Profaning Thy Name

The Torah portion this week, Emor, warns us three times about profaning God’s name. By Torah’s terse language standards, this threefold caution is like a flashing neon sign: “stay away from God’s proper name.”

What is God’s proper name? Well, I can’t really tell you because God’s name is a phonetic impossibility. In the Hebrew it is spelled yod-hey-vav-hey but it is used throughout our tradition, from Torah to liturgy, without a pronunciation key. We know it’s holy, but we do not know for sure how to pronounce it in all its glory.

According to tradition, the only time God’s actual name was spoken aloud was once year at the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. On Yom Kippur, the High Priest would enter the Holy of Holies and call out the name. Unfortunately, no one could hear him outside. Thus, since the Temple’s destruction in 70 CE, no one has uttered the actual name of God with clear certainty that they’ve said it correctly.

No wonder our rabbis see pronouncing the Holy name as a terrible sin. If I take umbrage with being called “Mah-ra” instead of Mara, imagine how offensive would it be to pronounce God’s name wrongly? Perhaps this is better. If we don’t know God’s name, we can’t profane it. We can’t mock it. We can’t forget it. It exists outside of and above our feelings about it.

So then what are these words we have been using? We certainly have named God numerous times in our service so far. Well, Adonai is ok to pronounce because it’s a human title for God – it translates to “my Master.” And the word “God” comes straight out of the Germanic language family…so that’s ok too. Plus there’s a ton of other euphemisms - Avinu Malkeinu, Hashem, Hakodesh Barekh Hu, etc.

Yet despite all of these designations for God, the name derived from Yod-Hey-Vav-Hey is the most holy. Our greatest clue to understanding the name is in Exodus 3:13-14. When God appears to Moses in the Burning Bush episode, Moses is told to return to Egypt to free the Israelites. But Moses objects to God saying that the people will not believe him. He says, “When they ask me ‘What is the name of this God who sends you’ what shall I tell them?” God says to Moses, ‘Ehyeh Asher Ehyeh,’ (I Am That I Am…which can also be translated ‘I Will Be What I Will Be.’ And God says, ‘Tell the Israelite people, “I Am has sent me to you.”’”

The connection to the verb “to be” indicates that God’s name has something to do with God’s transcendent nature. God is everything and no thing at the same time. Where is God? Everywhere and nowhere. God just…is.

This has us see God as an entity bigger than what we can fathom. If our human brain cannot fully comprehend the mystery of the universe’s totality, how could our lips possible wrap around the sound of it? Indeed, if we knew the true “name” for God, wouldn’t we have inherently diminished what God is? Made God more human? We’d be wading into the waters of idolatry.

God’s name isn’t really a name at all…it’s a clue into God’s essence.

It’s different for us humans, though. Our names are essential to how we navigate the world. We choose new names when we want to mark a change in our identity. Our names come with ever-evolving reputations, impressions and assumptions attached to them – either from within our own psych or outside forces. The Israeli poet Zelda famously wrote:

Each of us has a name
given by God
and given by our parents
Each of us has a name
given by our stature and our smile
and given by what we wear
Each of us has a name
given by the mountains
and given by our walls
Each of us has a name
given by the stars
and given by our neighbors
Each of us has a name
given by our sins
and given by our longing
Each of us has a name
given by our enemies
and given by our love
Each of us has a name
given by our celebrations
and given by our work
Each of us has a name
given by the seasons
and given by our blindness
Each of us has a name
given by the sea
and given by
our death.

Zelda begins with the name God gave us, which is unknown and undefined, much like God’s own name. After all, we are b’tzelem Elohim, created in God’s imprint. Like God, our potential often goes unrecognized. Our infinite dimensions are only partially explored. We may spend our whole lives trying to discover these, just as we reach for the many dimensions of God.

She follows this with “the name given by our parents” may or may not speak to who we are. Our past often traps us, the trauma of the previous generations has been handed to us against our will. Yet, we have the power to change that name, literally or not, by the way we comport ourselves: when we smile, how we dress, when we choose to take a moment for gratitude and when we roll up our sleeves and get to work.

In talking about mountains and walls and longings, Zelda expresses how our names are determined by the limits we set for ourselves. Limits can suppress us and, at the same time, they can make us safe. Similarly, the name our enemies give us may be as cherished as that our friends call us by – what may be a slur from our foe may be in fact be a badge of honor. With all that, I’ve been thinking a lot this week about what Zelda means by “Each of us has a name given by the seasons and given by our blindness.” I think about it especially in this season, the season reckoning with systemic racism, misogyny and abuse.

For example, the New York Times recently printed an OpEd from Planned Parenthood, where the organization named Margaret Sanger, their founding mother. Once venerated, they laid bare her complicated history: which includes racist choices and policies influenced by eugenics. Instead of ignoring this, and instead of explaining it as “a product of her time,” Planned Parenthood declared it wrong and corrected the narrative around the Sanger name. They wrote: “Sanger remains an influential part of our history and will not be erased, but as we tell the history of Planned Parenthood’s founding, we must fully take responsibility for the harm that Sanger caused to generations of people with disabilities and Black, Latino, Asian-American, and Indigenous people.”

A similar reckoning has been happening in the last few months, even in the last week, within our own Reform Jewish community. Names of leaders within our movement that for so long had been venerated and respected have been placed before us as criminal. Reports of abusive and predatory behavior were publicly attributed to them. It has been difficult for many in the Reform Jewish community to hear the names of their beloved professors, rabbis, and leaders talked about in this way.

