And We Shall Live

Parshat Acharei Mot-Kedoshim, Leviticus 18:5

וּשְׁמַרְתֶּ֤ם אֶת־חֻקֹּתַי֙ וְאֶת־מִשְׁפָּטַ֔י אֲשֶׁ֨ר יַעֲשֶׂ֥ה אֹתָ֛ם הָאָדָ֖ם וָחַ֣י בָּהֶ֑ם אֲנִ֖י יְהוָֽה׃

You shall keep My laws and My rules, by the pursuit of which people shall live: I am God.

When Rabbi Israel Salanter, the nineteenth-century founder of the Mussar movement, was confronted with a raging cholera epidemic one Yom Kippur, he knew that a decree to break the fast and eat in order to strengthen oneself would be met with disapproval. 

During the night of Kol Nidrei, the sexton read the names of everyone who had died during the course of that terrible summer. The next morning, after the reading of the Torah, Rabbi Salanter announced that everyone must make Kiddush lest their fast make them susceptible to the disease. A murmur went through the congregation. Yom Kippur?! No one moved. Again the rabbi commanded the worshippers to make Kiddush. Silence! To the astonishment of the assembled, the rabbi asked for cake and wine, and called over two judges. In the presence of the entire congregation he made Kiddush, adding the blessing, “…who commanded us to live by them, my laws.”

-From David Frishman’s short story, “Three Who Ate,” based on a historical account of this episode

Today is Yom Hazikaron, Memorial Day, when we remember the fallen soldiers in Israel, and the victims of terrorist acts–thousands of people who have died since Israel’s War of Independence.  The day is marked by communal ceremonies and gatherings at cemeteries, and is one of the most solemn of the secular national holidays.  Since most Israelis served in the Army, nearly everyone knows someone who died, and many Israelis consider it one of the holiest days of the year. 

Yet we have to remember that in Israel this day of remembrance and mourning is immediately followed by Yom Ha’Atzmaut, Independence Day, a time of joy and celebration.  The mourning of Yom Hazikaron is serious and personal.  Businesses are closed, and like Yom Hashoah, there are sirens that are sounded throughout the country as people pause in remembrance.  Yet, quite unlike shiva, the traditional mourning for Jews, as the sun sets on this day of memory, it moves seamlessly into the next holiday, and the parties begin.  From death into life.  In the history of the Jews, and in the history of Israel, there really is no other way.

I think we can learn an important lesson from this time in our calendar.  We have had more than our share of sadness and mourning the past few months.  As we have lived through this pandemic, we may feel we have lost in a very real way our families, our loved ones and our community. Separated from others, we may feel all alone.  Our familiar joys and patterns are gone, and our sense of what is normal is disrupted.  It is easy to feel stuck.

As the story of Rabbi Salanter reminds us, we don’t need to hold onto the sadness and the mourning any longer than it serves our needs.  We can reflect on all that we have lost during this crisis, yet, our tradition call us above all to focus on life and on hope.  Live because of all those who came before us, and for all those who sacrificed their lives to bring us to this moment.  Live because there is already enough sadness in the world.  Live because we need you to stay strong and healthy.  Live because we need you, and the world needs you, to make sure that next year is brighter. 

Making Time to Remember

candle

It is one of the most moving moments of the annual Montreal Yom Hashoah commemoration. After an evening of readings, songs and stories of individual survivors, one by one, the different generations are asked to stand up and be recognized. First, with a remarkable sense of humility in their eyes, the survivors slowly stand, a few scattered people spread around the room. Then their children rise. They are followed by the grandchildren and great grandchildren. Within mere moments, the survivors, those who saw and experienced unspeakable horrors yet somehow held on to life, are surrounded by a living web of others standing in support and solidarity. It is made clear in a way that only can be felt when you are in this space and this moment, that every life matters, and we can never take for granted the obligation to remember the past and the stories of those who came before us.

Sadly this year there will be no in person gatherings on Yom Hashoah, and the commemoration took place last night only online.  (You can watch it here). As in past years, it was a beautiful and moving collection of reflections, songs and prayers. Yet, without the experience of gathering together as a community, undeniably some of the emotional power was lost. Commemorations in Israel, Poland and throughout the world will be shared in similar ways. This year, we will not be able to stand together, or be able to look in the eyes of all the others around us who are holding onto the memories of the past. We will do our best to live this day with intention, but the challenges of our current reality make even this humble day of remembering even more painful. The tears may still flow, but for so many of us, we will cry alone.

This year, the pandemic has forced us all to to reexamine how we remember.

Not that long ago we had to upend our usual traditions of our Pesach seders. This year we had no choice but to let go of the joy of sitting with family and friends to remember our communal story. Instead, the table settings were few, and while we found a way to still hold our seders, and possibly even connect with more people than we ever had before, the experience was just not the same.

We remember all of the people who have died from the Corona virus in the past few months, and all of those who are still sick or in recovery. We hold on to the billions whose lives and livelihoods have been upended, and the pain and fear brought on by an anxious future. In this pandemic, the world simply seems so much more confusing, and the future so much more uncertain. We have no choice but to live day to day, unsure of when our lives will return to some sense of normalcy.

And as I am writing this, more information is coming in about the terrible mass murder in Nova Scotia on Sunday, a horrible tragedy for a community already broken up by the challenges of a pandemic.

This year the obligation to remember is one that spans generations, and crosses all boundaries of culture, religion and nationality. For the Jewish community, I hope we can use the lessons of the Holocaust to inspire us to continue our fight for a better world and to hold on to the signs of hope that we can still find all around us. The way we commemorate the day may not be the same, but the lessons are still just as strong.

