Out of Many, One (July 4th and America's 250th)

What is the official motto of the United States of America?

Officially it is “In God We Trust.” That said, for a long period of time, it was unofficially, but widely regarded, as “E Pluribus Unum” (out of many, one). 

E Pluribus Unum appears on the great seal of the US and was approved for use there in an act of the U.S. Congress in 1782. Conceptually, “E Pluribus Unum” fit the ethos of the early United States, having much to do with the original 13 colonies. Early on, the colonies struggled to form a national identity. They each had a distinct culture and way of doing things. It’s hard to blend deeply held beliefs and systems. The early Americans had to compromise, argue and reimagine in order to find commonality and trust in one another. Out of the many, eventually, they found a way to one.

I see a parallel here in how we view God. In the very first verse of Torah, the first thing…being…character…we encounter is - you guessed it, God.

בְּרֵאשִׁ֖ית בָּרָ֣א אֱלֹהִ֑ים אֵ֥ת הַשָּׁמַ֖יִם וְאֵ֥ת הָאָֽרֶץ׃

When God began to create heaven and earth…

The name for God here is “Elohim” - which you know because it is related to the word “Eloheinu,” (our God) which we hear in a lot of our blessings. What’s curious though is that when you hear the “eem” at the end of the word, that’s a Hebrew indicator telling you that the word is in the plural form. 

Wait, yikes, hold up! I thought we only believed in one God? Indeed, we do, and indeed, the Torah pairs the word “Elohim” with singular verbs.

But then we’re left to wonder why we would use a pluralized word to refer to God?

Well, much like we did with the founding mottos of our country, we can take a historical approach to God’s name. Some scholars believe that at one time, our ancestors may have in fact believed in a pantheon of gods, but that ultimately one God was asserted as the God of Gods, the most powerful God. But then this idea transformed into something much deeper. We started to perceive God as an entity whose multifaceted, abstract nature actually encompassed all other “so-called gods” into one large, creative, collected force. 

E pluribus unum - out of many, one. One strong, connected, powerful whole, made up of many different attributes. This idea feels very real to me.

And Abraham Ibn Ezra, the great commentator, goes on to sum it up when he says that “God is all and all comes from God.”

By calling God Elohim, Genesis opens up not only our understanding of God but our understanding of how creation might have happened. If God is all and all comes from God, we can see God less as a puppeteer or a magician who magically poofed the universe into existence. Perhaps God is the small and large processes that caused creation to blossom, the many molecules, chemical reactions and years it would take for disparate parts to come together to form the one united world we all inhabit.

Then apply this to people. Out of many disparate people with different stories and cultures we have one human race. Our shared humanity is God-like, the greatest manifestation of being “btzelem elohim” - in the image of God. When we honor the many, we honor the one. 

On this idea, especially applied to the US, I particularly like the poem “Prayer for the Descendents of Many” by Alex Carter.

We are descendants of serfs and peasants

who came to these shores with golden dreams for the future.

The Lady’s lamp beckoned them to freedom.

 

We are descendants of villagers and chieftains

brought in chains and despair.

Their Middle Passage foreshadowed

lives of hardship and pain.

 

We are descendants of those from many lands

who saw across the border fence

a southwest desert path

to a better life for their children.

 

We are descendants of ancient peoples,

who revered the Creator and Creation,

whose histories were erased

as they were driven from their lands.

 

Eternal One, God of all people and all places,

help us honor the grand diversity of our history

and celebrate the kaleidoscope of our present.

 

Give each of us the strength to help our country

fulfill its promise of freedom and opportunity –

to strike down barriers that still obstruct,

to open doors still closed.

 

Fill the hearts of our leaders

with Your love of justice and compassion.

Give them strength to seek peace and pursue it,

to resist false gods of politics and power.

 

Be with us as we strive for a more hopeful future

for all, in our own time.

Amen.

So then how does one go from this prayer of unity into the Aleinu prayer, a prayer that, on its surface, calls for partition:

Praise God Who has set us apart from the other families of the earth; giving us a destiny unlike that of other nations’. 

Well, it’s a shame I ignored the lead up to that line and the lines after it. The broader context is:

Let us now praise the Sovereign of all things, Who formed the world from the very beginning, Who has set us apart from the other families of the earth; giving us a destiny unlike that of other nations’. We bend the knee and proclaim the greatness of the Creator, acknowledging the supreme Sovereign, the Holy One of Blessing.

One day, the prayer continues, when all of humanity perceives God's oneness, humanity will perceive our own oneness and on that day, God’s name will be one.

This is not a message of Jewish superiority, that our God’s name will be the name that reigns supreme. We don’t even KNOW God’s name. All we know is that God’s name encapsulates every letter, every word, every language - that of humans, of animals, the language of the flowers and the wind. When we see the one that comes from the many, we will be closer to the Divine.