In these cases, though, these people have earned the name given by their sins.

The end of this week’s Torah portion relays a difficult story: an unnamed man gets into a fight with another unnamed man. In the midst of the squabble, the first man blasphemes the proper name of God, using it in a profane context, invoking it carelessly. He’s made an example of by being taken out of the camp and stoned.

We don’t know the man’s name. He’s only identified as the son of Shlomit, of the tribe of Dan. Rashi explains that when someone has done something wrong, even when their name has been forgotten, their shame still remains on their parents, on their tribe, and on our people.
Today, we don’t stone blasphemers, people who have profaned God’s name by inflicting harm on others. But we are taking them outside of the camp, refusing to connect our names to theirs.

Our responsibility is to constantly hold our community to a higher standard. We must take as much care with our own names as we do with the name of God.

This is why Proverbs (22:1) states: “Choose for yourself a good name above wealth, it is worth more than silver and gold.” And why Rabbi Shimon said, “There are three crowns: the crown of Torah, the crown of priesthood, and the crown of royalty. However, the crown of a good name is greater than all of them.” (Pirkei Avot 4:13).

This week Torah tells us: “You shall faithfully observe My commandments: I am the Eternal. You shall not profane My holy name, that I may be sanctified in the midst of the Israelite people – I the Eternal who sanctify you, I who brought you out of the land of Egypt to be your God, I the Eternal.” God’s name is more than a moniker. God’s name is affixed to the miracles we witness – from the splitting of the sea, to vaccines, to the name of the liberation movements reversing the current of our culture, bringing justice in its tide.

God’s name is unpronounceable because God’s nature is infinite. We exhibit a fraction of that: when we die, what’s left of us is our name and the legacy attached to it. May we choose for ourselves a good name, may our actions speak to the highest estimation of what we can be. May we craft that name b’tzelem Elohim, striving for holiness in the names to aspire to.

Meditations of the Heart

Delivered at 1st Reformed Church in Hastings as part of a pulpit exchange weekend.

As Pastor Emily pointed out this last Friday, each of our communities designates certain scriptural passages to be read each week. This week, our readings are linked through the 10 Commandments. In synagogues, we’re reading about the Golden Calf episode and exploring the Israelite’s transgression into idolatry. This morning, I want to tackle a different commandment.

Let’s start with the organizing principle of the decalogue. Rather than calling them the 10 commandants, we could rename them the 10 commitments, or the 10 relationship standards. The first half (roughly) are promises we make vis-à-vis God. We promise to respect God’s transcendent nature and create sacred moments in time as a way to honor God’s creation. The second half are agreements vis-à-vis people: honoring our parents, respecting life and livelihood, and the rules that make for an ethical society.

The 10 Commandments range in their feasibility. Don’t murder? Easy enough.  Don’t bear false witness? Achievable too, if you put some oomph into it. Honor your parents? Challenging sometimes, but do-able.

The most elusive commandment, I argue, is not to covet – that is, not to want what others have. In the other commandments, you might have the thought to murder, or to lie, but you decide not to act upon that thought and therefore keep your commitment to that law. With “do not covet,” we are told not to think the thought at all. That’s a tall order, especially for something so instinctive and natural to animals like us. Of all the commandments, this is likely the one we transgress the most.

Abraham Ibn Ezra, a great sage of 12th century Spain, wonders how God can legislate our feelings. He explains that “desire itself cannot be absolutely legislated but we can learn to condition ourselves as to what is realistic desire and what has to be confined to the realm of mere fantasy – for both moral and practical reasons.”

The general remedy, he says, is being content with what you have. If you take delight in what you have, it is less likely jealously and desire for more will creep in.

So the commandment is not so much “do not covet” as much as it is “practice contentment” and delight in what you have. This is where religious practice comes in. It helps us to work those muscles.

In Judaism, we tend to do it by telling stories:

We tell the story of Rabbi Zusya of Hanipol, for example, who lived in the area of Ukraine for most of the 18th century. He was a well-known tzaddik (a righteous person) and part of the great Maggid of Mezeritch’s inner circle. He’s known for his particularly progressive take on life.

For example, a man once visited the holy Maggid of Mezeritch and said he had great difficulties applying the Talmudic principle that "A person is supposed to bless God for the bad just as one blesses God for the good.” He just couldn’t wrap his head around it or practice it in his own life. The Maggid told the man to find the Rabbi Zusya and ask him for help in understanding. The man went and found Rabbi Zusya, who received him warmly and invited him to his home. When the guest came in, he saw how poor Rabbi Zusya’s family was: there was almost nothing to eat; the whole family, including Rabbi Zusya was beset with afflictions and illnesses. Nevertheless, Rabbi Zusya and his family were happy and cheerful. The guest was astonished. He said: "I’m here because the Holy Maggid said you could show me how is it possible to bless God for the bad in the same way we bless God for the good." Rabbi Zusya said: "This is indeed a very interesting question. But why did our holy Rebbe send you to me? How would I know? He should have sent you to someone who has experienced suffering."

Indeed, there are lots of stories of Reb Zusya’s contentment with his lot. Yet there was one moment in his life where his we learn how this came to be:

The story is told that when Rabbi Zusya was on his deathbed, his students found him in uncontrollable tears. They tried to comfort him by telling him that he was nearly as wise as Moses and as kind as Abraham, so he was sure to be judged positively in Heaven. He replied, "When I get to Heaven, I will not be asked “Why weren't you like Moses,” or “Why weren't you like Abraham.” God will ask, “Why weren't you like Zusya?"

