Posts by Rabbi Mara Young

Thursday, October 10, 2019

Yizkor Presentation

Remembering Faith Zimmerman

My Grandma Faith was a woman who spoke in proclamations. She’s famous for them really. For example:

Every Thanksgiving she would proclaim that “this is the last Thanksgiving” she’d be making her famous stuffed cabbage. But sure enough, with enough cajoling from my sister, she’d be rolling those cabbage leaves up again the following year.

Or, if you ever brought up that time that so-and-so was sick or ended up in the hospital, from a broken bone to a difficult labor, she would always proclaim, “…and we almost lost her!” According to the grandmother, every member of our family was “almost lost” at some point in their lives.

Oh, and then the most random one was when she would proclaim she didn’t like Spanish food because in a prior life she was a witch burned at the stake in the Spanish Inquisition.

Given all this, I guess it makes sense that she sang Dayenu with fervor at Passover. Dayenu is the ultimate proclamation – it would have been enough! – a requires an enthusiastic singing voice, which my grandmother had.

When my Grandma Faith would call me, she’d say, “Mara, it’s your lady grandmother here!” Grandma Faith was your classic lady of the 1940’s, a true member of the greatest generation. She was an FDR-loving, liberally minded gal who worked her whole life, even though she really didn’t have to. She was a teacher and guidance counselor. She played bridge and drank scotch with her husband, my grandfather, who she was happily married to for 70 plus years. She was president of her local American Association of University Women. She founded a synagogue and was part of the League of Women Voters. I got my feminism from her.

Rabbi Billy was gracious enough to officiate at her funeral. I had officiated at Mark’s mother’s funeral, and my Grandma Jane’s funeral, but I found this one difficult to do. I didn’t realize why until after the intake. After the intake with my family, Rabbi Billy turned to me and said, “Wow. It’s like they were describing you.”



And I suppose that’s right. I can be ornery like her, smart like her, loud-mouthed like her, loving like her.

My grandmother referred to Noah as “her royal highness” and Asher as “the holy terror.” In true Grandma fashion, she’d insist on holding them, even though we thought she wasn’t strong enough to do so. “Ridiculous!” she’d say, “do you know how many babies I’ve held in my life?”

Grandma’s bond to Noah in particular was so unique and special. I really miss watching it in action. I’ll never forget when Mark and I took the kids to see my grandparents in Florida. 5 year old Noah hadn’t seen “Gee” in months. The minute we entered their apartment, Noah climbed up onto the couch, gave Grandma a hug, and then put her head in her lap. She remained snuggled up to Grandma until we had to pry her away to go back to the hotel. I think they had twin souls, born in different times. There was always an ease between them, a true closeness. We have so many pictures of the two of them snuggling. I am so grateful for those pictures.

My grandma was diagnosed with Leukemia and died in the span of 3 months. I was able to be with her in Florida while she was in hospice. She was alert for the first day, less so for the ones after. It may sound strange to say, but those days in hospice were some of the most special in my life…particularly those hours when I sent my mom and my aunt away for some coffee. I bought some trashy magazines, turned off the lights, and just sat next to her, holding her hand.

At times she’d get agitated and push back the covers. She’d say in a stupor, “Mara, this is ridiculous! Let me get my shoes!” and I’d have to tuck her back into bed. “Ssssh, grandma, ssssh.” The hospice nurse said this was normal. When someone is dying, but lived life so determinedly, it is hard for them to let go. “They fight it,” she told me.

At one point, Grandma apologized. She said, “I’m so sorry you have to sit here with me like this.” I proclaimed to her: “Grandma, I’ve got two kids who never leave me alone and a full time job. Sitting here with you, reading my trashy magazines, is a gift!” She smiled and shifted back to sleep.

Amazingly, I wasn’t sad in those moments. I felt calm, complete and at peace. If one must die, this should be the way it happens. A room full of natural light, affirmations of love, and stories of a life well lived.

Whereas once my grandmother held my mother, held me, held my children, now I could hold her. And when I couldn’t anymore, God could.

