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

Shanah Tovah!

Shanah Tovah - Happy New Year!

Shanah Tovah, everyone!

I won't be writing a new blog post this week, as I'm preparing for the holiday of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, which starts tonight, Sunday. Every year, I write my main High Holiday sermons around a central, common theme. (You have to hear or read the sermons to find out this year's theme... :-p) After Rosh Hashanah, I will post the first two sermons in the series here on the blog, and then after Yom Kippur I will post the final two. I wish you all a wonderful holiday, and the start of a wonderful new year. May it be a year filled with new experiences, thought-provoking questions, growth, joy, love, and perhaps most importantly of all - for us and the entire world - peace.

Shanah Tovah u'Metukah - May you have a Happy, Healthy, and Sweet New Year!

Warmest regards,

Rabbi Gerber

L'Chaim (newsletter) article, September, 2022: Striving for Balance in the New Year

Striving for Balance in the New Year

It’s hard to believe, but we are about to enter our third High Holiday season of the Covid-era. And it really has turned into an era, hasn’t it? Remember when the pandemic first began, and we thought we were shutting down “normal” operations for a week or two? Obviously (we told ourselves), once this crazy thing blew over, it would be back to business as usual. Oy. Then we gradually realized it would be going on for longer - a lot longer - and once we entered the second year and the conversation shifted to one new strain after another, people really started to accept the concept of “a new normal.”

So, here we are in year three. The good news is, the fatality rates have dropped significantly, and we’re (please God) hopefully entering the phase where Covid is another version of the flu; requiring vigilance and inoculation, but not causing widespread existential dread. With the High Holidays just a few weeks away, this is a good time for us to reflect on what has remained the same and what has changed. What new things, for better and for worse, have we had to embrace or at least acquiesce to incorporating into our lives? And what have we had to let go of to function and to adjust? So many things seem vastly different, before Covid vs. after.

Yet, at the same time, our values and needs are in many ways still the same. How we feel about family, community, and the world around us persists, despite some new considerations. And it is this balance that I invite us all to hold onto as we enter the Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe (a.k.a. The High Holidays). In Judaism, we sometimes talk about “Keva” and “Kavanah.” Keva refers to fixed prayers that repeat service after service, day after day, century after century; e.g. the Shema, Amidah, Aleinu, and Kaddish. Some stuff remains the same, and that helps us feel safe, comfortable, familiar, and a sense of belonging.

But there’s also Kavanah, meaning “spirituality” or “intention,” and very often this requires newness, change, updating, and fresh approaches. We are encouraged to offer our own individual, unique prayers, and through those prayers perhaps view ourselves and the world around us with a fresh perspective. And this is my hope for all of us as we enter the High Holidays. Let us hold onto what is the same year after year and feels safe and reassuring - the Sanctuary, the familiar tunes, and the cycle of Jewish holidays. Yet let’s also embrace the “new normal” of hybrid services with a zoom component, and the ways that our lives feel different this year from every year that came before.

We need a healthy balance of Tradition and Change. It is true for navigating a post-pandemic world, how we should think about Jewish prayer, and perhaps also for how we live our lives. It is good to feel comfortable, yet it’s also imperative that we challenge ourselves to do new (and sometimes scary) things. Rosh Hashanah is still a few weeks away. I hope we can all use this time to find our Keva *and* our Kavanah, and enter the new year with both a sense of belonging and groundedness, yet also feeling ready (and maybe even excited?) for whatever changes still await us.

Shanah Tovah u’Metukah - I wish everyone a Happy, Healthy, and Sweet New Year!

Sincerely,

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. 

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

Tzav: Smells Like a Fond Memory

Now that we’ve passed the holiday of Purim, it feels like Passover - and spring - are right around the corner. Even though the weather has been fluctuating wildly, there’s still evidence of the seasons changing all around us. Flower buds poking out, it’s getting lighter and lighter, and everything seems to smell like spring. Once Pesach gets even closer, our sense of smell will truly kick into high gear; first when we clean for the holiday, then when the familiar festival foods start cooking, and eventually when we sit around the Seder table in less than a month. With all this in mind (or in “nose”…), I’d like to spend this blog post talking about our sense of smell. And not just ours, but the Torah portion this week appears to spend a lot of time picturing God’s sense of smell too!

