B'Shallach: Why the Israelites Did (and We Should) Sing

There isn't a ton of music in the Torah, but there's some. We don't get sheet music or anything, but the text DOES tell us when someone sings, and it gives us the words of their refrain. Along with the Torah text 
itself, we also have traditions, passed down over centuries, that teach us how to sing the words and how to emphasize particular phrases. This week, we sing one of the most famous musical pieces in the Torah, the Song of the Sea. Moses and the Israelites walk safely through the Sea of Reeds, and escape the clutches of their Egyptian pursuers. They are free... and they sing! On Saturday morning, we'll talk more about the song itself, but here on the blog, I want to talk about the words that introduce this piece. How does the Torah prepare us to hear it sung, and why are certain, strange words emphasized for this purpose?

The Song of the Sea has its own tune. It doesn't sound like anything else in the service, and you won't hear it used anywhere else. The Song itself begins in chapter 15, but three times in the preceding chapter, in verses 22, 29, and 31, the melody begins to seep into our reading and into our heads. What caught my eye is 

the fact that two of the three instances are essentially the same verse... and the choice of words to emphasize is quite surprising. Verse 22 states: "... and the Israelites went into the sea on dry ground, the waters forming a wall for them on their right and on their left." So which part gets the prestigious honor of sharing a tune with the Song of the Sea? The words 'on their right and on their left." Seems odd, no? Is that the most majestic part of that verse? I don't think so. And then again, in verse 29, we see the same thing: "But the Israelites had marched through the sea on dry ground, the waters forming a wall for them on their right and on their left." Sure enough, the same two words (in Hebrew) are highlighted as well: "on their right and on their left." Why?
My thought is this: The crossing of the Sea of Reeds is a problematic story for the rabbis. Well, it's uncomfortable, at least. Because it was a grandiose, miraculous, fantastical incident where God's Presence was 
unmistakably tangible. And you and I, the readers, might be inclined to judge our own experiences and our lives by this impossible standard: "If this is what it looks like to experience God, then how could I POSSIBLY know this God?? Nothing amazing like this has EVER happened to me; I have NO relationship with this God, and I don't feel God in my daily life at all." The rabbis are worried that you'll read this story and draw a line in the sand - either God starts splitting something in half for me, or God and I are through!

So what do the rabbis do? They emphasize a mundane verse in the story that actually holds a powerful message. God is everywhere. At all times, and in every moment of our lives, God is "to the right of us and the left of us." As we prepare to read the Song of the Sea - this magnificent celebration of God's role in the lives of our ancestors - 
let us pause, twice, and remember how God impacts OUR lives as well. We don't need these overstated miracles to feel God's Presence; God is at our side, both sides in fact, all the time. But we're also not that different from the Israelites. Before the sea split (and not too many minutes after...), they utterly lacked faith. They got disheartened. We don't always feel that God is close by, and neither did they. But we keep working at it. We remind ourselves that God is, indeed, on the left and the right, even when we can't feel it. And hopefully it will give us all some comfort and a sense of security. Some moments in life we can't get there. But other times we can. And when we do, it feels so good to know that God is there to support you, it almost makes you want to break out in song.

Photos in this blog post:
1. CC image courtesy of Mozartito on Wikimedia Commons
2. CC image courtesy of Chris Lavis on Wikimedia Commons
3. CC image courtesy of Roger McLachlan on Wikimedia Commons
4. CC image courtesy of Fry1989 on Wikimedia Commons

Bo: Beginning Anew, Anew, Anew

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way." A pretty common saying, right? Well, when it comes to the Torah, or indeed most Biblical books or later rabbinic writings, when 

there's a choice between a simpler, easier way of presenting something, or a more complicated, challenging, hard way, the Torah/rabbis will pretty much always choose the more difficult option. And I find myself saying this a lot, whether on the blog or in synagogue, so you may have heard this from me before. But that's because it's true! My example for you this week is the structure of the Jewish calendar. Our parashah teaches us about the laws of Passover, and says that this month, Nisan, is the first month of the year. Simple, no? That's what you think...