In this case, Zusya does not covet possessions or material things, he doesn’t covet the prestige of the great sages before him - he regrets the missed opportunities to self-actualize, to find all the unique ways he could draw the world closer to God. 

Yet Zusya’s great sadness exposes his righteous nature. His story teaches us that there are two ways to interact with God’s creation: on the one hand, we can consume it, take in as much of it as we can, coveting more and more. This is the thirst that depletes the natural world, our trust in one another, and our moral energy. This is what the 10 commandments warn of. Coveting, in this sense, is a form of idolatry.

The other approach, the one Zusya embodies, is to desire to add to God’s creation, to work as a partner with the Divine to fill the world with soulful acts. To fear that we’re not contributing enough means we acknowledge the greatness of it all. We hope to transform this into a sense of purpose. Indeed, if we are striving to produce more than we take, then we will find contentment with what we have. We’ll turn less to feelings of jealousy and the destructive behaviors that may result from them. Indeed, the sage Sforno says that the sin of coveting is part of the “big ten” because it’s dangerous; it is a feeling that easily leads to the other sins: stealing, lying, etc.

I think this is the Torah’s interpretation to what it means to live life with “no regrets.” It’s not so much checking off boxes on your “bucket list” per say, but knowing that the amount of blessing you brought into the world outweighs the ways in which you depleted the goodness already in it.

I think about this a lot in relation to my grandmother. She died three years ago on Mother’s Day, just days before her 92nd birthday. Before you’re horrified by that fact, that she died on Mother’s Day, you must know that it was so my grandmother to die on Mother’s Day. That’s because it embodies who she was: the matriarch of our family - revered, dignified, demanding, loving, and absolutely NOT a shrinking violet…a woman who wouldn’t concede her death to any other day but the one already set aside to honor women like her.

I had the blessing of sitting with her for three days while she was in hospice in Florida, experiencing some profound moments along the way. On Monday, she could hold a short conversation, on Tuesday she could respond with smiles and nods, on Wednesday, just a recognizing glance. 

Shortly after I arrived by her side, she mentioned how she was ready for death. She was ready to “flow out,” she told me. How could she be so sure of this? I wondered. “I have no regrets” she told me, over and over. 

Indeed, hers was a blessed life in many ways. But I don’t think she was thinking about the comfortable lifestyle she lived as much as she recognized the fullness of her days and the blessings that she birthed into this world. 

As her frail body thinned and faded, I believe she recognized the robust beauty of what she was leaving behind. Her muscles were no longer needed by this world, and even though they fought for another few days, they eventually conceded and went to sleep, letting the bodies of those she mentored and loved take up the weight of life’s purpose.

Psalm 90 encourages us: Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom. When we take an account of our lives, “no regrets” should mean that we saw value in every moment and took the opportunity to churn out as goodness as our bodies and hearts can muster.

The commandment of “do not covet,” says Rabbi Ibn Ezra, has us condition our actions so that we can condition our minds. Prayer is but one way we practice this and learn to look in instead of gazing out. Instead of having eyes on what others have, we turn our attention to our own hearts.

Psalm 19, which we just read, ends with “y’hiyu l’ratzon…” May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable to you, Adonai, my Rock and my Redeemer. I find it meaningful that the psalmist draws together our outward actions – the words of my mouth - and our inner feelings – the meditations of my heart. It is so natural for the two to separate. Yet the more we act for justice and work for peace, the more we will condition the natural inclination of our hearts into something acceptable to God – hearts full of a true desire to bless God’s creation, our families, and the beautiful communities we seek to form. 

Less Is More

The Torah portion this week - Mishpatim - could be renamed a myriad things: crime and punishment, law and order, or simply actions have consequences. The most famous injunction to come out of it is “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” We moderns identify this particular phrase as an echo of the Babylonian law code of Hammurabi, and in fact, the two are probably related. 

Yet there are two big differences, both of which we Israelite descendants can be proud of. First, in Hammurabi’s code, there is explicit mention of enacting physical punishments that equally match the crime. A broken bone means a breaking a bone. A tooth knocked out means a dental extraction. Yet when it comes to the Hebrew Bible, archaeologists, scholars and the rabbis warn against understanding the phrase literally. Instead, it seems pretty clear from the context and the archaeological record that “an eye for an eye” refers to financial compensation and carries a greater message of simply making sure the punishment (typically a fine) fits the crime.

The other main difference between Hammurabi’s code and its cousin here in Exodus has to do with social status. While the crime may be the same, the Babylonian laws differentiate the proper punishment depending on the social status of the offender and the victim. So, if an aristocrat destroys the eye of an aristocrat, his eye is destroyed. But if he destroys the eye of a commoner, he simply pays one mina of silver.

Compare this to Exodus, where the only class differentiation is between slaves and freepeople. But even at that, the status of “slave” or “free person” doesn’t come into play in the same way here. Slaves are clearly seen as human and the portion this week asserts that. Mishpatim says that when a freeperson strikes the eye of a slave, and destroys it, that person should let the slave go free on account of the lost eye. The text asserts the humanity of the ancient slave, and it’s cautioning against abuse of power and status.

Conceptually, the laws of the United States look like the modern update of these ancient Jewish values. Our legal and penal systems endeavor to give people fair trials and fair punishments. Yet you don’t need me to tell you that there is room for improvement. Tonight, I’ll highlight just one way the penal system falls short in this capacity. And importantly, I’ll tell you how you can help restore the ideals our tradition preaches this week.

