“It is in the silence…“

Parshah Yom Kippur: Leviticus 16:1-34

as published in Jewish News

Every year, during the Yizkor service on Yom Kippur, I think of my mother. I miss her deeply. I miss going shopping with her. I miss hearing about how things are going for her at her job. I miss renting the classics from the 1950s and 1960s, climbing into bed with popcorn and watching the movie with her while she would recall the day she saw the movie in high school and who she was dating. I miss staying up late at night after I spent a day learning in rabbinical school because she wanted me to recite all my notes from my classes over the phone because her love for Jewish learning was so passionate it only rivaled mine. I do miss my mother deeply. And when I lost my mother to a heroic battle with leukemia in 2005, the absence and the silence that she left in my life has been deafening.

Most of the time I’m just like you. I create my own noise, with the TV on, the AirPods stuck in my ear, music playing in the car, in the office and at home. As that famous author, Anonymous said, “… today’s world … loves noise.” Why? Because it doesn’t want to stop and think. It doesn’t want to stop and meditate. It doesn’t want to stop and pray. It doesn’t want to stop and listen. What would it be like if some kind of solar ray suddenly caused all radios, DVRs, iPhones, and televisions to stop working? Trembling hands would immediately begin to push buttons, adjust knobs and flip switches. Eyes would begin to dilate with fear of silence. Terrorized people would be running in the streets or fleeing in their cars. “Karl Marx was wrong,” someone has said, “religion is not the opiate of modern man, incessant sound is. People will listen to anything to avoid silence.”

But Judaism, like most other religions, values silence. Traditionally, the most important petitionary prayer of the service, so important that it is known simply as “The Prayer,” is said silently. An invitation to pray silently at any point in the service is an indication that this is a moment of great solemnity and importance. And of course, when we remember our loved ones who have died, we do so in silence.

In the silence we can finally admit what we need to get from, and give to, the people we love. For example, in Ernest Hemingway’s short story, “The Capitol of the World,” a father comes to Madrid to find his son. His son, Paco, had left the farm after a misunderstanding. If you have ever been to Spain, you would know Paco is a very popular name there. The father, to meet his son, put an ad in the newspaper which read, “Paco meet me at noon, Tuesday, at the newspaper office. All is forgiven. Signed your Father.” In the story, there were 500 young men named Paco who came the next day and stood silently in line, waiting to see if it was their father who had granted them forgiveness.

In the silence we can still be inspired by those who live on only through us. For example, a bus was bumping along a back road. In one seat, an old man sat holding a bunch of fresh flowers. Across the aisle was a young girl whose eyes came back again and again to the man’s flowers. The time came for the old man to get off the bus. Impulsively, he thrust the flowers into the girl’s lap. “I can see you love the flowers,” he explained, “And I think my wife would like for you to have them. I’ll tell her I gave them to you.” The girl accepted the flowers, then watched the old man get off the bus and walk through the gate of a small cemetery.

In silence we give, or get, forgiveness, approval, thankfulness and love, from those who are no longer physically present but who will always be alive in our memories. It is in the silence that we approach them so that these crucial, life-enhancing encounters can take place. It is in the silence that we finish those unfinished conversations we began so long ago. It is in the silence that we still receive the wisdom our loved ones gave so freely while they were yet alive. It is in the silence that we hold on to what we’ve had. It is in the silence that we let go, so that we can move on.

We are so accustomed to action, to responding immediately. We struggle with inaction. When we receive news of a medical diagnosis, within minutes we’re online, searching for every possible opinion — whether it’s from the leading experts or from charlatans offering false remedies. We don’t even allow ourselves the space to fully feel the deep grief that comes with losing a loved one, a grief essential for healing. Instead, we often feel the need to stand up, to say something, to do something about death — yet death is the one thing over which we have no control.

“When is the right time to recite the Shema?“

Parshah Va’etchanan: Deuteronomy 3:23 – 7:11

as published in Jewish News

If you ask almost any group of Jews to name the most important Jewish “prayer,” the Shema will likely top the list. Technically, it’s not a prayer in the conventional sense since it’s addressed to the community of Israel rather than to God. However, that’s a minor distinction we will overlook. Traditionally, the Shema is recited twice daily within the formal liturgy, as well as just before going to sleep. This passage, taken from this week’s Torah portion, and located specifically in Deuteronomy 6:4, gets its name from the first Hebrew word of the verse.

Considering the significance of the Shema in Jewish liturgy, it’s remarkable that we know so little about how a meaningful passage from Deuteronomy evolved into a central prayer for the Jewish people. Dr. Marc Brettler, a distinguished Bible scholar at Brandeis University, points out that “Strange as it may seem to us, the Shema holds no special importance in the Hebrew Bible.” In other words, none of the biblical figures — be it Abraham, Moses, Hannah, Jeremiah or Ezra — ever recited the Shema. It simply would not have occurred to them to do so.

In the Talmud, Berakhot 2a, the first question posed by the Rabbis is, famously, “From what time may we recite the Shema in the evenings?” For a discussion to begin by focusing on the timing of a specific ritual, it implies that the ritual itself is already well-established and widely recognized. This highlights an intriguing contrast: while the TaNaKh, the Jewish Bible, makes no mention of the Shema, for the Rabbis, it is already a fundamental practice.

To this day, we know nothing about how the love affair with this text began. Who first decided that this paragraph should be recited daily and on our deathbed? No one knows. Yet the text has woven itself into the individual and collective souls of the Jewish community. Numerous customs and traditions, both ancient and contemporary, aim to enrich and deepen our understanding of the text and the meanings that may arise from it. We are careful, even meticulous, about pronunciation and choreography, finding significance in both text and context.

Here is a powerful story of the Shema as told by Rabbi Pearl Barlev.

“Sophie, a seventy-five-year-old widow and mother of adult son Dave, had the hospital rabbi called to her bedside. When I got there, she wanted to recite the Shema, the final prayer said by Jews before dying. She spoke in a slow and loud voice, indicating to me the gravitas of this moment and her acceptance of her mortality, beginning, “Shema Yisrael Adonai Elokeinu … ” She stopped short of the last two words of the prayer. I thought she was too tired or perhaps had forgotten it. But she had a different reason. A long minute passed, then she continued, but instead of completing the prayer, she said defiantly, “And I am not finishing it until Dave comes!” She told me she had not seen Dave in three years, and her heart ached to see him again before she died. She had asked him to come now at the end of her life, to make peace and to hug him one more time. Sophie’s hope to see her child and to mend their relationship somehow gave her strength to wait. When Dave came, they had two days together before she died. Dave told me that she died holding his hand and that in the end it was Dave who heard Sophie say the last words of the Shema.”

As we near the season of annual reflection, let us turn to the words of the Shema this week and ask, “When IS the right time to recite the Shema?” Hint: It is always the right time.

“A Year of Torah“

Parshah Shemini Atzeret: Deuteronomy 14:22 – 16:17

as published in Jewish News

This year, at our synagogue, we have begun a “Year of Torah.” We have not only commissioned a new Torah scroll, but we have planned many learning sessions asking all sorts of questions about Torah from lots of different angles and specialties.

Our first session asked, “Is the Torah an accurate recording of history or a legend in which some kernels of truth are hidden?” Take, for example, the giving of the Ten Commandments. There are many differing views about what happened at Mount Sinai. For instance, Rabbi Yochanan claims that God’s voice was divided into seven voices and the seven voices were further divided into the 70 languages spoken by all the peoples of the world at that time.

