...And Give Thee Peace

This past weekend we took Elishai to the Franklin Institute to see the Art of the Brick exhibit (Finally), and since we had some time, we went to the Genghis Khan exhibit as well. They did this cool thing where we were each given a card with the name of an historical person on it to carry to kiosks at each exhibit, to learn what happened to that person and how they were connected to the rise of the Mongolian Empire. One of the characters struck me; a soldier, he becomes a guard for the eight white tents after Khan’s death; a kind of portable mausoleum that his sons continued to guard dozens of generations later. I thought it was so interesting to juxtapose this very peaceful image—these white tents on the fields—with the people who guarded them, descendants of the soldiers who rode out to conquer hundreds of years before.

It raises the question of what it means when we talk of peace. What does peace really mean? Does it mean an absence of violence? Does it mean quiet? Does it mean order? The Hebrew word is, of course, Shalom, and it comes up very specifically in this week’s parasha, as the so-called Priestly Benediction is introduced. We are told that the Cohanim will bless the people with a three-fold benediction, which we know very well, and the last line is, יִשָּׂא יהוה פָּנָיו אֵלֶיךָ, וְיָשֵׂם לְךָ שָׁלוֹם ("Yissā Adhōnāy pānāw ēlekhā viyāsēm lekhā shālōm." Literally: May Adonai lift up God’s face to you and place upon you peace. And this blessing is given that God may be linked to Israel, given in the context that Israel is preparing for war.

It’s an interesting blessing given in an interesting context. So what kind of peace are we talking about?

I think this is important because we talk about peace—personal peace, inner peace, as well as national peace—often without context. When we talk about peace in our cities, the idea of peace cannot merely be a return to homes and a restoration of order. Peace is absent due to a lack of justice. When we talk about achieving some kind of personal peace, does that mean acceptance of our lot and our lives, or does that mean somehow removing disruptive experiences or destructive tendencies from our lives? Or is it really code to mean being left alone? And do I even need to speak of the issues of international strife, especially surrounding Israel? That the various notions of peace—not treaties and agreements, but peace—are very much out of alignment.

Shalom itself comes from the word shalem, which means to be whole, or complete. In the context given, I would argue that the priests, by making the blessing over Israel, and linking Israel to God, are making Israel whole and complete, and the covenant with God whole and complete. Peace, then, is not about mere quiet or the absence of violence; it’s about wholeness and completeness.  

In many ways, that is a much bigger ask; feeling whole, restoring our communities to wholeness, our world to wholeness. For our cities, that’s as much about economic opportunity and healthy schools as it is about a night without violence. For our world and for Israel, it’s not just about no rocket fire or tunnels, but that we as a people and Israel as a nation are accepted and treated equally in the community of nations. And for us as individuals? What would it mean to be whole? Not to excise our hurt but heal it; not to accept injustice but learn from our experience?

The Sefat Emet wrote that the meaning of this verse is that wholeness is the focal point of all truths; that a single mitzvah done in joy contains all goodness. We could look at our hectic lives, and the violence in our streets, and the rockets above Israel and say: none of it is enough, and despair. Or we could be like guardians of white tents, creating and protecting the wholeness—even the smallest wholeness—in the world around us and in our lives. May in our doing so, God’s face is found in all our encounters, and we come to real Shalom. 

Your Choices Matter: Tower Hill Baccalaureate Sermon

Friends: below you will find the sermon i delivered at Tower Hill's Baccalaureate service last night.

It is a joy and a tad surprising to be able to stand here with you this day. Not because there aren’t Jews among your student body—of course there are! And not because I get to speak to you from this pulpit which, while beautiful, isn’t exactly what I’m used to! It’s because my high school experience was so very different from your own.

You see, I went to a large public high school, the only game in town, and if you graduated at all, it was as likely you’d end up at the state penitentiary as the state university. This is not to say I didn’t have friends or supportive teachers, and I certainly learned a great deal; but I couldn’t wait to get out of there! My goal was to achieve escape velocity and never, ever look back.