Another moment of remembering. This past week was the Yahrzeit of our beloved Rabbi Ron z”l, who died nearly four years ago. His leadership and vision was one which symbolized so much of what we need right now. He believed deeply in holding on to tradition, but also looking towards the future with an eye on intentional change and action as a way to strengthen our lives and make a more ethical and compassionate world.

Rabbi Ron reflected beautifully on the importance of remembering in a blog post on Parshat Vayechi in 2015. He wrote that our identity is not only formed from how we see and understand the past, but more importantly by what it does to our future. Our story, our individual and communal story is most powerful when it creates a “narrative of obligation for our future.” Rabbi Ron concludes his essay with an important reminder: “For the sake of your own individual identity and that of the collective well-being of your nation, learn to transform your narrative of the past into a blessing for the future.”

What powerful words to hold on to on this day of remembering. This year, our world and our own lives may feel more broken than ever, and we are not even able to be together to hold on, and hold each other as we have done before. Yet, no matter how we remember this year, it is what this memory brings to our current reality that really matters. May we all remember the fullness of our history–the tragedies and the pain, but also the moments of victory and hope. This year, may we reach back into our past, listening deeply to the stories of those who came before us, so that we can know how we can best move forward. Even in these unsure times, let us be guided above all by hope, and let remembering give us the assurance that better days are ahead.

A Practical Passover

matzo

I am sure I am not the only one who gets as much joy out of planning for our Passover seders as the seder itself. In past years, I would often spend at least a few weeks getting ready for the big day, revelling not as much in the cleaning as the preparation for this most experiential of our holidays. For me Passover was always a powerhouse moment in our calendar year; a home-based, food-focused, theatrical storytelling extravaganza, deeply relevant, profoundly meaningful, and of course, always exciting from beginning to end! Or, if nothing else, the seder was a nice opportunity to gather with family and friends for some good conversation and a hearty meal.

Nevertheless, once the matzos appeared on the supermarket shelves (but God forbid, never before), I knew it was time to start the planning. I would sit down with my family and go over the menu for the evening, ensuring that there was just enough of the required traditional foods along with a few “experimental” dishes to try out. I would check in with my guests, and figure out the details of what they would bring, narrowing down the list until I knew just what I had to buy and what we already had on hand.

Then, when I was able to build up the energy, I would head out on the adventure of shopping, an adventure that only got more exciting once I moved to Montreal and discovered the IGA in Cavendish and its towering mountain of matzo and hidden gems of kosher treats! With the food ready to go, I would sit down with a notebook and a pile of Haggadot, delicately creating a “map” of how I hoped to guide our guests through the seder. Never happy with just a simple reading of the text from start to finish, I found it necessary to fit in plenty of songs, discussion questions, a joke or two and a few sneaky games and tangents to keep the kids awake and interested.

Finally when the big day would come, the food was cooked, the table set, and the Haggadah was annotated and ready to go. I knew I was ready. Plenty of work to prepare, but the experience was always worth it.

This year, we all know that things will not be the same when we gather around our seder tables on Wednesday night. Of course there will be no large gatherings, but we also know that so many people in our community will be alone as the requirement to stay away from family and friends holds sway. The entire experience will be strange and new, and no amount of planning can prepare us for this year’s holiday.

But it is not just a smaller guest list. I am sure for most of us our seders will be much more simple. Without all of the people to serve, we may just make a few of our favourite dishes or even just a warm bowl of soup. No need to overly decorate the table, or to deep clean the entire house just in case someone wanders into another room. This year, even if we manage to connect with others through Zoom or some of the other technologies available to us, around the table, I am sure it will still feel small. A humble simple seder, and maybe this is just what we need this year.

But just because the seder is simple doesn’t mean it has to be any less meaningful. Even this year’s pandemic experience can be a powerful reminder of how we celebrate freedom, and an opportunity for deep reflection and learning. Here are some thoughts about how to make the best of our situation and make sure that this year’s seder is a good one:

Don’t worry about breaking with tradition! Passover is one of those holidays where every family has their own special way of doing things. There are the recipes, the rituals of making your way through the Haggadah, even the places that every guest sits at the table. These rituals are part of what makes the holiday so special, but if there was ever a year to break with tradition, this is it. You will be fine if you can’t motivate yourself to make your way through the Haggadah with as much energy as in past years, or if you can’t cook the five course dinner you usually do. You may not even be motivated throughout the week of the holiday to feel so deeply connected with the act of eating Passover foods, when there are not as many people to share them with. But accept that you have other things on your mind. Like how you will survive so many more weeks of physical distancing.  Or the health of your family and friends.  Or the stability of our world. It is fine to make this year the least exciting seder you have ever had, because as we know, there is enough excitement going on beyond our dining room table.

Make this year a seder of storytelling. No, not just the story of Passover, we do that every year. This year, tell the stories that have really changed you; the stories that the seder is working so hard to squeeze out. Maybe you can hear from Bubbe or Zayde about how they survived some of the challenges of their childhoods, or from your own experiences in life, relationships and work. If you don’t have the stories to tell, go online and print up and read a story of an immigrant or an activist, or for that matter the health care workers and leaders of the current fight against the pandemic. There are too many powerful stories of survival and freedom out there, and if we truly want to make our seder come alive this year, these stories need to be told, now more than ever.

Don’t forget to ask questions, and don’t hold onto the tough ones. While we all need to have this Pesach to celebrate our freedom (and to eat too), there are some important questions that we need to ask this year. What has this pandemic done to our understanding of how we live in community and relate to each other? What specific things are we doing to take care of each other and our world to make sure that this does not become the new normal? How can we step forward into the unknown without losing hope? Don’t forget, a seder without questions, without deep and real questions, is only reading from a book.