Extending this idea that all the books of the Hebrew Bible were given to Moses at Mount Sinai, some of the ancient rabbis claim that God gave two Torahs to Moses. One they call Torah Shebichetav, “Written Torah,” comprising the Five Books of Moses: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy. The other they call Torah Shebealpeh, “Oral Torah,” made up of all the books of the Prophets, the Midrash Agadah, the Talmud and all decisions and explanations of Jewish law by rabbinic scholars through the ages.

Clearly, the ancient rabbis have added their own versions of what actually happened between God, Moses and the people of Israel at Mount Sinai. Their belief that two Torahs were given, including answers to all questions that might arise throughout all time, not only adds to the mystery of whatever occurred at Mount Sinai but also grants special authority to all subsequent interpreters. This is an important point that should not be overlooked. As a result of their theory of “two Torahs,” rabbis now have the right to say that their own interpretations or decisions are “the law according to Moses at Mount Sinai!”

This conviction that something wonderful and awesome took place between God and the people of Israel at Mount Sinai is also central in the philosophy of Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel. He comments that “a cosmic fear enveloped all those who stood at Sinai, a moment more staggering than the heart could feel.” Heschel explains: “What we see may be an illusion; that we see can never be questioned. The thunder and lightning at Sinai may have been merely an impression; but to have suddenly been endowed with the power of seeing the whole world struck with an overwhelming awe of God was a new sort of perception … Only in moments when we are able to share in the spirit of awe that fills the world are we able to understand what happened to Israel at Sinai.”

Heschel’s conception of the wonder-filled event at Mount Sinai maintains that something extraordinary took place between God, Moses and the Jewish people. He does not, however, identify what of the Torah might have been revealed at that time. What is significant about the moment at Mount Sinai is that God spoke and the people of Israel responded.

So, what happened at Mount Sinai? According to Heschel, God spoke and the people of Israel listened. They heard the commandments and responded that they would live according to them. The moment was one of the most important in Jewish history because in it God chose and challenged the Jewish people to live according to Torah and the Jewish people answered, “All that God has spoken we will do!”

We have discovered many theories about what actually happened at Mount Sinai between God, Moses and the Jewish people. Perhaps two complete Torahs were given by God in that wonder-filled moment. Or, a God-inspired Moses delivered the Ten Commandments and later generations, also inspired, wrote down the other commandments that were compiled and edited into what we know today as the Torah.

All that can be said with certainty is that whatever happened at Mount Sinai, the people of Israel never forgot the wonder of it. They recalled it as momentous, mysterious and awesome. They believed that God had spoken and that they had been chosen to become a “treasured people … a holy nation.” At Sinai, God and the Jewish people entered into a sacred covenant filled with mitzvot; ethical and ritual responsibilities that not only continue to evolve but give meaning to our lives and the blueprint for all of us to “Do Jewish.”

“A vow we must all make“

Parshah Matot-Massei: Numbers 30:2 – 36:13

as published in Jewish News

To be a Jew means to care deeply and passionately about everything — from the spot on the new carpet to the stance in which to sing Shema, from your standpoint on various domestic public policies to your positions on foreign policy issues. To be a Jew means to have an opinion and to voice that opinion, or in truly Jewish fashion, to voice a few opinions.

In the Jewish world, we see this most clearly in discussions about Israel, her significance to our people, her relations with the Palestinians and with other Arabs. We struggle to decide: Should Israel be the light unto the nations, holding ethical values up as its highest ideals? Or should Israel, when the desperate need arises, bend those ethical values to survive? Is Israel the reason Jews can stand up proudly or is she the source of discomfort and embarrassment?

One of my teachers taught me there are two kinds of Jews in the world. There is the kind of Jew who detests war and violence, who believes that fighting is not ‘the Jewish way,’ who willingly accepts that Jews have their own higher standards of behavior. There is also the kind of Jew who thinks we have been too passive for too long and is convinced that it is time for us to strike back at our enemies, to reject once and for all the role of victim who willingly accepts that Jews cannot afford to depend on favors, that we must be tough and strong. The fact is — most of us are both kinds of Jews.

To be a Jew is to be pulled simultaneously in opposing, yet equally truthful, directions and to recognize the validity of these divergent positions.

There are those who criticize Israel for its vigorous defense of its citizens, who argue that Israel often offers a disproportionate response. Let us not forget, Israel exists in a very bad neighborhood and I for one will not criticize her for defending herself from people, states and organizations of evil which are out to destroy her very existence.

Of course, the Kabbalists, Jewish mystics, teach that God balances gevurah, strength, with chesed, loving kindness. We remember that after God drowned Pharaoh and his army in the Red Sea, God’s angelic hosts started celebrating, singing with glee, Mi Chamocha ba-eilim Adonai, Who is like you, O God? According to the Midrash, God berated the angels. Not for the praise but for the glee. Gevurah might sometimes be necessary but never with joy, and never without sadness at the pain it has created. The Midrash reminds us that strength must always tip back toward loving kindness.

In Israel, all military training emphasizes the policy, tohar haneshek, purity of arms. Israel’s soldiers are bound by a level of morality unmatched elsewhere. All of us should be proud of those Israeli rules. The basic principle of “purity of arms” is: “Israeli Defense Forces personnel will use their weapons and force only for the purpose of their mission, only to the necessary extent and will maintain their humanity even during combat.” It is a constant challenge to balance gevurah, the responsibility to defend oneself, with chesed, the need to act with kindness and compassion. Imagine being a Jewish soldier standing at a border crossing or near a roadblock. Watch an ambulance approach or a car claiming to be carrying a pregnant woman. You wonder about the scene spread out before you: Is this real? Or is this another terrorist ruse?

So where does the American Jew stand in all of this? We cannot become so caught up in the justified concern for Israel’s safety that we can no longer feel the anguish of civilians who have been killed, wounded or bereaved in what is called collateral damage. And we cannot become so troubled by the innocent deaths caused by Israel’s actions that we forget that Israel acted to protect its own citizens from a terrorist organization and its state sponsors; enemies openly committed to the destruction of Jews and the Jewish state. We need to be both kinds of Jews struggling eternally between two poles: gevurah and chesed.

“Don’t be an Eeyore“

Parshah Beha’alotcha: Numbers 8:1 – 12:16

As Published in the Jewish News

In a bustling marketplace, two traders observed a street vendor selling beautiful pieces of artwork. One trader marveled at the talent and creativity of the artist, praising their ability to capture the essence of the subjects. The other trader disagreed, stating, “It is the paint and the brush that bring life to these paintings.”

Unable to reach a consensus, the traders decided to seek the advice of a renowned art critic known for his insightful perspectives. They presented their differing opinions and awaited his response. The art critic pondered for a moment before sharing his wisdom, saying, “My esteemed traders, you are both mistaken. It is neither the artist’s talent nor the tools they use that truly make these paintings come alive. It is your own emotions and interpretations that breathe life into the artwork.”

This parable highlights cognitive bias. Cognitive bias refers to our brain’s tendency to make systematic errors in thinking. It’s like a mental shortcut that our minds take to process information quickly. These biases can cause us to deviate from rational and objective reasoning. They influence how we perceive, interpret and remember things. Sometimes, our biases can lead us to make judgments or decisions that are not entirely accurate or logical. Advertisers often capitalize on these biases.

