Beha'alotecha: A History of Symbols

Did you know that the Star of David isn't really a very Jewish symbol? Surprising, I know. For most people, if you ask them to picture/draw/articulate a single image that represents Jews and Judaism, they are likely to give you a Magen David, a Star of David. 

It's the central symbol on the Israeli flag, it's the name of the Israeli version of the Red Cross, Magen David Adom, and of course, it was painfully forced upon us in the Second World War. The yellow patch that all Jews had to wear on their clothing, and which brought them ridicule, shame, and violence, was indeed a six-pointed star. And yet, when you look across the span of Jewish history, the Star of David is surprisingly absent from the list of images and religious symbols that were used to identify Jews. Who knew?

At the start of this week's Torah portion, we read about the detailed construction of the lampstand, the Menorah, which stood in the Tabernacle during the Exodus from Egypt, and later also in the Ancient Temple in Jerusalem. Now THAT was a Jewish symbol! In ancient ruins, in books and manuscripts, and - famously (or infamously) - on the Arch of Titus being carried away by Roman conquerors; we see the seven-

armed candelabra that we all know so well. Before the last two centuries, or so, most people would NOT have pictured the Star of David as representing Judaism, they would likely have chosen the Menorah. And yet even the Menorah is actually kind of a surprising choice of artifacts to represent the Jews. Why, among all the items in the Temple, did the candelabra become so important? That same sacred sanctuary also contained a bronze laver, an elaborate table to display bread, a crucial altar for burning offerings, and of course, the Ark of the Covenant, for heaven's sake! Several of these were directly linked to either God's commandments or the sacrificial rite which was absolutely essential to Israelite worship and identity. In comparison, what was so special about the Menorah??

Nevertheless, the central Jewish image - even in the time of the Torah - was the seven-armed lampstand. Perhaps because it reminded us of the Divine Light shining on God's people and on the world. Or perhaps the Menorah ensured that we always remember to be 'a light unto the nations' (Isaiah, 42:6 & 49:6). 

But I began this post by writing about the Star of David, because I think it's interesting to consider how these things evolve. We started off with a symbol from the Temple, but after it was destroyed, we moved away from the concept of ritual sacrifice on an altar. Using an artifact from that place, and that era, felt outdated. Jews everywhere needed something new. Still today, we change, we grow, we develop. It's true for us an individuals, and it's true even for an ancient, seemingly unchanging religion like Judaism.

I've been thinking about this right now, because I just came back from visiting my family in Stockholm, Sweden. Ok, so not a particularly obvious connection to stars and candlesticks, I'll admit, but here's my reasoning: As we grow up, and we move to different places, change jobs, expand our families, and watch our tastes and preferences shift; the 

symbols that represent who we are evolve as well. The Swedish flag always felt like a symbol that was part of me growing up. However, now that it's been fifteen (oy) years since I lived there, that same flag feels more like history and nostalgia than identity and belonging. That is just one example. We can each name other symbols that once were prominent in our lives, but may have become less significant with the passing of time. This is not a bad thing. It's life. And I think it's great to be able to look back and reconnect with our history, and see it for what it is. It helps ground us in the present, and strengthens our identity in the here and now. Yesterday, the Ancient Menorah. Today, the Star of David. Tomorrow? We can only image-ine...

Photos in this blog post:

1. CC image courtesy of Magen David Adom on Wikimedia Commons

2. CC image courtesy of Gunnar Bach Pedersen on Wikimedia Commons

3. CC image courtesy of Alex Proimos on Wikimedia Commons

4. Image courtesy of Rabbi Gerber's iPhone. The Swedish flag that hangs in my office, right next to a painting of a man blowing a shofar. Two images living in harmony.

B'Midbar: I Am Not Superstitious…Pooh…Pooh…Pooh! (Guest Blogger)

Hello everyone!

This Thursday, I am leaving for vacation; off to spend a week in Sweden visiting family. But I would hate to leave you without some words of Torah... even if they aren't mine. This week, I am pleased to welcome my colleague and friend, Cantor Steven Friedrich, to be a guest blogger on 'Take on Torah.' Enjoy, and I'll see you soon!