Now that we’re into the Book of Leviticus, the text is really hyper-focused on the ancient sacrifices and all the rituals surrounding them. And while the text may emphasize the sacrifices themselves and the people doing the offering, the real focus of all of this is God. The sacrificial rite was essentially The Way that our ancestors communicated with the Divine. And how did they know if their offerings were accepted? The text repeatedly tells us that the smoke from the altar, wafting up to heaven, would produce “a pleasing odor to Adonai” (Lev. 6:8, 14; 8:21, 28). Watching the mists rising into the sky would tell the worshiper that God was listening… and smelling. The ancient rabbis emphasized that this term, “pleasing odor to Adonai,” was used to describe the most simple to the most complex offerings. It referred to gifts from poor and wealthy alike. The Mishnah states: “ "This teaches you that whether a person gives a costly one or an inexpensive one, as long as he directs his heart to heaven, the type is irrelevant." (Menachot 110a) In other words, what God is “enjoying” isn’t the smell of the food or the animal, but rather the meaning behind our intentions. 

Furthermore, whether we’re talking about God’s olfactory sense or ours, it’s clear that the meaning is deeper than just the aroma. The very first instance of the Torah referring to a “pleasing odor” (Ray-ach Nee-cho-ach) was back in Genesis, chapter 8, when God smelled Noah’s offering right after he emerged from the Ark, and immediately promised never to send another flood to destroy humanity. The scent seems to have triggered something for God, much like a perfume, spice, or food may “flood” our brain with memories. More than any other sense, fragrances can take us back to a long-forgotten memory with remarkable speed and accuracy. According to the mystical teachings of the Kabbalah, smell was regarded as the loftiest and most transcendent of the senses, the critical connection point between body and soul. Perhaps it doesn’t just work that way for us, but for Adonai as well.

Smells aren’t as closely tied to our Jewish rituals any longer. We have the besamim, spices, at the Havdalah ceremony that ends Shabbat every week, but otherwise smells seem more tangential or connected to customs and foods, rather than ritual or theology. But it is still significant to read in our ancient texts how pivotal our noses were, and how the “pleasing odor” from our various offerings were seen as a direct sign of God’s acceptance. As we move further into spring and closer to Pesach, I invite each of us to think about what smells remind us of this upcoming season. How closely linked to your nose are your own associations with nature and with Passover’s foods, rituals, and experiences? It isn’t always the first sense we focus on, yet when we really stop and think about it, it is quite significantly hard-wired to our memories and our emotions. Winter is behind us, the pandemic is receding (thank God), and even though we don’t know what lies ahead or what the future holds, now seems like a perfectly good time to stop and smell the roses… as well as the matzah ball soup, the charoset and maror, and all the other fragrances that connect us - and God - to this wonderful, aromatic season!

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Eric Horst on Flickr
2. pxhere.com
3. pxhere.com
4. Olaf herfurth on Wikimedia Commons

Pekudei: An E(a)rnest Thank You.

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

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

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

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

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

L’Chaim (newsletter) article, October, 2021: Not so “bitter” after all

 So, we finally made it through the High Holidays. As I’m writing this, we still have a bit more to go, but certainly by the time you’re reading my article (and this whole L’Chaim issue), the holidays for the Jewish year 5782 will have concluded. All of the holidays actually fall within a single Jewish month, known as Tishrei. Oddly enough, it’s actually considered the SEVENTH month on the calendar (the first is Nisan, when we celebrate Passover), yet this is indeed the month where the number ticks over from 5781 to 5782. Leave it to our ancient rabbis to create such a confusing calendrical conundrum…

As we shift over to October, 2021, we have also moved on to another Jewish month, namely Cheshvan. Interestingly, Cheshvan is more the month’s nickname (though often the one you’ll see on calendars, in Israel, and on Jewish materials); the full name is actually Marcheshvan. This is a peculiar addition, because the word “Mar” in Hebrew means “bitter.” So the month is really named “bitter-Cheshvan.” That’s a pretty weirdthing to name a month, isn’t it?

So what’s so bitter and unpleasant (if you don’t care for that flavor…) about Marcheshvan? Well, the main thing is that there are no Jewish holidays in this entire month. It’s one of the only ones. And having completed a month filled with Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Hoshana Rabbah, Shemini Atzeret, AND Simchat Torah, I think it’s easy to see why celebrants of Jewish holidays might view Marcheshvan with pity and sympathy. How unfair that one month gets ‘em all, while the very next one is entirely devoid of ritual, joyous celebrations! How bitter and unfortunate indeed…

But here’s the funny irony: As someone who has to plan for, coordinate, organize, and then execute one holiday after another in Tishrei, Marcheshvan feels more like a relief and a much-needed break, rather than a sad and depressing month! Rabbis and cantors everywhere, along with congregants who make it a point to attend and observe EVERY holiday, sometimes consider the name “Marcheshvan” to be more tongue-in-cheek than anything else! Not actually bitter in the slightest, but a welcome opportunity to rest, replenish, and look ahead to lifecycle celebrations, synagogue programs, and – eventually - Chanukah and all the rest of the holidays.