Right now, we are in the Jewish year of 5775, and that will switch over to 5776 in... the calendar's SEVENTH month, Tishrei, in the Fall at Rosh Hashanah. And in a few weeks, we'll also be celebrating ANOTHER New Year on our calendar; the holiday of Tu Bishvat, which is the New Year 

for planting trees. There's also a FOURTH New Year, but let's not go there... So what's the deal? Why does the Hebrew Calendar make things so complicated??? Is Nisan (Passover) the start of the year, as the Torah so adamantly insists in our Torah portion, or is it Tishrei (Rosh Hashanah)? The secular, or Gregorian, calendar is so much simpler, don't you think? In the Western World, the year has a straightforward beginning: January 1st. Well, that is unless you ask school children when the (school) year starts, and they say Labor Day; or an accountant, and s/he says April 16th; or a non-profit and they say August 1st. Hmm, not so simple anymore, is it?

 

This, by the way, is why I love the complexity of the Torah, and later the methodology of the rabbis. Because life IS complicated, and it IS nuanced. It has many starts and stops, and turns along the way. 

Our lives don't follow straight trajectories, or have only one primary component. A calendar with multiple new beginnings reflects our multi-faceted lives; Venn diagrams of overlapping circles filled with work, family, religion, and so much more. Each one is separate, yet they also overlap. And we keep track of them all in our heads, our smartphones, and our daily lives constantly. Our Jewish calendar acknowledges this reality, and teaches us to bless and honor each of these aspects with a separate, distinct, and important New Year's celebration. 

Look at the Israelites, who this week are at the precipice of the Exodus; the end of hundreds of years of slavery, and the start of... who knows? This is indeed a New Year for them, a MAJOR new beginning in their existence as a people. But even as they journey into the desert, they also 

bring with them memories of slavery, and of their ancient ancestors, Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebecca, Jacob, Leah, and Rachel. One new beginning doesn't negate all that came before or that will happen later. This is precisely why we celebrate multiple New Years across our calendar, and throughout our lives. And that is also why we don't always take the easy way, even when it may seem simpler, faster, or less complicated. Occasionally our path should reflect the complexity of our lives. Sometimes the more challenging road has much to teach us, and will help us understand life in a whole new way. So if, right now, you yourself are at the start of something new in your life, celebrate this moment. Acknowledge the excitement, fear, opportunity, joy, and trepidation of this crossroads in your life, and give thanks for it. And... Happy New Year!

Photos in this blog post:
1. CC image courtesy of Thomas R Machnitzki on Wikimedia Commons
2. Image courtesy of a wall calendar in my house (and a Sharpie) :-)
3. CC image courtesy of Dando Dangerslice on Wikimedia Commons
4. CC image courtesy of Helgi Halldórsson on Wikimedia Commons

Va'eira: Stuck In The Middle With All of Us

Right now, it feels like our lives are filled with vigils, marches, and memorial services. Before the new year, services were held across the 

country for Eric Garner and Michael Brown, emblazoned with the hashtag-rubric #BlackLivesMatter. In 2015, the new slogan is "Je Suis Charlie" or "Je Suis Juif," commemorating the lethal terrorist attacks on the satirical newspaper in Paris, Charlie Hebdo, and the subsequent attack on a Kosher grocery store which led to the deaths of four more people. Many people wonder, justifiably, where our world is heading. I find it particularly sad when I reflect on how many of the victims seem like innocent casualties of someone else's conflict. And when you read this week's Torah portion, you unfortunately discover that not much has changed.

We are right now squarely in the story of the Exodus, and we're witnessing the first set of plagues raining down on the Egyptians. Blood, frogs, lice, swarms of insects, 

pestilence; all of them are really weapons launched in a battle between two enemies. We sometimes get distracted by the specifics of these larger-than-life plagues, when perhaps we'd do well to refocus our conversation and instead talk about modern equivalents like suicide bombings, anthrax scares, and hostage takings... or drone strikes, racial profiling, and enhanced interrogations. Ultimately, what we're really talking about is a war between two sides, where the top officials make the decisions, send the troops, and issue the threats; but the people who get hurt are the ones stuck in the middle with no place to hide.

Earlier this week, I was reading a Torah commentary out of the Ziegler Rabbinical School in California, written by Janet Sternfield Davis, where she included the line: "This is a contest between God and Pharaoh. This suffering is in service to God's plan. Moses, Aaron, the Israelites, and the Egyptians are [all] caught in the crossfire." 