Water on Stone: Juneteenth and the start of Summer

Before he became the famous Rabbi Akiva, one of the most beloved and influential sages in Jewish history, he was a shepherd. Tradition tells us that he was already forty years old and had never studied Torah. In fact, he believed that learning was beyond his reach. Yet this man would eventually become the teacher of thousands of students, help shape the foundations of rabbinic Judaism after the destruction of the Second Temple, and leave teachings that Jews still study nearly two thousand years later.

The turning point came on an ordinary day. While watching his flock, Akiva noticed a rock with a deep groove carved into it. Curious, he asked how such a mark had been made. The answer was simple: water. Drop after drop, year after year, the water had fallen on the same spot until it changed the stone itself.

Akiva stood there and reflected: If soft water can wear away hard rock, then surely words of Torah can enter my heart. If a stone can be transformed through patience and persistence, perhaps a person can too.

That realization changed his life. He began learning the Hebrew alphabet alongside young children. One letter at a time, one word at a time, he studied. The progress was slow, but he kept going. Day after day, year after year, he returned to learning, trusting that small efforts accumulate.

In time, the shepherd who thought he could never learn became Rabbi Akiva—the great teacher whose wisdom helped shape Jewish tradition for generations. His story reminds us that transformation rarely happens all at once. Like water on stone, growth often comes through small acts repeated faithfully over time, until one day we discover that what once seemed impossible has become part of who we are.

Though President Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation on January 1, 1863, it was unenforceable in Confederate-controlled areas. It wasn’t until June 19, 1865, that Union Major General Gordon Granger arrived in Texas to read "General Order No. 3," finally enforcing the freedom of 250,000 enslaved Black Texans. 

Juneteenth honors not just emancipation, but the resilience, culture, and achievements of Black Americans, recognizing that true freedom arrived in stages and is still something we must diligently work for.

Along these lines, Juneteenth is a national holiday because of a long grassroots campaign. It was only actualized in 2021. This was a major step forward in nationally recognizing our diversity and reckoning with a more honest account of our nation’s history. It felt like a watershed moment, a major step forward for these ideals. And yet we all know that in the last years, for every step forward, it feels like we took two back.

When it comes to our nation and American society, broad legislation makes big changes. But just broad legislation can be ushered in, a quick hand can usher it out. Sure, emancipation was a major step forward, but the years following it ushered in the tyranny of Jim Crow and the struggle to recognize our nation’s deeply embedded racism. 

Now before we get discouraged, we must remember Rabbi Akiva. Do not discredit a constant stream of goodness. Even while gentle, it can reshape even the hardest places. Real change in our country comes from dialogue, and compromise. It comes from genuine, neighborly concern. It means drawing close to others in curiosity and appreciation. It means celebrating together.

To our Black community members, we value your contributions to our local community and to the culture and achievements of our nation. 

To all of us: may we never resolve that our country or our hearts are too advanced or too mature to incorporate new insights or to begin a new journey of transformation. Every season brings a new opportunity for renewal or exploration.

This ShaBBQ is our unofficial start of summer. Set an intention tonight for yourself. The proliferation of sunshine and even the large-scale rainstorms, bring out the deepest, most vibrant greens of the year. How might this season do the same for you? 

Annual Meeting Remarks - Surviving

[Adapted from remarks that evening]

When I said that the last third of this synagogue year was like Survivor, I was only half kidding. The metaphor holds up. The show still airs because it asks some deeply human questions: when do we act in self-interest, and when do we choose collaboration? When do we protect our own needs, and when do we take risks for the good of the larger group?

These are not just reality-TV questions. They are community questions. They are synagogue questions. Every Jewish community wrestles with them: when do we turn inward, and when do we stick our necks out? Where should resources be allocated? What stances do we take on hard topics? And perhaps most importantly, how do we continue creating spaces where people feel connected to one another in a world that so often pulls people apart?

Well, we begin with building a calendar of meaningful events that help us celebrate, mourn, and grow together. On my end, one of the year's highlights was the Yesh Tikva Challah Bake in the fall, where we filled this room with folks of all ages baking challah and opening our hearts to taboo topics that affect our lives. There was also the largest Sukkot BBQ ever on record at WCT, a testament to our community’s willingness to take the Jewish calendar up on its opportunities to bring people together.

And then there was the first-ever Women’s Retreat, which was an astounding success. We had over 65 women registered, ranging from those in their late 20’s to their 80’s. We created art, drummed, and benefitted two social action initiatives. As the day went on, I was moved by how different groups were formed and how women who had never met connected. I feel our community has been brought closer to one another as a result.