Wednesday, October 9, 2019

Walk In, Not Away - Yom Kippur Morning 5780/2019

If DNA is the blueprint of our bodies, computer code is the blueprint of our lives. Code lies at
the base of all software programs and technological devices, meaning it builds our educational materials, professional workspaces, and even our social lives as they migrate onto smartphones and apps.

A lot of computer code is privately owned by people and businesses, making it proprietary and top-secret. “You can see what it does, but you can’t see how it works unless you work at the company that makes it.”[1]Despite these exclusive ownerships, the world mostly runs on “open-source code,” meaning it is free, re-usable and collaborative. Anyone can inspect, modify and enhance it.[2]

Technology writer Paul Ford is particularly fascinated by the way people improve open-source code, fixing bugs in public forums. His own code-correcting program is a living document of human collaboration. He muses: “with a history going back more than 40 years; the codebase itself starts in the 1980s, and as I write this there are [almost 140,000] different [edits] that get you from then to now. More than 600 contributors have worked on it. I find those numbers magical: A huge, complex system that edits all kinds of files started from nothing and then, with nearly 140,000 documented human actions, arrived at its current state. It has leaders but no owner, and it will move along the path in which people take it…It will outlive me.”

Reading Ford’s perspective, I couldn’t help but draw a parallel to Jewish text and tradition. It has a history going back more than 5,000 years, the codebase starting somewhere in early human civilization. There are thousands of texts that get you from then to now. Millions of contributors have worked on it. It has leaders but no owner and it will outlive us.

I’m confident that Judaism isn’t going anywhere. Our numbers may increase or decrease, but we’ve proven that even up against the most formidable, murderous foes, we find a way to survive. We edit, re-interpret or adjust the code to meet the challenge.


But this doesn’t mean we can just coast into 5780 with ease. Whereas once Judaism’s survival meant outlasting empires and despots, it must now survive a “you-do-you” culture, a social ethos radically concerned with the self. These days we’ve all become individual arbiters of right and wrong, dedicating our time and money to the promotion of the self. In doing so, we seek happiness ferociously but are left wondering why it alludes us and our children.

Being an active part of a humanity’s magical, complex system and Judaism’s evolving 

codebase has taken a backseat to this more egotistic focus. Americans in general have turned so extremely inward that most institutions of greater camaraderie are starting to crumble around us. 



According to Gallup Polling[3], Americans lack confidence in a great many things: 87% of Americans have “some or very little confidence” in Congress and the government, 71% have some or very little confidence in our public schools. Overall church affiliation is at an all-time low of 50%, attributed to the increasing proportion of Americans with no religious preference and a general “lack of confidence” in organized religion. Synagogue affiliation and formal engagement with the Jewish community is not far behind this statistic.

While there are many factors behind these figures, research shows that in present-day America, lack of empathy and a lost sense of “being in it together” seem to the biggest contributors. So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that the US doesn’t even crack the top 10 of the United Nation’s ranking of the world’s happiest countries in 2019.

Consider Finland as a comparison, ranked by the United Nations as the happiest country in the world. Interestingly, not only are native-born Finns happy, but immigrants to Finland are thriving just as equally. What causes this? The report finds that Finns “pay high taxes for a social safety net, they trust their government, they live in freedom and they are generous with each other.”[4]

Americans have become self-obsessed and aren’t better for it. We know this intuitively. Our lives in a cutthroat capitalist culture are fast-paced and lonely. So we seek out quick, cheap highs and engage only in that we think makes us and our children “happy.” “We’ve moved more to a microview of well-being, having positivity in the minute,” says Dacher Keltner, a professor of psychology at the University of California.[5]

The irony is that in our desperate desire to seek out more joy in our lives, we’re abandoning the places that can actually help us find it. We consume media that fits nicely with our own point of view, we engage in activities, even altruistic ones, that give us momentary highs. But like a bottle rocket blasting upward, we have nothing underneath it to sustain us for the long haul. After we experience the high, we crash right back down.

