Rosh Hashanah 5782 (2021) - First Day Sermon

Rosh Hashanah, Day 1 - Sermon
Every year, I deliver four main sermons on the High Holidays. I also speak at the Erev (evening) RH service, offer introductions to the Torah reading, kavvanot (prayer intentions) through the service, and speak at the afternoon (Mincha) and evening (Neilah) services on Yom Kippur. BUT, the four primary, top-billed, big ticket sermons are the morning of Rosh Hashanah (so right now), tomorrow morning for the second day of the holiday, Kol Nidrei at the start of Yom Kippur, and Yom Kippur morning. This is my thirteenth High Holiday season at Ohev Shalom, so I guess it’s kind of like my Bar Mitzvah celebration year! Mazal Tov to me!

For each of the previous twelve years, all four of those principal Divrei Torah have been on one, shared theme, which I try to expand and expound upon as the holidays pass. This year is no different, both with a single-word theme that I will return to four times, as well as an image that I plan to associate with each talk. So, let’s dive right in:

For the High Holiday season of the Hebrew year 5782, I am going to offer four sermons on the theme of resilience. First, because we desperately need to tap into our own, internal resilience and perseverance, as we muddle our way through the start of another year in the shadows of the coronavirus. We worry and speculate about what lies ahead, with vaccines, boosters, variants, mask mandates, social distancing, and all the other terms we’ve had to learn over the past year-and-a-half that we would love to just forget and never have to contend with ever again. But we can’t forget them, can we? Not now, and likely not for a while. Our resilience is also called upon in facing the environmental disasters plaguing our planet, the constant polarization of our politics, various crises abroad in Afghanistan, Syria, or elsewhere, including, of course, ubiquitously, volatility and violence in Israel. 

That is A LOT. I want to pause for a minute in my sermon to invite us all to breathe, whether here in person or at home. Close your eyes, focus on breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth, several times, with your feet planted on the ground and sitting upright but relaxed. We need so much resilience right now. This is tough. If we’re going to focus on building strength and endurance, we need to be kind to ourselves, acknowledge the challenges… and breathe. So let’s do that for a minute, as you think about what resilience means to you. (If you’re reading this sermon on the blog, you may want to pause and breathe for a minute or two as well…)

Many of you are probably aware that resilience is also an important theme in something else happening at Ohev Shalom right now. This incredible curtain you see behind me was designed by the phenomenal Indian-Jewish artist, Siona Benjamin. And Siona has just concluded a SECOND project for us, which we’re calling Megillat Lostice; A Scroll of Resilience.

Over the course of several years, I had been researching the history of our Holocaust Scroll, our special Czech Torah that survived the Second World War. And its story left such an impression on me - and I feared that very few people might ever actually know this awe-inspiring tale - that I wrote a four-chapter history of how this particular Torah came to Ohev Shalom. A few years ago, Ohev Shalom started celebrating Lostice Shabbat, an annual commemoration of the small Moravian town whose Jews were killed by the Nazis, and we incorporated the reading of these four chapters as a ritual to solidify the tradition.

If you think about it, that’s how Chanukah became a holiday, or Purim, or even secular holidays like the Fourth of July or Thanksgiving. They come with origin stories, frequently written down so as not to forget, that are then ritualized to help explain what we’re doing, and why this matters. In an effort to formalize further this particular legacy, our four-chapter account was handwritten on parchment paper by another artist, Judith Joseph, and then Siona Benjamin created four amazing painted illustrations, making our new Megillah an illuminated manuscript (of sorts). 

Each of my four sermons on resilience is going to focus on one of Siona’s four pieces of artwork, which will also allow me to explain some of the imagery she and I chose for each. It is also important to me that this not just be a convenient vehicle for my talks, or that I merely tell you about historic resilience; I want us to think about how to build ourselves up. We have endured a lot, and this historic pandemic isn’t over. We need some new tools and ideas for how to cope, endure, and even - just maybe - thrive and grow stronger as a result of our perseverence. 

Therefore, I also intend to incorporate a few essential practices for building greater resilience. You see, we might *think* that some people are just more resilient than others; it’s just a personality trait or a characteristic that some have and others don’t. I disagree. And according to the American Psychological Association, there are actually four elements (conveniently for me and my sermons…) that we can develop in order to build resilience. So one painting for each sermon, and one internal assignment for each of us to work on. 