On one side, the Egyptian people are getting decimated because their idiot leader won't let go of his pride. On the other, the Israelites first get punished by Pharaoh, and then get dragged out into the wilderness, all in the name of God's glory (the Torah's language, not mine). Are modern conflicts really so different? The people who walk into a grocery store, work at a newspaper, or put on a hoodie, are they prepared to suffer the consequences of war? Are they aware of the risks they're assuming? Part of what we commemorate, what we lament, in our vigils is the loss of self-determination. We mourn the absence of safety and concern for human life, and we cry bitterly over the self-righteous, sanctimonious narcissism that allows certain people, fundamentalists on all sides, to punish innocent victims in THEIR war.

Rabbi Menachem Creditor writes beautiful, heart-breaking modern prayers in the face of tragedies that befall us. Last week, he composed yet another impactful piece, which states: "How can Your images, every human being, do such horrid things, hating each other, hurting each other, killing each other?" This is truly our question. How can people ignore the sacred in one another? 

How can they allow hate to consume them so fully as to only see evil in another? To spend so much of their time on this earth plotting destruction, terror, and fear? It mystifies us. Yet it is. It exists. And sadly, it has been a part of human history since God and Pharaoh battled it out thousands of years ago, and even earlier still. But we all have to teach ourselves to see those innocent victims in the middle. We have to recognize that most people, on every side of every issue, are not evil or violent. Hate will only breed more hate, and we've got enough of that already. The vigils and marches will persist, but each of us must work hard to resist the temptation to hate. Rabbi Creditor reminds us, pleads with us, to stand strong through our pain, and to never cease our blessings for that most essential blessing of all: Peace.

Amen.

Photos in this blog post:
1. CC image of courtesy of Quaerite on Wikimedia Commons
2. CC image courtesy of Thomas Good on Wikimedia Commons
3. CC image courtesy of Kosherb on Wikimedia Commons
4. CC image courtesy of Marctasman on Wikimedia Commons

Sh'mot: Why No One Can Ruin the Ending

Spoiler alert! This week, we are beginning the Book of Exodus and therefore also the story of THE Exodus (from Egypt). Yet even though 
we're only at the very beginning, 
and it's going to take weeks to find out whether Moses successfully convinces Pharaoh to let the Israelites go, I can tell you right now: Moses wins. Sorry if I ruined the ending for you, especially if you were planning to go see the new Hollywood film, "Exodus: Gods and Kings" (which was conveniently released right around the time that we started reading the Book of Exodus). I know what a nail-biter it would have been, if I hadn't just given away the exciting finish...

The funny thing is, I'm not the only one who read ahead. God did too. And in our parashah, still at the very, very start of the epic story, God spoils the ending for Moses as well. In chapter 3, verses 19-20, God 
tells Moses: "Yet I know that the king of Egypt will let you go only because of a greater might. So I will stretch out My hand and smite Egypt with various wonders which I will work upon them; after that he shall let you go." What amazes me about this is that before Moses ever approaches Pharaoh with those first immortal words, "Let my people go!", God already reveals to Moses that Pharaoh WON'T listen to him. It's going to take A LOT more convincing (and plagues) to crack this nut. I wonder how Moses might have felt then at the outset of the enterprise, knowing it would be a long, long haul.

Sometimes when I discuss this section with congregants, say in our Wednesday morning Bible class, people express frustration at what they're reading: "Why go through this whole song-and-dance? Why doesn't God just cut to the chase and start with the TENTH plague so we can get this over with already!?!" 

It's a fair question. Why send Moses in to speak to Pharaoh, when God is telling him from the start that it won't work? OR, at the very least, why tell Moses how it's going to end at this early stage? What does it accomplish to, in effect, ruin the exciting conclusion for him, as I did (though not really) for you? I want to suggest two responses. First, it's about faith in God. The reason for revealing the climax to Moses is to show God's total omnipotence. It demonstrates to Moses that not only will God win the fight with Pharaoh, and not only can God work fantastical wonders to accomplish this goal, but the entire sequence of events is already known to God from the outset. In other words, God isn't the protagonist to Pharaoh's antagonist, like two opponents in a chess match; God invented the game.  