As a synagogue, we must recognize what a genuine success it is to serve as a catalyst for bringing people together in the hyper-polarized world of 2026. Think about how counter-cultural that is right now! In a world undergoing constant mitosis, we at Woodlands are in the business of bringing together broken hearts, connecting families and communities, and pursuing peace in the world.

Broadly speaking, I’d say many people — Jewish and not — feel like they’re “just surviving” everything daily life and the world are throwing at them. When I think about “survival,” the word usually evokes a haggard image: someone or something at the very end, hanging on to whatever little is left.

But that’s not really the Jewish concept of survival—whether of a person or of a community. In Jewish terms, survival is about endurance and determination. It is disciplined engagement with life as it comes.

The Talmud (Yevamot 121a) relays a story:

Rabban Gamliel said: Once I was traveling on a boat, and from a distance I saw a boat that shattered and sank. I was grieved over the apparent death of the Torah scholar who was on board. Who was it? Rabbi Akiva. But when I disembarked onto dry land, he came, and sat, and deliberated Torah with me. I asked: Who saved you from the water? He said to me: A plank from the boat came to me. As each wave came toward me, I bent my head into the wave so it would not wash me off. Eventually I reached the shore.

In another teaching, Rabbi Akiva said: Once I was traveling on a boat, and I saw a boat sinking at sea, and I was grieved over the apparent death of the Torah scholar who was on board. Who was it? My student, Rabbi Meir. But when I disembarked, Meir came, sat, and deliberated Torah with me. I said to him: My son, who saved you from the water? He said to me: One wave carried me to another, and that wave to another, until I reached the shore, and a wave cast me up onto dry land.

Jewish survival—individual and collective—is about moving with and through the waves rather than being spared from them. The wisdom that comes from learning to navigate the waves becomes the source of strength.

It is also significant that Gamliel and Akiva were contemporaries, moving through the same turbulent waters together. Meir, Akiva’s student, reflects how the story of one generation’s survival becomes the foundation—and sometimes the lifeline—for the next. We cannot promise smooth waters, but we can give the next generation the benefit of our experience.

Woodlands Community Temple is entering its 60th year. We have the privilege of reaching our 60th decade because, as a community, we have met each wave, each challenge, with discipline, determination, and care. Whether it has been social upheaval, financial pressure, antisemitism, or even our own internal politics, we have endured these 60 years. We have not survived by waiting for miracles or by closing our eyes to reality. Rather, we have faced each challenge by putting our heads down, riding the waves with hope, resolve, and compassionate hearts.

This year, our community named at least 10 babies—10 new souls who represent the ongoing life of our community and of the Jewish people. On their account, and on account of all the meaningful work we have done and will continue to do, we are able to declare: Am Yisrael Chai—the Jewish people survive! “Chai,” of course, also means life. Survival is not simply holding on; it is active, engaged living.

May Woodlands continue to be a place where Am Yisrael Chai is not only proclaimed, but embodied—where Jewish people and their loved ones live full, meaningful lives, in our own homes and as a community. May our 60th birthday celebration be a marker of our survival, a testament to vibrant Jewish life, deep community, and enduring hope. Amen.

Cursing God

I have to be honest with you: I swear like a sailor. I think, if I’m going to psychoanalyze myself for a minute, that because I generally process through speaking, cursing is a way that my body lets go of anger.

These untoward utterances are not usually at a person, but at a situation. I certainly do not find myself cursing God. The curse words of everyday language are one thing. They’re just words - their meaning changes over time. Intent and tone has everything to do with how they are flung and received.

But cursing God’s name is something else completely. That, by Jewish standards, is particularly problematic. The book of Deuteronomy lays it out straight: God actually gives us the choice between blessing and curse - with blessing leading to life-affirming action and cursing leading to destruction, the unravelling of God’s creation. To invoke “God’s name” means to act in service of that Name, a responsibility we must take seriously.

This week’s Torah portion is Emor - which means “Speak.” The parsha shows the ways in which our words matter - whether in prayer or in the ways we relate to one another.

Early in the parsha, we read:

וּשְׁמַרְתֶּם֙ מִצְוֺתַ֔י וַעֲשִׂיתֶ֖ם אֹתָ֑ם אֲנִ֖י יְהֹוָֽה׃ 

You shall faithfully observe My commandments: I am GOD.

וְלֹ֤א תְחַלְּלוּ֙ אֶת־שֵׁ֣ם קׇדְשִׁ֔י וְנִ֨קְדַּשְׁתִּ֔י בְּת֖וֹךְ בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל אֲנִ֥י יְהֹוָ֖ה מְקַדִּשְׁכֶֽם׃ 

You shall not profane My holy name, that I may be sanctified in the midst of the Israelite people—I, GOD, who sanctify you,

When God’s name is profaned, holiness is diminished in the world. Communities fall apart. The universe begins to unwind.