Judaism has warned about the cult of the self and quick fixes of pleasure since its inception. The insistence on one, supreme God and the prohibition against idolatry, found right at the beginning of the Ten Commandments, advocate for a step out of the self. It’s not so much that God is possessive or egotistical, but that we are. Rabbi Joseph Telushkin and Daniel Prager find that “when we excise God from our lives, we fill the void with gods of our own choosing: science, revolution, happiness, [and] the self…”

Sarah Hurwitz, head speechwriter for First Lady Michele Obama, recently published a must-read book called Here All Along. It’s about her journey to find meaning in her life and how she found it in Judaism. She picks up on Telushkin and Prager’s train of thought: They seem to be talking about an specific sort of idolatry, where we have a belief in false gods, “including the belief that you yourself are God, in control of everything.” She’s critical of how we engage with social institutions, particularly religious ones, saying that we stick around for the easy, feel-good parts and walk out the door as soon as it requires something of us: “We’re reifying, maybe even deifying, ourselves, focusing on the self-discovery, self-affirmation, and self-expression parts of religion and neglecting the self-discipline, self-sacrifice and self-transcendence parts.”

Why are we abandoning social institutions and ancient wisdom when we know that they can bring us the happiness we seek? Well, our out-of-control self-determination drives us to anything that feels good and avoid, at all costs, the things that challenge or trouble us. I’m not saying we should temper those things Hurwitz mentions: self-expression, personal autonomy over our bodies and beliefs. Instead, I resonate deeply with her concern – can we find room in our lives for confrontation, challenge and sacrifice along with self-discovery?

Consider Gen Z. That’s today’s teens. Along with Millennials, they demonstrate the lowest engagement in organized religion in history. That said, lack of engagement with religious institutions has not stopped them from being moral, caring people. You don’t need church or temple for that, really. It’s good to have a motivating factor, it’s good to find strength in numbers, but you don’t need organized religion to make the world a better place. Indeed, we’re rearing one of the most socially conscious, activist generations ever.

Yet we’re also raising the most anxious and depressed generation ever recorded. According to the Pew Research Center, 70% of teens say anxiety and depression are a “major problem” among their peers. They suffer in an existential way.

There are a number of contributing factors: social media and modern parenting trends being

the biggest. According to psychologists, “Happiness is emphasized so much in our culture that some parents think it's their job to make their kids happy all the time.”[6]Unfortunately, we misconstrue happiness for lack of disappointment and the absence of struggle. Today’s kids are emotionally dependent and unable to weather life’s storms effectively. Resilience is at an all-time low.

But this, thisis exactly where Judaism starts. Yisrael means to struggle – to tackle the complexities of life - the existential questions - and come out the other side changed and more fulfilled. It is to put time, energy and money into showing up and working it out together. Not every moment is fun, but every moment can move us from merely living to truly thriving.

Yom Kippur is the “day of dread.” The rabbis called it such because we imagine we are standing in God’s throneroom, awaiting a judgement on our lives. Today, I think we see Yom Kippur as a day of dread because we spend a whole day immersed in the emotions and fears we try to avoid all year. Today, we are faced with the brutal vulnerability of our humanity. Today, we admit to our faults, most of which we have tried to reason way or sweep under the rug. It hurts. It sucks. But it has the power, if you’ll let it, to transform you. Hurwitz urges us: “Yom Kippur is Judaism’s way of telling us: Do not wait for a nose-diving airplane or your final days in hospice to take your life seriously.”

But we don’t like to feel this way. We don’t like to feel small, or vulnerable, or obligated to anyone but ourselves and our immediate family. So we avoid it. We avoid it spiritually and we avoid it physically. It’s uncomfortable and inconvenient.

Being part of a formal Jewish community, like a synagogue, is like going to the gym. The less you go, the more you neglect it and the less you feel like you “need it” in your life. It’s a waste of money.

But if you make it part of your regular practice, it becomes second nature. You even crave it. In fact, with regular attendance and participation, we can find ourselves healthier, wiser and more fulfilled. A 2015 survey by researchers at the London School of Economics and the Erasmus University Medical Center found that participating in a religious organization was the only contemporary social activity associated with sustained happiness—even more than volunteering for a charity, taking educational courses or participating in a political or community organization.[7]

There’s an important word in this conclusion, though. One must participatein a religious community. It is not enough to just “feel connected” to that community.

On a number of occasions now, I’ve been told that our religious school has done its job really well. A young person, or a family, “feels Jewish.” Therefore, they need not continue with their Jewish education or with synagogue membership because, mission accomplished, everyone feels Jewish.