The second lesson I take from God "spoiling" the ending is that the Torah is not about outcomes, it's about processes. The Exodus itself - I mean the WHOLE thing, the entire 40-year period - is about the time in the desert, not just the destination. God tells Moses that this is not 

going to be a simple, one-time conversation with Pharaoh; all the stages between this moment and the eventual release are all valuable. The same is true for us today; it's not about the solutions or the resolutions we come to, it's about the travels we embark on and the phases we go through along the way. It's also a reminder not to worry about spoilers. If you are only looking to get to the end, whether it's a book, a movie, or a stage in life, then maybe you're in it for the wrong reasons. Try to refocus and see the value in the odyssey itself. Nothing is really pointless or devoid of value. Sometimes we just have to look harder and mine our experiences for meaning; but there is always some reason why we are where we are. God is the only one who REALLY knows how it ends, but that's ok. You and I should just hang out here, right in the middle of the journey itself.

Photos in this blog post:
1. CC image of courtesy of Donperfectodewiki on Wikimedia Commons
2. CC image of Benjamin West's painting, "Moses and Aaron before Pharaoh" courtesy of Captain Phoebus on Wikimedia Commons
3. CC image courtesy of LGD12345 on Wikimedia Commons
4. CC image courtesy of Ewikist on en.wikipedia

Vayechi: The Year of the Tribes

Happy New Year, everyone! As I sit here on Wednesday, counting down the final hours of 2014, I find myself looking ahead to some 

exciting plans for 2015. But before I get to that, I just want to note that this year the cycle of Torah readings coincides nicely with the Gregorian calendar. This doesn't always happen, because the Jewish year shifts around a bunch, but right now we happen to also be concluding the Book of Genesis. The final Torah portion of 2014 is therefore Vayechi, meaning "And he lived." A very fitting, one word end-of-year blessing for us all, no? L'Chaim! As it also just so happens, the subject of our Torah reading this week fits perfectly in with my very exciting project for next year here at Ohev Shalom.

Chapter 49 of the Book of Genesis is sometimes referred to as "The Testament of Jacob." It consists of all the final blessings he offered to his twelve sons on his death bed. 

Perhaps unwittingly, the symbols by which Jacob blesses (and curses...) his sons are later solidified as the enduring images of the tribes of their descendants: The lion of Judah, the ship of Zebulun, the serpent of Dan, the deer of Naphtali, and of course, the wolf of Benjamin. They all became the family crests for their future tribes and remained so for centuries; and they were first spoken in this week's Torah portion by their father, Jacob. In 2015, Ohev Shalom is embarking on a major art project, commissioning twelve incredible portraits that will adorn the walls of our main sanctuary for decades (and centuries?) to come.

An incredible artist in Philadelphia, Heather Bryson, is working with a member of Ohev Shalom, Douglas Lieberman, to spend the next year creating depictions of the Twelve Tribes of Israel, based on the images described in Genesis and Deuteronomy. I want to take a moment to 

acknowledge Charlotte Snyder, who is underwriting this project. Without her generosity, none of it would have been possible. Not only will each picture be one-of-a-kind, but Heather and Dug are also inviting members of our congregation to help construct the different portraits. I myself have already participated in the assembly of the first piece, and it's truly an incredible experience. Not only will these magnificent images depict our ancient heritage, but will also represent our community through the efforts (and artifacts...) that we'll contribute to the project! I also know that it will educate our congregation about the symbols that Jacob bestowed on his children; making them come alive for us in a tangible, beautiful, personal new way.

Heather is already hard at work on the tribe of Reuben. If you would like to learn more about this amazing project, and/or would like to get involved, please let me know. Each piece 
will take a month or two to complete, and we'll be dedicating them in pairs every few months over the course of the next year. For now, I just want to share with you my excitement and anticipation for what lies ahead. It is true that rabbis often struggle to find ways of making the Torah come alive for congregants, grappling with how to make the text and imagery mean something in modern-day 2014... er, 2015. As I read Jacob's blessings this week, at the threshold of a new year, I cannot help but feel that over the next twelve months, it will be just a little bit easier to find meaning in the ancient Tribes of Israel.

Happy New Year!