Humans are placed on earth to be planters and tenders of God’s creation. We evolved to our intellectual and physical strength in order to build holy communities that reflect the holiness of the Divine essence that created it all. If we curse God’s name, we act against God’s purpose for us and, with our very words, suck the water out of the ground, spread weeds and chip away at the world’s beauty. We negate its very existence!

Hillul HaShem, profaning the Divine name, is not just about uttering a curse or casually using God’s name derogatorily. It’s not even just about God’s name itself. As a religious concept, hillul HaShem occurs any time a Jew acts immorally in the presence of others. Unethical behavior, in and of itself, is an affront to God’s good name. It rejects our Divinely-given task as God’s agents.

Which leads us to the digression in this week’s Torah portion. Leviticus 24 reads: The son of an Israelite woman, whose father was an Egyptian, went out among the Israelites; and the Israelite woman’s son and an Israelite man fought in the camp. The Israelite woman’s son pronounced the Name [of God] and cursed; and they brought him to Moshe. His mother’s name was Shlomit, daughter of Divri, of the tribe of Dan.… God spoke to Moshe, saying, “Take the blasphemer outside the camp; and let all who were within hearing lean their hands upon his head, and let the whole community stone him.”

This man, “the blasphemer,” is part of the Israelite community. His mother is from the tribe of Dan. His father, however, is an Egyptian. The first thing that should jump out at us is that intermarriage is hardly a modern phenomenon. Torah is FULL of people who draw lineage from different religions and ethnicities.

As ancient as that phenomenon, though, is the social anxiety surrounding such an arrangement. It is the ancient concern of who is in and who is out and sometimes this anxiety results in disastrous consequences, like in this story.

Rabbi Avital Hochstein of the Hadar Institute dips into the midrash, the rabbinic imagination, in order to mine deeper understanding from the passage. The Midrash helps us to see how the blasphemer doesn’t curse God’s name because of his parentage. Rather, the blasphemer curses out of frustration for how society has treated him and how the community has failed to help him integrate:

“R. Hiyya taught: …[Shlomit’s son] came to pitch his tent in the camp of Dan, but they said to him, “What right do you have to pitch your tent in the camp of Dan?” He replied, “I am descended from the daughters of Dan.” They told him, “It is written (in the book of Numbers), ‘The Israelites shall camp each [household] with its standard, under the banners of their father’s house’ —and not their mother’s house.” He entered the court of Moshe and emerged with an unfavorable ruling; then he stood up and blasphemed.”

Rabbi Hochstein explains: “This midrash offers a jarring explanation for the blasphemer’s “going out”: it was an act of expulsion. The blasphemer is a man caught in a housing-identity crisis. He seeks to belong to the tribe of Dan, his mother’s tribe, yet the law dictates that tribal identity is determined solely by the father. As the son of an Egyptian man, he is left without an inheritance, without a banner, and without a place to call home. In his distress, he turns to the legal system—to Moshe himself—but the answer he receives is devastating: he “emerged liable.” He is told that he does not belong and has no place, camp, or tribe. The midrashic narrative portrays his outburst as the direct result of this judicial rejection: “He stood up and blasphemed. This midrash invites us to view the blasphemer not as someone who is simply malicious, but as an individual pushed to the brink by structural injustice. His curse is not merely a religious provocation; it is the desperate cry of someone the community has cast out. This midrash forces us to confront difficult questions: Are there situations where strict adherence to the law produces a rejection of certain people? Are we, as a society, responsible for the curses uttered by those who have no place to pitch their tents? Ultimately, the midrash highlights a grave danger: when a religious community acts in a way that fosters injustice, the inevitable result is the profanation of God’s Name (hillul Hashem).”

Hochstein, my opinion, is not defending the blasphemer’s actions. What he did was still beyond the pale. One should never curse the Divine Name for all the reasons I stated before. She is inviting us, however, to think about what conditions led him down such a dark and dangerous path. When do people feel so desperate that they may be tempted to give up completely and curse the Divine name as an act of surrendering to that desperation? Again, cursing God’s name is an act of unravelling, and this time, it is within a person.

The rabbis understand, as we do, that this Divinely given life is not all sunshine and roses, and there can be circumstances within the organized chaos of creation that push us to the brink; to have us question if it is all worth it and if we really do want to do the hard work of fulfilling the mitzvot and tending to the garden God has placed us in.

Tradition acknowledges this, and it implores us, commands us, to hold on.

This is in fact the theological basis for the Mourner’s Kaddish. Famously, the Mourner’s Kaddish never mentions death. Instead, the prayer highlights God’s greatness and lifts up the Divine Name again and again: 

יִתְגַּדַּל וְיִתְקַדַּשׁ שְׁמֵהּ רַבָּא

Glorified and sanctified be God’s great name throughout the world

יְהֵא שְׁמֵהּ רַבָּא מְבָרַךְ לְעָלַם וּלְעָלְמֵי עָלְמַיָּא

May God’s great name be blessed forever and to all eternity.

