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!

Rosh Hashanah, 5783/2022 - First Day Sermon

We don’t talk a lot about Moses on the High Holidays. Have you noticed that? As prominent as he is throughout our Jewish tradition, he’s kind of more of a Passover-guy, to be honest. Though also Shavuot, where we celebrate receiving the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai; he had something to do with that story too, I’m quite sure… But Rosh Hashanah? Not so much. However, when I sat down to write this sermon, I found myself thinking a lot about Moses. This time of year, when we read from the Torah at morning minyan and on Saturdays, we are in the Book of Deuteronomy, and indeed right at the very end of the entire Torah. In just another couple of weeks, we’ll get to the holiday of Simchat Torah, where we conclude and then restart the whole Torah. 

So, with just a couple of weekly readings left, at this point, Moses already knows he won’t be leading the people forever, and specifically won’t get to enter the Promised Land. His speeches to them start to take on an urgency and even a desperate pleading; he knows he only has a short time left to get them ready for the daunting, nation-building task ahead. He knows they’re prone to complaining and rebelling against God, and they have this nasty habit of being lured away by various idolatrous practices. 

Moses wants them to know that he has led them for a long time now, and really given everything of himself to this endeavor, and he hopes they will remember him and continue to learn from his teachings. But to be honest with you, he doesn’t exactly make it easy for them. At one point he states: “And now, O Israel, what does Adonai, Your God, demand of you? Only this: To fear Adonai, Your God, to walk in all of God’s Ways, to love God, and to serve God with all your heart and soul, keeping all of God’s commandments and statutes, which I command you this day.” (Deut. 10:12-13)

Pretty easy, right? God doesn’t ask much. Just to love and revere and serve God with all of our heart and soul… oh, and just keep every single commandment too. It’s so simple, really, isn’t it? Um, no, it isn’t. That’s actually quite a lot. 

Phrasing it like low-hanging fruit that anyone can do and observe, doesn’t make it any easier. Instead, I think it just makes people feel bad because they can’t possibly rise to that level. It’s an example of good Jewish-guilt, even in Biblical times! I guess that means we’re all failing God.

Well, that’s not how I feel about things, as I’m sure many of you already know about me. That’s not how I approach Judaism, the Torah, God, or my work with the congregants here at Ohev Shalom. Setting impossible standards doesn’t motivate, it intimidates. People very often apologize to me for falling short of some imagined standard of Jewish observance or religiosity, and that’s just not something I subscribe to or endorse.

Of course, you might then ask: What are we all doing here then, and what might we hope to get out of these High Holiday services? If we can’t be perfect, and therefore reject the expectation of perfection, why try at all? I have been thinking about this a lot, especially as I end my tenure here at Ohev, and I would like to suggest an approach. It is, in fact, my theme for this year’s High Holiday sermons:

We aspire. We strive to be better and to keep improving, and that, ultimately, is the goal. Not the achievement itself, but the aspiration! Otherwise, we either tell ourselves we’re constantly failing, or we reject the notion that we need to work on ourselves at all. Both are unfortunate extremes, and neither is a good response to the task at hand. Instead, I encourage us all to let go of perfection and abandon our unobtainable, lofty goals. BUT we shouldn’t therefore have NO goals and NO aspirations. We still need to keep striving. 

One of my very favorite rabbinic quotes comes from Pirkei Avot, the Ethics of Our Sages, Chapter 2, teaching number 16: Rabbi Tarfon said,  (Hebrew first) “You are not required to finish the task, but neither are you free to desist from it.” In other words, you don’t have to get straight A’s, hit a home run every time, score every touchdown, and always finish first. (Or insert your own metaphor for perfection here that you personally prefer.) You don’t have to be PERFECT! Let go of that myth and that expectation. 

We sometimes tell ourselves, “yeah, but it motivates me. It makes me work harder and shoot for the stars.” But it can also harm us if we’re setting unrealistic and impossible standards for ourselves, because I think everyone here in this sanctuary knows that we are often our own worst critics. We speak harsher to ourselves than we would ever let anyone speak to us. So let’s not set ourselves up for failure before we even begin. It is not our responsibility to finish every task or to see everything through to the end.