Take, for example, anchoring. Anchoring is a tactic used by advertisers to capitalize on our biases. Imagine you are browsing for a new smartphone online. As you search, you come across two options: Phone A priced at $1,000 and Phone B priced at $500. Your mind becomes anchored to the higher price of Phone A, which serves as a reference point. Now, you find a third option, Phone C, which is priced at $800. Despite Phone C being more expensive than Phone B, you perceive it as a better deal because it is lower than the anchor price of Phone A.

In this scenario, the initial higher price of Phone A serves as an anchor, influencing your perception of the subsequent options. Even though Phone C is still relatively expensive compared to Phone B, the anchoring effect makes it appear more favorable in comparison to the higher-priced Phone A. This demonstrates how anchoring can shape our judgment and lead us to make decisions based on the relative value compared to an initial reference point.

But, rabbi, how does all this relate to the weekly Torah portion? I am so glad you asked. In the coming weeks, we will read how the Israelites embark on their journey through the wilderness. Almost immediately, they begin to complain. Their grievances start with the food, expressing their dissatisfaction with the manna they receive and longing for the meat and fish they had back in Egypt, conveniently ignoring their past enslavement. These complaints continue regarding other matters such as water, land and Moses’ leadership. Academics refer to this as a pessimism bias, where one sees the world as half empty rather than half full. It’s the belief that if something can go wrong, it inevitably will.

This way of thinking reminds me of Eeyore, the unhappy donkey from A.A. Milne’s “Winnie-the-Pooh” books. Eeyore approached life with gloom and depression, perceiving the world as an ill-fated place. While Winnie and others attempted to lift his spirits, Eeyore’s natural inclination was to see the glass as half empty. I am certain you have encountered such an individual resembling Eeyore and understand their pessimism can be challenging to be around.

That is why Judaism urges us to cultivate an optimistic bias, what the rabbis refer to as “hekarat tov” or “recognizing the good.” The Rabbis tell the story of Nathan Gamzu, a Talmud teacher who always saw the good in everything. “Gam zu l’tova,” meaning “this is for the good,” was considered a shortened version of his name. Rabbi Akiba, one of Nathan Gamzu’s students, shared a valuable lesson he learned from his mentor. Akiba found himself in the woods with only a torch, a rooster and a donkey. However, the flame went out due to the wind, the rooster was devoured by a predator and the donkey ran away.

Despite these misfortunes, Akiba could only say, “this too is for the good.” Later, he discovered that a group of bandits had passed through the area. Had they spotted the flame or heard the animals, Akiba surely would have been captured. Gam zu l’tova — this is for the good!

Each of us lives with some kind of bias. In fact, it can even change by the day or the situation. I urge us to challenge ourselves to engage the world like Nathan Gamzu and “Do Jewish” by seeing the positive and potential for good. Don’t be an Eeyore.

“Are YOU Ready? Are WE Ready?“

Parshah Bo: Exodus 10:1 – 13:16

As Published in the Jewish News

We are all living in a time of great uncertainty. While we sift through the experiences of our past and search for wisdom, for guidance, we balance the knowledge that the degree of change today in every aspect of our lives is without precedent. Groping in the dark, treading uncertainly down a road never before taken, humanity is unaware of its destination today and isn’t even sure it is enjoying the trip.

We have good cause for our doubts.

Consider the amount of change witnessed in the last 123 years alone. At the turn of the twentieth century, wars were fought using foot sol­diers, ships, and bullets. Tanks, planes, missiles, nuclear bombs, space satellites, submarines: All of these modes of mass slaughter characterize the modern era. We think nothing of e-mailing anywhere in the world; we schedule a flight halfway around the globe and arrive, all things being equal, within hours. If we like something we read, we download and print it—no big deal.

Advances in science, for example, have extended human life but have also burned a hole through the ozone layer and directly and indirectly contributes to global warming. We have used both penicillin and Agent Orange.

In every area of human life, we find murky transitions—yet, it is clear we don’t have the comfortable consensus and social standards that guided our grandparents and great-grandparents a hundred plus years ago.

That same situation faced Moses and the children of Israel when God commanded them to leave Egypt in this week’s Torah portion (Parshah Bo).

Slavery was unquestionably a source of suffering. The Hebrews were not allowed to have male children; the work was oppressive. Yet slavery was also a pattern of life that had endured for four hundred years. As slaves, the ancient Hebrews experienced no surprises, no unpredictable moments.

The offer of freedom interrupted their lives. To be free means being able to choose, and also means having to choose from a confusing and paralyzing number of options. Life would become more interesting, but it would never be as simple.

“We do not know with what we are to worship the Lord until we arrive there,” Moses announces to Pharaoh (Exodus 10:26). Moses intends that remark as a way of keeping Pharaoh in the dark. Ironically, however, Moses himself isn’t sure where his people are to worship God.

Uncertain of where they are going or what they are to do when they get there, the Hebrew slaves have to be willing to live with the burden of freedom—the power to make choices and to take responsibility. Ultimately, freedom is the ability to take responsibility for life and its direction.

In our own generation, we face that same crossroads. The traumas and opportunities of our lives can both excite and terrify us, beckon us with the enticements of new possibilities, and overwhelm us with complex­ity and confusion.

No matter. The future is ours if we are willing to throw ourselves into the task with our hearts, minds and hands. We can build a vibrant Jewish future, but it will take individual and communal effort. One example of effort involves supporting institutions of our Jewish communal life: our synagogues, our Jewish day schools, the JCCs and the Center for Jewish Philanthropy of Greater Phoenix and Jewish universities and seminaries, for they are all essential to help us fashion Jewish lives in the future.

For our Jewish communal life to have vitality, we also need the perspective of what I call the “choosing Jew.” We are all familiar with being the chosen Jew; but I feel we need to be a “choosing Jew.” Someone who is willing to wrestle with difficult questions, with imponderable mysteries and with the marvel of life which nourishes spiritual Jewish growth. But in the words of the great philosopher Franz Rosenzweig, “The Jewish individ­ual needs nothing but readiness.”

Are you ready? Let’s “Do Jewish” together.

“Make Time for the Timeless“

Parshah Lech-Lecha Genesis 12:1 – 17:27

As Published in the Jewish News

The rabbis teach us that there is no chronology in the Torah. Events may appear in any order; distances do not matter; time sequences do not exist. In physics we learn about Einstein’s theory of relativity, that if humans could travel the speed of light, we would find that there are no physical dimensions and no time. At the speed of light, the material world vanishes, only the world of non-dimension exists. God’s place is at the speed of light. There are no dimensions, no time. Therefore, everything occurs in God’s world simultaneously. Only in our world, an aberration of God’s perspective, do dimensions exist. That is why there is no chronology in the Torah.

Life is what happens to you while you are planning out your life. Take this true story.

His name was Fleming, and he was a poor Scottish farmer. One day, while trying to eke out a living for his family, he heard a cry for help coming from a nearby bog. He dropped his tools and ran to the bog. There, mired to his waist in black muck was a terrified boy, screaming and struggling to free himself. Farmer Fleming saved the lad from what could have been a slow and terrifying death.

The next day, a fancy carriage pulled up to the Scotsman’s sparse surroundings. An elegantly dressed nobleman stepped out and introduced himself as the father of the boy Farmer Fleming had saved.

“I want to repay you,” said the nobleman. “You saved my son’s life.” “No, I can’t accept payment for what I did,” the Scottish farmer replied, waving off the offer. At that moment, the farmer’s own son came to the door of the family hovel.