It makes sense that a mourner would be obligated to utter words that assert “God’s great name.” A person in the pit of mourning would probably be most at risk to curse God, to profane the Divine Name. It would make sense to be angry at the Creator of Life and Death, and be tempted to curse the source of one’s pain. And yet our tradition lifts up the Divine name in an effort to lift the spirit of the person reciting the prayer:

“May God’s great name be blessed forever and to all eternity. Blessed and praised, glorified and exalted, extolled and honored, adored and lauded be the name of the Holy One.”

Higher and higher we lift God’s name, restoring its glory in the heart of the person saying it, restoring one’s trust in the Divine design of which we have little power but lots of influence.

Which brings me back to a reading we shared earlier this evening. It is on page 24 of our siddur:

“Praise Me, says God, and I will know that you love Me. Curse Me, says God, and I will know that you love Me. Praise Me or curse Me, and I will know that you love Me. Sing out My graces, says God. Raise your fist against Me and revile, says God. Sing out graces or revile – reviling is also a kind of praise, says God.

But if you sit fenced off in your apathy, says God ... if you sit entrenched in, “I don’t care,” says God ... if you look at the stars and yawn, if you see suffering and don’t cry out, if you don’t praise and you don’t revile ...then I created you in vain, says God.”

These are the words of Aaron Zeitlin, a Jewish writer of the early 20th century. This is a different take on “cursing God.” Zeitlin is picking up on the fact that God does in fact allow us our outbursts, and God very much allows us to question God’s Divine design and plans. The Bible is full of direct protest and question of God - from Abraham to Job to the ancient Psalmist.

With this insight, perhaps we see “blasphemy” differently. Afterall, we don’t know God’s actual name, which makes it very hard to curse it. Blasphemy, in this perspective, is apathy, or worse, disregard and detachment from reality. It is lack of purpose.

Jewish tradition maintains that the real danger is not the person who cries out in pain or even in anger. The real danger is the person who loses all sense of purpose. A person who stops caring - about themselves and others.

A holy community is a community that refuses to let anyone be pushed so far to the margins that their only language left is a curse of defeat. It is a community that understands that words have power—not only to wound, but to heal, to include, and to restore dignity; not just to a human soul, but to God’s creation writ large. May we be that sort of community, and in doing so, bless the Divine Name. Amen.

"It is difficult to make predictions, especially about the future" (Tetzaveh and Purim)

“It is difficult to make predictions, especially about the future.” While at first this proverb feels like something Yogi Berra may have said, it is actually credited to Niels Bohr, a Danish physicist.

By all measures, Niels Bohr had a predictable life. For starters, he was a physicist. His job was to predict how the universe would interact. He was so good at this predicting that he won the 1922 Nobel Prize in Physics for his work on atomic structures.

His mother was Ellen Adler, a member of a prominent Jewish banking family. Bohr did not necessarily consider himself Jewish, having been christened in the Lutheran church. His wealth and privilege afforded him an education though, which would have been a good enough indicator of his future success. Paired with his innate ability, perhaps it was predictable that he’d achieve such academic and public success.

But what made him remarkable is what happened after the predictable timeline. As the Nazis rose to power in the 1930’s, Bohr chose to use his prestige to save many Jewish lives. As you may be aware, in 1933, the Rockefeller Foundation created a fund to help support refugee academics – particularly Jewish ones - who were at greatest risk. Bohr met with the President of the Rockefeller Foundation, Max Mason, during a visit to the United States and secured a plan. Bohr offered the refugees temporary jobs at his institute, providing them with financial support and arranging for them to be awarded fellowships from the Rockefeller Foundation. Ultimately it was all with the goal of placing them at institutions around the world, shepherding them to safety. He saved hundreds of lives.

Predictably or not, in 1940, his own life came into danger. The Nazis invaded Denmark and Bohr got word that the Nazis considered him Jewish on account of his mother. Like many Danish Jews, he fled to Sweden by way of fishing boat and he was able to find passage to the US. Yet he refused to leave Sweden until he had had an opportunity to meet with King Gustav V, whom he helped persuade to make public Sweden’s willingness to provide a refuge to Danish Jews. Soon after, in early October 1943, the great exodus of 7,800 Jews across the Oresund Sea took place.

When Niels arrived in the US, he became part of the Manhattan Project. Yet even from there he took yet another unexpected turn. He was an early defector from using nuclear technology for weapons and directed his energy toward peaceful applications.

If Niels’ life is any indicator, it is indeed hard to make predictions, particularly about the future. His life story is an example of how one may try to predict a great many outcomes, but it is the choices we make in the face of unpredictable challenges that dictate what the future will hold. The future cannot be predicted, it can only be directed by our actions.

