Yom Kippur Eve, 5783 - Kol Nidrei Sermon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shanah Tovah!

Chukat: I See Your Calf and Raise You a Snake

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Noach: Who Ever Heard of Terach?

It is so tempting to talk about the story of Noah. After all, this is the Torah portion named after him. Two thirds of the entire parashah consist of the flood story, the Ark, and the familiar, classic depictions of all those animals packed into one, little (or maybe not so little…) boat. But what about the other third? One of the things I love about our triennial cycle of reading, is that some years our chanting focuses on lesser-known stories, and I see it as a great opportunity to zero in on those instead. If you want to read about Noah and the Flood, feel free to browse my posts from previous years. It’s a great story, and it has this particularly ancient, primordial feel to it. More than many of the other stories of the Tanach. But that’s not our topic for today. Instead, right now, I want to know; who the heck is Terach??

Terach is the ninth-generation descendant of Noah, which also means the 19th descendant of Adam and Eve. Pretty impressive lineage… The Torah spends a whopping seven verses on Terach at the very end of our parashah, and then never mentions him again, even at the start of next week’s Torah portion, Lech Lecha. Why is this surprising? Because he’s the father of Abraham. Some of you may be familiar with a rabbinic midrash that suggests Terach owned an idol shop, and Abraham’s (then “Abram’s”) first act of monotheistic devotion was to smash all the idols in his father’s store. How can I put this delicately? That story is… nice. Not Biblical in the slightest, nor is there any evidence in the text to corroborate it - at all - but it’s… fine. Oh, and of the seven verses that mention Terach - basically in the entire Torah - six talk about his birth, how old he was, who his children were, and that he died. So he’s only actually active in ONE verse. And hopefully this won’t surprise you; that verse says nothing about idols… or a shop. 

What it *does* say is quite fascinating, at least in my opinion. Genesis 11:31 states: “Terach took his son, Abram, his grandson, Lot, the son of Haran [who had died], and his daughter-in-law, Sarai, the wife of his son, Abram, and they set out together from Ur of the Chaldeans for the land of Canaan. But when they had come as far as Haran, they settled there.” There’s a lot to unpack here. First of all, it does seem a remarkable coincidence that Terach settled in a place that had the same name as his deceased son. The text tells us nothing about that… but it sure does seem remarkable. Second, what about the third son, Nahor? He stays in Ur of the Chaldeans (likely modern-day Iraq), and will briefly reappear eleven chapters later, as the grandfather of Rebecca, who marries Isaac. But otherwise, he’s never mentioned, and we certainly don’t know why he stayed back when the rest of the family migrated. And third, WHY did they leave? We have no idea. Was it due to a famine, political unrest, a blood feud; who knows? Picking up and resettling in the ancient world was a pretty big deal, especially if Terach’s ancestors had remained in one place for potentially NINE generations… since the Great Flood! 

Regardless, this one verse is actually quite significant to us, to all the descendants of Abraham and the inheritors of the Abrahamic faiths. Because the next Torah portion will tell us that God came to Abram and told him to leave Haran and continue his father’s intended journey to Canaan; what will soon become The Promised Land. Could Abram have embarked on that odyssey on his own, from Ur of the Chaldeans, if his father hadn’t made the first leg of the journey for them? And don’t we all acknowledge the importance of parental modeling, so maybe Abram’s inspiration to even CONSIDER leaving his home in the first place came from his father’s bold precedent? In typical rabbinic fashion, our Biblical commentators found it helpful to criticize Terach, in order to make Abraham look greater. Do I need or want to do the same thing? No, not in the slightest. Our parents provide important clues to who we are, in all aspects of our lives. Sometimes we follow their example, while other times we make choices purposely different from theirs, to make a very declarative point for ourselves and others to see. But however you choose to view it, our parents and ancestors are very much a part of who we were, are, and may yet become. 

As we set off on our own path to get to know Abraham and Sarah once again, let us not forget about where he (and they) came from. We don’t need to put Terach down. After all, he did give us Abraham, and where would ANY of us be without him??? So thanks, Terach. And sorry about the shop. 

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. pxhere.com
2. jbdodane on Flickr
3. Gemes Sandor on Wikimedia Commons
4. AllaSerebrina on Deposit Photos

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

Ki Tavo: This Too Shall Pass… And This Too.