Photos in this blog post:
1. Sketch of the oryx (?) of the tribe of Menashe by Heather Bryson
2. Sketch of the wolf of Benjamin by Heather Bryson
3. Sketch of the serpent and scales of Dan by Heather Bryson
4. One portrait completed! The olive tree of Asher by Heather Bryson. Can't wait to see it on our walls...

Shabbat Chanukah/Mikeitz: What the Glow of Our Candles Can Achieve

A few days ago, my daughter, Caroline, and I were getting home from our daily commute together. We carpool. As I lifted her out of the car, she looked up and exclaimed, "Moon!" We stopped for a minute to talk about the full moon, and to sing a couple of songs about it. And then, she reached up to grab it. Of course, she was unsuccessful, because, you know, it's the moon. But then 

she turned to me and said, "Daddy do it." I indulged her and tried a couple of times to nab it, but then explained to her how high up it is, and why we can't reach it. I'm not sure she got it. Later, after I recovered from this overdose of cuteness, I reflected on just how human she was being in that moment. Don't you think we all, as kids, at some point reached up and thought we could lasso the moon? Everyone learns it's impossible (without NASA), yet we ALL do it. It also occurred to me that this SHOULD happen. If, by some Chanukah miracle, I DID reach up and grab the moon, Carrie wouldn't think twice about it. She'd hold it in her hand, then eventually drop it like every other toy or novel shiny object. The fact that we can't reach it, that it's so high up and unobtainable, means it will remain mysterious to her. And hopefully, she'll keep reaching for things beyond her grasp, keep aspiring and trying, even when things seem totally inaccessible or impossible. And this, to me, is really the message of Chanukah.

One very famous Chanukah debate took place 2,000 years ago between two great rabbis, Hillel and Shammai. In short, Shammai wanted to light all eight candles on Day One and then diminish, while Hillel wanted to begin with one and increase. Guess who won. But I recently read a 

great interpretation of the underlying reasons for each rabbinic position. Both rabbis understood that it's hard to stay excited about the holiday for all eight nights. Let's face it: The first day is exciting, we sing the songs we've missed for a whole year with great gusto and enthusiasm. The presents are great, the latkes and donuts taste terrific. Flash-forward a week... the motivation's petered out. We're down to sock-presents, and the thought of more oily food is a little nauseating. And it's possible that (heaven forbid) some people "forget" to light them on the final night, or skip a couple in the middle. The point is, according to Shammai, let's have our Chanukiah reflect our current emotional state; I'm excited NOW, let's fire 'em all! But Hillel takes a different approach.

Hillel says we should push ourselves to grow in enthusiasm. We should reach for something that's a little harder to obtain. It's easy to get excited on Day One. But religion is really about challenging ourselves to do more, to be more than we are at 

this very moment. Rabbi Nathan Lopes Cardozo writes: "[Hillel] believes that if we do not inspire man with his potential and give him a taste of what could be, he will not even strive to achieve higher goals." The Chanukiah is a symbol. Among other things, it represents the presence of miracles in our lives, but miracles WE must work to bring about. It's a reminder to us to bring light and goodness into the world. And we cannot just sit back and wait for it to fall into our laps; we need to strive and work hard for it to happen. 

JTS, my alma mater, writes about this as well. In a statement about healing in our community and Chanukah, they write: "As we celebrate Chanukah, we are reminded of the rabbinic instruction to increase the light over the course of the holiday. So too we need to increase the light 

in our communal lives so that we can see clearly the faces of our neighbors and public servants." It's hard to affect change. It's hard to imagine that some of the rifts in our country and in our communities can be healed. It's like reaching up for the moon; it's impossible. But can we stop striving? Can we really just give up, light all our candles right now, and finish the celebration early? No way. We need to keep pushing. We have to force ourselves to try harder, to care deeper, and to insist on change in our society. Chanukah is the festival of action, not just the festival of light. We should take that message to heart... and keep a lasso handy. 

Happy Chanukah!

Photos in this blog post:
1. CC image of courtesy of Roadcrusher on Wikimedia Commons
2. CC image courtesy of Roy Lindman on en.wikipedia
3. CC image courtesy of Trinitro Tolueno on Wikimedia Commons
4. CC image courtesy of Djampa on Wikimedia Commons

Vayeishev: What's YOUR Story Doing Here?