And you—you have been a part of this group, many of you for your entire childhood and young adult lives. You have teachers who have nurtured and supported you, who have helped create, as Megan spoke about in her remarks, a real community, one that accepts and lifts up your differences as much as it provides tools for the future, all in an environment of joy. Has this place been perfect? Of course not, and I’m sure many of you are reflecting tonight not just on moments of support but also some rough moments. As with any family, it is among the people we care about the most, the people we feel safest around, that we also feel the most hurt. And this is a family.

So what does it mean to leave this place of safety? What does it mean to step into a new place, whether that place is geographically far away or only twenty minutes up the road? For one thing, it means learning other people’s stories. Most of you have been together for years; now you are going to meet people whose stories are very different from your own. They don’t know your narrative and you don’t know theirs. And they may or may not be especially interested in hearing your story, or sharing theirs. You will encounter people who seem to have lived gilded, perfect lives compared to your experience, and people whose economic, personal and familial experience is too terrible to contemplate, and people in between. The old assumptions and dynamics you so easily fit into now will be gone, for better and for worse.

You will have to take your experience with you and learn to internalize it. You know what it means to be supportive and supported; what it means to be nourished and to nourish others. You have done everything asked of you; now you will have to take all of that and learn to carry it with you, inside. I had the chance to visit your school a few weeks ago; it’s a beautiful space. But if it were merely a beautiful space then it would have no value. No, you have to take the best of Tower Hill with you and learn to share it with those around you. You will have to learn to be leaders; which doesn’t mean being in charge—it means owning your experience.

I know many of you have been to a friend or relative’s bar or bat mitzvah, sometimes even at my synagogue. And you’ve probably marveled that a 13 year old kid could get up and read from the Torah or lead the service. They don’t do that because it’s a special, one-time thing, their one chance to do what the rabbi does. They do that because that’s what Jews do; to be a Jew is to be counted not just to do what is asked, but to step forward and take ownership because it needs to be done. So it is with each of you; yes, carry Tower Hill within yourself, but don’t just hoard it for your own use, share it with those around you. And bringing forward your experience isn’t, or shouldn’t be, a complex thing. If your teachers and classmates have done their jobs, then it should be right there, as close as they are right now. As the text of Torah we read from says, it’s not across the sea or in the sky, nor is it for someone else to do. It’s in your mouths; it’s in your hearts. It’s in your actions. It’s in your choices. They matter, and when your voice, your actions and your choices align with what you’ve learned here, well, I can’t promise that taking your experience and sharing it with others will make the world perfect or your college experience perfect. But it will make it better. And sometimes better is enough. Your experience matters.

Your story matters. Your choices matter. May they bring you strength, and hope, and especially, Joy. Amen.

Emor: Parents and Children and Blessings

This week, during the Sisterhood garage sale, a copy of Gates of Prayer came through as a donation. It looked brand new; the binding had never been cracked and it looked like it had barely been examined. One of the volunteers brought it to me, figuring (rightly) that it didn’t belong in the book sale. I opened it up and just inside, in shaky handwriting, I found this inscription:

“Dear J—
‘Pray as if everything depended on God
But act as if everything depended on you!’
I have given you the tallit and book to pray
The rest is up to you!!
My grandfather asked me to carry on our tradition,
I am asking you to do the same.
Please do not disappoint me.
May God continue to bless you with His most precious gift of shalom (inner peace)
I loved you when I held you in my arms during your brith
I loved you during your school years &
I will always love in the future.
With eternal love from
Your proud poppy.”

The note from the volunteer said this inscription was a heart breaker, and it is. In so many ways.

Please don’t disappoint me.

As a parent, I know the tug, the primal desire for my child to value what I value. As a teacher I know what it is to want the child—the student—to hold dear what I hold dear.

As a grandparent I can only imagine that pull is a hundredfold.

And we hear something of that parental voice in God’s voice this week, as he says” I am YHVH. You shall not profane my Holy name that I may be sanctified in the midst of the Israelite people—I YHVH who sanctify you.”

I sanctify you says the parent. I brought you into this world, cherished you, nurtured you. I gave you the means to have hopes and dreams and joys of your own. I sanctified you. Do not disappoint me.