“Is that your son?” the nobleman asked. “Yes,” the farmer replied proudly.

“I’ll make you a deal. Let me take him and give him a good education. If the lad is anything like his father, he’ll grow to a man you can be proud of.” And that he did. In time, Farmer Fleming’s son graduated from St. Mary’s Hospital Medical School in London and went on to become known throughout the world as the noted Sir Alexander Fleming — the man who discovered penicillin.

Years afterward, the nobleman’s son was stricken with pneumonia. What saved him? Penicillin. The name of the nobleman? Lord Randolph Churchill. His son’s name? Sir Winston Churchill.

If the Churchill/Fleming story is a little miraculous for you, consider the everyday tale: boy meets girl, boy asks girl out, girl refuses; boy meets same girl a second time in different circumstances, boy asks girl out, girl accepts, months later they are married. Have you heard a similar story? How often does history seem to have its own mind? People meet time and again, only to find that their destinies seem intertwined, regardless of the choices they make.

The events of our material lives are chronological. We plan for them; we anticipate them; we think and believe they constitute the fabric of our lives. Day begins and upon waking we think about the events upcoming: What will I eat this morning? What will I accomplish at work today? What errands do I need to run? Who do I need to call? This appears to be our reality. It’s a go-go-go mentality. But beyond that reality exists a greater, larger reality: God’s presence.

Each year, as we go-go-go, as we travel forward and, yet, back to this week’s Torah portion, Lech-lecha, we are reminded of the adventure that God asks Abram to go on. He must leave everything that he knows and go out into the unknown. This is scary, to put it mildly. But, like Abram, we can be comforted to know that God’s presence is always there. God’s presence is timeless as we move through our activities, and like Abram, our adventures.

Our material lives, our daily schedules are linear, chronological, sensible. We have our joys and sorrows, our obligations and our responsibilities. We meet them and move on. But there exists another level, a level in which there is no before or after — only the eternal present. In that moment, ultimate significance intersects with the material now. We experience a glimpse of divinity; the eternal Presence enters the material now and we experience an unforgettable moment. As you move quickly through your schedule, make time for the timeless.

“Jewish unity and diversity“

Parshah Matot-Massei: Numbers 30:2 – 36:13

As Published in the Jewish News

While I was leading a congregational trip to Israel this past June, Israeli author A.B. Yehoshua passed. He was a dynamic person and novelist. And he liked to create dialogue and debate. For example, I recall him once saying, “Judaism outside Israel has no future. If you do not live in Israel … your Jewish identity has no meaning at all.” Needlessly arrogant and provocative? Yes! Interesting premise to start a discussion and debate? Yes!

For Yehoshua, Israeli nationality represents the sole factor of the Jewish future, predicting that Diaspora expressions of Judaism will fade to oblivion. My experience as a pulpit rabbi in the Diaspora suggests otherwise. I have met countless numbers of Jews with a deep commitment to explore meaningful religious observance even as they express deep concern for the welfare of Israel. Furthermore, my recent trip to Israel also brought me in contact with many Israelis who expressed heartfelt thanks for our dedication to their community and heartfelt interest in learning more about our Diaspora streams of liberal Judaism.

Rabbi Eric Yoffie, former president of the Union for Reform Judaism, responding to Yehoshua, wrote, “To be a Jew is to be a part of the Jewish people and the Jewish religious tradition. The interplay of religion and peoplehood is complex, but both pillars are essential to any individual, community or state that aspires to be and to stay Jewish. And the Jewish significance of the State of Israel … rests precisely in the fact that in Israel alone, where Judaism’s entire pulse is collective, societal and communal, can national consciousness and religious consciousness develop fully … [Our task] is to advance the partnership of the Jewish people and to insist that all Jews who care must view the Jewish people as a single entity, however diverse.”

This need not be an either-or equation. The communities of Israel and Diaspora can exist harmoniously, perhaps even symbiotically. Each serves an important purpose and each faces unique challenges. I recall a college student who came into my office to interview me for a term paper she was writing. She asked me what the greatest challenge to liberal Jews is today.

I told her: Diaspora Jews feel more acutely the threat of assimilation into a majority non-Jewish culture and the spiritual pitfalls of material prosperity; Israeli Jews must confront the effects of a Judaism stripped of religious expression, even as they confront extremist Orthodox policies that threaten to alienate them from their Judaism.

This week’s Torah portion provides a Jewish standard for deciding when diversity is legitimate and when it degenerates into divisiveness. The tribes of Israel are preparing to cross the River Jordan and to enter the Land of Israel. Our national history is about to begin. At the river’s edge, the tribes of Reuben and Gad remind Moses that he had agreed to permit them to retain land east of the Jordan, where they would build towns and establish settlements for their families. Unlike the rest of Israel, their God-given inheritance was to be on the east side of the Jordan River.

This first assertion of Jewish diversity troubled Moses, but when he inquired of God, the Holy One confirmed that what Reuben and Gad proposed was permissible. The two tribes had particular needs that differed from those of the other tribes. Finding a way to meet their own needs was a healthy response to the richness of human variety.

Recognizing the distinct needs of Reuben and Gad and not considering those needs as a threat to the larger group, required Divine revelation. God was able to see that human variety need not lead to anarchy or hostility.

Even while recognizing the value of diversity, God and Moses realize that diversity is not the only value. There are limits to how far diversity can go while remaining a Jewish value. For example, Moses instructs the two tribes that they may build settlements for the women and children but the men must fight with the other ten tribes until all of Israel has received its inheritance.

Diversity is legitimate so long as each Jewish group keeps the well-being of the entire Jewish people in mind. We are all limbs on one body. As the rabbis saw it, “all Israel are comrades.”

When Moses affirmed the right of the Reubenites and Gadites to dwell in Diaspora, conditional on their support for their brothers and sisters in Israel, he affirmed the legitimacy of both communities, interdependent, each strengthening the other.

So as long as we understand that our Jewish self-interest requires us to care for, and to be involved in, the defense and love of all Jews, our particular understanding of how to be Jewish or what Judaism may mean can only enrich our larger Jewish community.

“From Memory to Empowerment”

Parshah Bamidbar: Numbers 1:1-4:20

As Published in the Jewish News

This week’s Torah portion Bamidbar is usually read on the Shabbat before Shavuot. So our Sages connected the two. Shavuot is the time we remember the giving of the Torah. Bamidbar means, “In the wilderness.” Judaism emphasizes the memory we received revelation bamidbar, “in the wilderness.” Why do Jews place so much importance on memory?

The first thing that came to my mind was the name for Rosh Hashanah in the Torah. It is not called Rosh Hashanah, it is called Yom Hazikaron – day of remembering. We are summoned to celebrate memory. What makes us Jewish is that we share common memories.

But, what about the difficult memories? What are our obligations some 80 years after the close of World War II? For some of us, never forgetting and “Never Again”  means making every effort to protect Jewish lives and to embrace Judaism. We help Israel defend itself against terrorism and nuclear weapons, and we battle against antisemitism at home and abroad. Our synagogue and our homes offer children and adults alike a joyful, relevant and intellectually rich Judaism, and we focus our charitable giving and acts of lovingkindness on our fellow Jews.

For others, the memory of the Holocaust inspires a universal approach to pursuing justice and caring for the needy. The memories inspires us to battle against all forms of discrimination, and we seek to empower and give voice to those historically underprivileged. We remember what it is like to be strangers and slaves, orphans and refugees, and so we seek to remedy the plight of all who fall into these categories.