Rabbi Gerber

Contemporary Jews like you and me generally do not consider themselves to be superstitious. Such bubba meises are considered to be just Old Wives’ Tales, to which no modern, well-educated, liberal-thinking Jew would ever admit. Yet, superstitions prevail among us regardless of our denials. It’s not really all that surprising, as some of these superstitions go all the way back to Biblical times. I find myself falling into one of these ancient superstitions almost on a daily basis – that totally illogical Jewish tradition of ‘NOT counting’ people or things in a numerical sequence in order to forestall a plague or similar tragedy. As I count people who attend morning minyan, I find myself saying ‘NOT one, NOT two, etc..until I reach NOT ten. Only then do I know I have a minyan (quorum). But that’s not the end of it. As I wrap tefillin on my arm, I don’t count the seven windings of the strap. Instead I recite “Lcha Dodi Likrat Kallah, Pnei Shabbat N’kabbelah” saying one word for each winding rather than counting them ‘1, 2… and so on.

This is a particularly Jewish superstition whose source can actually be found in our Bible. As a matter of fact, it’s related to the census of the Israelites that we read about in this week’s Parashah, Bemidbar. Moses and Aaron are instructed three times to take a census (Nu 1:4; Nu 1:22; Nu 26:2). When you continue to read through the Book of Numbers, you find that there are three plagues that subsequently decimate the Israelite population while in the Wilderness (Numbers ch. 11, 17 and 25). Three countings of people followed by three plagues – there must be a correlation, yes? Aha! So counting people by number is some sort of sin. What could Moses and Aaron have done so wrong as to cause these plagues? There’s the answer, back in the Book of Exodus: “When you take the census of the people of Israel according to their number, then shall they give every man atonement for his soul to the Lord, when you count them, that there should be no plague among them, when you count them. They shall give, every one who passes among those who are counted, half a shekel…as an offering to the Lord.” (Ex30:12-13)

Well there’s our answer in plain sight: These plagues MUST have been caused by the counting of people WITHOUT the remittance of the half-shekel required by God earlier in the Bible. It is also not surprising to see that King David later tries to take a census of the Israelites in his kingdom that also leads to a plague. Clearly then, the Bible teaches us, that to count people in this manner is a sin punishable by a plague. It stands to reason, therefore, that to count anything by number in this manner is to invite horrible consequences. Why take a chance? And so, to this day we Jews invent different mnemonics for counting – such as my 7 word phrase above for putting on tefillin.

What? You don’t believe me? ACHOO!!! See? I sneezed – so it must be the truth!!!

Cantor Steven Friedrich – May 21, 2014

Bechukotai: #BringBackOurBlessings

I've been thinking a lot, these past few weeks, about the awful situation in Nigeria. Over 250 young girls kidnapped by a terrorist group, and no luck, thus far, in finding them. It has sparked international outcry, with

celebrities, politicians, and average people around the world all shouting the slogan, 'Bring Back Our Girls!' Over 1,000,000 tweets of the slogan as a hashtag, and pictures all over the internet of people holding signs. And back and forth the debate also rages, about whether slogans and hashtags achieve anything, or whether we should send in our military to solve this problem 'once and for all.' Looking at the blessings and curses listed in this week's parashah - shouted at us, in fact, by the Torah - has really left me thinking about this issue a great deal.

What is the solution? IS there a solution?? On the one hand, we have mobilized the world's attention. That is amazing. A few years ago, no one would have known about atrocities halfway around the globe, and surely no one would have reacted. Though on the other hand, what is this campaign achieving? If we really

CARED about these girls, wouldn't we DO something more active, more aggressive? The answer, I'm afraid, is never so simple as to hold the solution in one hand OR the other. Are we really so short-sighted as to believe that even our military intervention would SOLVE this problem? Are the members of Boko Haram the only terrorists out there, the only fundamentalist psychopaths who think God condones their horrendous treatment of women? It's painful to admit, but we cannot rid the world of evil; either by shouting, or shooting, it out of existence.