Relax, and know that you are doing your best.  Not just with the seder but with everything that has happened the past few weeks. You have been stressed, you have been more emotional than usual, and you may have not been yourself. Maybe you have lost your ability to focus in the way you used to, or are simply coming to terms with a new world of emotions, of confusion, fear and sadness. Maybe the seder will not be perfect, but you know what?  Neither are we! If Passover reminds us of anything, it is that we have no choice but to take that imperfection and do our best to fix what we can, and make the commitment to reach towards something more hopeful in the year ahead. That final call of “Next Year in Jerusalem” is there for a reason. We have always lived in an imperfect world, but we also know what it means to fight to make it better

I keep trying to think otherwise, but I am pretty confident that this will not be the best Passover I have ever had. Like everything else in the past few weeks, it will be an experiment and most likely will have some moments of challenge and sadness. It will be simple. It will be strange. It may even be a bit lonely. But I think in some strange way, it also may be one of the most meaningful and powerful Jewish experiences I will ever have. And just like Passover itself, I know one thing for sure. Next year, what a story we will tell!

Baking Bread Before Passover

bread

I know that this is the time

to clean my house

rid my drawers and cabinets 

of the crumbs

the remains 

of all that has risen, and held me back

the mistakes, the missed opportunities

the hurt

this is the time to sweep it away 

and pack up what I can’t hide

The mystics tell us that hametz is like our egos

puffed up and a bit too proud

Smug in our comfort and joy

it just gets in the way of growth

and wisdom

so we remove what we can

But this year we are all 

stuck

at home

and separated from all that is familiar

unsure about where we are going

and what we did so wrong

So let me bake bread

Because a sickness is spreading

a virus without a cure

They say it is new

it is novel

but I know we have been here before

I know what it is

it’s just another plague

in time for Passover

one more dot on my plate

a drop of wine from my cup

yet this time

with no miracle to save us

In Egypt, my ancestors had no time to spare

their bread was flat and dry

fleeing from slavery, 

they didn’t bother with the pleasantries

of a normal life

of searching empty supermarket shelves

for flour

and yeast

of hiding in our homes

We are told

they left in haste

but I have the time

So let me bake bread

I need to observe that miracle once more

the rising of the dough, the sweet smell of growth and change

the pride of this work of my own hands

at least I have that

This year

our hard earned freedom 

has taught us to care for all those we encounter

in this world

with the strength of protest and 

the quiet calm of an open hand

Yet our memory and the story we tell

demands that this year we sit alone

our words a bit softer than before

And that’s why I knead

I need

that experience of creation

To do the hard work

just a few ingredients,

flour, water, salt and the dreaded yeast

taking the time to massage the dough

Let me bake bread

just one more time

before I pack it all away

Let the dough take its time to rise

to show its rightful pride

reaching up slowly to the heavens

and resisting the flames below

This year we celebrate the freedom

to look toward the future

and I’ll take my hands away

only when it is all done

There is so much work to do

but I won’t rush

With time

we will continue to reach out

to those who need

our embrace

we will will work to fix what is

broken

we will

heal

and

we will

rise

The Meaning of Sacrifice

teddybear

Life gives us many changes in perspective, but I never thought I would see one like this.

I doubt any of us thought that a pandemic of this scale was even possible, even if the reality of our ever changing world led many scientists to say that it was just waiting to happen.  Few of us thought that we would ever be forced to stay in our homes, forbidden from touching our loved ones. Few of us thought that we would walk into supermarkets with empty shelves and guards at the entrances as if we were at war.  And few of us thought that we would have to wake up each morning, unsure of whether things were going to get even worse than the day before. We are experiencing a worldwide shutdown, and a crisis that will without a doubt have a physical, economic and emotional toll for years to come.  

But thankfully, so many of us have tried to make the best of our situation.  With the help of technology, a heavy dose of creativity and even a bit of humor mixed in, we have managed to fill each day with so much more than worry and fear.  Families and friends are sharing conversations via Facetime or Zoom, and people are staying connected with each other through one of the many new technologies available to us.  Parents have turned their living rooms into schools, and tried to make sure that these many weeks stuck at home involve something beyond Netflix and computer games (and let me tell you, it is harder than it looks).  Free online concerts and classes almost overwhelm us with endless opportunities to be kept busy. In the midst of such a truly difficult week, we have found ways to connect and thankfully have not given up on each other.  For this we can be thankful.

But some people seem to be happy going on as if nothing has changed at all.  They gather together in large crowds, have big gatherings in their homes, and to the embarrassment of all of us in the Jewish community, meet for minyanim or simchas in synagogues and shtibelachs, believing that faith in God or more Torah study will keep them safe.  People seem to think that this powerful virus is simply not strong enough to touch them.

As Trudeau said in his press conference yesterday, “We’ve all seen the pictures online of people who seem to think they’re invincible. Well, you’re not,” he said.

Yet, I think it is more simple than that.  I don’t think that most people believe that they are invincible or that they can’t be made sick by this virus.  Not to say that this week has not introduced us all to many of the impressively ignorant among us who are willing to say with a smile that they simply don’t care (Don’t get me started on the college students on spring break in Florida…).  But I think what we are seeing is also the product of a world that has become too separated, where for many, their personal needs are all that matters, and some will fight for this independence no matter what they see taking place around them.

We are being told that we need to follow the rules and deal with the inconvenience that this might cause, not just for ourselves but even more for the health and wellbeing of others.  But this level of sacrifice, the idea of giving up convenience for the sake of others, is simply not part of many people’s reality, and for some it is simply impossible to even fathom.