When we, as Jews, pray, we like to identify ourselves to God. In part, perhaps, it is our way of saying to God, "Hineini," "Here I am - me, (insert name here) - ready to be in relationship with you!" But in part, 

it is also an opportunity to link ourselves back to previous generations of ancestors who we KNOW that God liked. So, by association, we are hoping that God will like us too. That may sound funny, but it's the truth. We begin the Amidah, arguably our most important prayer, by stating, "... our God, and God of our ancestors; God of Abraham, God of Isaac, and God of Jacob (and in many Conservative synagogues, including ours, we also add our matriarchs, Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel, and Leah)." Other prayers refer to Moses, Aaron, and Miriam, yet others refer to King David, King Solomon, and Samuel. Basically, we're saying, "If you liked them (and heard their prayers), I hope you'll like me too (and hear MY prayers), because I'm related to them." And we know who our ancestors are, right? I mean, the Torah is pretty clear. Now, the Torah is ALSO quite clear about who our ancestors are NOT. And yet, it tells their story as well. Take, for instance, Joseph.

You and I, we are not related (by direct line anyway) to Joseph. His two sons were Ephraim and Menashe. Both became tribes in the Northern Kingdom of Israel, which was eventually defeated by the Assyrians. Everyone was dragged into slavery, and Ephraim and Menashe became two of the much-lamented

Ten Lost Tribes. The rest of us - basically the over, overwhelming majority of modern-day Jews - are either descended from the tribe of Judah (merged with Benjamin and possibly Simeon) or the tribe of Levi (if you're a Kohen or a Levite). So that's a VERY brief history of tribal affiliation within Judaism, all meant to lead me to this point: The last 14 chapters of Genesis deal primarily with the story of Joseph. His is essentially the culminating story of the entire first book of the Torah, and he therefore appears to be the book's ultimate protagonist; 14 of 50 chapters deal with his story, more than a quarter of the book! And... he is not our ancestor.

I say this because our Torah reading this week, being the 2nd triennial cycle, is a brief break in the narrative of Joseph. We've been introduced to him, the plot has begun to heat up, we're enthralled... and right then the author detours. We spend an entire chapter on the story of Judah 

and his (sort of) daughter-in-law, Tamar, before eventually returning to the epic of Joseph. When you look at the flow of Genesis, B'reisheet, it feels like this Judah-story is indeed a deviation, a side-step. It's a literary technique to heighten the drama of Joseph, while the story of Judah itself is inconsequential. But it isn't really at all! Judah IS our ancestor!! He's the guy we should be focusing on. Moreover, this story adds a truly essential puzzle piece in our history, because it explains the birth of Peretz, who is the progenitor of King David! I mean, honestly, how could THIS story be inconsequential?!? (And if you'd like to learn more about this fascinating little tale, please join us on Saturday morning, Dec. 13th, at 10:00 a.m. for an in-depth discussion on Judah and Tamar over bagels and lox!)

It is striking to see how the Torah can focus on Joseph over Judah. This book was eventually held in the sole possession of Judah's descendants, in the Southern Kingdom, and they could easily have rewritten the plot to emphasize Judah and demote Joseph. But they didn't. Because we don't only tell our own story. We give 

voice to Hagar, Esau, and Bilaam, all characters who are NOT directly in our ancestral line. They are sympathetic even; sometimes more so than our actual heroes! We hear them out, we add their history to ours. Today, we often struggle to do this. We like to hear voices that agree with us, that share our viewpoint. Why listen if we disagree? Why incorporate a perspective that differs, even clashes, with mine? But often, we must. Because their outlook will expand ours; their objections will force us out of our small box and actually make our own arguments more cogent, nuanced, and honest. To merit the legacy of our ancestors, to be able to truly say to God, "Here I am; hear my prayers!", we need to include Joseph's story in ours. Then God will hear us praying, and maybe we'll even hear ourselves better as well.

Photos in this blog post:
1. Image of the Hebrew word "Hineini," meaning "Here I Am."
2. CC image courtesy of Fraxinus Croat on Wikimedia Commons
3. CC image courtesy of ReubenGBrewer on Wikimedia Commons
4. CC image courtesy of Mehmetaergun on Wikimedia Commons