I wish I could be content with this. But “Jewish” is not just a designation in your head, a box you check on a census. It’s not a feeling of nostalgia that exists only to warm your heart. It can do that, it should do that, but that can’t be all it does. In the end, that feeling lives and dies inside of you and offers little to the world around you. Feelings wax and wane in our lives. Why would this one be any different?

So many of us are gratified that we, our children or our grandchildren love being Jewish, but do we know how we are going to transform and transmit our knowledge? Without ongoing engagement, how will Jewish tradition nurture you through the high and low seasons of your life? And an even more grim question: why be Jewish at all when it is becoming scary to be Jewish publicly? Might you diminish or hide your “sense of Jewishness” in the face of those who tell you it is wrong? Is it really worth the trouble?

Basically, we’ve made it all about us when it really should be about our collective history, our shared destiny, and God.

This is our modern-day idolatry. Yom Kippur day is about reorienting our hearts and turning to the Divine presence that unites all of us.

Today, we understand God in two ways. One is the still, small voice within us, the voice we must listen for and nurture. The other is the transcendent, connective force of the universe. It is God within and without.

Judaism done outside of community is not Judaism. Our tradition makes this clear in so 
many ways: you must have ten people for a gathering, public feasts and celebrations are mandated by law.

Indeed, the only time in Torah that God finds anything “lo tov” – not good – is when people go

it alone. The phrase occurs just two times – two times in the whole of Torah! First in the Garden of Eden where God realizes it is not good for the first human to be alone and creates a partner for them. The second time is when Moses’s father in law, Jethro, tells him it is not good for Moses to render his decisions on his own, for certainly he will burn out and lead the people astray. He must engage other leaders of his community for help. They must render decisions as well.

Torah teaches that not only do we need companionship, we need people to challenge us and help us to grow.

To just “know” you are Jewish is to sell yourself short of what could be a more enriching process. You may be met with some spiritual wrestling, but the Jewish people ultimately seek a more sustainable happiness, a dance with the rhythm of life, rather than instant gratification.

Priya Parker, author of The Art of Gathering,highlights the power of bringing people together. “Gathering – the conscious bringing together of people for a reason – shapes the way we think, feel and make sense of the world. Lawgivers have understood, perhaps as well as anyone, the power inherent in gatherings. In democracies, the freedom to assemble is one of the foundational rights granted to every individual. In countries descending into authoritarianism, one of the first things to go is the right to assemble. Why? Because of what can happen when people come together: [we] exchange information, inspire one another, test out new ways of being together.”

There are many personalized, uber-convenient ways to do “Jewish stuff” these days. There are ways to watch services online and study Hebrew in small groups from the comfort of your living room. These experiences aren’t bad. In fact, they’re not too unlike the experience of the generations before us.

My grandfather wasn’t really part of a synagogue growing up in Brooklyn in the 1930’s. He was playing stickball and helping his poultryman father, an immigrant from Eastern Europe. He used to help his dad pluck chickens and drive them over the Brooklyn bridge to the Manhattan restaurants. When he was 12, his parents brought in a melamed, a religious teacher who would educate him and have him ready for his bar mitzvah. Private tutoring is not a new thing.

But things were different for my grandfather than they are for us. Jewish identity was not just established internally, but externally as well. Your Jewishness determined your job and college opportunities, your friends, and who you married. “Jewish” was the culture you lived in, the words you spoke and the food you ate. You could feel more or less Jewish, but still be immersed in a Jewish community.

Thankfully, many of the restrictions Jews faced then don’t apply today. We can access a diversity of thoughts, cultures and institutions that help us to be worldly and included in the broader culture. I don’t begrudge this for a second. As Parker urged: if we assemble and exchange ideas, we can be transformed.

But this means we have to work harder to preserve and develop Jewish tradition. We have to support, with our time and our money, Jewish institutions. If we take a consumerist approach to Jewish life and synagogue, saying, “I got what I needed” and then walk away, then we weaken the ability for anyone else to have that experience. Then we’ve really lost sight of what it means to be part of the Jewish people.

One person cannot generate and sustain a Jewish life alone, no matter how “Jewish” they feel. Judaism has always been synonymous with community.