In the Biblical book of Ecclesiastes, we find the following insightful verse: “Be pleased when things go well; but in a time of misfortune, reflect.” (7:14) One of the central lessons of the entire Tanach, the complete Jewish Bible, is the value of mindfulness. Be present to your current experience - right here, right now, TODAY! - regardless of what’s happening. If it’s a time of celebration, peace, relaxation, and joy; fabulous! Good for you, enjoy it, and may more of these be in your future. Above all, be grateful and appreciative. And if it’s a time of uncertainty, pain, frustration, apathy, or grief, you should *still* be present to it. Don’t hide from such moments or try to numb them with distractions, willful ignorance, or - at the more extreme end - substance abuse. Instead, ask yourself what you can learn from this experience, and how it can make you stronger and a better person. Our Torah portion this week not only echoes this sentiment, but offers a formula to recite at precisely such moments.

We are approaching the end of the Five Books of Moses, and thus the moment when the Israelites will enter the Promised Land. Even though Moses himself won’t get to join them, he still has his gaze firmly set on what will happen to them when they cross over. And, as articulated above, he implores them to remain mindful and present to their experiences, be they good or bad. Moses prophetically looks ahead to a time beyond just their entrance, to when the people will eventually be settled, at peace, and comfortably in possession of this land of milk and honey. He instructs them: “When you enter the land that Adonai, your God, is giving you as a heritage, and you possess it and settle in it, you shall take some of every first fruit of the soil, which you harvest from the land Adonai, your God, is giving you, put it in a basket and go to the place where Adonai, your God, will choose to establish God’s Name… you shall then recite as follows before Adonai, your God…” (Deut. 26:1-2, 5) The formula/prayer/declaration that follows is one that later gets included - verbatim - in the Passover Haggadah. It begins, “My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and stayed there, and became a great and populous nation.” (6)

Several rabbinic commentators focus on the beginning of this phrase, and the sentiment that our ancestor, Jacob, was once alone in the desert, impoverished and afraid. Even when the family moved to Egypt to escape famine, it was a small clan; a single family of outsiders in this mighty, foreign empire. The purpose of starting the declaration this way is so that the Israelite reciting it, now with land of his/her own, surrounded by allies and countrymen, may say: “And now look at us! Look how far we’ve come!!” Remembering how our ancestors had nothing is meant to evoke humility, appreciation, and most importantly gratitude to God. One medieval rabbinic commentator, Rabbeinu Bachya, writes on this verse: “The moral lesson implied in this whole recitation is that precisely at a time when one is prosperous and free from worry one has to look back upon what preceded this success and acknowledge Who it is that enabled one to achieve this well-being.” The “Who,” of course, is God.

Even then, part of the point that these rabbis are making (and that this rabbi writing right now is echoing..) is to be mindful regardless of what is happening in the present moment. We sometimes mainly think to offer prayers when we’re upset, concerned, or in need of something… but isn’t it also crucial to say a prayer in good times as well? One of my favorite phrases that expresses this perfectly is “This too shall pass.” When times are bad - whether because we’re wandering in the desert, enslaved somewhere, or enduring a pandemic - we can feel comforted in knowing This Too Shall Pass. But in times of joy, remember also that This TOO Shall Pass, and just savor it as long as you can. Change is inevitable, and time marches on regardless. So don’t waste a single second of it. Every moment is a chance to learn something, to grow, and to improve. We may no longer be wandering Arameans, or even Israelites offering the first fruits of our harvest at the Temple, but the message remains the same: Be mindful and grateful, and then our lives will be filled with meaning and purpose. Shabbat Shalom!

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Sheila Craan on Flickr
2. Nandhinikandhasamy on Wikimedia Commons
3. pxfuel
4. caramoulds on Flickr

Chukat: You. Shall Not. Pass.

It’s an all-too-familiar story for us as Jews. If you listed countries that have treated us well consistently vs. those that have viewed us with skepticism, suspicion, and distrust - or worse; fear and hatred that led to violence - it would be a bleak picture. We often see our Jewish story as that of a nomadic people, but rarely has it allowed us to fly under the radar, avoid attacks, or remain undisturbed. WAY more often in our history, we have been immigrants, foreigners, and The Other… and it’s come with persecution and oppression. Obviously, this isn’t a very rosy picture, and it’s not one I enjoy lingering on. However, we can’t really ever hope to change our own narrative if we don’t first *see* it! So when our Torah portion this week provides an ancient example of this same treatment, I’m not suggesting it’s a “fun” episode to highlight. But I think taking the time to acknowledge how unpleasant yet disturbingly familiar it is, and how intrinsic it has been to our millennia-long history as Jews, can help us both strive for a better future for ourselves AND make us more sympathetic and caring for the plight of others.

