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

Striving for Balance in the New Year

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sincerely,

Rabbi Gerber

 

 

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

Naso (repost): Feeling the Loss of God's Face

This is a repost of something I wrote in 2012, and I dedicated it then in memory of Henry Dickson, who was a member of the congregation and a good friend. It's hard to believe it's been ten years since he passed. I wanted to make sure to mention the tribute, because Henry is mentioned in the post itself. May his memory always be remembered for a blessing.

Our Torah portion this week is Naso, the second parasha in the Book of Numbers. One of the most famous sections in Naso is the Priestly Benediction, which still to this day is used by many parents to bless their children at the Friday night dinner table, and is also included in many lifecycle events. The Etz Hayim Chumash translates the Priestly Benediction as follows: "Thus shall you bless the people of Israel. Say to them: 'The Lord bless you and protect you! The Lord deal kindly and graciously with you! The Lord bestow His favor upon you and grant you peace!'" (Numbers 6:23-26) Now, Henry would have looked at that translation and said, "Is that REALLY what the Hebrew text says?" And of course my answer would be, "No." The Etz Hayim translators would probably argue that they're giving you the figurative meaning of the text, but personally, I like the literal meaning. And Henry was one of many people who, like me, wanted to know what the words were literally saying, and then he could make up his own mind about the interpretive meaning. So let's delve, shall we?

I'm ok with the first line, it is indeed talking about God blessing and protecting us. So far, so good. But the second and third lines have a fascinating wording that provokes a very different theological understanding: "May God shine God's Face upon you and be gracious to you! May God turn God's Face toward you and grant you peace!" Are we uncomfortable with the notion of God having a face? Is that why we gloss over this with a figurative translation? Let's instead sit with the challenge of this wording for a minute. What does it mean to see/experience/feel/know God's Face? And even if you don't believe in an anthropomorphic God (a tangible, human-like Divine figure), isn't there something we can learn from the concept of God turning towards us, rather than just asking God to show us favor?

One idea that jumped out at me comes from the Book of Genesis. After not having seen his brother, Esau, for nearly 20 years, Jacob is reunited with his sibling once again. As he tries to offer his brother a caravan filled with gifts, he exclaims, "Accept from me this gift; for to see your face is like seeing the Face of God, and you have received me favorably" (Gen. 33:6). To me, what Jacob is saying is that good fortune in life, special joyous occasions, and moments of thanksgiving - they are all LIKE seeing the Face of God. The Divine Countenance is also discussed in the Book of Psalms, a book filled with every human emotion across the spectrum. In at least ten different Psalms, the theme of God's Face features prominently, either as a Presence strongly felt (and therefore the source of joy, confidence, and safety), or a gaping void (and thus the source of agony, sorrow, rejection, and defeat). And it is the central focus of the Priestly Benediction, which has remained one of the most well-known Jewish prayers for over 3,000 years.

God's Face is not theologically problematic to me. Because whenever good things happen in life, it can indeed feel as if the Face of God is shining on us all. And when we are alone in our grief, mourning the loss of wonderful people, it certainly can feel as if God's Face is hidden, and the world is just a little bit emptier. The people who bless our lives with their presence, they are the embodiment of God's Light shining in our lives. And knowing that the light can come and go forces us to cherish them while they are around. So make sure to identify the people who represent the Face of God in your life, who light up your existence and spread warmth, joy, comfort, and positivity. Treasure every precious moment that you have with them, and be grateful always.


Photos in this blog post:
1. Image of the Google Translate app courtesy of Rabbi Gerber's iPad.
2. Image courtesy of Rabbi Gerber's iPhone on a gorgeous afternoon.
3. Image courtesy of Rabbi Gerber's iPhone... but the gift courtesy of Ohev Shalom's awesome Confirmation Class 2012!
4. CC image courtesy of The California National Guard on Flickr

Acharei Mot: The Letter and the Spirit Square Off

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

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

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

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

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

Tetzaveh: One on One with God

Tetzaveh, this week’s Torah portion, has the unique (ignoble?) distinction of being the only parashah - from Exodus through the end of the Torah - without a mention of Moses. He’s IN the story, mind you, but God only ever addresses Moses as “you.” Nevertheless, it’s peculiar to find an entire Torah portion without the word “Moses” appearing even once. As you can imagine, there is A LOT of discussion about this in rabbinic literature, and right now I'd like to offer my own take on this peculiar omission. We hear an awful lot about God and Moses speaking to one another, but it always feels like there’s someone else intruding on that conversation as well... us! It’s supposed to be just the two of them… so why are you and I there, rudely eavesdropping?!? If we’re privy to all their conversations, how is it a special connection just between Moses and his God? 