A helpful remedy for this reality is hinted at in the week’s Torah portion.  As we begin the book of Leviticus we are introduced to the mysterious world of korbanot, the “sacrifices” given in the mishkan.  The specifics of how this is done, from the method of slaughter, to the gory details of how the offerings are given, and nothing is left out.  But the deeper meaning of what is being described is actually much more simple.  Korban, קרב the three letters which make up the root of the word in Hebrew, actually means something quite different than the English “sacrifice”.  Korban, means to “draw near”, to “make close”.  And only by putting the two concepts together, sacrifice and closeness, do we begin to understand what is really happening in our current crisis.  

When we take something that is important to us, whether it is the “choicest of our flock” or the desire to live our daily lives as normally as possible, we have to give up a little part of ourselves.  We have to let go of something that we worked hard to help grow, and in a way even lose a bit of our stability and ourselves in the process.  This is a lot to ask of billions of people, and while it is difficult for us all, for some, they resist as if there was no other choice.

Living through this pandemic, and making sure that we care about the health and safety of all of us demands one of the greatest and most sustained societal sacrifices that many of us have ever taken on.  If we take this sacrifice seriously, as we all need to, it will be a sacrifice that really does hurt.  We have to give up on what we are used to, try our best to settle into separation and change, and make our way through the difficult emotions that are guaranteed to follow.

It is difficult to take away from what is normal. We don’t want to lose all that is familiar to us, and what gives us strength. But if we channel the energy of this experience, the very real challenges and pain, along with the moments of blessing and joy, we also do something that is even more powerful. 

Like the act of offering sacrifices in the mishkan, we become karov, closer.  

We grow closer to each other, as we begin to understand in a way we never could before, the importance of connection and community.  We grow closer to an understanding of how our actions and behaviors affect the environment and life around us, and we hopefully make real and lasting changes in how we live our daily lives.  Even more, if we are truly able to gain strength from this profound change in perspective in which we now exist, we can even grow closer to understand the nature of our true selves and walk away from it all with a greater sense of purpose. 

Let us maintain the strength, hold on to the hope, and keep on connecting with each other in any way we can.  Because I do believe that when that blessed day comes, when we can leave our homes and walk freely in this world again, we can all leave better people then when it all started.

A New Reality

sunset

I have never been a morning person, but it has been especially hard to wake up the past few days.  Living through this pandemic, each morning brings more bad news, new regulations, and an unbelievable shock to know that this is the new normal of our world.  

Unsure about what each day will bring, and for better or worse tied to my phone and the internet, everything just seems so crowded and confused.  It is difficult enough just to deal with the practical side of trying to work from home while helping keep my three kids busy, but the mixture of cabin fever, anxiety and simple uncertainty is finally beginning to settle in.

And I know that I am not alone.  It is a very real fear that grips so many of our minds when we wake up each morning.  No, this is not necessarily the fear of the impending apocalypse just yet–toilet paper shortages notwithstanding–but it is a fear brought on by the most powerful sense of simple bewilderment. This must be a dream!  Things aren’t really as bad as they seem! I am stuck at home another day?! Seemingly every news story is about the pandemic, and it has touched all parts of our society. There is no way to escape the pace of all the changes.

It’s hard to believe that it was only a week ago that we were celebrating Purim.

In this new reality, I know we are all doing our best to try to hold on to some sense of normalcy amid all the confusion.  We are finding new ways to entertain ourselves and keep busy. We are “Zooming in” for classes and events, reading more, or watching more TV, and even taking on new hobbies or trying out new recipes.  (This week my family is going to make homemade pasta-I knew we’d eventually get to breaking open that pasta maker from our wedding!). It is not the end of the world, but it is definitely the end of a certain reality that we thought we could rely on.

Yet we still go to bed at night, and hope that the next morning will bring something better.

I am reminded of the Hashkiveinu prayer that is said as part of the evening prayers, and often as part of the Bedtime Shema said before a person goes to sleep at night.

Lay us down, God, in peace, and raise us up again, to life.

Spread over us the shelter of peace,

Guide us with Your good counsel.

Save us for Your name’s sake.

Shield us from every enemy, plague, sword, famine, and sorrow.

Remove the adversary from before and behind us.

Shelter us in the shadow of Your wings,

Guard (our going out and our coming in, and grant us life) and peace, now and always.

This prayer, more than so many others, highlights a very real fear that is inherent in this act of going to sleep.  We have to remember for the rabbis who wrote this prayer, that they did not live in a stable world.  Their world was one that was truly filled with sickness, with war, with violence and a difficult mystery that ruled every day.  They did not have the medical knowledge to know what actually happened once they closed their eyes at night, once the darkness settled into their souls.  They didn’t know why their loved ones succumbed to strange illnesses, or why some people lived long and others died early.  And they were still part of a community that was oppressed and set apart, even as they held on with faith to a God that they believed had chosen them to be blessed.

Going to sleep was itself an act of faith, and it is clear that these words were not just offered up to the heavens to what they saw as an all-knowing God.  This prayer was beyond any simple theology-it was also a powerful daily moment of reflection, of encouragement and hope. Our ancestors wanted to go to bed with the belief that above all, the next day would be better, the morning would bring peace and light, and that they would survive another day to say it all over again.

I know that so many of us have been saying our own Hashkiveinu the last few days.  Not necessarily to a God who will save or protect us, but as this quiet reminder that the world is not really as bad as it seems.  Our Hashkiveinu is that the news will really get better, that this pandemic will slow, and that it will not become a threat to humanity in the way that now seems inevitable.

I am sure that I am not alone in what I have been feeling the past few days.  Our world is changing all too fast, and there is so much to get used to. Social distancing.  Washing our hands. Virtual services and classes. Quarantine. Travel restrictions. Boredom, loneliness and worry.  

And as we find creative ways to cope with the new situation, we can also enjoy the new blessings that have also found their way through.