Right now, we’re in the Book of Numbers. Parashat Chukat places us in the fortieth year of the Exodus, and the Israelites are getting both very good at, and very sick of, wandering. In chapter 20, we read: 

“Moses sent messengers to the king of Edom: ‘Thus says your brother, Israel: You know all the         hardships that have befallen us, that our ancestors went down to Egypt, that we dwelt in Egypt a long time, and that the Egyptians dealt harshly with us and our ancestors… Now we are in Kadesh, the town on the border of your territory. Allow us, then, to cross your country. We will not pass through fields or vineyards, and we will not drink water from wells…’” (14-17)

Any guesses how the king of Edom replied? I doubt this next verse will surprise you at all: “But Edom answered him, ‘You shall not pass through us, else we will go out against you with the sword.’” (18) A couple of verses later, Edom repeats its threat and even backs it up by approaching the Israelites armed. And the whole time I am wondering to myself: Why? They don’t explain their refusal to grant safe passage, and they don’t justify their antagonism. But then again, would an explanation have made me feel any better about it? Probably not.

And honestly, I know why the Edomites are hostile: Fear, distrust, suspicion, assumption of bad intent, and more! It’s just hard to look at, and to admit that this has been the response to us as Jews for millennia and all across the globe. But let us also remember how resilient we became, and remained, likely BECAUSE we were so unwanted. It has actually been a tremendous source of strength for the Jewish people to handle rejection and animosity, to build and rebuild as necessary, and to accept - and even embrace! - our nomadic predisposition. So while we may read this with sadness and despair (because neighbors have treated us this way for eons), I also think we should marvel at our ability to just keep on marching. If one border was closed, we just move on to the next one. And for all their bluster, you don’t see a lot of Edomites around today, now do you? Food for thought… 

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Noborder Network on Flickr
2. Microsoft Corporation
3. SilviaP_Design on Pixabay
4. damian entwistle on Flickr

B'Midbar: There's A Time to Relax... and a Time to Grow

This week, we are starting the fourth book of the Torah, B'Midbar. In English, it is called the Book of Numbers (which honestly isn't the most helpful or descriptive of titles...). More than perhaps any of the other books, I truly prefer this one's Hebrew name over the English. The first book of the Torah is our origin story, from Adam & Eve, through Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and his wives, and Joseph bringing the family down to Egypt. The second book focuses on the Exodus story (hence it becomes the name of the book...) and some of the very initial travels of the Israelites into the desert. Then the third book pauses in the narrative to give us the law code of the Levitical priests as well as some basic principles for Israelite living, and - of course - the Commandments. The fifth book will mainly focus on Moses' own retelling of the story, and his farewell address to the people. This book now, B'Midbar, really gets into the trials and tribulations of the Israelites during their wanderings in the desert.

Twice in that first paragraph (above) I mentioned the term "desert," which is sometimes used as the translation for the Hebrew name of our book. But I actually much prefer to translate "Midbar" as "wilderness." Because the emphasis isn't so much on the topography surrounding them, nor on the prevalence of sand, sun, or vast dunes. This is the most important and formative time for our ancient ancestors, and the experience that will transform them from a ragtag band of former slaves, into a nation-building, cohesive people that is ready to conquer territory and defend it. So what I love about the term Midbar is that it really evokes a neutralizing of everything that came before. It's almost like a blank canvas, a reset, and a new opportunity for the Children of Israel to redefine themselves and shape their own destiny.

What especially resonates with me about this notion is the importance of different experiences throughout our lives. We sometimes think that the ideal would be safety, security, calm, and ease. Maybe a picturesque home in a quiet suburban neighborhood, where nothing difficult or challenging ever takes place. And yet, we do not grow in such an environment. It is like the cool-down portion of an exercise routine. Sure, it would be lovely if we could sit in a sauna for an hour and build muscle, but that's just not how it works! We need effort, exertion, resistance, and yes, pain. So safety and calm are great for vacation, for replenishing our energy, and for taking stock. But then we have to venture out into the proverbial wildernesses of our lives, because THAT is where growth happens.

When we change the term from "desert" to "wilderness," we also open up to some important connections to our own experiences. Most of us haven't spent 40 years hiking through a desert... but maybe we have felt lost, cold, afraid, and alone, fumbling our way through the metaphoric "wildernesses" of addictions, terrible illnesses, heartbreaking loss, and - I venture to say for EVERYONE on the planet right now - chaotic, life-altering pandemics. It isn't relaxing or enjoyable, but it is actually necessary for us to evolve, build resilience and inner strength, and to discover abilities within ourselves that we may never know we ever had to begin with. The Israelites experience absolutely transformative change in their midbar, and we should aspire to do the same. We honestly don't get to determine WHAT happens to us in life; we only get to decide how to respond to it, how to learn from what we've been through, and we can choose to be strengthened by it. To me, that is the lesson of ALL the wilderness experiences we may go through in life. It isn't easy, and it may in fact be harrowing and daunting. Nevertheless, we march on, and we do our best to grow and evolve with every step we take.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Rabbi Gerber's library
2. David Stanley on Flickr
3. Christopher Chappelear on Flickr
4. PDPics on Pixabay

Acharei Mot-Kedoshim: Proud Nomads.