First, I’ll tell you what you know: when a person is convicted of a crime, they may be sentenced to time in jail. Going to prison, even for just a day, can have a massive impact the trajectory of a person’s life. If they can’t show up to work, they will likely lose their job. No job means no money, which can mean financial strain and homelessness. Their chance of getting a job when they get out of jail is lower. If they have kids, they will need to scramble to find care for them, and often the relationship between parent and child is strained or broken from the time away. We know that prisons are often overcrowded and taxing on the economy.

But, for now, jail is one of the punishments you may face for breaking the law. So when someone has served all or part of their time, they may be released on parole. Parole, in theory, helps a person effectively re-enter society. But herein lies the rub. We do little to help people re-enter the workforce, find housing, and otherwise get back on their feet. Our society, in an attempt to be “tough on crime,” is preoccupied with recidivism, reoffending or recommitting a crime. If you break the terms of your parole, you are likely sent back to prison as punishment. The concern is that the person is a public safety threat and we have to send a strong message to scare them straight.

But get this – in New York, only 14% of people on parole who are reincarcerated return to prison because they are convicted of a new crime. 65% go back to prison due to “technical parole violations.” Technical violations are behaviors like missing curfew or missing a check-in meeting. A technical violation often means being sent right back to jail. But the failure to comply with parole terms doesn’t necessarily indicate that a person is a public safety threat or will engage in new criminal activity.

Consider an individual who told his parole officer he would be returning later than usual from his job because he had to drive his inebriated boss home. They were pulled over by police because he was driving with only running lights on by accident.  “When the officer ran my license,” the individual recounted, “he saw I was on parole and arrested me for breaking curfew and coming into contact with police.”

Or consider a man named Michael Hilton, who served 17 years for robbery in a jail upstate. He came back to New York City in the midst of the pandemic, and even lost his daughter to COVID in the spring. Michael himself has a host of medical conditions. His parole officer ordered him to take up residence at a homeless shelter, but knowing the dangers of COVID and the conditions in the shelter, particularly the lack of adherence to mask guidelines, Michael feared for his life. Michael informed his parole officer of a different residence where he would be staying. A warrant squad picked him up at that residence and he was sent to Rikers. Michael doesn’t argue with the fact that he violated his parole, but his violation had nothing to do with being a public safety threat. He simply wanted to protect his life. He argues that the punishment, being sent back to jail, does not fit the crime in this case. There has to be a better, less destructive alternative.

Research has shown that technical violations and their disproportionate response do little to reduce recidivism. In fact, extending the time a person serves in jail only makes re-entry more difficult. This is a particularly pressing issue in our home state of New York. 

Two statistics related to this that are important for you to know:

1) In New York, the proportion of people who ended their parole term by being incarcerated for a technical violation – without a new conviction – is almost double the national average. This is a blemish on our state.

2) Black people are incarcerated for minor, technical parole violations at 12 times the rate of white people in NYC jails and 5 times the rate in NYS prisons. Unsurprisingly, folks, this is a racial justice issue. 

35,000 people are currently on active parole in New York State. Think of how many people will return to prison because of minor offenses. When we know about the overcrowding in our prisons, the way COVID has ripped through them, when we know how hard it is to get back on your feet and how the system disrupts lives and families, how can we stand idly by?

Yes, crimes deserve penance. But Torah teaches us that a) the punishment must fit the crime and b) we must make sure everyone is treated the same under the law. Torah teaches that a moral system works toward restoration, not perpetual condemnation.

Which leads me to what you can do. Right now, 226 organizations have signed on to the Less is More Act, a bill gaining traction in New York State. RAC-NY, our regional Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism lobbying group, is one of those organizations. The bill would restrict the use of incarceration for technical violations and bolster due process. It would help with re-entry and incentive positive behavior.

I’m inviting you this evening to get involved in this call to justice. Our synagogue’s Civic Engagement Task Force, in partnership with the Racial Justice Task Force, is taking up the issue and joining the coalition. The big kick off is March 1. If you’d like to be involved, please email CETF@wct.org, which will get you in touch with Andrea Olstein. The Civic Engagement Task Force is not only working on this important issue, but has worked hard in the last year to bring justice to undocumented immigrants and to get out the vote among people who are traditionally targets of voter suppression. There will be more issues to come, for sure, so please email Andrea and get involved either in this initiative or another one.

When God speaks to the Israelites this week, God says “you should not wrong the stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt. You shall not ill-treat any widow or orphan” – otherwise put – do not abuse or keep down those who are most vulnerable and in need of your assistance. “If you do mistreat them,” God says, “I will heed their outcry when they cry out to Me.” Our job, Torah teaches, is to hear the cry before God does and create a system in which all can be restored to wholeness and a life of dignity.

*The majority of statistics are taken from the Less Is More informational website. https://www.lessismoreny.org/

Is Nothing Sacred?

I will tell my grandchildren that when Donald Trump was elected, people protested the outcome. 500,000 people marched in the Women’s March in Washington DC. Up to 5 Million people worldwide joined them in solidarity.

I’ll recall that the size was one thing, but the tenor was another. As we marched, we were astounded by the lack of violence. No arrests. Not a shot fired. 5 million people worldwide marched in peaceful conviction. Signs raised high, singing songs of resistance.

I will also have to tell my grandchildren that when Joe Biden was elected, people protested the outcome. But then I will need to explain to them how a mob of violent extremists stormed the Capitol, infiltrating the sacred halls of Congress. Unmasked, shouting, shoving and shaking our democracy to its core. Shots fired. Five people died. A Confederate flag strode through the halls along with a man in a “Camp Auschwitz” sweatshirt.