So why is it important to work on these skills? Well, the APA’s definition of “resilience” helps to explain this a bit better than I could. It states: “Becoming more resilient not only helps you get through difficult circumstances, it also empowers you to grow and even improve your life along the way.” In other words, it’s not just about coping, enduring, hanging on, and barely surviving. Cultivating our capacity to be more resilient allows us to also excel! How does this happen? Well, trauma is unavoidable. It is simply part of life.

At some point, we will each have to confront illness, tragedy, loss, and death. Now, you can hear that statement and feel totally depressed: “Gee, rabbi, thanks for being so positive and so light-hearted.” However, I maintain that pretending those things won’t happen just makes us *less* prepared or mentally fortified to deal, when bad things inevitably DO occur. Burying our heads in the sand won’t stave off hardship and pain… it’ll just leave us less prepared when it happens. Instead, we can learn to not just bounce back from difficulty and be ok; we can grow, learn, improve, and become stronger BECAUSE of what we’ve experienced. 

The APA’s website goes on: “like building a muscle, increasing your resilience takes time and intentionality. Focusing on four core components - connection, wellness, healthy thinking, and meaning - can empower you to withstand and learn from difficult and traumatic experiences.” I think of them as fortifying four areas of our core being. Connection - physical and spacial; wellness - emotional and spiritual; healthy thinking - mental and intellectual; meaning - intentionality and purpose. 

So let’s look at the first one, connection. We cannot do this alone. Which is a particularly frustrating principle, when COVID-19 guidelines tell us to socially distance, avoid gatherings, stay at home, and remain in quarantine. Nevertheless, we need to remind ourselves, and be reminded by others, that we are NOT alone in our difficulties. Struggling alone can make problems seem infinitely more insurmountable, and we descend into self-critical, toxic thinking. We need one another, we need community, and we need to feel supported and held. This can be challenging, because it’s easier to be there for other people, to make yourself a resource and a support for someone ELSE. It’s harder to admit when you’re the one who needs help. But we DO need help, and we need one another. 

The first chapter of Megillat Lostice is about that small little bustling town in the region of Moravia, in northwestern Czechoslovakia. Jews had been living in that area since 1571, and that’s only according to official records! I’m sure it wasn’t an easy life, but I also know that Jews were successful and regionally influential for much of that time. I won’t go into all the details now, but if you come on Lostice Shabbat, you can hear all about it when we read from the scroll for the first time! One thing that Siona and I discussed at length was the LIFE of the Jewish communities of Europe, not just their deaths. Some of you have heard me repeat this frequently, but it bears frequent repeating: We do ourselves a great disservice when we associate so much of Jewish history with oppression, persecution, and death. Yes, the fate of Lostice’s Jews, like millions all across the continent, ended tragically in concentration camps. We cannot ignore that, and we forget about it at our own peril. But shouldn’t we also celebrate the joy of being Jewish? They lived there for four HUNDRED years! Is it really fair to sum up their entire existence with train cars sent off to Theresienstadt? 

The painting that Siona created for this first chapter features Fanny Neuda, the wife of Lostice’s rabbi, Abraham Neuda, in the 1840s, who wrote the first Jewish prayer book ever written FOR women BY a woman. We also see the synagogue sanctuary in Lostice, with scrolls sitting in its Ark; one of which would eventually make its way to the cabinet just behind me right now. To me, this first painting is about community and connection. The synagogue was truly a Beit K’nesset, the Hebrew word for synagogue which literally means, a House of Gathering. It was full of life, study, singing, and worship. And it was a place of safety, security, and home for the Jewish residents of Lostice.

One of the ways we build resilience is to surround ourselves with community. The APA website, the one that defines resilience, suggests: “[Find] trustworthy and compassionate individuals who validate your feelings.” It also recommends that you join a group. The social support of either a civic group or, conveniently enough, a faith-based community (ehum, ehum) can help us reclaim hope, feel like we’re working for something larger and longer-lasting than just ourselves, and can remind us over and over again that we are not alone. We are here for one another, and we are stronger, more resilient, together.