But the text can be read a different way: “Ani Adonai Mikadsheichem—I am the one who makes you a sacrifice”.

In sanctifying you, I also sacrifice—something of myself to be sure. But also I run the risk of sacrificing you—your integrity, your strength, your independence.

When I say ‘do not disappoint me’ how can I then pray for you to have shalom—inner peace?

Our children disappoint us. And we disappoint right back. It is the nature of being human.

And God disappoints sometimes too.

But in that disappointment—in that sacrifice of perfection—we find holiness. We find real sanctity.

The honesty of real relationship. The truth of real connection, of real love.

It is there that we find peace.

Pray as if everything depends on God but act as if everything depends on you—indeed. Act. Fail. Rise up. Defy expectations. And may your actions be a real prayer, a prayer for all of us—children and those who care for children. Amen

Whose Hope?

Last night we talked about Hatikvah, The Hope, the anthem of the Jewish State, sung repeatedly this week at Yom HaZikaron and Yom Ha'atzmaut.

Most of us know the lyrics by heart. But an interesting debate is taking place in Israel. For us, it will always be a Jewish State, as it should be, but we also want it to be a democratic state. And a democratic state protects its minorities. Indeed, it embraces them and welcomes them into civic life.

Increasingly, Israelis are aware of this. An Israeli Arab participated in the official Yom Ha'atzmaut observance. Arab victims of terror were recognized. Druze and Arab soldiers who died protecting the state were remembered. Israelis take pride in the fact that Arabs serve in Knesset, in the Supreme Court, in civic life at every level. And yet, these citizens of Israel can't Sig their national anthem, which doesn't include their dream, their longing.

Hatikvah originated as a poem, Our Hope, written by Naftali Imber, a 19th century Zionist. Originally nine stanzas long, the settlers of the Yishuv adapted the first stanza and refrain and set it to music. But as has been pointed out, the original poem would actually be more inclusive.

So last night, we explored what it would mean to create an Israeli anthem, not only a Jewish one. We talked about how going back to Imber's language actually strengthens the Jewishness of Israel, by allowing the state to live an important value, that of being truly welcoming. And we sang Hatikvah with the changes suggested.

As Jews, we've rejoiced at the opportunities provided to us living in a democracy. It has allowed our Judaism to flourish. Surely we and Jewish Israel owes it to their minorities to create space for them to flourish. It doesn't threaten Israel's Jewish identity; it strengthens it.

So, what do you think? What would it mean to go back to Imber's original language? Should Israel change Hatikvah? Can Israel make it truly all of our hope?

Yom HaShoah: Consider

You who live secureIn your warm housesWho return at evening to findHot food and friendly faces: 

Consider whether this is a man,Who labours in the mudWho knows no peaceWho fights for a crust of breadWho dies at a yes or a no.Consider whether this is a woman,Without hair or nameWith no more strength to rememberEyes empty and womb coldAs a frog in winter. 

Consider that this has been:I commend these words to you.Engrave them on your heartsWhen you are in your house, when you walk on your way,When you go to bed, when you rise.Repeat them to your children.Or may your house crumble,Disease render you powerless,Your offspring avert their faces from you.--Shema, Primo Levi

Tonight begins Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day, or "The Day of Catastrophe"). It is a day filled with meaning for Jews. For some, it is a painful reminder of what it means to be a people always chosen (as if the most recent antisemitism on American campuses and in Europe don't accentuate that idea). For too many, it is their primary mode of Jewish identification. For non-Jews as well, as if they are more comfortable with us as victims rather than active, joyful, principled partners in God's efforts of creation. And for some, it has become an excuse to be dismissive of identity, or a cudgel wielded to stifle dissent, or at least feared as such.

Nevertheless, it is there. It is present in the life of the modern Jew, even one removed by three generations from the Holocaust. It is present, and it demands something of us, not only as a community, but as individuals as well.

Tonight, the Hebrew School students will gather in our Holocaust garden at 5pm to light candles and say prayers and reflect. Tomorrow, our community (Jewish and non-Jewish) will gather at the Carvel State building in downtown Wilmington to learn and share and remember. All are welcome to both. And, as you sit in your homes, secure and warm, consider that this has been. Consider what these men and women, and their memories, demand of us.