Judaism, ancient and modern, follows this wisdom. Time and again, our texts reject divination and magic. These fantastical shortcuts, tradition says, seek to access the Divine realm in order to understand God’s design. Any human who claims to be able to do this is nothing more than a charlatan. Even the prophets - who “saw” the future - were really just mouthpieces for God. They had no innate power. Even Joseph, the great predictor, was a dream interpreter, not some magical seer.

But there’s a wrinkle to this logic in this week’s Torah portion. In it, we receive a description of Aaron the High Priest’s uniform - an ornate and essential get-up that is as full of symbolism.

Central to the uniform is “the breastpiece of decision:” a metalpiece with 12 stones mounted in a grid. Each stone represents one of the 12 tribes. Wearing this, “Aaron shall carry the names of the sons of Israel on the breastpiece of decision over his heart, when he enters the sanctuary, for remembrance before GOD at all times.” The point is clear: Aaron, or any High Priest, is just a vessel. In doing his holy work, he should never forget the people he represents before God. The power lies with the people, not within him or in the sacred objects he handles.

But then the wrinkle: “Inside the breastpiece of decision you shall place the Urim and Thummim, so that they are over Aaron’s heart when he comes before GOD. Thus Aaron shall carry the instrument of decision for the Israelites over his heart before GOD at all times.”

Scholars and sages alike are stumped when it comes to these Urim and Thummin. On a basic level, we know that they are two stones that help the community make decisions. The physical maneuvering and how they functioned remains a mystery though. Many believe that they served as a sort of proto-Ouija board. There are theories that the stones were peered through, and something about the light’s shining off or through them held significance. However they worked, it seems safe to say that the Urim and Thummim stones were some sort of mystical tools to decode prophecy and help point the community in the right direction.

Somewhere along the way, they fell out of vogue and their function was lost to history. Maybe because our ancestors felt, much like many of us, that this feels like a whole lot of superstitious gibberish.

But let’s give them a little bit more credit. Rather than being just primitive, ancient magical divination tools, perhaps the Urim and Thummim were symbolic in the way the priest’s breastpiece was symbolic.

Perhaps more than a physical lens, the stones were a “values lens,” encouraging humans to weigh their choices before them and choose wisely. By sanctioning the handling of the Urim and Thummim stones, perhaps God is saying, “the future is literally in your hands” - weigh it, wave it, handle it carefully.

Monday night, the holiday of Purim will begin. The word Purim means “lots.” It refers to the lottery system the villain Haman used to determine the date for annihilating the Jews. The Persian Jews’ future was literally determined in a crapshoot. And for most of the Purim story, it looks like the future has been irrevocably predicted by these inanimate objects. The lots fell a certain way and the Jews’ fate was sealed.

And yet, that’s not how the story goes. Fate flips. The 14th of Adar becomes not a day of annihilation, but a day of exaltation and joy. And most notably, it does not turn because of Divine intervention - not explicitly at least. God splits no seas. No, fate turns because of the actions of the story’s humans! Mordechai overhearing the plans to kill the king. Esther, bravely deciding to disclose her identity. It is the choices we make in the face of unpredictable challenges that dictate what the future will hold. Purim teaches loudly: the future cannot be predicted, it can only be directed by our actions.

Niels Bohrs’ contemporary, Albert Einstein famously said that "God does not play dice with the universe.” He and Niels often disagreed, mainly because Einstein objected to the inherent randomness that Bohr promoted. Einstein believed in order, not chance.

Perhaps God doesn’t play dice with the universe, but whatever God’s plan is, we certainly don’t know it. No matter the scientific breakthroughs, no matter the art and philosophy we develop, we can only catch glimpses of the Divine plan - if there even is one. So let us use the tools we have - our hearts and minds and hands - to take the chaos thrown at us and resolve to make a future of our choosing. A good future, a just one, full of compassion and repair. We may not be able to predict it, but we can create it.

Why a Bat Mitzvah?

Drash given on the Friday evening of the weekend my daughter became bat mitzvah.

13 years ago, a parenting blog appeared in the NYTimes by best-selling author KJ Dell’Antonia. I was paying attention because, well, 13 years ago, I was about to become a parent and I had time to care about parenting blogs.

Dell’Antonia wrote a compelling piece on why she and her husband were decidedly NOT raising their child with religion. She presented the idea of two axes of connection - a vertical one that connects a person to their family and history, and a horizontal one, that connects a person to other communities in the here and now. She sees “organized religion” as existing to “sure up” the vertical axis and then makes a case for why people shouldn’t feel badly about abandoning this project. In her words:

“[there is the] fear that without a shared religion, a child will fail to feel a connection to her family and her history…That connection, though, can be found in different places. It can be found in stories of family history and family resilience shared around a dinner table, or in a sport, a hometown or a cause. There are many ways to deepen a vertical connection. What matters is to find and strengthen those things that are important to your family rather than regretting those things that have worked for other families in other times…

…Parents need to release our grip on the vertical and recognize that finding or embracing those horizontal identities is crucial to our children. As important as the family identity is, we need to leave room for the identities — religious or otherwise — that we don’t “give.””

