Torah reading offers us a surprising and bewildering example of a permitted statue, and - just like so many other stories in the Bible - it leaves us with more questions than answers. As it should be.

It starts the same way too many other stories from this time period already have, namely with the people rebelling against Moses, Aaron, and especially God. The people bark at their leaders: "Why did you make us leave Egypt to die in this wilderness?!? There is no bread and no water, and we have come to loathe this miserable food [the manna]!" (Numbers 21:5) By this point, God is getting pretty darn fed up with these ingrates, and God sends against the people a plague of poisonous, deadly snakes! When the people inevitably repent and cry out for help, God instructs Moses to do something most surprising: "Make a seraph [winged snake] figure and mount it on a standard. And if anyone who is bitten looks at it, he shall recover." (v. 8) So I guess part of the message we're meant to take from this is, calves are bad and snakes are good? Now, we should acknowledge that God directing Moses to do something is quite a bit different than the people just erecting a statue on their own. Nor does anyone ever call out to the flying-snake-thingy: "This is your god, O Israel, who brought you out of the land of Egypt" as they did for the Golden Calf in Exodus, 32:4. Nevertheless, I think the use of an animal statue is understandably confusing... 

I also feel it necessary to point out that our fears regarding the serpent-statue are not unfounded. Centuries after the Exodus, we find an intriguing reference back to this mystical healing device in the Second Book of Kings, during the religious reformations under King Hezekiah: "He [Hezekiah] abolished the shrines and smashed the pillars and cut down the sacred post. He also broke into pieces the bronze serpent that Moses had made, for until that time the Israelites had been offering sacrifices to it; it was called Nechushtan." (II Kings, 18:4) Despite God's best intentions, some people simply couldn't resist the urge to offer sacrifices TO the snake-statue as a graven image. The commentaries speculate wildly about what's going on here. One perspective suggests God used a snake to remind the Israelites of the conniving serpent that misled Adam & Eve back in the Garden of Eden. That snake was punished for his incendiary words; and the Israelites were similarly punished for their own inflammatory attacks on God and Moses. Another commentary posits that the serpent is a poignant symbol of how dangerous the desert can be, and might help remind the Israelites that the only reason they've been surviving for 40 years is because of God's favor.

To me, an important lesson that comes from this story is intentionality. The same act can be either a destructive transgression or a source of healing. Similarly, when we express a sentiment to another person, our decision to infuse our comment with kindness versus passive-aggression versus outright hostility can change everything about how it's received. Even the energy with which we express ourselves can vastly alter our words, regardless of whether we do so intentionally or not. Perhaps the text is suggesting that have to be mindful of ourselves and how we are perceived by others all the time. We cannot hide behind saying a certain act or a particular phrase "always" means one thing and not another, it's much more complex than that. Our body language, our energy, our facial expressions, our intentions, and our tone of voice; all of them contribute to how we are perceived and how our sentiments are understood. At times, the text can seem inconsistent, as if it's prioritizing one act over a seemingly identical one elsewhere, possibly for arbitrary reasons. But those moments invite us to look closer, read more sensitively, and pay more attention to nuance, contrast, and intention. When we do that, we can learn so much more from the text, and even learn more about our own behaviors as well.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Wellcome Images on Wikimedia Commons
2. 7ustalvin on Wikimedia Commons
3. Jubjang on Rawpixel
4. Sheila Brown on PublicDomainPictures

Shavuot: I Believe I Saw You at Sinai...

I know it's kind of short notice, but if you're local to Ohev Shalom and aren't too busy this Saturday, you may want to consider joining us for either or both of our events that day. Zoom works too, but it's never really the same as being in-person, is it? So, what's so special happening on Saturday, June 4th? Well, both of them have to do with the Ten Commandments, and what happened when Moses and the people received them directly from God at Mount Sinai. There is a classic, Jewish legend that states that every Jewish soul was present at Mount Sinai, so I suppose I could have added to my previous sentence: "Remember that day? Man, that was crazy!" Anyway, we have a morning service and an evening program going on, and altogether three opportunities to grapple with that history-altering moment in the Bible... and all three from very different perspectives. I want to say a word or two about each here on the blog, and I hope at least a few (more) people will be able to attend. 

First, at the morning Shabbat service, our sixth and seventh grade class will be delivering a clever D'var Torah. I say "clever" because we decided to try something a little different. As a class, they've written Divrei Torah (plural) with me in third, fourth, fifth, and sixth grade, so it was time to think outside the box. My colleague, Rabbi Kelilah Miller, and I decided to introduce the students to medieval rabbinic commentary from a series of volumes called Mikraot Gedolot. So the class and I looked at the giving of the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai, and some of the peculiar, melodramatic elements of that scene. We then examined some of the commentaries, and the students then got to write their own questions, considerations, and musings. And we put it all together on a page that mimicked the rabbinic template from Mikraot Gedolot. I share all this with you - and hope you can come tomorrow morning - because I think (I hope) the students learned something really essential about Torah: Our voices matter. Studying our ancient texts is meant to be a give-and-take, back-and-forth, interactive process, where every single generation of Jews (including yours and mine...) is invited and encouraged to join the conversation. And once we realize we're part of the dialogue, we may also discover yet another powerful truth about our Jewish tradition. Torah wasn't given once at Mount Sinai, to one group of people, in one geographic location. It is actually a continuous and ongoing process that is still going on to this very day!