But let us also not turn on one another, and decry or belittle someone else's efforts to connect to this painful tragedy. Who's to say what will

work and what won't? Even Sister Rosemary Nyirumbe - a renowned activist from Uganda, who works every day with girls like those kidnapped in Nigeria - told Stephen Colbert in a recent interview that we need to 'shout as loud as we can,' and that the hashtag campaign is indeed putting pressure on the Nigerian government AND on the terrorists themselves. Every effort to affect change, and to combat evil, is helpful and productive. There is no 'easy' solution out there, so it helps no one when we turn on each other.

Our parashah outlines a series of blessings for observing God's commandments, and then a long list of curses for rejecting or ignoring those same mitzvot. Faithfulness will lead to self-confidence and military prowess: "Five of you shall give chase

to a hundred, and a hundred of you shall give chase to ten thousand; your enemies shall fall before you by the sword." (Leviticus 26:8) The absence of faith, however, will lead to the exact opposite: "The sound of a driven leaf shall put them to flight. Fleeing as though from the sword, they shall fall though none pursues." (26:36) The difference between a blessing and a curse is only perspective; self-confidence or a lack thereof. So too in today's world, with the plague of terrorism and fundamentalism that we all endure. Eradicating evil may be more than what any one of us can accomplish alone. But standing together, voicing our outrage, and yes, sometimes uniting together in military action, is no small achievement. And we have to believe in our own ability to affect change.

Maybe it's not enough to hold up a sign. But for the sake of our families,
our own daughters, and for our humanity, we still must do SOMETHING! And taking action, in any form, can change our perspective, and hopefully - please God, soon - lead to us removing the curses of hate in our society, and replacing them with a life of blessing for us all.

Amen.

Photos in this blog post:
People holding up signs as part of the 'Bring Back Our Girls' campaign: Michelle Obama, Malala Yousafzai, Sean 'P. Diddy' Combs, Amy Poehler, and me.

Behar: This Ain't Yours!

The Torah proposes a difficult concept for us to swallow. In fact, some might consider it more Buddhist-like than Jewish, but nevertheless, it's right there in the Bible. Hard as it may be to accept, says the Torah, you don't really possess anything. 

There's no such thing as ownership, for anyone but God. We read in Leviticus 25:23: 'The land must not be sold permanently, for the land is Mine [God's]; you are but strangers residing with Me.' Take a moment and think about your home, your car, your jewelry, your clothing, even your food, and ask yourself if you - generally speaking - consider these things to be yours, or if you're ok with the idea that you don't own any of them. My guess is, you'd like to show God some credit card receipts and mortgage statements, and ask (respectfully) whose signature appears on all those dotted lines...

Nevertheless, this is a prominent theme throughout the Bible. When we see ourselves as owners, we feel rooted, settled... and complacent. We take possessions for granted, and we feel entitled to all that we have. We look at people around us who DON'T have, and we feel no sympathy, because we obviously worked harder than those lazy bums! If they 

didn't want to go without, they should have made wiser choices in life. And so the Torah reminds us - again, and again, and again - that our assumptions simply ain't true. We have all been incredibly lucky to get where we are today, and we should ALL feel incredible gratitude for each and every moment of happiness we get to experience. One strategy that the Biblical author employs to try to convey that message is to remind you that you own nothing. It could all disappear in the blink of an eye, if, God forbid, disaster should strike or luck should change. We don't LIKE to think of ourselves as strangers and squatters in our own lives, but permanence is truly an illusion. And as unpleasant as it is to be reminded of it, we sometimes NEED that reminder, because it teaches us to be grateful and appreciative. Better to learn that the easy way than the hard way...

It is indeed difficult to think of our possessions and homes as fleeting, but it is all the more unthinkable to consider this same concept regarding the people in our lives. And yet, they too are not immune. There is an incredibly heart-breaking rabbinic story about the famous rabbi, Rabbi Meir, and his equally famous 

and learned wife, Beruriah. On one particularly fateful Shabbat, both their sons died while Rabbi Meir was away. When he returned, and Beruriah revealed to him what had happened, she spoke about the need to return two precious gems to their original owner. They had merely been left with the devastated couple for a short while, for safekeeping. I don't like this story, and I don't want to accept this reality... but I must. We don't get to decide how long we live, or long our lives will be graced by the beautiful people around us; we can only make the most of the precious moments that we have, and give thanks constantly for the moments and the memories.