We have many beautiful memories to recover in Judaism as well. Not merely of the Holocaust, of pogroms and tragedies. We must also remember our great accomplishments and our great spiritual adventures. Shabbat reminds us that when we come to the synagogue, our purpose is not to cry over tragedies. We come to celebrate the memory of a glorious past that belongs to us and that we tend to forget.

Our ancestors followed God into the desert of Sinai where we accepted great moral teachings, and gave them to the world. We became a people of scholars and teachers and scientists. We stood against the world and said that God is one, that there is one humanity and one justice for all people. We are the heirs of a tremendous memory that must never be forgotten.

Memory deals not only with the past. It’s not static. It’s dynamic. That means that we not only think of what happened once upon a time, but we must remember what is happening now, and even more, that we must remember what will be in the future. Lewis Carrol wrote: “It’s a poor sort of memory that only works backward.” Memory has to work forward. We have to think not only of yesterday, but of tomorrow. Memory makes both yesterday and tomorrow important. We must ask ourselves whether there will be a tomorrow.

We will not become a generation without memory if we remember to build Jewish memories for today. We have to give ourselves, our children, our families, Jewish memories, or the memories won’t be there.

In Judaism, we have this opportunity to create memories every day: through Jewish learning every day and especially on Shavuot and through other Holiday celebrations, songs and candles on Hanukkah, the glamour of a beautiful Passover Seder, the love that flows from a Friday night when spouses and children and dear ones sit together and recite the prayers that thank God for strength and courage. These things are the raw material, the stones and the mortar from which we can build a structure of beautiful memories.

We are what we remember: what we remember of yesterday, what we remember to do today, and what we remember about what will be tomorrow. Let us recover that Jewish memory and find it in a beautiful and inspiring way to “do Jewish.”

“Chanukah Miracles”

Parshah Mikeitz | Genesis 41:1-44:17

As Published in the Jewish News

One of my favorite things about this season is tuning into National Public Radio’s Chanukah Lights, one of the most successful NPR special programs over the past 30 years. The concept is simple: an hour-long program of stories about Chanukah broadcast during the Jewish holiday. As many of you know, Chanukah is a minor holiday, not even recorded in the Jewish bible! But living in the United States, Chanukah is the most widely observed Jewish holiday behind Passover and Yom Kippur.

NPR’s Chanukah Lights got me thinking about sharing stories at this time of year and I want to share with you a good one — a true story about Natan Sharansky, whom most of you know as a former powerful Israeli Politician and former chairman of the Jewish Agency for Israel.

Sharansky was born in the Soviet Union and became known as one of the founders of and spokesmen for the Jewish and Refusenik movements in Moscow.

In March 1977, he was arrested, and in July 1978, convicted on charges of treason and spying for the United States and sentenced to 13 years of forced labor. After 16 months of incarceration, he was sent to a Siberian labor camp, where he served for nine years. The fate of Sharansky and other political prisoners in the USSR — repeatedly brought to international attention by Western human rights groups and diplomats — was a cause of embarrassment and irritation for the Soviet authorities. In 1986, he was released to East Germany and led across a bridge to West Berlin where he was exchanged for a pair of Soviet spies. Famed for his resistance in the Gulag, he was told upon his release to walk straight towards his freedom; Sharansky instead walked in a zigzag in a final act of defiance.

In 1986, Congress granted him the Congressional Gold Medal. In 2006, President George W. Bush awarded him the Presidential Medal of Freedom at a Chanukah reception at the White House. After the event, Sharansky attended a reception at the Israeli embassy, where he told a story about one particular Chanukah he had spent in prison.

During the year in question, Sharansky celebrated the first few nights of Chanukah with some non-Jewish prisoners who helped him create a menorah and some candles. However, eventually the prison guards confiscated his menorah and candles, and he was forbidden to celebrate the holiday further on the theory that a prison is not a synagogue. Sharansky promptly went on a hunger strike. He told the audience that he wouldn’t have done so if he had not already started celebrating the holiday, but once you exercise a freedom you cannot give it back.

Fortunately, the prison officials were expecting the visit of state inspectors from Moscow and did not want Sharansky to be on a hunger strike when the visitors arrived. So, the head of the prison asked him what it would take to get him to stop. Sharansky said he would eat only if he were allowed to celebrate the one remaining night of Chanukah. Sharansky also insisted that he be permitted to do it in the chief’s office (a much warmer place than Sharansky’s freezing quarters), that the chief bow his head while Sharansky prayed and that he say “amen” with Sharansky at the end. The chief asked how long this would take. Sharansky assured him it would not take long.

The chief agreed and the menorah appeared. Sharansky then said a lengthy prayer, part of which he made up, and which he repeated to keep the service going as long as possible. Since he was praying in Hebrew, the prison chief didn’t realize that Sharansky was repeating himself. Soon wax from the candles was dripping onto the chief’s beautiful desk.

At the end, Sharansky prayed that he would soon be able to celebrate Chanukah with his family in Jerusalem and added, “May the day come when all our enemies, who today plan our destruction, will stand before us and hear our prayers and say ‘amen.’” On cue, the chief, relieved that the service had finally ended, echoed “Amen.”

As we celebrate the end of Chanukah, may we take with us a story, a story of the Maccabees, or the story of Natan Sharansky, or your own personal Chanukah story, offered as hope that its light will stay with us long past the holiday season.

“No Wasted Words”

Parshah Devarim | Deuteronomy 1:1-3:22

As Published in the Jewish News

How many of you check your email from your phone? Or communicate with others using WhatsApp? Facebook Messenger? GroupMe? How many send communications via Twitter or Instagram? One of the results of the ease with which we can communicate is that our words and conversations can lose their impact. Every day we are bombarded with words. We receive junk mail and email and are constantly being solicited by telephone. The Information Age is in danger of turning into a wilderness of wasted words. No wonder so many of us claim that we don’t hear God calling.

The final book of the Torah, which bears the name of this week’s parshah, has no wasted words. It consists of Moses’ final speeches to the Israelites. It begins: “These are the words that Moses spoke to all Israel.” Traditional commentators take great pains to point out that Moses, one of the first to take the call with God, initially said, “I am not a man of words,” yet proved to be a great orator in the final chapters of his legacy.

It is interesting to note that the Book of Devarim, Deuteronomy, is linguistically linked to its predecessor, Bemidbar, the Book of Numbers. They both share the same Hebrew root davar. Bemidbar is a book about growth and chaos. It is in the midbar, the wilderness, that the Israelites rebel: We challenge Moses and even God’s authority. In Bemidbar we are presented with a Moses who exhibits great fluctuations of temper and temperament. He negotiates and manipulates. He is alternately filled with cockiness and self-doubt. He is a tortured soul. Anger and insecurity cause him to lose everything he holds dear. His words alternately burn with despair and compassion.

Devarim, on the other hand, is a book that brings closure. The Moses we see in Devarim has gone through a radical transformation. He now understands that his days are numbered. Self-pity has given way to self-awareness. Every moment and every word must count as he coaches, cajoles, chastises and cheers his people on, on the eve of their entrance into the Promised Land.

Put in the language of the great 20th century philosopher Martin Buber, the midbar, as featured in Bemidbar, is the realm of the “It”–of daily transactional interaction. Devarim, on the other hand, is the realm of the “Eternal Thou”–of meaningful and life-changing connection to one another and to God.