And while participating in the greater community, the individual soul can be enriched. Jewish tradition is an on-going, dynamic conversation between people. The original open-source code. We’re all speaking the same processing language; coders building on one another’s contributions, fixing bugs, creating new functions.

Think of a basic sense of Jewishness as a simple computer program. It’s effective, a good foundation. But over time there are going to be glitches: incompatibilities with modern software, formats that change; viruses and interruptions. If the code isn’t updated or patched over time, it will be rendered useless and eventually void.

The code embedded into every Jew, young and old, needs reformatting and refreshing. It needs the finesse of more experienced coders, the creative input of fellow writers. If left alone, it loses relevance and fades. If shared with others, it grows and expands, it transforms the heart of the Jew and the world itself. If one is not connected to a power source, it is too easy for the Jewish light to die out.

In Pirkei Avot, Rabbi Hillel taught: “Do not withdraw yourself from the community; Do not be sure of yourself until the day you die;” By this he means, being in community reminds us of our individual value and even adds to it. Don’t be so chutzpadik to think you can go it alone.

He then concludes his teaching: “Do not say “It is not possible to understand this” for eventually it will be understood; Do not say “When I have free time I will study,” for you may never have free time.” Just because it is uncomfortable doesn’t mean you should run from it. Just because it requires more of you doesn’t mean it’s expendable. God is optimistic that we can rise to the challenges of our human existence, but that we cannot meet these challenges alone. “Do not withdraw yourself from the community” - each one of us may not be sure of ourselves but we can certainly find confidence in one another. Jewish is what we are when we are together. Ken yhi ratzon.



Closing prayer

On a warm summer day, a traveler came upon three brick layers working side by side. The traveler asked all three: what are you doing?

The first bricklayer answered: I’m laying bricks.

The second answered: I’m feeding my family.

The third answered: I’m building a palace.

All three men answered correctly. The first brick layer saw just the task at hand. He had bricks, he had mortar and he had been asked to put the two together. That’s why he did it. A reason good enough.

The second man answered with his personal reason for his laborious task. His job of bricklaying enabled him to put food on the table for his family. That’s why he did it. A reason good enough.

The third man, though, did not just concentrate on the task itself. He understood that his task was a part of a larger whole – building to something bigger and more beautiful than the section he was working on. Imagine how fulfilled he must have been every day he showed up to work.

I want that fulfillment for each of us and for the children of this congregation. We cannot build a palace alone.

Lucky for us, the palace has already been built! But if we walk out of it, saying to ourselves, “it will always be there if I want to go back and visit,” then it will fall into disrepair. It won’t bring the same majesty to others that you enjoyed.

As Isaiah urged us this morning: “Individuals from your midst shall rebuild ancient ruins, restore foundations laid long ago, so that you will be called Repairer of fallen walls…and then you can seek the favor of the Eternal, who will let you enjoy the heritage of your ancestor Jacob… With God’s eternal guidance, your thirst will be quenched, you bones will gain strength. You shall be like a watered garden, like a spring whose waters do not fail.”

In other words, be a builder, a restorer. Walk in, not away.

G’mar chatima tovah– let’s finish this Yom Kippur strong and united.








[1]https://www.nytimes.com/2019/06/11/magazine/letter-of-recommendation-bug-fixes-git.html

[2]https://opensource.com/resources/what-open-source

[3]https://news.gallup.com/poll/236243/military-small-business-police-stir-confidence.aspx?g_campaign=item_248837&g_medium=copy

[4]https://www.cnn.com/travel/article/worlds-happiest-countries-united-nations-2019/index.html#utm_source=Nurture_email&utm_medium=Email&utm_campaign=20190312RPANLG_World_Happiness_Report&utm_content=CNN_This_is_the_worlds_happiest_country_in_2019_Link_5

[5]Are We Living in a Post-Happiness World? Laura M. Holson, The New York Times. Sun Sept 29 2019.

[6]Gen Z Now: Report by the Jewish Education Project

[7]https://time.com/collection/guide-to-happiness/4856978/spirituality-religion-happiness/

Friday, February 15, 2019

The Light Within

Last weekend, Zach and I travelled with 12 temple teens to Washington DC to participate in the Religious Action Center’s L’taken Seminar. We’ll tell you more about that on March 1. What you need to know now is that the weekend culminates in the teens crisscrossing and then infiltrating Capitol Hill to meet with their representatives in Congress.