This weekend we celebrate Mother's Day. And inevitably, you know someone who will say 'I love my mother EVERY day, why do I need one special day to say so???' And the answer is that every reminder helps. Every opportunity to stop, to acknowledge blessings, and to give thanks, 

is good. It's hard to be grateful all the time; we take a lot for granted. But when an opportunity comes along to truly FEEL that gratitude? Take it. I hope this blog post hasn't come across as depressing; that wasn't my intention at all. We don't like to be reminded that we're all really just tenants and outsiders, but we NEED this wake up call to make us more sensitive to new people in our community, to those who don't always fit in, to those less fortunate around us; to EVERYONE. We need the reminder, even if it's uncomfortable, even if it's tough to accept. And if you hear that message - and I hope that you do - it will make you more grateful. And then you'll hug someone this weekend and tell them how great they are. And it will all be worth it.

Photos in this blog post:

1. CC image courtesy of Noblestrawberry on Wikimedia Commons

2. CC image courtesy of Leixure on Wikimedia Commons

3. CC image courtesy of Rob Lavinsky, iRocks.com – CC-BY-SA-3.0 on Wikimedia Commons

4. CC image courtesy of The Mighty Tim Inconnu on Wikimedia Commons

Emor: How Experiencing the Ripples Makes Us Stronger

I often wonder what life was like in the ancient world. The Book of Leviticus gives us many of the laws of that time period, but we don't 
hear any emotion in the text, we don't know how the people actually FELT carrying out these commandments. This week, I find myself thinking about this a lot; in part because of odd verses in the text, and in part because of recent events here at Ohev Shalom.

Our Torah reading begins by talking about the duties and restrictions of the priests in the Temple. They have to cut their hair in a specific way, they can only marry certain individuals, they can only mourn family members in a particular fashion, 

etc., etc. And then we read the following: 'When the daughter of a priest defiles herself through harlotry, it is her father whom she defiles; she shall be put to the fire' (Lev. 21:9). How did this play itself out in the ancient world? And, perhaps more importantly, whom are we punishing here? It's mainly the daughter, of course, but the father's position in society seems to make her punishment more severe, and surely he - AND the girl's mother - are being punished as well with the death of their daughter. And does the priest have any say in the matter? Could the High Priest, one of the most important men in society, stop this horrific decree from taking place? I really can't help but wonder how this all unfolded in Ancient Israel, and how everyone actually felt about what the Torah was telling them to do. And here's why this is on my mind.

This past Sunday was Yom Ha-Shoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. At Ohev Shalom, rather than focus our evening program on the story of a survivor, we invited a guest speaker to share a slightly different tale. Trudy Klein Gompers was born in Austria in 1937. Most of the story 

she told was about her parents' surviving the war, and the few memories she herself had from years of turmoil and escape. Our program was called 'The Rippling Effects of the Holocaust,' and mainly centered on the experience of SECOND generation survivors, people who grew up with a parent who was a Holocaust victim. Trauma is not limited to the person who experiences a terrifying ordeal; it does indeed have rippling and lingering effects on children and grandchildren (and even, as our Torah portion reminds us, on parents and other family members). Mrs. Klein Gompers shared an incredibly compelling story that illustrated just how true this is.

And so I look back at our Torah portion, and I see children whose lives are affected by the choices of their parents; and even parents punished for the poor decisions of their children. In talking about the responsibilities of the priests, the Torah doesn't just say 'tell all the priests,' it says 'tell Aaron and his sons...' 

In fact, it speaks of Aaron and his 'sons,' his 'offspring,' and his 'descendants,' several times in our parashah. The hereditary nature of the priesthood is clearly very significant. Our lives, as parents and as children, are intertwined. What happens to us happens to our family members as well. We are not only as vulnerable as we ourselves want to be, or allow ourselves to be; we are also at the mercy of those closest to us. We let them into our hearts, and it leaves us open to pain. And yet, oddly enough, it is also a sign of love, and a sign of strength. Our vulnerability also allows us to experience affection, warmth, connection, and togetherness. We become compassionate, empathetic, and maybe even more moral and kind. Our lives may indeed be intertwined with others, and sometimes that can be risky business. But I think it also makes us better people. 