BUT, the second part of Rabbi Tarfon’s quote is essential too! We are still not free to just give up on it. We have to keep trying and aspiring. Now look, that IS a tough balance. I am fully aware of that. We have to both aspire and accept. Be kind to ourselves for not being flawless, but also push ourselves to be better each and every day. I can’t tell you where that perfect balance is for you, or for anyone else, but to me, *this* is the goal: To figure out how to challenge ourselves AND accept ourselves, all at the same time.

Of course, you might want to respond back: “But that’s not what Moses said. He was pretty clear that God expects, demands even, that we fulfill all the commandments, love God with everything we’ve got, and never stray from the path.” Furthermore, our High Holiday liturgy today, tomorrow, and throughout Yom Kippur, definitely seems to support that Biblical viewpoint, rather than the one I’m putting forward. Our prayers repeatedly talk about God writing our names in the Book of Life, judging our behavior and our decisions, and having high expectations for all of us. Pretty hard to get around all of that, wouldn’t you say? 

I’ll admit, it’s true; it’s hard to ignore God’s judgment and expectations, as articulated in the Bible and in our liturgy. But what if that’s only one way to understand God? What if we aren’t required to understand God in this very limiting and almost transactional relationship of Worshiped Divine Being and Worshipping Lowly Mortals? Is there room for us to change and shift how we interact with God? I think there is. And I am tremendously grateful to my colleague and friend, Rabbi Kelilah Miller, for introducing me to Rabbi Toba Spitzer’s book, “God is Here.” 

Rabbi Spitzer’s book really helped me articulate something I’ve been ruminating on for a long time, and gave me some wonderful tools for teaching this concept to all of you. The basic idea is: The way we think of God is actually just through metaphor. 

What Rabbi Spitzer means is, when we talk about God, what we really mean is our desire and attempts to connect to something greater than ourselves. We look at the vastness of the ocean, the endless expanse of space, and the incredible intricacies of the cells and molecules in our bodies, and we feel something. We may, perhaps, feel that there is Something or Someone “out there,” beyond our understanding. But here’s the critical part: The way we try and imagine that Thing is through metaphor. 

For some reason, we often think of metaphors as insufficient or inadequate; as if we use them only when we can’t accurately or fully describe something. But Rabbi Spitzer doesn’t think of metaphor that way. She writes, “metaphors provide the framework for how we understand and talk about much of what makes us human.” She points out how we use metaphors constantly, often without even realizing it. She gives examples like “kicking a bad habit.” There’s very little physical kicking involved, right? But we all get what it’s trying to say. We envision kicking something away from ourselves, definitively. So the idea still comes across. Another example is when we say we’re feeling “low” or “down.” It doesn’t mean low to the ground, right? Physically, tangibly down on the floor. It’s a metaphor that resonates in our very human brains. 

Many things in this world can be measured and quantified and fact-checked… but what about concepts like love and elation, jealousy and hate. That’s where metaphors are especially essential, because they’re often all we’ve got to go on! These “intangibles” are very real issues that affect us every day, but are not “things” that we can literally - and metaphorically - put our finger on. What if, says Rabbi Spitzer, the Bible works much the same way, and indeed our understanding of God does as well? What if it is all metaphor; intended to help us envision and grasp the teachings of the Torah… but not meant to be literal descriptions of factual things?

Spitzer writes: “Our ancestors expressed their experiences of the realm of the sacred in fairly concrete ways, in stories about divine beings - or a Being - that metaphorically resembled humans and other living creatures. These stories were attempts to understand how the world came to be as it is, and how we can best navigate the world and the various forces that operate within it.”

The Bible, says Rabbi Spitzer, is about relationship. And The Bible, says Rabbi Jeremy Gerber, is most definitely about relationship! This is not a text that is trying to explain the literal formation of the universe, or how many years it takes to traverse a desert, or how miracles could “actually” have occurred. That was never the point of any of the books; they are about the human desire - the aspiration - to be in relationship with something both outside of ourselves and within us as well. Something that created everything we see around us - and things we can’t see, whether out there or in here. 