I also think there’s a nice lesson in here as well, one that can apply to all of us. Sometimes what might appear to be joyful andvivacious can also feel exhausting, depleting, and overwhelming. While something quiet, unassuming, and even lonely may also be a great opportunity for self-reflection, peace, blessed silence, and mindfulness. I spoke about this during my holiday sermons, but I think sometimes in life we are quite quick to label something as “good” or “bad,” before we even really take the time to see how things play out. And perhaps rather than even try and assess the pros or cons of a situation, we should instead be thinking about how to learn and grow from EVERY experience!

I’ll admit that I am one of those rabbis who annually says “Marcheshvan” more tongue-in-cheek than anything, andwelcome the quiet and simplicity of our services. In fact, having celebrated so many holidays so close together, I think we may have even gained a new appreciation for straight-forward, mundane, basic services. The frills and additions can be fun and exciting; but when we’re back to normal and routine, that feels pretty welcome as well. Again, one isn’t good and the other bad; both just ARE, and both experiences are deserving of our blessings. Bitter is an important flavor as well, just like all the others.

“Happy” Marcheshvan! :-)

Rabbi Gerber

Chol Ha-Moed Sukkot: Do You Remember MY Name??

I’m good with names. It’s a particularly useful talent to have when you’re a rabbi and/or when you do community organizing. Fortunately, I’ve just always had this ability - I see a face and a related name jumps back in my head - and I’m very, very grateful for it. Because names are tremendously important. Our identity is bound up with our name, and it’s a major element of each person’s self-perception. Even after years in the rabbinate, I’m still amazed at how critical it is for people, and how a person’s face softens and brightens when s/he feels seen and remembered. Even God identifies this as a value and a symbol of relationship, as expressed in this week’s Torah reading. 

As it is Chol Ha-Moed (the intermediated days of) Sukkot, we take a break from our weekly cycle, and instead read a section specifically associated with the holiday. Interestingly, the rabbis assigned to us a reading for this Shabbat that takes place right after the sin of the Golden calf. God is still angry, and so is Moses, but having weathered this heretical storm together, the two of them have actually formed an even closer bond! Moses asks to see God, but God informs him that’s impossible. However, God can place Moses in the cleft of a rock and let him see the Back of the Divine Presence as it passes by the mountain. It’s still more than any other human has seen, or ever will see…

When God agrees to do this for Moses, God says: “I will do this thing that you have asked; for you have truly gained My favor and I have singled you out by name.” (Ex. 33:17) I don’t love the translation “singled out,” because the Hebrew is, “Eida’acha b’Sheim,” meaning “I know you by name.” To me, it’s almost like God is saying, “you and me, we’re on a first-name basis.” The text is, essentially, using this expression as a term of closeness and intimacy: “Ours is not a formal relationship; we call each other by our personal names.” Maybe they even have nicknames for one another! It is the same between any two friends, or for a clergy member and her/his congregation; names facilitate closeness and bonding, and make us feel seen and acknowledged.

I know not everyone does or can have as easy a time with names as I do, and for some people it’s genuinely hard to remember them. But it’s also a skill we can work on. I have tricks and methods for recalling names, and I’ve encouraged clergy colleagues and students to really prioritize this skill when working in a congregational setting. Our names come with stories, memories, loving relationships with family, perhaps trauma, nicknames and possibly teasing, and so much more. It is a foundational part of who we are, and when someone knows us well, it is a way that we can bring them closer: “please, just call me ____.” When we share this bond with another, and feel present to them just as they are present to us, it can truly become a genuine and lasting friendship. And it started with that moment of being introduced and learning one another’s names. And even a simple, close friendship like that still holds sparks of the relationship between God and Moses. Even for the Ruler of the Entire Universe, that kinship begins with knowing one another by name.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Emily Rose on Flickr 
2. ELG21 on Pixabay
3. pxfuel.com
4. blairwang on Flickr

L’Chaim (newsletter) article, March, 2021 - L’Shanah Ha-Ba’ah... where?

 Rabbi’s Corner, March, 2021: L’Shanah Ha-ba’ah… where?

Every year, at the Passover Seder, towards the end of the evening, we sing together, “L’Shanah Ha-Ba’ah Birushalayim!” - “Next Year in Jerusalem.” At last year’s Seder, it felt weird saying that, because it was the first holiday that was truly impacted by the coronavirus pandemic. We still sang this line… but I think in our minds we were really just thinking, “Next year, let us just be out of quarantine!” Sadly, that has not come to fruition.