I don’t know what I’ll tell my grandchildren next. It could be that I name this day as the day we all realized how fractured and vulnerable our nation is to extremism. That America’s dignity was permanently diminished by the ego of a man who delights in grabbing power by the groin and forcing himself upon others.

I truly hope this is not the case.

I hope I will tell my grandchildren that this was the day when democracy prevailed, the moment we crossed the aisle to declare that some values are still sacred: our union is sacred, our constitution is sacred – document evolving but rooted in Godly truths. I hope I can say that this was the day we remembered that America believes in justice, domestic tranquility, and the welfare of all.

I know that the mob and the treasonous movement behind it feels forgotten in this promise. They feel wronged and overlooked by their country. That’s the perverted thinking of white nationalism.

And yet…they need to know: you must earn the privileges America affords. You earn these privileges when you respect the democratic process. You earn it when you say no to demagoguery, when you contribute to the greater good through peaceful protest and respectfully lobbying for your cause. There is much about our country that needs to be fixed and the American way is to roll up our sleeves and get to fixing them.

This week’s Torah portion is Shemot and it has much to say about this moment in history. Shemot transports us back to when a Pharaoh lorded over Egypt. A new Pharaoh “who knew not Joseph” and all that he had done for Egypt in its time of trouble. A Pharaoh who knew only power and not the public good. This Pharaoh, unlike others we see in Torah, is insecure. He fears that his power will weaken by the growth and prosperity of the Israelites. So he mounts a campaign to assert his power. He enslaves the Israelites and instills hatred for them within the Egyptian people. He tries to assert his infallibility by displaying the most fallible of traits: fear, spreading misinformation, and over-blown ego.

He not only hurts the Hebrews, but he wreaks havoc on his own people as he lets the 10 plagues rain down upon them rather than admit he is wrong and do the right thing by liberating God’s people.

We spend the beginning of Shemot waiting for Moses, the man who will stare down the bully and magically right all the wrongs. But our parsha teaches us that when the world has descended so deep into madness, liberation doesn’t happen overnight. Indeed, Moses only comes along because of the quiet power of two midwives: Shifra and Puah. These two women, in their wisdom and strength, set the dawn into motion.

Pharaoh issues them orders: when you assist the Israelite women with birth, look at the baby. If it is a girl, it lives, if it is a boy, kill it. But then we’re told: “The midwives, fearing God, did not do as the king of Egypt had told them; they let the boys live.” When Pharaoh summons them to ask why they didn’t follow orders, they tell him that the Hebrew women are so vigorous, that the babies are delivered before they can even arrive to do his evil bidding.

Shifra and Puah’s righteous act of disobedience does not stop Pharaoh. In fact, he doubles down – he orders that any Egyptian who sees an Israelite baby boy should to throw him in the Nile.

But it’s this intensification, this despicable step past the imaginable, that eventually sets into motion Moses’ birthstory and the eventual redemption of the Israelites.

The message is clear: There will be leaders and their cronies who will do vile things. And even when we condemn or briefly thwart their decrees, they may continue their business, evening doubling down in their schemes.

But Shifra and Puah call to us from the past. These brave women, who hurried to the bedsides of the Israelite women, dashing from shadow to shadow so as not to be seen…calmly whispering words of encouragement, carefully birthing the next generation with confident, caring hands. They cradled a brighter day in their arms. They sang them a birthsong of resistance.

Torah says God dealt well with the midwives and rewarded them by establishing houses – distinguished lineages – in their names.

Where are those households today? Well, I saw the daughters and sons of Shifra on the senate floor. They are the senate aides, the brave, quick thinkers who carried the Electoral

College ballots from the senate-under-siege. Walking two by two, holding the brown, centuries-old ballot boxes, they carried many legacies in their hands. Writer Olivia Harvey helps us to understand the stand they took with their quiet, courageous action:

Among the photos of "patriots," as the violent rioters were calling themselves, lounging at House Speaker Nancy Pelosi's desk, seating themselves at the vice president's post on the Senate floor, breaking windows and doors, and climbing the statues in Statuary Hall, there were also photos of the Senate aides who transported the crucial electoral ballot boxes out of the Capitol building before rioters had a chance to get their hands on the votes…The aides made sure they continued to do their job amid the security breach, thus saving America's democratic process.

It's one thing to call yourself a patriot. It’s another to act like one.

I saw the household of Puah in the picture of NJ Representative Andy Kim, who was returning to the house floor when he asked for a trash bag and helped pick up the discarded water bottles, clothing and Trump flags with his bare hands.

And finally, I see the households of the midwives in the faces of the Woodlands teens, who every two years go to Washington DC to participate in the Religious Action Center’s L’Taken Seminar. They learn about the beauty of the democratic process. They spend the night preparing speeches, getting their words and facts right. They dress in suit jackets, skirts and pressed slacks. They walk calmly up the steps of the Capitol, enter its halls reverently and lobby their representatives for causes that deserve justice. They say please and thank you and they change the world.

These are the acts of patriots. Tonight, I pray for the harmony in our union, I pray that our democracy will withstand and recover from this attack on its integrity. May I one day tell my grandchildren that on January 6, 2021, in the midst of a pandemic, we saw America descend into darkness, but that the light of democracy shone through the seditious chasm tenfold.

Ken yhi ratzon.

Goodbye 2020

2020 has been compared to many things. 