For our ancient ancestors, and for many of the Jewish authorities throughout the ages, the best way to understand that Something was through descriptions of God. God’s attributes, God’s commandments, God’s expectations of us. Describing God as a King, a Savior, an Avenger, and a Consoling Parent were some of the helpful ways for them to feel close to God. In the end, that’s really what so much of humanity has always been searching for; to feel close to Something vast and meaningful, spiritual and mysterious. Even the word for “sacrifice” in Hebrew - Korban - comes from the root, karov, to be close. The sacrifices expressed our deep, visceral need to feel part of something vast and meaningful; to draw close to God.

The problem is, what if you reject that image of God as Big Person who controls and decides everything? What if that feels offensive when innocent people die, whether in a pandemic or a Holocaust? So many people read the High Holiday liturgy of Un’tane Tokef, declaring that God decides who will live and who will die, and they hate it. They reject it completely. To that I say, I get it… but don’t throw the baby out with the bath water, metaphorically speaking. What if, instead, we can change the metaphors, to envision a Divine force that isn’t A Big Person deciding our fate? That’s tough to do, I know. Whether you’re 30, 60, or 90 years old, God has likely always been depicted as a King or Father, in Jewish contexts as well as throughout society. That, again, is why we need to strive to shift that perception. Because in the end, everything you’ve been taught is ALSO metaphor! We don’t “know” - in the factual, scientific, provable sense - Who or What God is; none of us do! So we form metaphors and images that help us aspire to feel close and connected to something bigger and more meaningful than just our own lives.

Ok, so that is my main message throughout these High Holidays; the message I want to leave you with, in a sense, before my tenure has concluded… though hopefully not as definitively as Moses (who dies at the end of the Torah…). What I would like to do over the course of our holidays together is to examine some of Rabbi Spitzer’s proposed new metaphors for the Divine, and demonstrate how each can help us work on ourselves, aspiring to improve and become better people, while actually also still accepting and loving ourselves for who we are. It’s a very challenging balance to strike… but I think we’re up to the task!

So, if we’re going to imagine God, not as a Ruler, Judge, Parent, Creator, Commander, and all the other Big Person depictions, what then? The first new metaphor that Rabbi Spitzer offers in her book is God as water. Well, what the heck does that mean? For each of these new metaphors, I want to look at 1) textual examples from the Torah to support the concept, 2) how we might then envision this Divine Force, and then, most critically, 3) how our relationship with God can indeed shift dramatically, based on this new image.

Water has a lot of prooftexts. Starting with the story of Creation - appropriate today, since Rosh Hashanah does indeed celebrate the birth of the world (metaphorically speaking…) - we read at the very, very beginning of Genesis that water existed BEFORE creation. As God prepares to create, verse two of the entire Torah tells us that a “Ruach Elohim,” a spirit of the Divine, hovered over the face of the water. Rabbi Spitzer explains and interprets this verse, writing: “The divine here appears to be surrounded by water, or perhaps It [God] is part of the primordial waters, emerging from the Deep.” A paragraph later, she adds: “God is of the waters, over the waters, active in and through the waters.” 

She goes on to give examples from Exodus, Leviticus, and Deuteronomy as well, and then, later, Spitzer references a verse from the Prophet Isaiah, which even if you haven’t heard before in English, you likely would recognize in Hebrew: “ושאבתם מים בששון ממעיני הישועה” - “Joyfully you shall draw water from the Well of Liberation.” (Is. 12:3) Then she also adds a verse from the Prophet Jeremiah, describing God as “מקור מים חיים” - “The Fount of Living Waters” (Je. 2:13). While I don’t want to spend too much time on the verses themselves, I do want to share Rabbi Spitzer’s wonderful ability to take those metaphors and bring them to life for us. In thinking about God as a Well of Liberation or a Fount of Living Waters, Spitzer writes, “Water does not command or judge - it flows and irrigates, nourishes and sustains. God as Water invites us to identify when and how we become spiritually ‘dry,’ and what it might mean to feel spiritually nourished.” 

If we can all challenge ourselves - strive, in fact - to replace the image of God as Judge and Punisher, and instead envision a force that nourishes and sustains, how different does the High Holiday experience become?? She also talks about how God then no longer is out there, up in the heavens, but rather intimately close and connected to every one of us. When we say we’re made “בצלם אלוקים - in the Image of God” we could both understand that as referencing how the human body is made up of 70 percent water, and also how we are meant to nourish and sustain others around us, as well as the planet, rather than command and lord over one another.