With this perspective change, maybe now we can begin to see what is most important in our lives.  We can more honor our relationships, while at the same time leaving the space to take better care of ourselves.  We can recognize the importance of community, and know that we need others as much as others need us.

I will go to bed tonight with a little more fear than I am used to, but I will also hold onto the reminders that this situation gives us.  

We are here for each other, and we need to work in each and every moment to bring more love and healing into the world. 

We have to live not just for ourselves, but for the good and health of all people. 

Our actions matter, and we matter.  

We will eventually move past this pandemic, but we won’t truly survive unless we listen to the lessons it teaches us.

With Blessings of Healing and Hope

What is Our Song?

Laulupidu

(Reposting of my sermon from three years ago)

Of all the countries in Europe, Estonia is not the largest, and clearly not the most well known.  A small country across the sea from Finland and Sweden, and bordering Russia on its East, Estonia is definitely not on most people’s list of places to go on a vacation.  They have an immensely complicated language, and are known for the growing technology center, and as the creators of Skype. But what really makes Estonia incredible is its music, or more specifically its songs.  In this tiny country with a population of a little over a million, they have one of the world’s strongest cultures of groups singing and folk song, rivaled only in numbers of songs by Ireland. Nearly everyone sings in some formal way, in choirs, in school, in churches, or in the popular song festivals that are held throughout the year.  Once every few years, there is a massive festival –sometimes as large as 100,000 people, a tenth of the population–they can see choirs of up to 30 thousands of signers, of people of all generations, and backgrounds singing together with pride the songs of their people.   

But what makes the Estonain songs so powerful were not the numbers, but how they managed to use their music to fight back against the endless powers which had tried to stop their independence.  In the 20th century, there were the Germans and then the soviets in 1940. The Soviets began to Russify the country and try to prohibit Estonian language and culture. But the Russians didn’t expect the power of music to be the weapon that would eventually help win Estonian independence.

After many years of only mildly successful resistance in September 1988, the Popular Front of Estonia organized a rally at the song festival grounds in Tallin.  While the movement expected a large crowd, at most tens of thousands of people, amazingly over 300,000 people came. This was about 1 in 3 Estonians. In this amazing event, as people looked around the crowd with Estonian flags flying rapidly, they sang.  They didn’t sing the Soviet songs that they had been forced to for decades, but the sang with pride the folks songs of their people, including the unofficial anthem of their people “Estonian I am, and Estonian I will be, as I was meant to be.” According to many of the participants, this event and the power of singing with one voice left an emotional power that held strong for the next few years, and Estonian fought for their independence.  For over 50 years the Soviets had taken away their land, their culture and their freedom of speech. But they could not take away the songs that had been passed down throughout the generations. As one participant in the revolution said: “We had no weapons but singing, being together, singing together, this was our power.”

Here were are on Shabbat Shira, once again recalling as a community the story of our people’s journey from Egypt and across the sea of reeds.  As we learned last week, this was a journey with an unknown destination and with an even more unsure people. The people had said “And we do not know with what we must worship God until we arrive there.”  Yet while the Israelites still have many years of wandering before they reach their destination, we see that they have learned how to give thanks for their blessings.

Standing at the edge of the sea of reeds, looking ahead to an unknown future and looking with an odd sense of familiarity and comfort at their slavery past, the sea splits the Israelites sing.  

“And Israel saw the great hand, which God had used upon the Egyptians, and the people feared God, and they believed in the God and in Moses.  

אָ֣ז יָשִֽׁיר־משֶׁה֩ וּבְנֵ֨י יִשְׂרָאֵ֜ל אֶת־הַשִּׁירָ֤ה הַזֹּאת֙ לַֽיהֹוָ֔ה וַיֹּֽאמְר֖וּ לֵאמֹ֑ר אָשִׁ֤ירָה לַּֽיהֹוָה֙ כִּֽי־גָאֹ֣ה גָּאָ֔ה 

Then Moses and the children of Israel sang this song to the Lord, and they spoke, saying, I will sing to the Lord, for very exalted is God; “

According to the commentaries, this song was the most free flowing and clear song that could have possibly been sung.  

And looking more closely, it wasn’t simply the fact that they sang so beautifully and with such a communal ease that was incredible, but we also are told that this was the first true shira, the first true song that was ever sung. The Midrash says that from the moment of creation, through all of the many other joys and challenges that they Israelites had experienced, there may have some short jingles, some brief verses, but never a song.  Something about this experience gave the people a level of inspiration to do something entirely different, to look up to the heavens and to each other and sing–sing song so powerful that everyone, even babies in their mother’s wombs felt impelled to join in.

Yet we are also told that that when the Israelites sang, this was also a sign of acceptance and of being able to finally put everything–their slavery, their past, the mystery of their future in perspective.  The Shemen ha Tov points out that the root of Shira is Yashar, straight–that this song was a way of straightening out the highs and lows of life, and bringing it all together and finding a sense of equilibrium from it all. It is pointed out that this is why the entire parsha is called Shabbat shira, even though the song is only a part of the story.  The sea splits and they are happy, but then there is no water, and they are low again. The water is sweetened, they are happy and then there is no food and they complain. This is of course like life, there are high points, the mountains, and there are low points, but we hope and know that things often do work themselves out and it is then that we can sing.  Even when we look back at an imperfect life, even when we look around and see a truly imperfect world, we can still look around at our fellow life travellers and sing.

We all know that song and music has the power to inspire and bring us together as a community.  We sing our prayers when we gather together for Shabbat services, and we also sing together with excitement at a concert where we all know the words.  We sing happy birthday to celebrate another year of life, and we sing song of mourning when that life is taken away. Over the past few years, we have been inspired to see people once again singing in protest singing songs of peace and connection as people fight against intolerance and oppression around the world.  While tweets and protests signs can make their mark, hearing those holy words, “We Shall Overcome” has an undeniable power to cut through it all. Song connects us with each other and gives us strength to move ahead in our journeys.