Like Moses and the Israelites, each of us must travel through our own midbar in order to fully understand our role in life. As we grow as human beings, our task is to understand that life is a process of becoming aware of and accepting our limitations and gifts. Some of us never leave the midbar: We remain trapped in the seductive cycle of becoming and never fully emerge into the realm of Devarim. Most of us (most of the time) fluctuate between the two realms–shifting between higher and lower arenas of consciousness and connection. Our goal in life should be to constantly seek to make our words and our deeds reflect the potential for holiness that God has given us by creating us in the divine image. Like Moses, we should strive to understand that there are no wasted words. Every conversation and each connection that we can make with one another provides us with the opportunity to experience holiness. Only then will we be ready for the call from God to “Do Jewish.”

“God’s Face”

Parshah Naso Numbers 4:21-7:89

As Published in the Jewish News

The most famous, and perhaps the most beautiful passage in the Torah, is the Priestly blessing, which falls in the middle of this week’s Torah portion:

May the Lord bless you and guard you.

May the Lord cause His face to shine upon you and be gracious to you.

May the Lord lift His face upon you and grant you peace. (Numbers 6:24-26)

In looking closer at this beautiful text, we notice that God’s holy name appears in each of the three stanzas. In addition, the only term repeated in the blessing is the word “face.” In Hebrew, the word for face is panim. In this blessing, the word is panav which means “His face.” We ask God to cause His face to shine upon us, and then to lift up His face to us.

But does God have a face?

Of course this is a metaphor. God has no body, no outstretched arm nor mighty hand, no nose to smell nor voice to speak and, certainly, no face — at least in a physical sense. When the Bible uses such terms, it is anthropomorphizing aspects of God’s reality, using physical terms to describe the unphysical. So, what do we mean by a face, whether God’s or ours?

The first insight comes from the Hebrew. Panim is always in the plural, literally “faces.” In Hebrew, you cannot have a single face; there must always be more than one. Perhaps the reason is that none of us has just one face. We present the world with a certain face when we are happy, another when we are angry, another when we are frightened, and another when we are sad. We often present one face to the world and another to our family. Perhaps we have one face for business and another for pleasure.

Each of us has many faces. Therefore, face in Hebrew is always plural.

Another reason why face is always plural is that faces always come in pairs. Two people meet face to face. The word “face” is about an encounter with another. My face comes into being when it meets another face, when I really stand in the presence and see the other. To quote the old hit song, “It takes two baby, it takes two, me and you.” My face exists to encounter the face of my fellow.

Humans need other humans, and need to be fully present. We must be able to see the other, to be open while confronting the other. Our very being is defined in relationship to others, and by being in the presence of others.

Being face to face is vital for our relationships. Spouses, and partners, need and deserve time with one another, face to face without distraction. Children have a vital need for their parents’ ongoing presence. Even in business settings, there is nothing more frustrating than talking to someone who is preoccupied by papers on the desk, phone interruptions or having their camera turned off on Zoom. People deserve our presence and full attention and we feel that through someone’s face.

And so it is with God. God does not have a face in any literal sense. But God has a presence. There are moments in our lives when we feel we are living in the very presence of our Creator, when God’s presence is shining upon us, when God lifts up that presence and brings us peace.

The Priestly Blessing, which we read again in this week’s Torah portion, invokes in us a sense of God’s presence. As humans we need God. And perhaps equally important, God needs us. But each of us can feel the reality of God’s presence. May we all be lifted up and blessed by God and through each other’s presence.

“‘Touching’ lives in a pandemic”

Parshah Shmini Leviticus 9:1-11:47

As Published in the Jewish News

There has been much emphasis during this pandemic on staying away from one another, keeping our hands clean and not touching public doors or surfaces.

Perhaps it is no coincidence that in this week’s Torah and Haftorah portions we read about three strange deaths. Nadab and Abihu, Aaron’s sons, die a mysterious death when they offer — as the text cryptically states — “strange fire.” In the Haftorah, Uzzah, who is helping to move the Ark to Jerusalem, also dies of an unexplained reason. When the cart carrying the Ark nearly topples over, Uzzah reaches out to prevent the Ark from falling. When his hand touches the Ark, he dies instantly.

He “touched” the Ark and died instantly. Oy!

I recall a sign on my rabbi’s desk growing up that said: “Think!” At the time, I understood the instruction to be “think before you speak,” but now I see a deeper meaning: “You are here to enhance thinking, both yours and mine.”

Today, I believe that it means we can internalize instruction to think of the power and effect of our words before we share them and then let healthy thinking guide our actions into the world as we “touch” the lives of others.

I was thinking about how we can touch the lives of others recently as I studied with a young student talking about our responsibility for “doing Jewish.” She offered a very creative definition of a mitzvah as an action that makes someone smile. We spoke about the need for both the giver and the recipient to smile, and to take the smile out the door.

She then thoughtfully asked about people who might not be in the mood to smile: someone who is ill in the hospital or who has been touched by the death of a loved one, someone who has received bad news or even someone who has a family member in the armed forces abroad. My observation to this young woman was that a smile does not always come from the face, but from the heart.

People who have been in the hospital or members of their family have told me years later about people who touched their lives during a very difficult episode in life. Even if the heartfelt smile does not come at the time, a smile is planted deep within the soul as one remembers even the smallest acts of kindness: a telephone call, a visit, a quick note, a cooked meal.

Imagine what this world would be like if we concentrated on creating inner smiles every time we interacted with others. The key to opening the door to a brighter future is not so much the smile we share during an interaction, but the one we carry within us when it is over.

Our Jewish heritage teaches that even the most vehement disagreements can melt into wholeness and holiness when we walk away feeling good about how we touched the life of the other and how they touched ours. The power of a smile on one’s face is incredible, but the power of a smile in one’s soul is beyond imagination. It certainly is a goal worth striving for.

Even during a pandemic, we can act to touch the lives of others when we think and inspire thinking; we can smile to create smiles in others and be peaceful to help create peace. This, too, is doing Jewish.

“How do we complain … in a healthy way? “

Parshah Beshalach Exodus 13:17-17:16

As Published in the Jewish News

Jews love to complain.

That has been true throughout Jewish history, and especially when it comes to Jewish humor. It reminds me of the one about two old Jewish men who are sitting on a park bench. One looks at the other and says, “Oy.” The other looks back and says, “Oy.” This is repeated again and again until the first man says, “I thought we weren’t going to talk politics today.”

Kvetching. Complaining. This is the constant theme in the story of the Exodus and the wandering in the wilderness. It starts in this week’s Torah portion when the Israelites start complaining, whining and grumbling immediately after gaining their freedom.

I can understand frustration. I am frustrated that we are still in this pandemic and we are struggling to flatten the curve. I am frustrated that our children cannot live the normalcy we all want for them. I am frustrated when items at the grocery store sell out because there is a panic.

So how can we let the complaining out in a healthy way?

Sarah Hurwitz describes in her book “Here All Along” a form of Chasidic prayer called Hitbodedut. It refers to a practice of self-secluded Jewish meditation popularized by Rebbe Nachman of Breslov.

The practice, as he taught, is an unstructured, spontaneous and individualized form of prayer and meditation through which each individual establishes a close, personal relationship with God through a free-flowing monologue. While some people go out into the woods and make a primal scream, Jews — at least Jews who are students of this practice — go out into the wilderness and kvetch.