I’m not saying this is our new image of God, or that we’re all now going to start worshiping water. This is about making our theology limber and - water-pun intended - fluid. This is actually quite critical, because when our understanding of God becomes stale and outdated, it doesn’t just atrophy, but it can actually become really harmful. Religious wars have almost always been about insisting that God is One Way - MY WAY - and nothing else could be true!! Rigid theology can quickly become angry and violent theology… And when people’s theologies become immutable and unkind, they do things like revoke abortion rights and attack the LGBTQ community. The stakes are high here.

I want to also add that all of Rabbi Spitzer’s suggested new metaphors come with challenges and difficulties. This is NOT about simplifying our understanding of God, or turning it into something more pleasant and sweet and palatable. She goes on, in this chapter on water, to point out: “Water is life - and yet sometimes it is also That which threatens me, overwhelms me, drowns me.” It is important to remember that you have to respect the power of water. We see how dangerous too much water can be on the news almost every night! We ignore it at our own peril… which is also true of the power of theology. Our relationship with God sometimes can indeed harm us, shame us, make us feel laden with guilt, and leave us scarred for life… yet it can also fill our lives with meaning and purpose, a sense of connectedness to one another and to the vastness of the universe, and make us more kind and compassionate. 

So I think our goal for this High Holiday season is to aspire to cultivate an evolving, dynamic relationship with God and with religion. That may sound like a tall order, but please don’t forget Rabbi Tarfon’s immortal words: You don’t have to finish the task, but you are also not free to desist from it. You don’t need to reach the mountain top, but you can’t stop climbing. The climb is the goal; the effort, the commitment, the aspiration to improve and grow, AND all the while we need to still love and accept ourselves. 

Speaking of reaching mountain tops, that is indeed where Moses’ story ends. As he prepares to die, we might wonder if he achieved all his goals in life, or if he fell short, and was left with regrets. Surely he was disappointed and saddened that he never got to set foot in the Promised Land, but he also helped free a nation from slavery, bring a Pharaoh to his knees, lead the people through the wilderness for 40 years, gave them God’s Commandments and Torah, and set us on a course to become… 

The Jewish People who continue to thrive 4,000 years later. But at the end, I’m sure he was also upset that he never got into the land. Nobody is perfect.

No one gets *everything* they wanted, even Moses. I think the real lesson is that perfection isn’t the goal, or the prize at the end of our lives. It isn’t to check every box, fulfill every dream, and leave this earth with nothing left to accomplish. No, the goal is to keep aspiring. Keep growing and evolving and flowing through life, nourishing the people around us and striving to lead a life of meaning, purpose, and compassion. 

As I finish this sermon (but I’ll be back again tomorrow!), I invite us all to hold on to the metaphor of the Fount of Living Waters. Each of us can aspire to be like a flowing fountain, watering our families, communities, and the whole planet with goodness, kindness, and purpose. In that way, we will truly be living our lives b’Tzelem Elohim, in the Image of God.

Shanah Tovah!

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

Ki Tisa: Unforgivable?

This week’s Torah portion includes the gravest, most inexcusable sin of the entire Exodus narrative; the building (and worshiping) of the Golden Calf. Even that is really saying something, because throughout their 40 years of wandering, the Israelites grumble against God, rebel (and nearly kill!) Moses and Aaron, and immediately upon receiving the commandments, begin breaking them. So to say this is their absolute *worst* transgression means it’s really quite terrible. They take the gold that was supposed to be used to construct the Tabernacle, and they melt it down into an idolatrous statue. They flaunt their rebellion against Moses and God with song, dance, and idol worship. It’s just so utterly embarrassing for them. How do you come back from something like that?

I think there are a few layers here. There’s the violation itself; the breakdown in communication and relationship with God, but also with Moses, and even with Aaron; and then we also should consider the aftermath as well. In terms of the sin itself, there’s certainly no place to hide, and no (good) excuses to mitigate what they did. Moses comes down from the mountain, catches them red-handed, and immediately begins to yell and chastise them. Some of the worst offenders are even killed by the Levites for their abominable behavior. Interestingly, God is the one who wants to sever the bond right then and there. God cannot imagine any reconciliation, repentance, or forgiveness. In Exodus, 32:10, God declares to Moses: “Now let Me be, that My anger may blaze forth against them and that I may destroy them, and make [instead] of you a great nation.” Even though Moses too is distraught, he nevertheless speaks up on their behalf, and convinces God not to wipe them all out. Perhaps the Torah wants us to know that teshuva - repentance - is always, always possible; no matter how bad things look or feel.