And that's only the morning service! Later in the evening, starting at 8pm, we are holding our annual Tikkun Leyl Shavuot, evening of study connected to the Jewish holiday of Shavuot. This year, we decided to center our learning on the notion of "This I Believe." Looking at it through the lens of the Mount Sinai experience, we might ask ourselves what each person believes actually happened there, and what does it still mean for the Jewish experience today? How often do we even stop and ponder what we truly believe? What are our guiding principles in life, and how did we come to believe them in the first place? For tomorrow evening's learning, I've invited several congregants who are Jews by Choice, i.e. who converted to Judaism as adults. Generally speaking, Jewish tradition tells us not to highlight when someone has converted, because they are indeed fully Jewish, and their journey doesn't mitigate that experience at all. At the same time, I think it is a vital part of the larger narrative of the Jewish community, and it helps us all - collectively - be more inclusive when we learn what someone else went through to claim their Jewish identity. And by the way, their souls were right there at Mount Sinai too; they just needed an extra step to find their way home. 

We will then conclude our evening of study by looking at several essays on the topic of "This I Believe." And not even necessarily stories from the Jewish community. People around the globe grapple with the notion of what they believe; about the universe, humanity, the meaning of life, and what it means to do good. As I mentioned above, we rarely take the time to stop and think about those beliefs, even though they may fundamentally impact all of our major life decisions! Reading about other people's guiding principles in life may really help us contemplate our own. Just as learning about (or remembering?) what happened at Sinai can inspire us to think about what Judaism, Jewish tradition, and God mean to us today. And realizing that our voices are essential parts of the Jewish conversation - as our Hebrew School students did - will hopefully spur you on to really own your beliefs and share them with others. Look how much you could learn, just by coming to services on a single day! :-) I hope to see you there.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Philip de Vere on Wikimedia Commons
2. Ohev Shalom's sixth and seventh graders
3. Nick Youngson on Pix4free
4. ckubber on Flickr

Acharei Mot: The Letter and the Spirit Square Off

When you think about the performance of mitzvot, which would you say is more important, the action or the intention? Let’s imagine, say, that we’re back at the Passover Seder from a couple of weeks ago. Would it be “better” to do all the rituals, sing all the songs, and read every page of the Haggadah, even if your heart isn’t in it and you’re distracted? Or better to go into the holiday with excitement, enthusiasm, and interest… but recite half the prayers, sing two abridged songs, and read none of the extraneous material? At first glance, you might think the answer is obvious. And two different people reading this blog post might each think the answer is self-evident… while holding opposite opinions! I don’t know if there is a “correct” answer here, or even a practice or approach that is better or worse. But the ancient rabbis get into an interesting debate about each of these perspectives, and I thought perhaps it might be worth our while to examine their opinions for a bit.

Their first statement might surprise you. Mira Balberg, in her book “Blood for Thought: The Reinvention of Sacrifice in Early Rabbinic Literature,” explains that the rabbis of the Talmud understood the institution of sacrifice not so much as creating lines of communication to God, but rather about meticulous and flawless performance of Divine commands. In other words, they firmly believed in the first part of my statement above: Whether it’s about sacrifice, keeping Kosher, or celebrating Pesach, the most important thing is to GET. IT. RIGHT! Rabbi Ilana Kurshan wrote a Torah commentary this week in which she wrote, “The rabbinic discussion of the high priest’s activities on Yom Kippur is focused on the precision and accuracy with which each step must be taken.” Based on this, it’s pretty clear how the Talmudic rabbis  would have ruled on this question. Intention is all well and good, but really it’s about performing mitzvot correctly and fully. However, this isn’t the only thing the rabbis say on the subject. There are other sources to look at as well. Furthermore, it gives me pause to hear how the rabbis discussed Temple sacrifice and its rituals. They didn’t live in the era of the Temple. In fact, they were descendants of the Pharisees, who were quite anti-Temple, and who felt the whole institution had turned corrupt and was not fulfilling the Will of God. So when they talk about how meticulous the High Priest was, and how perfectly every single detail had to be performed, are they advocating that behavior… or subtly critiquing it?

There are countless stories of people unable to recite the correct prayers, but directing their hearts to God, and their petitions being accepted. We read the prophet Isaiah - in a text that was chosen by some of those same ancient rabbis to be the Haftarah specifically for Yom Kippur - instructing his listeners that God does *not* want the ritual sacrifices. God, through Isaiah, insists rather that we must “share your bread with the hungry, take the wretched poor into your home. When you see the naked, clothe them, and do not ignore your own kin.” (Isaiah, 58:7) Doesn’t this sound like the opposite approach? Informing us that our practices and observances could be 110% perfect, yet simultaneously meaningless if they don’t have the proper intentions of kindness and compassion. So which one is it, the letter of the law or the spirit of the law? It is so difficult to choose…

And indeed I don’t think we’re actually supposed to choose at all. Like many things in life, we are constantly striving and changing, and mainly seeking to achieve balance and harmony. The same applies here. We can indeed aspire to do things as correctly as possible, acknowledging that the letter of the law has merit and purpose. Yet the spirit can be equally as impactful and significant, and shouldn’t be disregarded. At times, we might even strive to achieve them both together; the precise instructions of the Torah as well as the wholehearted intention described by Isaiah. But humans are not perfect. We aspire, not with the expectation that we will eventually get everything right, but merely in order to keep improving and growing. And I fear that when we imagine leaders like the ancient High Priest in this week’s parashah performing everything perfectly, and we tell ourselves we should be emulating that, we are setting ourselves up for failure. So maybe it’s ok that we can’t do all things well at the same time. That shouldn’t be our goal. Instead, we can appreciate the values of strict adherence *and* heartfelt intention, knowing it’s rare that we can achieve both together. So to answer our question at the start of this blog post, the best option isn’t one extreme or the other; it’s the balance and harmony we strive to achieve inside of ourselves.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Magnes Database Record on Flickr
2. FotoGuy 49057 on Flickr
3. Rawpixel
4. Peggy_Marco on Pixabay

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