In the painting, Fanny Neuda’s skirt melds into the rolling hills of the Moravian countryside. She is seemingly part of the land, just as the place and the community are a part of her. Which is not to say that we, or she, or anyone should be subsumed in community, but just that it should hopefully and ideally be a symbiotic relationship. You put a lot in, and you get a lot back. Fanny is a part of her community, and it is a part of her. It may also remind us of the power of home, and how rooted and confident we feel when we belong somewhere. 

There are additional symbols and intentions in this painting, as there are in each of the four, and I can’t point out all of them now. But I do want to highlight and shine a light on… well, the light. Siona and I asked ourselves, how do you paint resilience? For us, and for our Megillah, the answer became “light.” You’ll see in each image that light is indestructible. It shines through. It cannot be contained or blotted out, no matter how hard someone may try. For Chapter One, the light source is the glow of the Shabbat candles. This represents history, tradition, ritual, and communal warmth. When we embrace the light of connection, of leaning on one another in tougher times, it can warm us, heal us, and light our path forward. 

I hope you’ll come along on this journey with me, and with Siona Benjamin, whether in-person or over zoom. And my sermons will be on my blog online, after first Rosh Hashanah, and then Yom Kippur. I am certain we could all use some more training to build or rebuild our resilience. This year, the High Holidays aren’t just about apologies and forgiveness, being written into the Book of Life, or hearing those shofar blasts. We need more from, and for, one another. Together we can work on building up our resilience, and we can grow and even thrive, despite the obstacles and the concerns that lay before us. So let us walk this journey together, as we prepare to take on whatever lies ahead in the new year. 

Shanah Tovah!

Rosh Hashanah: Your World is About to Begin Anew

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

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

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

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

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

Shanah Tovah - Happy New Year!

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

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

Shoftim: Royally Accountable!

I guess we should have seen this coming; the number of Covid cases has risen sharply again in the US. One of the most infuriating things about this latest surge is how preventable it was. Our country was never able to bring the vaccination rate above ~50% - nowhere near the 70-80% needed to possibly achieve herd immunity - and so this awful pandemic wears on. I think a major hurdle that we cannot seem to overcome is a pervasive mistrust of government. It isn’t *every* American, or all the time, but it’s probably been grafted onto the American psyche since we broke away from British rule. It hasn't improved much over the centuries; take, for example, Ronald Reagan's famous quote about the nine scariest words in the English language being, "I'm from the government, and I'm here to help." I don't know that I have any great solutions to this problem in my back pocket, but I definitely appreciate how the Torah proposes at least ONE way that our authority figures can try to earn our trust. Lord knows, they (and we) need all the help they can get...

This week's parashah, Shoftim, includes some best practices for selecting a monarch. Interestingly, choosing an earthly leader is not a mitzvah, a commandment, or even something the Torah encourages. It is more like an acquiescence to the human desire to have a regent: "If, after you have entered the land that Adonai, your God, has assigned to you..., you decide, 'I will set a king over me, as do all the nations about me,' you shall be free to set a king over yourself, one chosen by Adonai, your God." (Deut. 17:1-15). The Torah goes on to say, if you *must* have a royal ruler, then here are the rules s/he must follow: They can't amass too much wealth, keep too large a harem of wives, or stockpile tons of weapons (foreshadowing postscript: "try as they might..."). So there are several restrictions and boundaries for said regent, but interestingly, the text only commands *one* obligation, something our new ruler MUST do. We read: "When he is seated on his royal throne, he shall write a copy of this Teaching (the Torah) for himself... Let it remain with him and let him read from it every day of his life, so that he may learn to fear Adonai, his God, to observe faithfully every word of this Torah, as well as these laws." (v. 18-19)

I find it fascinating that it isn't enough to keep a copy of the Torah, but *each* new leader must physically write (though pretty quickly they added a loophole that it could be commissioned instead) her/his own copy... and then lug it around everywhere they go! Talk about a physical reminder of the 'burden' of leadership... The Torah also greatly values humility, suggesting that the higher your office, the more humility you'll need... and maybe the increase should be exponential! The emphasis is also squarely placed on service, on the idea that our leaders must never forget that they serve the people, and their first priority has to be the good of the broader population. If nothing else, our regents - then and now - desperately need to learn, repeat, and commit to memory the Golden Rule: "Love your neighbor as yourself." (Lev. 19:18)