We often look at this story mainly from the perspectives of God or Moses, but what was going through the minds of the Israelites? They selfishly committed this atrocity without thinking about God - who had freed them from slavery through miracle after miracle - or about Moses, who basically gave up his entire life to lead them through the wilderness. And they can’t take it back. They can’t undo the damage caused, but simply have to live with this terrible shame… yet somehow also keep going. The medieval commentator, Rashi, adds an ominous perspective, commenting on Ex. 32:34, when God states, “… but [in the future,] when I make an accounting, I will bring them to account for their sins.” Rashi imagines God saying to Moses: “At present I listen to you and will refrain from consuming them all at once - but ever and ever throughout the ages, when I am visiting them for their sins, I shall visit them at the same time for a little of this sin in addition to their other sins for which I am then punishing them. Indeed no punishment ever comes upon Israel in which there is not part payment for the sin of the golden calf.” Like the Mark of Cain or a Scarlet Letter - this violation will never go away.

This all sounds and seems just awful. And it absolutely is. Yet I also see our ancestors continuing to wander in the desert. And later, in generation after generation, even as they still feel the sting of humiliation for this horrific sin, they too keep going. One foot in front of the other, one day after the next; they commit themselves to the hard work of teshuva. Sometimes that means continually saying you’re sorry, even if you’re worried you won’t be believed or heard. Sometimes it means sitting in the deep pain of your own actions, and acknowledging the awful rippling effects of that idolatrous act. As a people, they don’t give up. They keep going and growing, and trying to be better in the future. They endeavor to learn from their mistakes and their terrible decision-making. And I think continuing to talk about this story and acknowledging what they did can help each of us today grapple with the worst moments in our own lives as well. Their sin was really bad. Just devastatingly awful, actually. If they could keep walking and keep staying in relationship, despite everything that had happened and what they had done, surely we can as well, no matter what. 

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Gandalf's gallery on Flickr
2. depositphotos.com
3. Yair Haklai on Wikimedia Commons
4. pxhere.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Repost from 2013) Tol'dot: A Fresh Look at (Ancient) Mom and Dad

We don't get to choose our parents. There are a lot of things in life that we can control (or believe we can...), but one of them is NOT lineage. Nevertheless, our relationship with our folks can be turbulent. As children, we idolize our parents; as teenagers we're constantly embarrassed to be associated with them; and as adults we both discover how much we are like them, and we learn to respect their choices and challenges. But it can be a difficult relationship. Sometimes the patience and understanding we have for other people is hard to extend to family members. Our issues (and theirs) are just too close and too personal; we can't look at them objectively. All of these realizations that I've listed can also be transferred to our ancestors, our parents' parents a hundred times over. Usually, we don't know that much about these REALLY distant relatives... but then, of course, there's the Torah.

I've always struggled to understand Isaac. He seems to have no identity besides being the son of Abraham and the father of Jacob. He's a placeholder, a bench warmer. Overwhelmingly, the stories of our ancestor Isaac involve action that happens TO him or around him. He's never the active DOER, he never takes control of his life and his fate. Look at what we know about him: He is nearly sacrificed by Abraham; Sarah and Hagar fight over him; A wife is found for him; His wife and son trick him. Even in the stories of his interactions with the Philistines, we hear of him digging a well and being chased away by bullies, only to dig another one and be driven away again, and then a third time as well. What is the point of Isaac? What purpose does he serve?

But then I have to stop myself. We do this to people in our lives a lot, don't we? Think about whether they do or don't serve a purpose in OUR lives? We criticize who they are, encourage them to be 'better,' challenge them to shape up, and eventually try to threaten them into changing. And all because they don't look/act/speak/behave the way WE want them to. Maybe we're embarrassed that Isaac is our ancestor? We like strong leaders, like Abraham, Joshua, and David. But that is precisely why we have to remind ourselves that we don't get to choose our ancestors. We don't pick our parents, and we cannot force someone else to conform to our ideals or expectations. Isaac is a human being. In fact, I'm more certain that he was a real person than many other Biblical figures, because I doubt anyone would purposely write an imagined character this way! Just as we need to, in life, transition from eye-rolling teenagers to respectful adults, here too we need to accept Isaac for who he is, and strive to understand and make our peace with him.