Shemini: how do we correct?

Last week, before Pesach, I got a letter in the mail at the office. Well, not exactly a letter; it was my Orbit article (and blog post) about Israel and AIPAC that had been torn out of the newsletter, with grammar corrections in RED INK with the words "GRAMMAR IS IMPORTANT!" scrawled in the margin.  Thankfully there were only a few errors! Whew!

As a former English Major I totally agree, and was glad for some constructive feedback (though Red Ink dude?), but was surprised that I found no further note, nor even a return address on the envelope. Now, it may be that my mysterious grader simply forgot to include his or her contact information, or deemed it unnecessary. But I fear that, in this era when people hide behind anonymity on the internet to harass and demean others, to "correct" people in anger and self righteousness rather than love, this may have been an exercise in venting of spleen rather than loving kindness.

The text demands different behavior. Toward the end of Chapter 9 of Leviticus, Aaron, now nearly completely ordained raises his hands and blesses the people, then steps back into the Tent of Meeting with Moses. Then they both emerge, bless the people again, and God's Presence descends, consumes the offerings in fire (thus indicating the acceptance of the ritual and the newly-minted kohanim).

Why the repetition? It could be that one was the priestly benediction, found in Numbers, and the other was from Psalms, as the rabbis suggest. But there is an additional teaching, one perpetuated by my teacher Janet Marder: that Aaron, in his first time out as Priest, was unsure of himself, and didn't quite do it right. So Moses took him back into the Tent of Meeting, gave him a pep talk, showed him how to do it, and then came back out and did it with him.

Note what does not happen: Moses doesn't castigate his brother for doing it wrong. Nor does he let him just die on stage, as it were. He corrects, and also supports. And he acts in a way publicly to show his support, without undermining Aaron as the new High Priest.

So, kudos to the mystery grammarian for writing me in private! And constructive criticism is always a good thing. But, what would have happened if he or she had spoken to me (privately and personally)? What if we had had a conversation?  Frankly, what would happen if we all did that, rather than keeping score passive-aggressively or going for the jugular?

None of this is life-or-death and I don't want to make the point that I was offended; actually, I wasn't. But I'm taken with the idea that, instead of silently seething or correcting people anonymously--which only leads to suspicion of motive--we reached out to one another in a brotherly way?

After the second time, God's presence emerges and accepts the offering. Is it because Aaron got it right this time, or because Moses acted as teacher rather than judge? I'll let you explore that for yourself.

Parashat Tzav: The Anniversary of My Bar Mitzvah

It was a dark and stormy night. No really, it was! On Friday, March 24^th, actually 26 years ago, the rain came down in sheets, and the thunder shook the little synagogue on Winter Street in Hyannis. The room was full to overflowing, with the moveable walls opened up like the high holidays, congregants cheek-to-jowl with friends and family from all over. And on the bimah, trying not to tremble with every thunderclap, stood nearly thirteen year-old me. With my birthday five days away, I led services and read Torah in my new blue blazer and polo tie, my grandfather’s kippah on my head and my great-uncle’s tallit on my shoulders. And after chanting from parashat tzav (though not half as well as you will, Brooke) and reading the haftarah, I spoke about responsibility—my responsibility as a person and a Jew, and our responsibility as a member of the community. I talked about the sacrifices listed at the beginning of Leviticus 6—the burnt offering, the meal offering—and the specificity of each ritual, and how that demanded us in our day to pay attention to the details of what we do and how we do it. At least as well as a thirteen year old can speak on the subject.

You may be wondering why I led and read on a Friday. At the Cape Cod Synagogue, as in many Reform congregations, Torah was read on Friday. Saturday morning services were not a regular thing, but were an option for bar and bat mitzvah, and it was offered to me as it was offered to my classmates. But somehow that didn’t sit right with me. It felt wrong to have some kind of special, private service. I remember at the time leading up to my bar mitzvah that I asked to lead a ‘normal’ service, a regular service, a congregational service. I didn’t want special treatment (very New England of me) but there was something about the idea of leading what the congregation expected, of being a part of that experience, that resonated with me. And I was proud for having led a regular congregational service for my bar mitzvah. It was only as an adult that I found out that Friday night had been used as a lesser-than experience for women.