We still learn the laws in this section, specifically about the High Priest’s garments and the ceremony for his installation. But by leaving out Moses’ name, the text may be suggesting that he had some one-on-one time with God as well; just the two of them. There’s the content itself, but then also a larger message about Moses developing a personal connection with the Divine. Only when we notice Moses' absence do we take the time to reflect on his experience... and maybe see him from a changed point-of-view. As with so many things in the Torah, it isn't just about the people IN the story, but about us, the readers, as well. We are invited to create a unique, individually tailored relationship with God as well. It isn’t meant to be reserved for a Moses or a Miriam, a David or a Deborah (Judges, chapter 4). Each of us is given the opportunity to develop a spiritual life, to genuinely walk with God, and to gain a deeper understanding of our purpose on this earth. 

Sometimes people ask me, "Why don't we hear God's Voice these days, like it's presented in the Bible?" Well, part of me wonders if we're listening for it? Would we trust that what we heard was actually a Divine source, or would we just think we were going crazy, or someone was playing tricks on us?? I also feel like so much of the public discourse these days pits religion and science against one another, as if they are competing on the same playing field. But it would really be like debating which subject was better in school, math or history! They're dealing with different basic premises, and they're trying to discern totally different things. There's really no need to see them as competing or clashing. I consider myself a believer in science, rational thinking, and the theory of evolution. Yet I also need to make room for faith, the Bible, and a personal relationship with God.

Maybe this week's Torah portion is trying to teach us about stepping back from the normal way of doing things. What if, like Moses, we focused on silence, contemplation, and self-reflection, instead of talking and DOING all the time? To me, the notion of conversing with God isn't about receiving a Divine mission or discerning the future. It's about humility and mindfulness. It is just as much about being in relationship with our true selves - hearing our inner voices and thinking about where we're going in life - as it is about hearing a Voice From Above. We are, after all, created in God's Image, so maybe forming a bond with God can be as simple and straight-forward as looking in the mirror and really *seeing* ourselves fully? Talking about God isn't easy... even for me, and I'm a religious professional! But I think it's actually really important, and I haven't talked about God enough in this blog. So I'm going to try to change that, just as I'm also going to dig a bit more deeply into myself. Not all of it will make it into the blog, mind you. Some of it is just between me and God, because I get to have that one-on-one time too. And if you're ready for it, so do you.

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. j4p4n on Openclipart
2. Thirsty in LA on Flickr
3. CTLiotta on Wikimedia Commons
4. Boston Public Library on GetArchive

Yitro: Layers of Meaning Hidden Under *The* Place

Greetings, everyone! I've been on a bit of a break from the blog, but wanted to get back into it. As I hit the 650 (!!) blog post mark, I'm thinking about possible ways to mix things up, change my focus, or in some other way restructure the blog. Please feel free to reach out with any thoughts/comments/suggestions. Thanks!

Over the years, I've several times found myself reflecting on "famous" quotes from the Torah. These are verses (or parts of verses) that, for any number of reasons, caught someone's attention and made their way into other texts. Sometimes they can be found in the prayer book, other times a zemer (a special Shabbat song), or some part of the Jewish lifecycle. As a result, these verses may stand out in the text, almost like a well-known movie quote that you all of a sudden get to hear in its original context. I stumbled upon one such verse in this week's Torah reading. In this particular instance, the meaning in the parashah and how it has become used in Jewish life are quite different, which makes it an excellent candidate for a blog post! :-)

First, let's look at the context: The Israelites are in the desert, having passed through the Sea of Reeds and are about the receive the Ten Commandments. (That momentous occasion *does* occur in our Torah portion as well, but I decided to focus on something else this time around...) Our text begins with Moses receiving a visitor. His father-in-law, Yitro, comes from the land of Midian, bringing with him Moses' wife and two sons. While there, Yitro sees Moses presiding over every legal dispute and question that any Israelite may bring up. And he strongly encourages him to instead appoint various levels of judges, to essentially create a hierarchy of lower courts, appellate courts, a supreme court... and MOSES. The last thing Yitro says to Moses is that this new-and-improved system will be easier for everyone, and adds, "[if you do this,] you will be able to endure, and all these people too will return to their homes in peace." (Ex. 18:23)