But here’s where I must ask a challenging question. Do we truly have a song, an idea, a vision, that brings us, as a community and as individuals in this way?  Is it even possible to create this kind of profound sense of connection with each other, and to create something so powerful that every single person, every single voice will open up with joy and ruach to sing in harmony?  What is our Shirat Ha Yam, our song of the sea? Estonians can gather hundreds of thousands of people to sing with pride in their people, Moses can gather hundreds of thousands of Israelites to give thanks for their lives, and I wonder can we do the same.  Put another way, what is the uniting vision, the point of inspiration that can bring us together beyond our differences as Jews and as members of a diverse society to sing with pride, strength and clarity in a very broken world? This is a big question, but what is our song? 

As Rabbi Ruth Sohn concludes her poem, “The Song of Miriam”:

And the song—

the song rises again.

Out of my mouth

come words lifting the wind.

And I hear

for the first time

the song

that has been in my heart

Why Revenge? Dvar Torah Vayechi

Playgrounds sometimes can be unfortunate models for how the world functions.  A few weeks ago, I was at our favorite park with my kids and they were having fun playing, running around and chasing each other, and I hear the words that any parent gets very used to.  Tati, he pushed me! (Notice I left out the name of which child it was, to protect the innocent, or maybe to protect the guilty.) When I brought in the kids to explain, of course it turns out, one of them was pushed, because the other one did something first, and would you believe it, this happened because the other one, and this is a direct quote “started it”!  

This familiar but tiring conversation is of course repeated on a regular basis through all of our childhoods, a frustrating, sometimes playful and sometimes hurtful game of action, payback, and revenge.  Except in the rare occasions when someone actually does get seriously hurt, this is all part of growing up and learning how to deal with relationships and how to respond to challenging situations. We hope that as we become adults, we learn better how to respond to these situations when they move from the playground into the realities of the “real world”.

Continue reading →

A New Page

On a warm summer day a little over 7 years ago I started a habit.  While I wish I could say I started daily training for a triathlon, or took on the challenge of fulfilling my lifelong dream to become fluent in Klingon, what I did was something that at least on the surface was much more mundane.   Along with hundreds of thousands of other people around the world I began the daily study of a page of Talmud called daf yomi.  I made my way through page after page, through the stories, the laws, the arguments and the questions.  Sometimes I studied with others, or often alone, as I journeyed through the texts, enjoying and often being challenged by what I encountered.  

This was a deeply spiritual exercise in so many ways, necessitating the commitment and focus of a meditation practice, but also the intellectual rigor of a university class.  As the core text of the Judaism that we live and practice, I was fascinated by the conversations and found joy in discovering the roots of so much of what we do. Through my Talmud study, I read about why we light two (and not three or seven) Shabbat candles, and why we eat certain traditional foods, or say certain prayers.  While I can’t say every page was interesting, looked at as a whole, it was a beautiful journey. Yet in the end, life, work and the good old stand by of an excuse–kids got in the way, and I only made it to about a year and a half. But tomorrow, I will attempt to start this process again.  

The idea of Jews all over the world studying the same page of Talmud each day, is actually only a century old.  At the World Congress for Agudat Yisrael in 1920, Rabbi Meir Shapiro, who was then the Rabbi of Sanok, Poland proposed the idea and it was passed.  Before this time, Jews only were studying some parts of the Talmud, the most useful and most interesting tractates, and some sections were rarely studies.  Most importantly though, Rabbi Shapiro saw the program as a way to unify the Jewish people. As he explained to the Congress delegates:

What a great thing! A Jew travels by boat and takes gemara Brachot Under his arm. He travels for 15 days from Eretz Yisrael to America, and each day he learns the daf. When he arrives in America, he enters a beis medrash in New York and finds Jews learning the very same daf that he studied on that day, and he gladly joins them. Another Jew leaves the States and travels to Brazil or Japan, and he first goes to the beis medrash, where he finds everyone learning the same daf that he himself learned that day. Could there be greater unity of hearts than this?

A page a day!  This would not be too insurmountable a task with say, the Torah, the Book of Kings, or maybe Harry Potter.  Yet, the Talmud, is not always as easy to deal with. While there are often fascinating arguments and wonderfully revealing stories and conversations that are recorded, there are also many dreadfully boring halachic arguments–back and forths about the minutiae of some archaic law, or arguments that are so complicated that they are laid out like calculus with words.  There are uncomfortable exchanges about the roles of women in society, or laughably scientifically outdated statements, and sometimes even ideas that there is no way to see as anything but racist. It is an incredible mix of everything and anything, truly a work of unparalleled gems, and sometimes unbelievable drudgery.

As part of my rabbinical studies, I did study in detail some of the important sections of the Talmud.  Both during my time studying at RRC in Philadelphia and also at Yeshiva in Jerusalem, we looked at some key sections of the Talmud–but this was no page a day.  During my year in Israel while studying at Pardes, and Egalitarian Yeshiva in Jerusalem, we took our time covering, if I remember correctly, about ten pages of Talmud over the course of the academic year.  We focused on the fascinating conversations and laws stemming from a simple question about Shabbat candles in Tractate Shabbat. I definitely enjoyed the pace, and taking our time to study this small part of the text allowed us to learn the vocabulary, and Talmudic ideas, but also left plenty of time to get off on endless tangents.  We had conversations about candles, of course, which led to enlightening conversations about politics, gender, theology, Jewish identity, and one oddly heated argument about doorbells. Just like the rabbis of the Talmud would have wanted.