So now that we're ready to take a fresh look at Isaac, what do we see? First of all, we surely underestimate the strength it took to survive the incident with his father on Mount Moriah. What must it have taken to persevere and recover from nearly being sacrificed on an alter by your parent? With no psychologists to help you process, and no prescription medicine?? He stayed in the land during a famine - a true test of faith - something his father was unable to do. Eventually, Isaac decided to become a farmer, a profession about which he knew nothing, and he became incredibly successful and wealthy. And perhaps the greatest lesson we learn about Isaac is that he was a man of peace. Despite provocations from Philistines, and strife between his children, Isaac remained a diplomat and kept his cool. And we miss all these things, because it's just so hard to admire Isaac when we're too busy judging him, and comparing him to other ancestors. Sometimes our emotions and our tightly-gripped grievances cloud our vision, and make it hard to appreciate traits that really are impressive and laudable. We just need to take a step back and open our eyes (and hearts) to really see that. What an important reminder to us all, whether we're talking about ancient forefathers or present-day fathers. 

Photos in this blog post:

1. CC image courtesy of Sam Hames on Flickr

2. CC image courtesy of Pimkie on Flickr

3. CC image courtesy of Jeff Sandquist on Flickr

4. CC image courtesy of roberthuffstuffer on Flickr

Rosh Hashanah: Your World is About to Begin Anew

On Monday night, we begin the new Jewish year of 5782. According to Jewish tradition, it has been five thousand, seven hundred, and eighty-two years since the world was created. Rosh Hashanah, therefore, commemorates the day the planet was first formed. Happy-almost-birthday, Earth! 

Now, I say “according to Jewish tradition,” because our religious beliefs can be different from our scientific ones, and they actually don’t have to be pitted against one another. The Torah, as well as many subsequent generations of rabbinic scholars, is not trying to compete with or undermine the Big Bang Theory, Darwinism, or science in general. I’m happy to discuss this further with anyone, to help explain why Science and Creationism should NOT be seen as conflicting; I wholeheartedly feel it’s a misunderstanding of what each is saying. However, I’m not actually going to talk about any of that right now. 

Instead, if you and I can agree that the Bible’s origin story isn’t about fact, archaeology, or proof… then what is it instead trying to say? What is the story of Creation - and our annual celebration of it with Rosh Hashanah - meant to teach us? Well, I mainly think it’s about the importance of new beginnings. It is SO important for all of us to take stock of our lives. Pick a moment, and it really could be *any* moment, and first delve into the past, then look at the present, and finally, gaze into the future. Engaging in a practice like this can absolutely help you grow as a human being. 

Let's break each of those three down a bit further: Step 1, we examine the past (both the last year… and ideally unresolved issues from long before then), and ask ourselves what to keep, what to let go of, and what to simply make peace with. Step 2, our High Holidays also urge us to take stock of this moment, right now, with mindfulness, humility, self-compassion, and a fair measure of holding ourselves accountable. And step 3, we also reflect on where we are going, how we will one day be remembered, and what we want to leave behind. And armed with all these precious considerations, and hopefully some decisions and resolutions for each, we enter the year feeling cleansed, focused, and ready. 

Well, that’s the ideal anyway. But it’s hard to follow all those steps, and do *all* that work! So maybe don’t start there. Just ask yourself, what can this new beginning mean FOR ME? Utilize this moment. Don’t miss this opportunity. (How many ways can I say this?) Be present! Open yourself up to change. Seize the day!!! Ok, I think you get what I’m saying. The point is, it’s Rosh Hashanah. It is the ultimate new beginning, the day on which the entire world was created from nothing! So how will this be a new beginning for you? What might you create, for yourself or someone else, seemingly out of nothing? Now is the time; don’t wait any longer. 

Shanah Tovah - Happy New Year!

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Carl Jones on Flickr
2. ooceey on Pixabay
3. jeffjacobs1990 on Pixabay