Initially, I just passed over this verse and kept reading. But I glanced at the Hebrew, and noticed something familiar. The phrase about people returning home in peace reminded me of something else, so I looked it up. Sure enough, our ancient rabbis "borrowed" this sentence for a surprisingly different purpose. When I officiate at funerals, and we have finished lowering the casket into the grave, it is customary to say "Al Mekomo Yavo v'Shalom," which is exactly the same statement in our text. I find this fascinating, because the expression is being repurposed in a clever way. At some point in Jewish history, our ancestors began using the word "Makom," which literally means Place/Spot/Location, as a euphemism for God. When someone dies, we console them by saying: "Ha-MAKOM Yinachem Etchem..." - "May God comfort you..." Again, we use the word "place" as another Name for the Divine; perhaps imagining that God is the *ultimate* place; the home to Which (or Whom) we all return after death.

It just intrigues me that this text about judicial proceedings - and about people returning back to their tents after receiving a verdict from Moses or one of the other newly-appointed judges - was seen as a good candidate for a burial rite at the graveside. It is not, by the way, unusual for the rabbis to extract new meanings from Biblical texts. This is a good example of them mining the Tanach for recyclable material! Context was often less significant, and if a quote could be used in an entirely new way - as long as you weren't jumbling the words around and actually manipulating the meaning of the text. If the phrase reads correctly, then by all means interpret it to connote something *completely* different. To me, this is one of the truly beautiful features of our ancient texts. It creates layers upon layers of meaning; constantly shifting as time passes. What the text comes to mean for one generation may be entirely different from the previous generation, the one before that, and countless others before that. It makes our ancient texts come alive, and invites us to scour the text for our own meaningful passages, regardless of what it used to mean to our forbearers. I think it is a subtle, but fantastic aspect of our heritage... and you can quote me on that! 

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. https://psycatgames.com/magazine/quotes/short-quotes/
2. ArtsyBeeKids on Pixabay
3. Page from my rabbi's manual about including this verse

4. Carol M. Highsmith on rawpixel
 

L’Chaim (newsletter) article, November, 2021: Experimenting with Prayer

One of the congregations in New York City that is considered edgy, progressive, “out there,” and forward-thinking is called LabShul. Even the name of the community embodies who they are, and the principle they’re espousing with their “brand” really resonates with me. What might it mean to think of prayer, services, the Siddur, and our individual relationships with God as opportunities for experimentation and exploration? We don’t often think of the synagogue or the Sanctuary as a laboratory… but why not?

There is, of course, value in repetition and familiarity as well. The two do not have to be mutually exclusive. It can be a tremendously spiritual experience to close your eyes, sing along to the Shema or the Aleinu, or any other oft-repeated prayer, and just feel comfortable and in sync with everyone else. AND there are also times when we can - and maybe should - delve deeper into the meanings behind the prayers. I think it is vitally important to ask ourselves why we chant these words, why we sit or stand or bow, and why we start where we do, move along through these particular prayers in this prescribed order, and then conclude where we always have.

So, how would we find answers to these questions, and maybe discover new questions we didn’t even realize we had before?! Perhaps we need to put our services, our tefillot, under a microscope or in a test tube, and really investigate their core properties. Well, that is exactly what we intend to do! Starting on November 7th, our Sunday morning minyan is going to magically transform into “MinyanLab.” We are going to depart from the regular order of services, and instead focus on just 3 or 4 prayers, over the course of a 45-minute service, to really explore and dissect what they are all about. We’ll also incorporate some chanting and meditation, to help create the mood and proper atmosphere for prayer.

I want to thank Naomi Wicentowski, our new Ritual Committee Chairperson, for working with me on launching this, and a very special thank you to the minyan regulars - our Minyanaires - for allowing the congregation to experiment with our Sunday morning minyan. MinyanLab will take place *every* Sunday, and each week will focus on a different aspect of the service and how (and why) we pray.