I’m willing to bet that many of our friends and family with Christmas trees have this ornament hanging on it. The reigning metaphor for 2020 became “Dumpster Fire.” I suppose it is appropriate because dumpsters are like bottomless pits of rotten and broken things, almost thirsty for the next horrible thing to be placed in its container.

 

There are also those who have crowned 2020 the longest year ever, and not just because February had a day added to it.

 

Or, if you have been pregnant, you are familiar with this yummy potion on the right – the Glucose Tolerance Test drink - which you have to chug in a matter of minutes, despite the fact that your stomach is full and the drink is disgusting. 2020 felt that way.

 

And then finally, there’s nothing more 2020 than an Amazon review – this one being particularly accurate.

 

There is something cathartic about these pop memes. They help us to laugh at the most bizarre and troubling year of most of our lives. We want to laugh at it, if we can, or honestly, we just want to leave it behind. With a vaccine coming, we begin to hope that we can just move on.

 

Yet as the year comes to an end, I’m beginning to rethink the urge to roll the 2020 dumpster fire into a dark corner of our emotional backyards. It does us no good to leave it full of junk, attracting cobwebs and mold. Because we all know…one day we’ll need to clean out the yard and when we do, we’ll be saddled with unhappy memories and the burden of finding a way to haul away the debris.

 

Here is where I think we need to become emotional environmentalists. I’ll explain: a few years ago, Woodlands cut our physical dumpster in half as we dedicated ourselves to better recycling and a concerted move to composting. It wasn’t an easy transition, it required lots of processing and planning by the Environmental Task Force and the Board of Trustees, but our temple and our planet was healthier for it in the end.

 

Indeed, some of 2020’s waste isn’t waste at all – we learned a lot about ourselves and the local, national and global realities we live in. 2020 can’t just be thrown out, instead, it should be composted. There are nutrients in this putrid refuse bin that can actually help us grow into stronger, more compassionate people in an improved world.

 

CNN Columnist Jane Greenway Carr calls 2020 a “great confessional…the year when Covid-19 cast America's longstanding sins of racial and economic inequality into newly harsh relief.” Her colleague Van Jones has called it a “great awakening…a cultural tsunami that is sweeping through media, the academy, houses of worship, Hollywood and even corporate board rooms. This new, building force may someday change the course of world history. In many ways, it already has.”

 

As we watched George Floyd take his last, strangled breath, we were finally able to declare that “Black Lives Matter.” 2020 declared it impossible to turn a blind eye to the systematic oppression of BIPOC communities in America.

 

As the country shut down, we saw the rich stay rich and the poor thrust into financial uncertainty. 4 times as many women than men left the labor force in September. We are reminded, again, of how women shoulder the burden of work and home life while being undervalued in both areas. Experts agree that the progress women have made in the workforce over the last 20 years was basically decimated overnight by the pandemic’s exploitation of deep-seeded societal misogyny and inequality. 2020 practically screams at us: See it. Fix it.

 

All that said, we’ve learned some positive things about ourselves too. In a year when people would have stayed away from the voting booth, fearful for their health, our nation took major steps toward enfranchising voters with record breaking mail-in voting, early voting, and carefully organizing our polling stations to make it safe and possible for all to vote. And even when that democratic process subsequently was attacked, the checks and balances of our constitution stood strong.

 

Which leads me to the most important caveat of the evening: Many of us look forward to 2021 as a return to normalcy, a way back to our previous lives. Yet that is the most unfortunate thing we could do: revert back, relapse into old habits. A new year does not mean all our ills are cured. Flawed immigration systems, climate change, inequality…we have taken heed of these plagues and more in unprecedented ways, and not a one of them will disappear when Joe Biden takes office or when we’re all vaccinated. Perhaps the soil will once again become conducive to progress, but we cannot forget how toxic it is to start. We must shine the light of our great awakening into it in order to grow a better future.

 

There is a character in this week’s Torah portion who embodies this charge: Serah bat Asher.
Parshat Vayigash mentions Serah as Asher’s daughter, Jacob’s granddaughter, a contemporary of Joseph and present for the move from Canaan to Egypt. Yet, hundreds of years later in the book of Numbers, as Moses takes a census, Serah, the daughter of Asher, is listed as if she is there. The rabbis wonder how this can be?! Over the course of much midrash, they conclude that this Serah in Numbers is the same Serah who went down to Egypt in the book of Exodus. An Elijah-type figure, she transcends time and space to guide the Israelites in the right direction.

 

One such story is told when Serah turns up in the Beit Midrash – the study house - of 1st century sage Yochanan ben Zakkai. One of his students asks what it looked like when the Red Sea parted. Yochanan ben Zakkai tells his students that the walls of water looked like walls of sprouting bushes. Suddenly, a voice comes through an open window in the back of the beit midrash: "No. That's not right." All the students turn around and see an old lady peering through the window. "I am Serah bat Asher. I know what the walls looked like because I was there! They looked like mirrors, mirrors in which every person was reflected, so that it looked like the generations that came before and the generations that would come after.”

 

I find great power in Serah’s words. As the Israelites passed through the narrow straits to freedom, they would have caught a glimpse of themselves and be forced to reckon with what they saw. Who is this person? Who is this nation? Once enslaved to a tyrant; once enslaved to doubt, fear and tedium, could they imagine themselves as something more? Could they have the courage to see their past as a part of them and choose a brighter future for themselves and for their children?

 

Serach’s insight teaches me that 2021 will not spring up like a budding bush out of untouched soil. Our growth and blossoming will come with an honest reckoning of what and who we are and then finding the courage to trudge forward toward something better.