I see what she’s saying. Religion is not the only pathway to tradition and a meaningful life. And I agree that paying attention to the horizontal axis is crucial. We must make room for our children to seek community in places and spaces where one feels most authentically themselves.

But her antipathy toward religion’s impact on the vertical axis bothered me. Her description of religion, or a strong connection to ancestral traditions, felt shallow. Her dismissive note about “what worked for other families in other times,” felt short-sighted. It marks religion as primitive and focused on the past, mired in conservative obstinacy. In our modern world, this is a common accusation against “organized religion.”

As an endorser of organized religion, as a progressive person, as a Jew, I often find myself feeling tremendously misunderstood by these characterizations.

Then I came across a response to Dell’Antonia’s piece by Reverend Nurya Love Parish, an Episcopal priest, that articulated my critique even better and helped me to feel seen:

“Religion, as described by Dell’Antonia, is not a meaning-making language necessary for a full life, not a set of practices for the growth of the soul, not an irreplaceable force for good in the world. Religion is roughly equivalent to “community.” Because Dell’Antonia understands religion as community, it is optional. People can find their way into any community they choose. There is no significant difference between a religious community and any other community.”

“Contrary to Dell’Antonia’s assumptions,” she continues, ““Religion” and ”community” are not synonyms. Religion is a way of making meaning of life. Religions endure because they successfully enable generation after generation to celebrate the beauty and wrestle with the agony of human existence. Religious communities are not an end in themselves. Their purpose is to practice the religion they profess. By the practice of their faith, they seek a depth of soul and connection to the Divine that is impossible to achieve any other way. Religious communities exist to connect human beings with God, the Eternal.”

I’ve sat with these two pieces for 13 years now, and given the events of this weekend - our eldest child becoming a bat mitzvah - I dug them out of my files, drawn by some important personal questions: “why IS this weekend so important to our family?” “why DO we care so much about raising our child in a faith?”

I mean, I’m a rabbi. My husband Mark is also a Jewish professional. It was sort of a given that our children would be enmeshed in a synagogue and attend religious school, and that one day they would become B-Mitzvah (and continue to Confirmation and Graduation). But being a rabbi, being Jews, we, like everyone else, also needed to ask, “but why?!”

I’ll start with a disclaimer: I don’t think a child’s upbringing is “deficient” in any way if they aren’t raised in a faith. I also believe, importantly, that a person should not be burdened or saddled with a faith. We have seen too many examples of where that leads to abuse and emotional anguish. Fundamentalist reads that propagate self-hate, or hatred towards others, or that stifle one’s social, emotional, and physical freedom are problematic.

I do see raising a child in a dynamic, loving faith, however, as a potential gift. It is a gift of a “religious toolbox.” This toolbox contains the vocabulary, experiences, and rituals that help one to experience life's highs and lows, its twists and turns. A religious toolbox includes a vocabulary of gratitude, which promotes emotional and physical well-being.

It provides one with intentional fortitude and motivation to participate in the world, no matter its uncertainty or ugliness. It contains handbooks for survival, promoting determination and grit.

A religious toolbox drives us to act justly, it has tools for empowerment. And while both gratitude and a sense of justice can happen outside the bounds of a religious faith, our faith is what makes it obligatory.

Religious life counteracts feeling adrift. It is about manifesting sacredness by accessing the sanctity around us. When done with intention, integrity, and a strong sense of personal freedom, religion can provide a bedrock in which one can drop an anchor, offering support in the vastness of the human experience. It is the gift of feeling connected to something greater than ourselves.

That “something greater” can be many different things: a body of wisdom, a sense of wonder, a God-concept, or, to come full circle, a community.

So we’re back at the vertical axis, and the pejorative “what’s worked for other families in other times.” We Jews call this Torah. Torah is what’s worked for the Jewish family over time.

The Torah, we say, is a tree of life - with a strong, robust, vertical trunk that is always responding, always growing. By Jewish standards, the story of our people is a growing, living thing, dynamic and conversational.

The metaphor is rich: the tree's trunk has many layers, formed by the rings inside. There are thick layers for years in which the tree receives more nourishment and support. They become thinner during years of challenge. Rings are lighter in color during significant growth and darker during seasons filled with more comfort and uniformity. So too has our tradition expanded and constricted, made adjustments due to time and place. It has branched out and it has weathered many storms.