Not only kvetch, but thank, question, plead, wonder, acknowledge and unload without stopping to think or formulate your thoughts. You just talk to God. It’s a stream of consciousness that takes some practice. It can be incredibly cathartic and remarkably revealing of your inner thoughts and feelings.

It’s not unlike the famous Jewish folk story of the young uneducated shepherd who comes to the synagogue to pray. Not knowing the prayers of the established liturgy, he sits in the back row and sings the alphabet over and over again. The men of the synagogue confront him: “Why do you disturb our prayers with your gibberish?”

The boy explains, “I don’t know the prayer. But I wish to thank God for my sheep and the stream, for the warmth of the sun and the silver moon that keeps me company when I sleep. I only know the alphabet and surely God can put the letters in the correct order to make the prayers.”

Ashley Southard, a local marriage and family therapist, in an iGen Parenting session last spring, encouraged us to care of our mental health during this unprecedented time. She offered numerous suggestions and helpful coping mechanisms. “In this worrying and frightening time, give voice, actual voice, to your thoughts and feelings, your fears and your anxieties,” she said. “Say them to your family members. Write them in a journal. Express them through art.”

Great advice. And, I would add, share them with God. Not to change God, not to stop the virus, but to change yourself. To give you insight and courage, patience and perspective, confidence and hope and calm and gratitude. In doing so, you might just find your prayers — not those in a prayer book or on a computer screen — but the prayers that are deep in your soul.

Go out into the desert, where they tell us the virus is not as communicable outside, and talk to God. Cry to God, be silent with God. It’s all prayer, and it all helps. I know it is helping me; I pray that it will help you.

“We can make that change”

Parshah Vayera Genesis 18:1-22:24

As Published in the Jewish News

In the year 1054, there was a huge supernova explosion, an explosion that eventually became the crab nebula. Astronomers in places as far flung as China, Japan, Arabia and even the Americas recorded the event. Yet strangely, there is no record of this gigantic event anywhere in Europe. How could that be? Is it possible that Europeans did not see it?

One probable explanation is that such an event went against the mindset of Europeans, under the influence of Aristotle and the Catholic Church. To these Europeans, the heavens were rotating spheres that were unchangeable. Heavenly bodies did not explode; they simply circled the Earth for eternity. Such an explosion would go against their very belief system and due to this belief system, Europeans did not “see” it.

What we believe affects how we see the world. We learn this same lesson from the story of Hagar and Ishmael in this week’s Torah portion. Depending on how we translate the text, Sarah fears that Ishmael either will be a bad influence on Isaac or actually hurt him. At Sarah’s urging, Abraham expels the child and his mother from his tent.

Hagar and Ishmael wander in the harsh wilderness. They quickly run out of water, and Hagar despairs. She is convinced that there is no water in the wilderness and that the two of them will die of thirst. Ishmael is crying, and she cannot bear the thought of watching him die. She sets him down under a bush, so he will be hidden from her view, and removes herself a good distance. God hears the cries of young Ishmael, and God opens Hagar’s eyes. She now sees that right before her is a well of water. It was there all along, but Hagar did not see it. The boy is saved and will grow up to be a leader of a great nation of his own.

The question is, why did Hagar not see the well of water that was right in front of her? Why did God have to open her eyes? Perhaps she was so convinced that everything was lost, that her son would die, that her mind would not allow her to see the water.

The Talmud says “a man is shown only what is suggested by his own thoughts” (Berakhot 55b). Too often we do not see what is really there, but rather we see what our mind suggests is there.

In the same way God opened Abraham’s eyes to see that there was only one God who is the Creator of all. God opened our ancestors’ eyes through the Exodus experience to see the meaning of freedom and of covenant.

When our eyes are opened — when we can recognize that what we are seeing is in our mind and is not (or does not need to be) reality — we experience a paradigm shift. From that moment, we never see the world the same again.

The founding of this country was such a moment, when we came to realize that freedom requires a government that is in Lincoln’s words, “of the people, by the people and for the people.”

So, if it is true — as the Torah teaches through Hagar — that we see only what our mind sees, how does this impact our daily lives?

First, knowing the power of the mind to shape our perceptions can free us from being trapped by the past and make us receptive to new and higher truths. Never assume that the world is as you see it.

Second, having been set free from the shackles of our preconceptions, we can allow our minds to imagine worlds different from what we see. We can lift ourselves up above our current reality and choose to see the world differently. When we make that choice, we become empowered to change the world to match our new vision.

May we learn to be open to seeing the world in new and unexpected ways. May we strive to see the world as it should be and to do our part to make it so. That’s doing Jewish.

Rabbi Schneider discusses “Faith Communities During a Pandemic” as a guest speaker on NPR KJZZ’s “The Show”

Click the video below to listen

An important Message from the Rabbi regarding High Holy Days with Temple Kol Ami.

Dear Temple Kol Ami Family,

There is an ancient Jewish principle described by the Hebrew word, keiruv, which means drawing close. This principle inspires us to ask how…how do we draw ourselves closer to Torah and Doing Jewish? How do we draw one another closer to the community? How do we help each other get closer to what is holy? How can we be magnets that help connect people to the core values that guide our lives? And in this time, how can we draw close, when science tells us we have to stay far away?

My hope and dreams have always been to draw people closer to each other and to community, but these times urge us to do so safely. That is why, in consultation with the Board of Trustees, I have reached the very difficult decision to celebrate with you ONLINE for High Holy Days this year. Our community, like so many others, will bring in the new year together with every hope and prayer for renewal, forgiveness, good health and peace without an in-person gathering.

The entire TKA Staff is currently hard at work preparing a meaningful and memorable High Holy Day experience for all of our members. We will provide easy-to-use information and guides well in advance so that your sanctuary at home will be your sacred space for you and your family, including young children and teens.

I recognize that there is pain, sadness, and loss that comes with hearing and reading this decision as we face our new reality. And yet, we have hope – hope in those who have been blessed with divine wisdom to find a treatment and a vaccine so we can return to our sacred place and reconnect in person. Together, we have worked so hard over the years to create a powerful community. That power transcends distancing, masking and online gatherings. The mitzvah of pikuach nefesh-saving a life, takes precedent over Shabbat and every other commandment. It drives us to recognize that when we go out in public, we are responsible for the health and safety of others. We want to draw close and we have to find the safest ways possible to create community and add meaning to our lives.

Thank you for your trust and confidence as Temple Kol Ami continues to go from strength to strength.

I hope you will continue to connect with us online for Shabbat services through the next few months and reserve the special time for you and your family to join us for the High Holy Days. More information will be communicated in the next few weeks by mail and email about how you will participate in the High Holy Day Services including Yizkor and our Memorial Book.

When we rejoice together as a community, we say “L’chaim – To life!” and in these challenging moments, we hope and pray that together we can celebrate and say “L’chaim” to all that we know and love about our community. Please continue to have a safe and healthy summer.

Rabbi Schneider

“Don’t Wait Till It Is Too Late: Sharing Messages of Authenticity, Vulnerability, and Meaningful Connection.”

“Helping the greater community: What is our responsibility as Reform Jews?”

“George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, and the Value and Dignity of Every Human Life”

“A God that feels is a God that cares: Wrestling with the Text”

Parsha Yitro, Exodus 18:1-20:23

As Published in the Jewish News

Every year, when these two verses of the Torah come back around, I wrestle with them. This year, let’s wrestle with the verses together: You shall not bow down to them or serve them — for I the Eternal your God am an impassioned God, visiting the guilt of the parents upon the children, upon the third and upon the fourth generations of those who reject Me, but showing kindness to the thousandth generation of those who love Me and keep My commandments (Exodus 20:5-6).