To say the Talmud has a structure, is somewhat of a strange statement.  Yes there are sections, 63 tractates or sections divided by subject–from holidays to specific laws, put into six larger orders.  Yet, to say that these sections necessarily hold texts that stick to their subject matter is far from true. One moment, you are studying one idea, and then a rabbi comes in and asks a question or tells a story (or in a not entirely rare moment, a joke or my favorite,  wonderfully lighthearted insult), and then we are on to an entirely different topic that well, seemingly has nothing to do with anything. It is a truly incredible mix of structure, and the most free flowing conversations and arguments, with endless tangents and winding roads, and more than its share of dead ends.  Yet, in the end, no topic is left uncovered. Some questions are answered, but very purposefully, some are not–the meaning coming from the conversations rather than the outcome

And what is the point of this strange structure?  On a practical level we could argue that it was simply the reality of trying to record too many complicated ideas from a group of opinionated Jews, and there is bound to a little bit of rambling.  Yet on a deeper level, the Talmud is telling us something very important about life. Everything is connected. Faith, identity, food, love, history, work, swimming, weather, sex, justice, prayers, women, men, gender, mathematics, the intricate details of a Hebrew letter and the deepest questions of human interactions.  It is all a shimmering web of connection and mystery. These creators of Jewish life as we know it wanted us to see these connections in everything, to know in the deepest possible way that Judaism is not just about believing in a God, or connecting with our past, but it is about finding holiness in all parts of life, and questions in everything we do.  If everything is connected and worth examining in detail the way the Talmudic rabbis do, then everyone word, every experience and truly every moment is a blessing, every exercise deserving of examination, and every experience an adventure waiting to be had.

Yet, beyond the text itself, I want to bring us back to the Daf Yomi, the process of studying a page of Talmud a day.  This is not an easy task, and it involves a level of commitment that is actually very similar to any other healthy habit, like going to the gym or meditation.  Each day, no matter what the weather, no matter what is happening in your life, you open the Talmud, and join the ancient rabbis for a few minutes. Like a workout, sometimes you might truly enjoy the process and walk away with a smile, and sometimes you may be happy to have the whole thing over with.  As I mentioned, my first attempt to do Daf Yomi lasted only about a year and a half.  I know that even without such a busy life, opening the Talmud each day was a big task.

The author Ilana Kurshan, who wrote a wonderful book about her journey into Daf Yomi called If All Seas Were Ink, puts it well when she writes:

A commitment to learning daf yomi is sort of like a marriage — you’re in a relationship for the long haul, even if most days there are no passionate sparks. Sometimes it’s hard to find anything meaningful or relevant on the page, but perhaps it helps to imagine those pages as the context for the more exciting material that will follow a few days later. Without the context, you cannot fully appreciate that fabulous story about the man who mistakes his wife for a prostitute, or the unicorns that could not fit into Noah’s ark. On pages where the topics seems less interesting, it sometimes it helps to pay attention not just to what the rabbis are saying, but to how they transition from one subject to the next. To learn daf yomi, you have to allow yourself to be carried along for the ride — and while it’s almost never smooth sailing, some days are certainly bumpier than others.

And this process of Daf Yomi, of pushing forward through the joys and challenges of the text, and the joys and challenges of life, is something I have been thinking of as I prepare to start this process again tomorrow.  Our world is in a very different place than it was seven years ago, and it is not just our own lives that might be different. The political situation in so many countries has changed, the environmental crisis is wreaking havoc on the weather every day, and as I have mentioned before, I am having trouble keeping the hope that we can hold it all together and survive the next few hundred years.

And now to add to the challenges, we have the growing threat of anti Semitism.  The recent attacks in New York and New Jersey are the most recent examples, shocking and horrifying incidents which force us all to realize that we are not quite as safe as we once thought. Those horrible ideas, those sick lies and beliefs that we might have thought were buried in the aftermath of the Holocaust are back.  They are fueled by conspiracy theories, the dirty ocean of social media, and a US president that openly supports white nationalists and racist ideas. It is both unbelievable, and unfortunately, entirely expected.

And this is where we once again start Daf Yomi.  Opening a page of Talmud, and entering the world of the rabbis is not only an act of study, but a spiritual practice, and a powerful and quiet act of resistance.  Each day, we will continue to move forward in the text and in life, and will keep the connection with all of the other Jews who are studying along with us. We will move past the challenges, move ahead of the difficulties we find, and be guided not necessarily by answers but by questions.  

This was clearly the feeling at the large Siyum HaShas gathering in New Jersey last week where thousands of Jews gathered to celebrate the completion of Daf Yomi cycle.  The situation in the world, and the recent anti-Semitic attacks were on people’s minds, but, and this is the point, it was not the focus.  A recent NY Times article put it well:

On a windy and biting cold day, the gathering offered a chance to affirm their faith in the face of those terrible acts. Some believed the event contained echoes of Jews who were held in ghettos or concentration camps during the Holocaust and resisted their persecutors by saying clandestine prayers, teaching their children the Torah or furtively blowing a ram’s horn on Rosh Hashana.

“You can’t compare it completely, but we’re showing that we’re not going to allow these attacks to change our course, change our language, change our clothing, change our God,” said Daniel Retter, an immigration lawyer whose parents escaped Austria under the Nazis and who participated in the Talmudic study with a dozen other members of his synagogue in the Bronx.

“The Talmud has gone through the Crusades, the pogroms, the Holocaust and too many atrocities to name, but the Talmud and the Jewish people have persevered and maintained our roots, and will continue to grow,”…

Yet, the Jewish Forward, saw things a bit differently:

But to the insider, the reality [of the event] was very different. In a four-hour long program, between a dozen speakers, the violence that this community now faces daily was barely mentioned.