In the midst of a painful story about family relationships, the Torah is (subtly) reminding us to infuse law with emotion, and to make religion a living, breathing, FEELING thing. And in doing so, we make it, the Torah, stronger as well.

Photos in this blog post:

1. CC image courtesy of Dauster on Wikimedia Commons

2. CC image courtesy of Mattes on Wikimedia Commons

3. CC image courtesy of Roger McLassus on Wikimedia Commons

4. CC image courtesy of Carulmare on Wikimedia Commons

Kedoshim: What a Relationship with God Can (and Cannot) Do

This Saturday morning, at Ohev Shalom, is our USY Teen Shabbat. I really love when our teenagers take an active role in services; especially when they run the whole thing, and the Cantor and I get to sit back and 

relax! But the reason I ACTUALLY enjoy it so much is because they bring a very fresh, different, and energetic perspective, and the teens often challenge me to look at what we're doing in a new way. This Shabbat, for example, our services are going to have a unique theme: the Academy Awards. I've been impressed with what our USY board has come up with, to not just make it a kitschy theme, but actually a morning of substance, exploration of our prayers, and personal introspection. I was especially fascinated to hear what our USY president, Talia Kaplan, was planning to say in her D'var Torah (I got a sneak-peak. What can I say? It's a perk that comes with the job...). And I'd like to briefly touch on something she said (or is going to say), which inspired me in writing this week's blog post.

I'm hoping you'll be able to join us on Saturday, so I don't want to give away too much. But basically, Talia ties together the Academy Awards theme, the experience of being a teenager, this week's Torah portion, Kedoshim, AND she even gets to Yom Ha-Shoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day, which is coming up on Sunday night. Truly 

impressive! Again, not wanting to reveal too much of Talia's topic, I'll just mention that she cleverly spins the name of our parashah, 'Kedoshim,' which we translate as 'holy,' and explains how it can also refer to those who die for Judaism, i.e. the six million victims of the Holocaust. On the surface, the Torah portion focuses on holy behaviors that we engage in to emulate God; treating others fairly, paying workers a decent wage, and rendering just legal decisions. But in the shadow of Yom Ha-Shoah, we cannot help but remember those millions of Jews who were VERY faithful to Judaism, and DID observe God's laws, and yet they died in a most brutal way. In fact, they died BECAUSE of their loyalty to God. How do we reconcile this challenging tension?

There is no easy answer. We cannot explain away the Holocaust with a simple reading of Scripture. Our parashah does indeed lay the groundwork and basis for a life of holiness, but all the while with the knowledge that it cannot protect you from the chaos of the world, and from other people's bad choices and destructive behaviors. It cannot 

avert disasters like the shooting in Kansas City, or the looming fears of escalating anti-Semitism in the Ukraine. But living a life without structure, without morality, and without holiness doesn't help us avoid tragedy either. In fact, when tragedy strikes, we are instead left with no support system or way to process what has happened, and that, in turn, leads to more chaos and fear. So the holiness code of our Torah portion does give us SOMETHING to hold onto, and something to connect to.

And though the theme of this week's reading seems obvious, based on the name, Kedoshim, 'holiness,' I would actually argue that a more significant theme is 'Relationship.' More specifically, a relationship with God. The Torah portion is short, only two chapters long, but it still 

manages to list a ton of laws and ethical behaviors. And after almost each one, we see one of two phrases. Either we see 'Ani Adonai' (I am Adonai), or 'Ani Adonai Eloheichem' (I am Adonai, your God). Each phrase appears ten times in just two chapters, so TWENTY instances in total. Over and over, the reason given for why we should be holy in our behaviors is because Adonai is our God. It may not seem like much of a reason, but I think it's about relationship. When we act holy, when we make our lives holy and sanctified through our actions, God will be with us. It isn't a promise that no harm will come - and with Yom Ha-Shoah around the corner, we know and remember this all too well - but it IS a powerful reminder that through it all, the good and the bad, God will be there. And knowing that can be an incredibly inspiring force in each and every one of our lives.