Let’s face it; we’re nomads. It’s probably easier for me to say, personally, since I’ve lived in four different countries and four states in the US. If you’ve mainly lived in one place all - or most of - your life, you may be thinking “well, I’M not a nomad!” And maybe it isn’t true of your own lived experience... but I venture to say it’s almost certainly true of your ancestors a generation or two (or ten) ago, and ultimately it’s quite undeniable that we, as Jews, are most definitely nomads. Abraham, whom we consider the first Jew, is introduced to us with the words “Lech Lecha,” meaning “Go forth (from your homeland, and settle someplace new).” Before we know *anything* else about him, we know that he’s a stranger in a strange land. His son, grandson, great-grandson, and really countless subsequent generations are all defined by their status as aliens, foreigners, sojourners, and outsiders. So yeah, it’s hard to get away from the fact that we, as Jews, move around a lot and always have. It seems to me that it therefore behooves us, wherever we may roam, to consider what our relationship is like with the inhabitants of the land on which we settle? 

Very briefly, I’d like to ponder this question with you from three different perspectives. First, our Torah portion: This week, we read the following in Leviticus, 18:3-4: “You shall not copy the practices of the land of Egypt where you dwelt, or of the land of Canaan to which I am taking you; nor shall you follow their laws. My rules alone shall you observe, and faithfully follow My laws; I, Adonai, am your God.” In a way, this is a perfect elaboration of my statement above about us being nomads. The Israelites are, at this point in the text, wandering through the desert without a place to call home. And God makes it abundantly clear that you did not fit in among the Egyptians, nor will you fit in with the Canaanites. Wherever you go, you will be different. It’s also interesting to me that many rabbinic commentaries on these two verses feel the need to put down both the Egyptians and the Canaanites, and clarify that their practices are abhorrent and reprehensible, and THAT is why God issues this decree. But I’m fascinated by the fact that the text itself doesn’t actually say that. The Egyptians are doing their thing, the Canaanites are doing theirs... and you shouldn’t emulate either of them. Just be yourself, march to the beat of your own drum, and be who you are, and who you are meant to be.

A second perspective: This Shabbat at Ohev Shalom is our annual Lostice Shabbat, where we celebrate and honor the small Czechoslovakian town from which we inherited a Torah scroll that survived the destruction of the Holocaust. Every year, I emphasize to our congregation that we are celebrating the Jews of Lostice; we are not exclusively commemorating their deaths. It would be easy for us to look at European Jewry - pre-Holocaust, but in some people’s minds, even today - and say that it is defined by anti-Semitism, pogroms, expulsions, and hate. But that simply isn’t true, or at the very least it does a great disservice to our ancestors who lived there for centuries upon centuries. Those forbearers were nomads as well, to be sure, but that still doesn’t mean that all their neighbors hated them and tried to annihilate them! Everywhere we have lived, we have contributed to the economy, culture, trade, cuisine, and development of society. Sometimes it was symbiotic and harmonious; other times it was contentious and precarious. But let’s not be too quick to judge. Even in the Torah, Egypt was at times a welcoming and safe place for our ancestors, and even the Canaanites were sometimes allies and supporters! It is imperative that we consider the nuance and complexity of our relationships with the people around us... no matter where we have lived.

And so we come to our present day, and to our third perspective. What of our relationship with the people around us today? Again, it might be easier to contemplate this question if you too have done a fair amount of moving and resettling, or if you live in a community with many transplants. Regardless of where you live, I invite you to spend a little time considering what your nomadic heritage means to you, and how it may affect your relationship with your neighbors and friends. Maybe it manifests in how you speak about Israel (despite never having lived there), or a kinship you may feel with Jews you meet from anywhere else in the world. Or perhaps it comes when you study Jewish history, and learn that feeling comfortable and a sense of belonging has *never* sheltered us from the forces of hate and scapegoating... and we forget that teaching at our own peril. It isn’t easy being a nomad, or the descendant of nomads. But it has also enriched our existence and helped us thrive and adapt over the course of millennia. It is neither good nor bad; it simply is. So let us embrace our nomadic legacy and wear it with pride: This is who we are.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Gideon on Flickr
2. snappygoat.com
3. Pic of Czech Jewish family, courtesy of artist Judith Joseph
4. Baltimore Jewish Times