It is strange to be coming around the corner to another Passover, and to still be talking about Zoom Seders and socially distanced holiday celebrations. We didn’t believe it would take this long (or longer), and we certainly hoped and prayed it would be a bizarre and unpleasant memory that we’d already be ready to leave behind us. And yet, this particular “plague” has not ended yet, and we still feel enslaved to our face masks, our hand sanitizers, and yes, our zoom gatherings.

And yet, a lot has indeed changed in a year. The government has gone through a massive change, to be sure, but also our own abilities to persevere through hardship have proven quite strong. We can do this. A year ago, the frightening prospects of what the pandemic would bring were hard to fathom, yet we have adjusted. Life has gone on, and while this is sometimes excruciatingly hard, we CAN do this. There are vaccines now, and more yet to come. Treatments have improved, protective equipment is more readily accessible, and we know now how much we are reliant on one another to follow the guidelines and rally together to protect our community. 

I would like to say that at least THIS year we can confidently say the pandemic will be in our rearview mirror by next Pesach! But you and I both know we can’t say that and be sure it’ll happen. We pray that it will, and we will do everything in our collective power to make it so. But we don’t know what “Shanah Ha-ba’ah,” “next year” will bring. That is daunting, certainly, and it is absolutely true that we are tired of the quarantine, the distancing, and the restrictions. But please, please always know that your community is here for you through all of this. We have one another, we have resources to help us endure and persevere, and we will face whatever this year and next year have in store for us united!

I’m still going to sing “L’Shanah Ha-ba’ah Birushalayim” at this year’s Zoom Seders. Because it isn’t really about Jerusalem, and it isn’t about KNOWING where I’ll be next year at all. It is about hope, optimism, and faith, no matter what lies ahead. Friends, we can do this. We can. No matter what.

Warmest regards,

Rabbi Gerber

Terumah (Purim. So beware...): Newly Discovered Psalm(ish) Translations

I had fully intended to write a “regular” blog post this week, discussing the riveting intricacies of Parashat Terumah, but an incredible discovery was... well... discovered this week, and I had to share that with you instead. As you may know, the Purim story took place in the city of Shushan, the capital city in the ancient Persian Empire of... um... Persia. Modern-day Iran. In fact, the Jews spent centuries upon centuries in that region, so it would really be swell if the Iranians would let us come in and excavate (respectfully, of course), to see what kinds of Jewish history could be unearthed underneath the... er... earth. 

BUT, this week, the Jewish scholarly world was tickled pink to learn that a never-before seen scroll was smuggled out of modern-day Shushan, and it contains the translations of several Biblical psalms by a Persian, Jewish philosopher. This previously-unknown scholar lived 2,500 years ago (!), and his name, apparently, translated to Rabbi Zephaniah Seussai. I am tickled-even-MORE-pink to share with you the English translations of two of his incredible, upbeat, Farsi-riffic psalms:

Psalm 145 (more well-known as the Ashrei):

Fortunate are those who dwell in Your house; 
may they praise You louder than the praise of a mouse. 

Fortunate is the people whose portion is thus; 

Adonai is their God; they have no reason to fuss. 

A psalm of David,

To You, my God, the King, I sing. 

I would swing, flap my wing, 

and let Your Name forever ring. 

Every day I will bless and not guess, then give an address, no less! 

Extol Your Name, not a shame, lots of fame, you got game, each day I say the same. 

Adonai is the greatest, unfathomably great;

God’s also magnificousleriffic - of that there’s no debate!

God’s splendiforously splendid, I think you’ll agree. 

God’s acts are the mightiest, as strong as can be. 

God is boundlessly bountiful, I think that’s a lot. 

Is righteously righteous, and fiery red hot!

So praise and extol God, from Aleph to Tav;

Adonai is the greatest… now show God some love!

Psalm 150:

Hallelujah!

I will praise God in the Temple,

I will praise God, O so gentle. 

I will praise God in the sky,

Praising low and praising high. 

Praise with horn and harp and flute

And even with something called a lute. 

I’ll play the timbrel (does one play it?)

And the lyre (that’s how you say it?)

A pipe can be played best,

Upside down against your chest. 

While the oboe sounds sublime,

At 5am, so be on time!

I’ll play the shofar in the shower,

Beat a drum for one full hour. 

God is worth it, that’s for sure,

Whether on the Nevel or Kinor. 

If you’re a Levite, try a Minim

Or an Ugav, or a Tof;

But the Machol can be tricky,

And the Tziltzalim are rough. 

These ancient instruments are odd,

But the point here is still good. 

Every breath of life praise God,

Come on, you know you really should!

It is even rumored that a descendant of Rabbi Zephaniah Seussai, centuries upon centuries later, made it to the United States, where he - of course - became a world-famous doctor. :-))

Happy Purim! 🤪