 

Because have you noticed how often we mention Egypt in our prayers? We Jews never forget the hard times. We know there is a message in our suffering. Care for the stranger because you were a stranger in the land of Egypt. Remember how God brought you out with a mighty hand. Remember these not just for the glory of God, but for the assertion that evoking the lessons of trying times helps us to build stronger, more compassionate societies of the future.

 

Viktor Frankl said “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” 2020 was inflicted upon us. 2021 can be the year we unleash the greatest change yet, not by ignoring this most terrible year, but by learning from it.

Hanukkah Chutzpah

I thought we had enough Hanukkah children’s books in our house, but I was wrong. A book showed up this month that did what children’s books do best: look like an innocent tale on the outside but sucker punch you in the gut by the end.

 

It’s called Herschel and the Hanukkah Goblins. This story reads like a vintage Hasidic tale, but it
was actually written in 1989 by Eric Kimmel. Its protagonist, Herschel of Ostropol IS a character from traditional Yiddish literature, though. He’s a trickster who has a habit of exposing hypocrisy and inequality. For example, the story is told:

During a holiday feast, Hershel once sat across from a self-absorbed rich man who made derogatory remarks about Hershel’s eating habits.

“What separates you from a pig, is what I’d like to know,” the man said derisively.

“The table,” Hershel replied.

 

So in Herschel and the Hanukkah Goblins, Herschel shows up to a village on the eve of Hanukkah. The town is dark and cold, not a single candle is lit. The villagers explain that a pack of goblins haunt the old synagogue on the hill. They blow out the villagers’ candles and throw their latkes on the floor. The rabbi adds that the only way to get rid of the goblins is to spend the eight days of Hanukkah in the synagogue, light the menorah each night and avoid the goblins’ mischief. Then, on the 8th night, if you’ve even made it that far, the King of the Goblins himself has to light the menorah.

 

Herschel isn’t scared. He takes up residence in the haunted synagogue. Night after night, the goblins show up. Each goblin is more grotesque terrifying than the last. Yet, night after night, Herschel outwits the goblins, besting them into lighting the candles.

 

On the 7th night, though, no goblin comes. Herschel, starting to doze off, suddenly hears a horrible noise, a voice that sounds like the cracking of bones. “Happy Hanukkah, Herschel of Ostropol! It is I…the King of the Goblins.” “Aren’t you early?” Herschel asks. “Oh, I’m not there….yet,” the King of the Goblins replies. “But I’m coming tomorrow to teach you how scary us goblins can be!” The voice rises to a hurricane roar and rips the shingles from the synagogue roof, shattering the windows. The Hanukkah candles reel in the savage blast, but do not go out.

 

The next night, the King of the Goblins arrives. Herschel, petrified, puts on a brave face, greets him with his trademark snark. As the King of the Goblins demands that Herschel acknowledge how scary and threatening he is, Herschel complains that he can’t see…it’s too dark in the synagogue. Herschel asks the King of the Goblins to light the candles by the entry way so that Herschel can see the goblin’s horrendousness better. The King of the Goblins, in his arrogance, lights the candles one by one until Herschel points out that the candles the King just lit were those of the menorah. The King of the Goblins, horrified, roars in fury. The earth trembles and a mighty wind comes. It rips off the synagogue roof and blows down the walls. The wood scatters like matchsticks. The menorah’s flames spin, but the fire stays strong. As the wind dies down, the night is still. The walls, floor, roof, even the foundation stones of the synagogue have vanished. Yet the menorah remains on a humble table, standing tall and bright in the winter snow. Hershel waits until the last candle burns out and he returns to the village, where the windows are alight with menorahs and Hanukkah joy.      

 

I felt chills the first time I read the story. I thought to myself: this is more than a fable, more than a fantastical Hanukkah tale. THIS is the story of the Jewish people.

 

In every age, there are hideous, harassing forces that try to snuff out the light of our people – the goblins of anti-semitism - greed, power and jealousy. As I read of the flying shingles and broken glass, I thought of the pograms, the inquisition, the mischief and the mayhem, the small and large aggressions our ancestors faced ever since they first uttered words of Torah.

 

As the walls splintered and the roof divided from the old synagogue, I thought of the Holocaust, destroying half of worldwide Jewry. How empires, hordes and mobs have come in every generation to prove to us Jews how powerful and superior they are, hell bent on proving some grotesque, perverted point.

 

But then I turn my attention to the Hanukkah candles, which persist despite the many attempts to spit them out, or prevent them from being lit altogether. It’s significant that the walls of the synagogue in Herschel’s story disappear completely, revealing the menorah bare but bright.

 

Isn’t this what it was like for the Maccabees: their house of worship defiled and disgraced? Having fought the war against tyranny, they reclaim their holy space, but it can never actually be the same.

 

Imagine it what it must have been like: to have won the war but still have the task of rebuilding? Imagine how fatigued they must have been. Yet somehow they found the courage to rebuild and to rededicate their temple, allowing the Jewish story to begin a new chapter.

 

Friends, I’ll let you in on the true miracle of Hanukkah. It’s not that the oil lasted 8 days for the Maccabees, but that it’s lasted 2,000 years for the rest of us. The miracle of Hanukkah is that the Temple and our synagogues can be burned, ransacked and even destroyed but that the light of Torah and the glowing heart of Jewry still remains.

 

Come to think of it, there is no better metaphor for Hanukkah 2020: a menorah lit, with no walls around it. While I’m thankful that our beloved Woodlands building is standing and well-cared for, our community tonight gathers around the light of our chanukiyot, we gather in the shared experience of the holiday. No walls, just the light in our hearts coming together.