This is not a relic that tethers us to the past, but a living framework that has given generations the courage, language, and moral imagination to meet the future.

On Yom Kippur morning, one of my favorite readings ends with,

“The words are old and the language was theirs,
but the call is real and the message is ours:
Take hold of your life while you still have the chance!”

And you better believe we do this in community, sacred community. This is a sacred and human struggle to do what is right - for ourselves and for others. And this is precisely why our daughter will stand on this bimah tomorrow morning and read from the Torah.

She will be given many gifts tomorrow and throughout her life, but the biggest one will be that Torah itself - the skills and stories that motivate her to assert her own worth and insist that she act to assert the worth and dignity of others as well. Her destiny is knit up with others’ from the past, present and future, and knowing that, the decisions she makes matter.

I can’t think of a more empowering gift - the gift of knowing that life is sacred and that she is never, ever alone. We are never alone. We matter. Always.

On Wednesday evening, we had our rehearsal with Cantor Jenna. The cantor took the Torah out of the ark and handed it to Noah, who now, old enough, held it alone for the very first time in her life. That was when I cried.

She’s heard it, seen it, even touched it, but now it is entrusted to her. Why would we hand over the keys to the tradition to a 13 year old? Because the rabbis were keen observers of human development, and they intuitively knew what modern science shows: the pre-frontal cortex of a teen is still forming. In its growth state, it is pliable and ready to choose a path. At this moment of great change and exploration, it is crucial we develop and then hand over the toolbox for meaningful living. It is the gift of empowerment, the gift of dynamic, purposeful connection at a stage of development where one might feel alone and unsure of who they are and what they stand for.

It’s not just connection, it’s not just community, it’s covenant. This covenant is established in this week’s Torah portion in the uttering of the 10 Commandments. Through these laws, rituals, and relationship God says, אַתֶּם תִּהְיוּ־לִי מַמְלֶכֶת כֹּהֲנִים וְגוֹי קָדוֹשׁ (you will be to me a kingdom of priests, a holy nation!), people who know their worth and the worth of others.

Source of Life,
We thank You for the gift of a living tradition—
for words older than us that still call us forward,
for rituals that steady us when the world feels uncertain,
And for a covenant that breathes life into each of us and into Your creation.

On this weekend of my daughter’s bat mitzvah, I am grateful for the sacred gift that I was given, and the privilege and freedom to pass it to her. In doing so, may we continue to be agents of love and life, individually, together, and as a community. Amen.

The NEW Colossus

Lady Liberty - one of the most powerful symbols of our country.

Liberty of course, is her defining feature

Liberty - the hope that was uttered to her in prayer from the incoming migrants

But Emma Lazarus, a Jew, a poet was not so literal. 

Within her poem lies a protest.

Have you ever stopped to think about the TITLE? 

Have you paused on the first couplet before reciting the poem’s most famous lines?

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command…

This statue is NOT Colossus, she says, the brazen giant of Greek fame

The statue of Helios in Rhodes’ harbor, 

built in 280 BC to commemorate the successful defense against military attack.

He stood arrogant, his masculine might exposed, muscle on display

and an earthquake brought him down.

Some records say that the fallen giant was pillaged by Arabs 

and the scrap metal was sold to a “certain Jew”

(You can hear the derision dripping from the pen of the Byzantine historian)

This statue, says Lazarus, is NOT THAT.

She is not here to intimidate - she is here to welcome.

Not cocky, hateful history behind her. 

She looks toward the horizon, 

the moral arc of the universe,

longing.

She is NOT military and conquest,

She is hope, compassion, a MOTHER.

A Mother of EXILES, even.

Not history’s victors. 

If anything, she calls to those who have lost.

Because not all of history’s victors are winners

And its losers are not waste.

In fact, if we follow the horizon, 

the moral arc of history long enough, 

we will see it is the tempest-tossed, 

the tired, the poor, the huddled masses

Who make history,

Who build society,

Who write the poems 

and build the movements.

With her mild eyes, she commands
the air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

You know who had mild eyes? 

Our foremother Leah,

The less loved, the rejected

And yet she too birthed our people.

And so now, a new generation seeks 

what so many others have sought,

To build a life of liberty,

To step through the golden door of possibility.

Whether travelling from far beyond our shores

Or already within our borders

May the most vulnerable be met with compassion.

May protest remain a protected right

May the law of our land be upheld with dignity

And should we need to defend, let us defend with dignity

May every official, every enforcement officer, 

Every citizen and every resident

Live each day in such a way that they can hold their head high

Like Lady Liberty does.

Her torch’s flame possesses lightening

But the lightning is never dispatched. It is restrained.

Because it is not a weapon but a beacon.

It is light.

Light, held—not hurled.

Light that beckons

Light that leads the way.

Dignity, life, shining.