I bring this up at a time when the bar mitzvah is evolving, at breakneck pace. Increasingly families are choosing to create bespoke experiences, often outside the synagogue, sometimes for educational purposes, and sometimes because they want what they want, and they can find a rabbi or a cantor or a ‘spiritual leader’ who is happy to create the experience that child and that family wants. At the same time, synagogues are looking at their bar mitzvah programs and services and are asking the question—is this creating the right experience, the right education, the right kind of Jewish person we want to create? The Reform Movement a few years ago started what they call the Bar Mitzvah Revolution as a way of encouraging congregations to re-imagine how they do teen engagement. If that weren’t enough, the bar mitzvah is coming under fire not just from without but within, as folks like Rabbi Patrick Aleph of Atlanta wrote a couple of years ago that we should ban the bar mitzvah, describing it as an impediment to educational and liturgical engagement and merely a revenue stream for synagogues, an addiction that must be broken.

For a long time—even as a teen—I’ve felt we invest too much capital into one experience, one day, in a Jewish adolescent’s life. I remember giving advice as a high schooler classmates of my sister telling them that it was just one day and not to get too worked up over it, and I hear the same advice given by many well-meaning adults to kids today. Sometimes I chafe when I hear my own teenage words used today but really, we do invest so much energy, time, and emotional bandwidth into this one life cycle event. And suffice to say there’s room for improvement in the whole experience, from educational process to logistics to the day itself, no matter how wonderfully we as a congregation may handle it. And if I may be so bold, I’d like to suggest my experience 26 years ago may give us a model for what it should be like.

First, there was the communal element. I wanted to lead a regular service with the congregation present. No gimmicks. No themes. No bells or whistles. Everyone invited to the oneg, everyone participating in their normal service. Perhaps the idea of having a 13-year old on the bimah gives some of you pause, but what does it say when we allow the bar mitzvah to be a private, family event instead of welcoming the child into the minyan as a community? As I led services—with my voice breaking and my kippah falling off my head at one point—I still understood that this was the congregation’s service, and that I was entrusted with leading it adequately. I think I did okay, but there’s tremendous power in that, and in being welcomed into communal Jewish life that way. You can’t have that experience in a ballroom somewhere.

The next was choice. I wasn’t given an option of whether to do one, but how, and when. I chose what to talk about for my bar mitzvah. I chose whether to have it on a Friday night. That level of choice required that I be involved from the beginning—at a 13-year old’s level—in the liturgical process. Not just learning the prayers but understanding the service structure and making some decisions about my involvement. For people on the cusp of adulthood, being given that choice is a powerful thing. What teen doesn’t want choice, after all? Choice takes into consideration the individual and their needs. Choice means trust. Choice is empowerment.

But with that choice comes responsibility. Of course, that’s what I preached on that night, but there is a responsibility to standing on the bimah. There are expectations and requirements to fulfill—not just my own or my family’s but the congregation’s as well. I had an obligation that night, as the rain came down, and really, every bar and bat mitzvah has that same obligation---to be there for the rest of the community, in prayer, in study, in support and in times of need. That is the point of it all.

I’ve carried that experience—that sense of what it means to be part of a community, what it means to be entrusted by that community, and what it means to be obligated to the community—for 26 years. It has defined my Judaism in so many ways, and would have regardless of my calling. The thunder didn’t hurt, either. And as we prepare for another child to celebrate bat mitzvah for this portion, the day before I turn 39, I would ask you this: does your Judaism have space for community? Does it have room for choices—for yourself and others? Does your Judaism give you a sense of Obligation—to your community, to your people, to God? Because it’s not just about one day—it’s about every day. Every day we’re called to make choices. Every day we’re called to be part of a community. Every day we are reminded of our obligations. May we fulfill them meaningfully, to the betterment of all. Amen.