As we walked around the Hill, the kids noticed the humanoid statues on top of the Supreme Court, the Capitol dome, and the other marble structures that populate the environs. “Who’s that?” a kid would ask. We pulled out our phones, did a quick google search and said, “oh! That’s Truth!...oh hey, there’s Freedom on top of rotunda!”

It felt a little silly to say, being that statues representing virtues aren’t so in vogue right now. Not to mention, it’s not very Jewish to have such statues of goddesses and muses, but cie la vie.

And speaking of French, the goddess of Freedom makes an appearance in another important spot: yup, you guessed it, in the New York harbor as the Statue of Liberty.

These famous statues stand as a reminder of our country’s communal aspirations, symbols of the values that should guide our democracy. A while it’s possible that every American could name these values, it’s the next part that’s hard: that is, applyingthose values to the laws of the land. As much as we can agree on what they are, its nearly impossible these days to agree on what they mean for policy. It’s great that Truth stands on top of the Supreme Court, but is there such a thing as objective truth? What, or who, is truly free in the land where Freedom raises her hand high?

Symbols are powerful namely because they are interpretative. Symbols – either physical or descriptive – are shape shifters. Sure, they mean something, but just what that is depends on the person encountering the symbol.
For example, John Cunningham, an American historian, clarifies that the Statue of Liberty was not conceived or built as a symbol of immigration, but it quickly became such as the immigrant ships sailed under her outstretch arm. She was actually supposed to be an abolitionist symbol. She was conceived by the president of the French Anti-Slavery Society who was a prominent and important political thinker of his time. He, and others, saw freedom and democracy actually blooming in America with the end of the Civil War and the abolition of slavery.

It wasn’t until Emma Lazarus’s sonnet, New Colossus, was penned and donated to an auction – the proceeds of which would help fund construction of the stone pedestal – that its freedom-as-applied-to-immigrants symbolism was cemented.

The poem famously reads:

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
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

When applied to this week’s Torah portion, “A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame/Is the imprisoned lightning” is particularly powerful. Tetzaveh opens with the command to bring clear, beaten olive oil to light the lamps of the community menorah. The lamps must remain ablaze regularly, all day long, for all time, throughout the ages. The eternal nature of this holy light is emphasized no less than four times in two verses.

But why does God need the light to burn continuously? Well, firstly, it’s a potent symbol. It can symbolize the warmth of God’s presence or the light of Torah in our lives.

Midrash (Exodus Rabbah 36:2) highlights that God, the Source of light, doesn't need the light we produce with eternal light. Rather, the ner tamid is for the people so that "you can return light to Me as I give light to you."[1]

This is where I think the light’s symbolism runs deeper. While the ambient light of the Divine is always present, it’s not always detected. We humans need a reminder of the holiness around us. Furthermore, the lights of the menorah need to be kindled by human hands – a lesson that without our hard work and good deeds, God’s light may diminish, even disappear, from Earth. The Torah teaches us that we must be curators of God’s light. We provide the fuel, we nurture its vitality.

Certainly this metaphorical torch has been passed through the generations. We kindle God’s light to this day, not just in our ark’s ner tamid, but in our Sabbath candles, channukiyot, campfires and yartzeit candles. The light evokes memory, the melodies of our lives that buoy us in difficult moments. We light candles at justice-driven vigils, symbols of being a “light unto the nations” and those who tend to the light of God on earth.

But what about the light’s dark side? Think of the olives, crushed violently into oil by human hands? That is destruction in the name ofcreating light. How many times in human history have we justified crushing buildings, trampling fields, pummeling lives in the name of illumination?

A Chassidic saying picks up on this complexity in the oil’s metaphor: “When one speaks crushing words of rebuke, it must be with the sole purpose of enlightening, illuminating and uplifting one's fellow. Never, God forbid, to humiliate and break him.”

So what does it mean to harness God’s light? As Emma Lazarus puts it, the Statue of Liberty is a mighty woman with a torch of imprisoned lightning. This is like the ancient menorah, burning with the light of life and the astonishing blaze of God’s power.