I hope you’ll consider attending. MinyanLab can’t work if we don’t have participants to delve and deconstruct and question and explore. I want to go on this journey with all of you, and I want us to craft and discover meaning within Jewish prayer *together*. I can’t do it alone. So please bring your questions, your struggles, and your curiosity, and join me every Sunday at 9:00 a.m. (starting in November) for our new Ohev Shalom MinyanLab. Happy exploring!

Sincerely,

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

R'eih: Maintaining a Delicate, but Crucial, Balance

Sometimes I like to pose the question - to myself and to members of my congregation: Is the Torah focused on situations as they *are* or as they should be? Is it existing in the real or the ideal? And, in true rabbinic (and possibly infuriating...) fashion, my answer is: Both. Because one of the central messages of the Torah is that we should be grounded in our current reality, with our eyes wide open to the pains and challenges of the world, while always mindful of all the blessings and opportunities we have, right here, right now, in our lives. Simultaneously, we can never give up hope of things improving, evolving, and growing continuously towards a better future for ourselves and for the next generation. We must hold these two in balance; fully present to today, yet also ready to work with our hearts, minds, and bodies for an improved tomorrow. How do I know it's both? Well, let's look at two contradictory verses in this week's Torah portion and see what you think.

In Deuteronomy, 15:4, the Torah (through Moses) clearly states: "There shall be no needy among you." The text goes on to say that IF you obey all of God's mitzvot and stay loyal and faithful to Adonai, there will be no poor, no hungry, no oppressed people in Israel. Yet just seven verses later, the Torah also declares: "For there will never cease to be needy ones in your land..." (v. 11) Sooo, which one is it? If we do everything right (big "if," I know...), isn't the Torah saying there will be no more poverty? So how can the text also proclaim that there will ALWAYS be need and hunger?? No matter what you do! Do you see how it's a question of balance, of holding two seemingly contradictory messages and truths in mind at all times? We are not allowed to forget what we know to be a REAL truth about our world; that there will "never cease to be needy ones in your land." It is simply the reality of life on earth, basically as far back as the origins of our species! Nevertheless, we are not allowed to despair or give up hope. We STILL have to work constantly to alleviate the suffering of those in need. The real *must* be balanced with the ideal.

By the end of this weekend, we will have begun the Jewish month of Elul. It is the final month leading up to Rosh Hashanah and the start of a new Jewish year. Yup, it's panic-time for rabbis... (!!!) To remind us that we should be preparing ourselves, spiritually, for the High Holidays throughout this month, we add a special psalm (#27) to every daily prayer service, and we also blow one set of shofar blasts each morning as well. Furthermore, the ancient rabbis look at the name of the month, Elul, and see a hidden acronym. The four letters of "Elul" in Hebrew are Alef-Lamed-Vav-Lamed, and they see it as standing for "Ani l'Dodi, v'Dodi Li." "I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine," from Song of Songs (6:3). In their mind, "beloved" isn't just a love interest or a spouse; it refers to the importance of interpersonal relationships throughout our lives. We do not live in a vacuum, and as we prepare ourselves for the High Holidays, we must not only focus on improving ourselves or our own lives. We must commit to these visions of social betterment, clearly outlined in the Torah, to perform the sacred work of Tikkun Olam, repairing the world.

Again, we need to hold up these two challenging concepts at all times; the real and the ideal. It can be unbelievably frustrating and discouraging to look around and acknowledge the amount of pain, oppression, poverty, and unfairness that exists in our world. I alone cannot change all of it. I can't even affect a fraction of it! But I still have to try. Certainly in today's reality - as we continue to battle a deadly, global pandemic - we realize perhaps more than ever how interconnected we are with all other people on earth. And with the planet itself. It is inescapable. We cannot shut out the ills of the world... but we can't let ourselves be crushed by their weight either. So as we prepare to enter Elul, and we remind ourselves how intertwined we are with all the "beloveds" who inhabit this earth beside us - including animals that walk, swim, or fly around us AND the vegetation growing under and above us - let us each examine ourselves. How do you balance the ideal with the real in your own life, and in the world you see around you? And as we prepare to begin a new Jewish year with a fresh start, how will you do your part in Tikkun Olam, in repairing our collective home and making this a better place to live for everyone? Welcome to the start of the High Holiday season, everyone!