Sadly, the Biblical kings and queens more often proved how right the Torah text was to be concerned. They mainly served their own interests, and went out of their way to hoard wealth, power, and weaponry. Sounds painfully familiar, doesn't it? Yet to this day, leaders remain essential, especially when we need a centralized authority to help *everyone* survive and rebuild after a catastrophe or a pandemic. Millennia ago, it was hard to impress upon someone that they would be given tons of power... yet would remain beholden to their constituents. Finding that complicated balance hasn't gotten any easier. But perhaps encouraging our leaders to carry around constant reminders of their obligations could be a good start? And not just a small booklet to keep stashed at the bottom of a bag, but something more like a massive scroll, impossible to ignore. It wouldn't solve the whole problem of people not trusting their own governments, but maybe it would be a start? Next time there's a major gathering of world leaders, remind me to send them a few quills and a TON of parchment paper...

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. Marco Verch Professional Photographer on Flickr
2. Alan Schapire (scribe visit to Ohev Shalom, January, 2020)
3. Adam Cohn on Flickr
4. Mushki Brichta on Wikimedia Commons

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
 

Eikev: Thanks for the Grub - Yay, God!

Judaism considers it important to bless our food. We have short phrases to recite *before* we eat something (with specific wording for basically ANY food or drink you can imagine!), and then longer prayers that are recited or sung *after* we eat as well. So let's take a moment and ask ourselves, “why?” Well, the Biblical explanation comes from a single verse in this week’s Torah portion… but that only tells us part of the story. It can get us thinking about the importance of blessing our foods, but then we need to dig deeper still. Our ancestors believed a fundamental truth about how food relates to the Divine, to the earth, and to our bodies, so let’s examine their perspective and see whether it remains relevant for us today as well. 

You may be familiar with the traditional Jewish Grace after Meals, a.k.a. Birkat Ha-Mazon, a.k.a. “the benching” (Yiddish for "blessing") There are shorter versions and longer ones, with special additional paragraphs for Shabbat and holidays. Interestingly, in even the longest version, there’s only ever ONE verse that comes directly from the Torah. The benching does include psalms and other Biblical quotes, but in terms of material specifically from The Five Books of Moses, it’s just this one verse from our parashah: “When you have eaten, and are satiated, you shall bless Adonai, your God, for the good land which God has given you.” (Deut. 8:10) So back to our original question, why? Why do we bless God? Because the Jewish theology around food is quite clear - you don’t own anything that you eat. It all belongs to God, and you/me/everyone needs to express gratitude for our ability to eat and be satisfied. 

Maybe that concept seems obvious to you… or maybe you fundamentally disagree (and feel free to comment below and share your thoughts), but it has always resonated with me. Whether we grow our own food, support a farm collective, or buy everything from a store or online grocer; the food still isn’t ours. We really need to acknowledge that in our community today, many of us do not struggle with food insecurity, the way millions of people do across the globe every single day. We had no control over where we were born or in what era. Our financial means and our abundant access to food - all these things are miraculous gifts from God! Yet sometimes we let ourselves think that we made this happen. 

All around us, we hear sentiments in society that essentially amount to some version of: “Why should I share my resources with others who don’t deserve it?” The Torah’s resounding answer is, it’s not your decision. God gave you this bounty, not you yourself, and you are expected - required even - to thank God for all these blessings. There are so many dangerous pitfalls where we may be tempted to think we made our own successes happen. We contributed, sure, but God’s partnership was, and always will be, vital for anything to work. When we acknowledge that, we hopefully learn to be humble, and then ideally show compassion towards (all!) others who have less than we do. So many of us are truly blessed to not worry where our next meal will come from. That verse I quoted from Deuteronomy reminds us that when it’s effortless for us to eat, and obvious that we’ll get to feel satiety, we must then also bless God. Now, who’s hungry?

CC images in this blog post, courtesy of:
1. jimbomack66 on Wikimedia Commons
2. AllaSerebrina on Deposit Photos
3. pxhere.com
4. The US National Archives

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