Yet what does it mean to imprison the lightning? Are we so haughty to believe that we can keep it chained?

So here, the metaphor of the eternal light shifts. While the light is a symbol of God, it is not God itself. We are not harnessing God’s power to use it as a light saber, zapping all of our opponents. Or, to mix my George Lucas metaphors, think about how this was the fatal flaw of the Nazis in the Raiders of the Lost Ark. In the storyline, the Nazis want the ark of the covenant so that they can use it as a weapon of war. This arrogance leads to their demise.

The eternal light of the tabernacle, of the temple, of Judaism today is, in fact, just a reminder. It is a bright message for eternity, a sign of our partnership with God. The word Tetzavehmeans "to command," but it also means "to connect" and "to bond." Thus the verse can also be read as God saying that the light’s radiance implants a spark of the Divine in all who gaze upon it.[2]It’s about those who kindle the light, not just the light itself.

Proverbs 20:27 says it this way: “The candle of the Eternal is the lifebreath of a human, it sheds light on one’s inner being.” The eternal light not only represents the infinitude of the Divine, its fiery dancing and spectral flame mirrors the Divine life-light inside each of us. It may burn brightly, it might be hidden away, but it inside, it is still glowing. Barukh Ata Adonai, borei shel haor b’toch– Blessed are You, Eternal One, creator of the light within.




[1]Rabbi Jerome P. David - https://reformjudaism.org/spiritual-power-light


[2]Thought is based on a teaching from the Or HaChayim: The word tetzaveh, "to command," also means "to connect" and "to bond." Thus the verse can also be read as G-d saying to Moses: "And you shall bond with the Children of Israel." For every Jewish soul has at its core a spark of the soul of Moses.

Friday, January 4, 2019

Creating Space - Parshat Va'era, post-Israel

There’s a question that has haunted me since my youth. A deep one, perhaps unanswerable, perhaps the greatest existential mystery of our time: when it comes to the 10 plagues of Egypt…what was so bad about the plague of frogs?

Seriously. We’ve made cute songs out of the plague of frogs. We hop around like frogs. We giggle at the idea of Pharaoh waking up with frogs on his head, frogs on his bed. Frogs here. Frogs there. Sure, frogs are slimy, but they’re also cute! What’s so bad about the plague of frogs?

It would seem that the rabbis had the same question about this week’s Torah portion, Va’era. In diving into the issue, many of the rabbis conclude that the word is really not frogs but crocodiles. Now, crocodiles make a lot more sense. If we’re talking about plagues that afflicted the Egyptians, natural disasters that threatened their lives, crocodiles certainly fit the bill.

There’s also the explanation that when the frogs died, they lay everywhere – rotting, stinking, incubating maggots and helping start the next plague: lice. That makes sense too.
Furthermore, a quick dive into midrash offers another explanation for why the frogs weren’t so cute to sing about. The language of the Hebrew passage is peculiar: the word for frogs is actually in the singular. God (through Moses) says to Pharaoh: “If you refuse to let the Israelites go, behold, I will smite all your territory with a frog.”

So how did one frog become a plague? The rabbis explain that indeed one frog did come up from the Nile first – and when the Egyptians tried to smash it (in order to kill it), it just spewed out more frogs. In their blind anger, the Egyptians kept smashing the frogs, which led to more frogs, inciting a crazy game of whack-a-frog that ended in Egypt being overwhelmed by amphibians.

The issue wasn’t the frogs, the rabbis teach, as much as it was the Egyptians’ rashness, their inability to take a deep breath, evaluate the situation and plan calmly. This was in fact their problem all along beginning with going along with Pharaoh’s plan to enslave the Israelites before they could rise up.

Moses was guilty of this impulse as well. He rashly struck down the Egyptian taskmaster and killed him. In fact, it is Moses’ rashness later in the story – striking the rock to get water, instead of speaking to it – that prevents him from entering the Promised Land.
Fear and anxiety are able motivators. They can drive us to impetuous action. And if there is one thing our society fears most these days, it would be empty space. It takes a great deal of inner strength to sit alone for any amount of time before picking up a smart device to swipe and scroll the emptiness away.