Photos in this blog post:

1. CC image courtesy of Travis on Wikimedia Commons

2. CC image courtesy of U.S. Navy on Wikimedia Commons

3. Image courtesy of Google

4. CC image courtesy of Mike DelGaudio on Wikimedia Commons

Chol Ha-Moed Pesach: Some Unrestricted Thoughts from Inside the 'Freedom' of Passover

It feels somewhat ironic, I think. Almost humorous. We celebrate Passover, the Festival of Freedom, by being as restrictive with our food 

and our homes as we possibly can be. How does it feel 'free' to cover our counters, replace all our dishes, and eat cardboard sheets instead of bread for EIGHT days? The prayer service throughout the week of Passover highlights that this is 'Chag Ha-Matzot,' the 'festival of Matzah,' and it always comes with the epithet, 'Z'man Cheiruteinu,' the 'season of our freedom.' And yet, I don't feel very free. I feel decidedly NOT free, and I think my stomach would agree with me...

So is this just a joke? Is it tongue-in-cheek? Especially if you take the idea one step further. During our Seder table dinners, we spoke about being redeemed from slavery, in Hebrew 

'avdut.' And this 'avdut' was backbreaking and exhausting and forcefully imposed upon us by the Egyptians. And then? God brought us out with 'a mighty hand and an outstretched arm,' and took us into... more servitude. We didn't really go from slavery to total freedom, to a hedonistic, self-centered, care-free lifestyle, did we? We were brought into the desert, to Mount Sinai, to receive the Ten Commandments and the Torah, which dictated a whole new system of laws and obligations that we were to undertake. Even today, we have repurposed the word 'avdut' to mean 'prayer.' Our synagogue slogan is 'Torah, AVODAH, G'milut Chasadim,' meaning 'Learning, prayer, and deeds of lovingkindness.' But it's the same word. Service to the Egyptians - harsh, imposed, and evil as it may have been - is now service under another ruler.

But there IS a substantial difference. Obviously. Judaism gives us a heritage, a culture, a sense of belonging, a family, and of course foods, songs, jokes, and so much more. We call it 'Avodat ha-Lev'; still service, yes, but 'service of the heart.' And so looking back at the celebration of Passover, and the sense we might have right now, in the midst of it, that we're more restricted than ever on this, our festival of freedom. 

We actually realize TWO things: 1) This ain't so bad. We complain about it, but really we feel a sense of connection and community with Jews everywhere who open up lunch boxes at work to find matzah pizza and gefilte fish instead of PB&J's. We like the complaining, and it forms kinship. Even the cleaning can be therapeutic, and once a year the house looks sparkly and shiny again (and yes, I DID do a lot of the cleaning in my house!!). And 2) (And this is REALLY the point I wanted to make) Eight days away from our normal lives, our regular routines, and our old habits, actually is just enough time to really miss them, and to appreciate them again when they return. The freedom of Passover, in many ways, is actually achieved just as the holiday ends, and our 'normal' foods taste so exotic and wonderful again, even if just for that first, glorious bite. THAT is the taste of freedom!

Fasting works the same way on Yom Kippur. We complain about it, we get annoyed, we sit and compare foods we miss. And yet, it both creates kinship, and then it makes you appreciate your food and drink that much more when you have it back again. Sometimes 

depriving ourselves temporarily can make us more appreciative all year long. How would or could you appreciate freedom if you never knew any different? No one savors Democracy or the right to vote so much as the person who never had it before, and then finally gets to cast their very first free vote ever. When we take something away from ourselves - which we have the freedom and luxury of being able to do - and then we give it back, it teaches us appreciation and gratitude that's otherwise hard to come by. It may not feel like it right in the moment (like now, with four more days of Passover to go...), but I truly believe this is freedom. We remove it briefly, and then reintroduce it again. And then, for just a moment, it tastes SO sweet.

Photos in this blog post:

1. CC image courtesy of Kosherstock on Wikimedia Commons

2. CC image courtesy of EncycloPetey on Wikimedia Commons (No, that's not my arm, but thank you! I'm flattered.)

3. CC image courtesy of Bdcousineau on Wikimedia Commons

4. CC image courtesy of DVIDSHUB on Wikimedia Commons