 

As the pandemic – a King of the Goblins in its own way - has blown through our homes, our public spaces and our lives, we have found ways to outsmart it, to challenge its hubris. Our medical professionals and researchers are heroic Herschels. Every person who puts on a mask helps keep another life from being snuffed out. We are battered, bruised and broken, but like our Maccabee forebearers, and like the Jews of the ages who followed them, we stand before the Hanukkah lights with a gutsy attitude; a boldness to defiantly defy the odds. You could call it Hanukkah Chutzpah.

 

This year, we need even more Hanukkah Chutzpah. At a time when we’re feeling trapped in our homes, bound by an invisible goblin who deals in fear and isolation, our community will continue to find one another. This year, every year, on every night of Hanukkah, we Jews light our menorahs together. We increase our light and our joy evening by evening, a physical manifestation of eternal Jewish incandescence…the spirit of our ancestors that calls out in every age: be bold, be kind, be brave.

Flooded

If we were to make a list of the most famous stories from the Torah, the tale of Noah and his ark is likely to be in the top five. And while a deep dive into its well-expounded waters can feel trite, like a lot of Biblical stories, I’m experiencing it in a more visceral way this year.

It begins with the concept of feeling “emotionally flooded.” Every emotion is exaggerated these days. Each day, each week is an oxymoronic mix of monotony and uncertainty. There’s a deluge of important decisions. Even deciding to attend a small backyard gathering feels daunting. It feels like there are oceans between us and our loved ones. Our own, personal wooden arks of respite and safety – our homes, our personal time, etc. - feel isolating and tenuous at times. A recent article by Jacob Stern in the Atlantic summed it up well:

A pandemic, unlike an earthquake or a fire, is invisible, and that makes it all the more anxiety-inducing. “You can’t see it, you can’t taste it, you just don’t know,” says Charles Benight, a psychology professor at the University of Colorado at Colorado Springs who specializes in post-disaster recovery. “You look outside, and it seems fine”[but it’s not].

…From spatial uncertainty comes temporal uncertainty. If we can’t know where we are safe, then we can’t know when we are safe.

That ambiguity could make it harder for people to be resilient. “It’s sort of like running down a field to score a goal, and every 10 yards they move the goal,” Benight said. “You don’t know what you’re targeting.”

So let’s turn back again to Noah and his story. If ever Torah had a response to trauma, this week’s Torah portion is it.

Quick, what are two images you remember from the story? There are two symbols that most of us quickly conjure: first is the dove and second is the rainbow. Both of these symbols represent hope and resilience. The dove, of course, returns from its scouting mission once with nothing, then with the olive branch and then doesn’t return at all, having found a new life on dry land. It teaches us that rebuilding is a process, but we determinedly hold out hope that a time of peace can come our way.

Then there’s the rainbow – God’s own sign that no matter the tough times, we should always know that our relationship with God and our ability to weather the storm, always remains.

While these two images are encouraging, and Heaven knows we need that encouragement, there is another symbol that feels more manifest for me right now…that’s the altar’s fire.

Never heard of it? Well, we tend skip right to the rainbow when we tell Noah's story. But something happens right before the rainbow that bears a mention.

Noah, his family and the animals disembark from the ark, at which point Noah builds an altar and makes a burnt offering upon it. Burnt offerings serve many purposes in Torah – they can be expressions of petition, of guilt, or symbolic of an important moment in time. In the case of Noah’s offering, it seems to be one of thanksgiving, celebrating deliverance from a life-threatening danger. It’s a reminder that we still have much to be thankful for, even when it feels like the sky has been clouded over and the world is ending.

And we have to express this thankfulness, because the text tells us that Noah’s fire produces a pleasing odor, which eventually reaches God. Experiencing Noah’s thanks, encouraged that humans may actually learn to not take life for granted, God decides at that time to never again mess with the natural cycle and rhythms of life. God proclaims, “So long as the earth endures, Seedtime and harvest, Cold and heat, Summer and winter, Day and night Shall not cease.” Certain things will always remain.

While life may feel topsy-turvy, and while we may have times that we feel like we’re living a shadow-world, coming to the brink of what we believe to be the very worst, Torah begs us to center – to look for signs of certainty and security. The sun went down this evening, it will rise again tomorrow. The leaves are sunsetting too… a fiery rainbow of reds, oranges and yellows…just like they’re supposed to at this time of year. And while we look ahead with nervousness to what I’m calling “COVID-winter,” the natural world around us begs us to take heart – assures us with the echo of God’s ancient promise – our lives have not been permanently uprooted and wind-tossed. There will be an end, we will rebuild.

So in the meantime, as we start to light our own fire pits and turn on our outdoor heaters, we must follow Noah and nature’s lead: we too must doggedly, determinedly carry on and persevere. The fire’s light shines upon the blessings we have discovered during this time: our ability to come together as a synagogue community even while physically apart, daily lunch and dinner with our loved ones when normally we may have gone a whole day without seeing each other, the new skills we’ve learned and shared, the creative muscles we’ve flexed. The Biblical flood was indeed a tragedy, a terrible time of death, regret and re-calibration. But we’ve been promised: these times are NOT that flood – and nor will there be one like that gain. There is no chosen one, no one ark of salvation during these times because each of us is a vessel – we may be waterlogged and battered – but we’re still afloat, and instead of just one, there are many of us out at sea, buoying one another, a catamaran of community, still seeking beauty in our wind-tossed world.