I for one always have music on in the background. And, let me confide something in each of you – a horrible confession – I have a really, really hard time during the silent prayer. It is nearly impossible for me to turn off my brain for the 60 seconds where we sit in quiet. I’ve tried deep breathing. I’ve tried just delighting in the quiet moment. I’ve tried saying a prayer. None of it works. Outside of that time, if you’ve noticed, I’ve almost never asked you to close your eyes and meditate because for the love of God, I just can’t do it.

Yet there was an experience on our recent trip to Israel that disrupted the complacency I had in regards to this fact. We visited many places in Israel. There was little time for quiet – there were sites to see, people to chat with on the bus, giant breakfasts to eat. Yet, our itinerary took a great route. From the bustling metropolis of Tel Aviv, we drove south into the Negev Desert. As much as we have “made the desert bloom,” most of it is still untouched rock formations, hidden wadis, and wind-hollowed caves.

One morning, we hiked near Avdat – a breathtaking hike past an ancient pistachio tree, a rushing waterfall, and up a canyon. The serene beauty of the environs seeped into our skin. I feel so alive, so connected to my ancestors in the Negev.

In the afternoon, we visited the Ramon crater – a geological wonder in the belly of Israel that was formed over 220 million years ago when oceans covered the area. We made two stops. The second was just off the road alongside a small wadi. It’s the rainy season, so there’s water in a small pool, surrounded by gravelly rock mounds and small cliffs.

There’s a rock by the entrance to the spot that has three Hebrew words on it: even, ruach, mayim. I turned to members of our group, and with a sarcastic laugh, I explained that it is the most profound rock I’ve ever seen. It says: rock, wind, water. Duh! That’s all that’s there!
The spot was beautiful. The best that nature had to offer. But imagine my horror when I heard the words start to come out of our tour guide’s mouth: now I want everyone to find a spot by themselves. We are going to sit quietly in this space.

Ugh. I’m thinking, I’m the group leader. I really should follow the instructions. Fine. I’ll find a spot, but I won’t meditate.

I climbed up to a small peak that jutted out. I had a good view of the group – a wonderful mess of people who by now I had been getting to know even more deeply. I looked at the rocks – beautiful strata of time. I watched the water – rippling with the wintertime’s abundance. I tried to do everything but close my eyes – but then the wind came whipping around the bend. I sat cross legged, I closed my eyes, I breathed. The wind kept flowing, swirling around my head like a concentrated vortex. And even doubtful ol’ me had a profound moment of blissful, sacred emptiness.

Rock, wind, water. It did not need to be more complicated than that. God’s creation exists in ways to remind us that we do not need to fill every moment up with words.

Wind in Hebrew is ruach – the same word for spirit. In the second line of Genesis, we learn that “the earth was formless and empty, darkness lay over the surface of the deep, v’ruach Elohim m’rachefet al p’nei hamayim, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.”

We don’t know how long God’s spirit rustled around the void before it became time to start bending the light, forming the stone and splitting the waters – before all the processes of creation and evolution slowly got underway. Yet we can get snapshots of what it was like – the quiet peace of basic elements unmuddied by words and screens and wars and things.
And if we just let ourselves – allow ourselves the space to sense it, we might be surprised by the ease in which the peace can come rolling in.


Closing

In the beginning
there was a formless void in the heart of the Infinite –

vacant and hollow,
strangely heavy…
considering it was empty.

So after millennia of barrenness 
and eons of void,
With a desperate heave of distressed energy
one miniscule, puny, sub-atomic particle lightly tapped another
and an explosion cleared out the dark.

And even though millions of years would still pass
before the first conversation between man and Creator would occur,
every epoch felt as a day…

…as the sun sprouted and the moon beamed
the bacteria split and the algae bloomed
roots soaked in water and flowers ballooned
fish grew legs that trudged into mud
and the chimps cackled their call,

And just as the bounty seemed enough to make the void a distant memory,
A baby cried,
And the spirit of God moved briskly into the garden to calm him.

If God has the patience to make the space, even knowing what wonders are to come, then certainly we can aspire to pause, make the room, and allow the future to unfold in its due time. Shabbat Shalom.