It’s surprising, right? Just four days after five Jews were stabbed with a machete, and a few weeks after two Jews were murdered in a kosher supermarket in Jersey City, with hundreds of anti-Semitic incidents against visibly Orthodox Jews over the past year, you’d think that at a gathering of 90,000, it would be central.

It was not. Because rather than an act of defiance, the Siyum Hashas was entirely apolitical — it was no demonstration, no march, no rally. And it was an encapsulation of the fact that Jewish practice in the face of adversity is nothing new for us.

The event symbolized how much these attacks fit into the narrative that frum Jews tell of our heritage.

It’s this that the media has struggled to comprehend in its coverage of rising anti-Semitism against Orthodox Jews: Our understanding of our suffering has always had, first and foremost, spiritual significance. In every generation, they rise up against us, the Haggadah tells us. Traditional Jews take that literally.

Thus, during the Siyum Hashas, two of the leading rabbis of the Agudath Israel, Rabbi Malkiel Kotler and Rabbi Shmuel Kamenetsky did not allude to anti-Semitism, the ongoing threats, or the anxiety that many participants may feel. The Novominsker Rebbe, Rabbi Yaakov Perlow, mentioned it in brief passing. Throughout, their topic was singular: The importance of study, its centrality to our lives. They emphasized the importance of consistency, of aspiration — of not letting failure drag one down.

Tomorrow morning, I will open my Talmud and begin to study once again.  I will join not only the thousands of others doing the same, but also through this process will in a very real way, become part of the story itself,  joining the ancient Talmudic rabbis at the table to learn along with them. I will try, and I may again fail, to keep it up each and every day for the next seven years, but I will take it on as an exercise in commitment to my heritage, as a daily meditation, and especially now as an act of resistance against a very complicated world.  

I can take comfort in the solace of the conversations of the Talmud, take a moment of pause from the pain and challenges that we see around us.  As Talmud’s Rabbi Yeshoshua ben Levi says: “one who is walking along the way without a companion and is afraid, should engage in Torah study.” It is not always easy, but study, however you understand the term, guides us forward with intention, knowing that no matter what happens in our lives and in the world, there is always one more page to go.


Interested in beginning Daf Yomi study?

I hope you will join me and others from the Dorshei Emet community as we begin this journey together. We will look at the texts from a liberal, egalitarian and modern perspective, delving into the traditions but also making connections with contemporary issues, values and perspectives. Daf yomi study is for everyone, whether you are religious, secular, or just beginning the path of learning.

Join our Facebook group to learn along with the community:
https://www.facebook.com/groups/895018877567732/

Looking forward to learning along with you!

Every Person Matters

menorah
menorah

One is not born into the world to do everything but to do something.

– Henry David Thoreau

Sometimes in the Torah, the smallest and most seemingly insignificant people and moments can have the biggest impact.  This week, we begin the story of Joseph, the Torah’s longest continuous narrative (and one that has been made into countless movies and plays).  As the story begins, we are told that Joseph’s father Jacob loves him more than his other sons, which has made Joseph’s brothers hate him “so they could not speak a friendly word to him” (Gen. 37:4).  Joseph then has two dreams that predict that he will rule over his brothers, once again making them angry.  Finally, his brothers are gone, and Joseph’s father tells him to go search for them.  And this is when we have to pay attention to the details.  We read:

“When [Joseph] reached Shechem, a man came upon him wandering in the fields.  The man asked him, “What are you looking for?”  He answered, “I am looking for my brothers…The man said they are gone from here, for I heard them say: Let us go to Dothan”(Gen. 37:14-17).  

With this important information, Joseph goes to Dothan, and finds his brothers, who proceed to throw him into a pit, where he is sold to traders and eventually ends up in Egypt.  We of course know where the story goes from there: he ends up working for the Pharaoh, and a series of events take place which eventually lead to the rest of the history of the Jewish people including the Exodus from Egypt.  And why did all of this happen?  Because this man, an anonymous man, and a profoundly minor character in the story helps Joseph find his brothers.  One simple question, a few kind words, and the entire history of the Jewish people is changed forever.

There is a temptation as we go about our lives to always believe that we have to be the best and greatest at all that we do.  We want to have the biggest impact on others and want to make big change in the world.  Some want to be famous, others want to be rich, and many simply want to do work that is meaningful and to be happy and healthy.  No matter where we stand, we can and should always aim high, but we can also gain strength from the fact that sometimes the simplest acts can often have the greatest impact.  

This is why Jewish ethics asks us not only to care about “changing the world” and fixing what is broken in our society, but also stresses the importance of the minutia of daily life.  We are reminded to “guard our tongue” when we speak and to take care in our relationships.  We are told to remember and bless the small moments of beauty we encounter, and make a weekly holiday to focus on rest.  We focus on these little acts, so that we can have the spiritual strength achieve greatness.  If we start with kindness, focus on blessing and if we pay attention to the needs of others, then we can’t help but bring goodness into the world.  These may be small acts, but this is where compassion starts.  

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks puts it well:

The truths of religion are exalted, but its duties are close at hand. We know God less by contemplation than by emulation. The choice is not between ‘faith’ and ‘deeds,’ for it is by our deeds that we express our faith and make it real in the life of others and the world. Jewish ethics is refreshingly down-to-earth. If someone is in need, give. If someone is lonely, invite them home. If someone you know has recently been bereaved, visit them and give them comfort. If you know of someone who has lost their job, do all you can to help them find another. The sages call this ‘imitating God.’ They went further: giving hospitality to a stranger, they said, is ‘even greater than receiving the divine presence.’ That is religion at its most humanizing and humane.

Being a good person is not meant to be a challenge.  We simply need to start small, and work to bring compassion and love into all that we do.  And as we head into the Hanukkah season, a time of light amidst the darkness, this is what the world needs most from us.