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Solo Shutter on Stocksnap
2. pxhere.com
3. Folio Creations on Etsy
4. elycefeliz on Flickr
 

Vaetchanan: Reflecting on our Jewish Creed

Let’s take a few minutes to talk about the Shema. I don’t even really have to add the other five words, do I? I bet you can hear it in your head right now, to that same heralding tune we all know! This probably isn’t true for everyone reading this, but I bet for many/most people, if I hypothetically woke you up at 3am and said “Shema…!”, you could add - bleary-eyed and confused - “… Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad.” And then promptly fall back asleep. The Shema prayer is essentially *the* most well-known verse in all of the Torah, and in all of our daily prayers. And yes, its triumphant, exclusive appearance takes place in this week’s Torah portion. Sooo… what do we really know about the Shema?

Well, for one thing, I wonder how many people have stopped and noted that our #1 most famous prayer - and prayer, as we know, is directed to God - isn’t addressing God at all. It’s right there in the first two words, I just don’t think a lot of people have reflected on it: “Shema Yisrael,” meaning, “Hear, O Israel…” Usually we say things like “Baruch Atah Adonai,” “Praised are YOU, Adonai,” but not here. In my mind, I picture Moses - who most often is speaking with, to, and for the Divine - turning around, facing *away* from God, and speaking to us, the people. It’s not even really a prayer, but a declarative statement. It’s entirely a human-to-human interaction; heavily emphasizing the importance of community, collective belief, and shared creed. And more than anything else, it is a proclamation of monotheism, and of complete loyalty to THE One God, who has a unique relationship with us, the people of Israel. 

Another interesting feature of this verse, Deuteronomy 6:4, is how it is actually written in the Torah. In every Torah scroll across the globe, the last letter of the first word, and the last letter of the final word, are written in large, bold font. The letter Ayin in “Shema,” and the letter Daled in “Echad,” seemingly radiate off the page to form their own word, “Eid,” meaning “witness.” The rabbinic interpretation of this peculiar script is that we all are meant to testify and bear witness to the essential truths of this verse. It is not enough to just know it on your own, but we encourage one another to remember the exclusivity of God, and how precious is our relationship with Adonai. 

Several rabbinic commentators also point out that while Moses more often instructs the Israelites to be loyal to “Adonai, YOUR God,” here Moses makes a point of including himself, both because of everything God has done for him, and to further hit home the point that we are *all* part of this covenant and theological partnership; no one is excluded and no one is exempt. What a powerful message to convey in only SIX words! Add to this our Jewish history of times when we’ve been banned from saying these words aloud; have huddled together in secrecy to declare the Shema for comfort, unity, strength, and courage; and stories in our tradition of martyrs who died uttering these very words - and the Shema becomes even more meaningful. Many of us know it by heart, and it may seem mundane and basic, but I hope we can all pause and appreciate the depth and potency of this short, majestic, declarative creed. Do you hear what I’m saying, O Israel??

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Pxhere
2. Katrina Cole on Flickr
3. Yaniv Ben-Arie on Flickr
4. Wolfgang Sauber on Wikimedia Commons

Naso: Fighting... whether Philistines or Palestinians

Our Torah portion this week, Naso, includes a peculiar set of laws (in Numbers, chapter 6) regarding the nazirite. This isn’t a tribe or a separate people, but rather a title; a conscious choice that someone might make to *become* a nazirite. They vow to abstain from drinking or consuming any byproduct of wine or grapes, to not cut their hair, and to not go near a dead body. We honestly don’t learn much more about what it means to make this choice... and perhaps most importantly WHY. But the Haftarah, assigned to this Torah portion by the ancient rabbis, is the story of the most famous nazirite, Samson. Well, it’s *almost* the story of Samson; it really tells the tale of his parents, in the Book of Judges, and it ends with his birth. If you’ve read about the escapades of Samson (and not just that he had long hair and super-strength), you probably understand why the rabbis thought it best to just end with him being born. (He’s kind of a violent fellow...) I thought maybe we could look at Samson here though, for just a little bit, especially considering the uncomfortably apt fact that he fought the Philistines in Gaza.

Before I get into it though, a word about the Philistines and the Palestinians: Historically speaking, it is both true and false that the two terms are linked. The Biblical Philistines - enemies of Samson, Saul, and David - were a sea-faring people who lived along the Mediterranean coast for several hundred years, before they were defeated by the Assyrian Empire in the 6th Century BCE. Even after the people were gone, and their culture along with them, the region retained the name “Philistia.” It was not, however, until the Roman emperor Hadrian put down a Jewish rebellion in 135 CE (so seven hundred years later...), that he officially renamed the area “Palestine.” And it’s likely that Hadrian did so specifically to stick it to these pesky Jews who challenged his authority, and therefore named the region after an ancient Israelite enemy. Not until the Ottoman Empire, into the 20th Century, did the local non-Jewish residents begin referring to themselves as Palestinians. But I also want to make it abundantly clear that even though the modern-day Palestinians may not be direct descendants of the Philistines, they reasonably DO share DNA with them, and they absolutely have legitimate and long-standing claims on the land. 

My point, therefore, is NOT to discredit the Palestinians right to statehood in Gaza and the West Bank. Rather, I want us to observe that history repeats itself, and what we see going on today, in 2021, feels eerily similar to the wars and conflicts of our Biblical predecessors from nearly 3,500 years ago. And just like today, it is hard to parse out who-started-what-and-when, and who is “really” to blame... if such a thing even exists. Over the course of three chapters in the Book of Judges, Samson battles the Philistines repeatedly, and often single-handedly. They wrong him, he kills a lot of people in retaliation, which leads them to threaten - and perpetrate - violence, which sets him off again, thus angering the Philistines, and round and round we go. Sounds a little familiar, doesn’t it? And so tragically and pointlessly current. Both peoples have been in the region for millennia. No one is leaving, no one will concede, and everyone continues to fight. 

There is also something terrifyingly prophetic about how the story of Samson ends. He is ultimately captured by the Philistines, and subsequently blinded. In one final act of vengeance, Samson regains his Herculean strength for a moment, and demolishes the Philistines’ idolatrous Temple of Dagon; killing himself and thousands of his enemies in the process. And yes, all of this took place in - you guessed it - Gaza. So I think we have to ask ourselves in 2021: is this all one, big suicide mission? Today there is a cease-fire, but soon enough Hamas will resume terrorizing Israel with thousands of rockets, while the Israeli military will continue its relentless assault on Hamas targets in Gaza... often nestled in civilian neighborhoods and municipal buildings. Will it ever end? History does not offer us a lot of comfort in response, that much is clear. But maybe - just maybe - our ancient texts can challenge us to break the cycle. We’ve tried annihilation for millennia. In the end, they are still here and so are we... just with a lot more grief and mourning for the civilian casualties. I pray fervently that the leaders in that region look to history for some guidance and cautionary tales. And I hope and pray and plead that they do so before they demolish the proverbial temple; before it is too late, and they have killed everyone. Only time will tell...

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of: 
1. wannapik.com
2. Bukvoed on Wikimedia Commons
3. 周小逸 Ian on Flickr
4. Matanya on Wikimedia Commons

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

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

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

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

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

Fortunate is the people whose portion is thus; 

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

A psalm of David,

To You, my God, the King, I sing. 

I would swing, flap my wing, 

and let Your Name forever ring. 

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

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

Adonai is the greatest, unfathomably great;

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

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

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

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

Is righteously righteous, and fiery red hot!

So praise and extol God, from Aleph to Tav;

Adonai is the greatest… now show God some love!

Psalm 150:

Hallelujah!

I will praise God in the Temple,

I will praise God, O so gentle. 

I will praise God in the sky,

Praising low and praising high. 

Praise with horn and harp and flute

And even with something called a lute. 

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

And the lyre (that’s how you say it?)

A pipe can be played best,

Upside down against your chest. 

While the oboe sounds sublime,

At 5am, so be on time!

I’ll play the shofar in the shower,

Beat a drum for one full hour. 

God is worth it, that’s for sure,

Whether on the Nevel or Kinor. 

If you’re a Levite, try a Minim

Or an Ugav, or a Tof;

But the Machol can be tricky,

And the Tziltzalim are rough. 

These ancient instruments are odd,

But the point here is still good. 

Every breath of life praise God,

Come on, you know you really should!

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

Happy Purim! 🤪