These verses of Torah are so striking because it appears as though these verses portray a God of limited compassion. Even worse, God seems to punish people who are guilty only by virtue of lineage. Where is the God who gives individual freedom along with individual responsibility? What do we do with these verses in our tradition?

Many translations (i.e., Hertz, Alter, Fox, RSV and King James) render the translation of our “impassioned God” as “jealous God.” So, let’s ask ourselves: Is God vengeful or just envious? Always when struggling with a Torah verse, we turn to the 12th-century Torah commentator Rashi. He also interprets the Hebrew to mean jealous, but he is careful to note that God is not jealous in the same way that a human is jealous. Such typical understandings of jealousy, he says, are human frailties. Rather, God is seeking to exact punishment for idolatry, specifically.

OK, so let’s take Rashi’s teaching and play it out. What about the idea that subsequent generations of idolaters are punished? Do they not have an opportunity to make their own religious choices? According to Targum Onkelos, “of those who reject Me” refers to those subsequent generations only if the children also transgress God’s commandments. In this reading, the text speaks to the powerful influence of parents on their children’s behavior, rather than children’s reward and punishment based on the actions of their parents.

And, Modern Torah commentator Rabbi Plaut notes that “visiting the guilt” can mean “remembering.” Perhaps. God does not explicitly punish future generations for the previous one’s sins, but does hold something of a grudge. This plays into guilt by association that occurs within families or peer groups or faith communities adversely affected by the perverse actions of an individual member. We live in a world of interdependence, of invisible connections that refuse to allow any one of us to live a life of solitary confinement. For example, the manner in which we relate to our natural environment has consequences that extend at least to the third and fourth generation.

So, is this text a threat meant to frighten us or a promise intended to guide us, or both? Sometimes we act out of fear. Other times we act out of love. Apparently, one divine strategy is to do whatever is necessary to produce the desired result. I believe the God of the Torah relates to us by taking on human emotions, in part because we respond to emotional appeals. If Torah is designed to speak to us, then it must speak in languages that we understand, and prominent, if not preeminent among them is the language of emotion. A God that feels is a God that cares.

I believe the lesson is good influence endures much longer than an evil one. These verses of Torah remind us that our reputation, for good and for bad, precedes us. Too many people have a long memory for the mistakes of others, longer than for the virtues of others. God is qualitatively different from human beings. God’s attribute of mercy outweighs God’s attribute of justice. And that is a wrestling match that results in (more) blessings.

“It’s how you live, not how you die”

Parshat Chayei Sara Genesis 23:1-25:18

As Published in the Jewish News

“Just a little perspective”

Parshat Ha’Azinu Deuteronomy 32:1-32:52

As Published in the Jewish News

“What quest are you on?”

Parashat Emor, Leviticus 21:1 – 24:23

As Published in the Jewish News

“Slow down and enjoy the beauty around you”

Parshat Pekudei, Exodus 38:21–40:38

As Published in the Jewish News

Do you remember the famous Pulitzer Prize-winning social experiment when Washington Post writer Gene Weingarten enlisted renowned violinist Joshua Bell? A winner of the Avery Fisher Prize for outstanding achievement in classical music, Bell, who regularly undertakes more than 200 international engagements a year, spent part of a morning playing incognito at the entrance to a Washington Metro station during a morning rush hour. Weingarten set up the event “as an experiment in context, perception and priorities — as well as an unblinking assessment of public taste.” He wondered, “In a banal setting at an inconvenient time, would beauty transcend?”

So, on Jan. 12, 2007, about 1,000 morning commuters passing through the L’Enfant Plaza Station of the subway line in Washington, D.C., were, without publicity, treated to a free mini-concert performed by Bell, who played for approximately 45 minutes, performing six classical pieces (two of which were by Bach) on his handcrafted 1713 Stradivarius violin (for which Bell reportedly paid $3.5 million).

As Weingarten described the crux of the experiment: “Each passerby had a quick choice to make, one familiar to commuters in any urban area where the occasional street performer is part of the cityscape: Do you stop and listen? Do you hurry past with a blend of guilt and irritation, aware of your cupidity but annoyed by the unbidden demand on your time and your wallet? Do you throw in a buck, just to be polite? Does your decision change if he’s really bad? What if he’s really good? Do you have time for beauty? Shouldn’t you? What’s the moral mathematics of the moment?”

Three days earlier, Bell had played to a full house at Boston’s Symphony Hall, where fairly good seats went for $100. But on this day, he collected just $32.17 for his efforts, contributed by a mere 27 of 1,097 passing travelers. Only seven people stopped to listen, and just one of them recognized the performer.

The Washington Post reported that people said they were busy, had other things on their mind. Some who were on cell phones spoke louder as they passed Bell to compete with the so-called “racket.” Many were listening to an iPod.

Ironically, one person reported that he was listening to a song about the woman of his dreams, but couldn’t express the depth of his feelings for her if she were standing in front of him. He had to lose her to realize it. This social experiment was about failing to see the beauty of what’s plainly in front of our eyes.

If we can’t take the time out of our lives to stay a moment and listen to one of the best musicians on Earth play some of the best music ever written, if the surge of modern life so overpowers us that we are deaf and blind to something like that — then what else are we missing?

I think we do miss a lot in our rushed world. And it’s hard because we have jobs to keep, bills to pay, children to carpool and errands to run. And it usually has to be done … now.

But “thank God” for Shabbat. Thank God because we have been given one day, every week of the year, where we get a chance to slow down and take the time to appreciate what is right in front of us. But what about the six other days of the week? What are we missing? We all need to remind ourselves, myself included, to slow down everyday, even if it is for a moment, and look up and notice what’s around us so we can appreciate it. Whether it’s a violin concerto in a subway system or noticing beautiful architecture or art on the wall, we must try to remember to stop and see the beauty around us. Hear the music, see the world, feel the presence of our fellow human beings. When we let that in, we gain a piece of the divine and then we can truly appreciate the gift of life that we have.

“How do you see God in everything?”

Parshat Terumah, Exodus 25:1–27:19

As Published in the Jewish News

One of my students recently asked me, “You always say God is everywhere, but sometimes I find it hard to see. How do you see God in everything?” I have been thinking about this question a lot, especially since we read in this week’s Torah portion, “And let them make for Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them” (Exodus 25:8).

Why did the Israelites even need a sanctuary in the first place? Was it hard for the Israelites to see God everywhere? After all, they had just witnessed the miracles and wonders of the 10 plagues and the crossing of the Reed Sea. What other physical evidence did they need?

Luckily, this question has troubled thoughtful people of all religions for many centuries. It is the kind of question that people usually answer by writing a book, not answer on one foot, caught off-guard. But here, in a nutshell, is my more thoughtful answer:

It’s true that Jewish tradition teaches that God is in everything, that God’s presence pervades the universe — that there is nothing, in fact, that is not God. Yes, that means God is in something as mundane as a vacuum cleaner or as painful as the loss of a childhood pet or arguments between parents and children.

I do believe that God is evident in the beauty, order, elegance and coherence of the natural world. It is easy to feel a sense of awe when you see one of those spectacular Phoenix sunsets or stand at the rim of the Grand Canyon. What is hard is to see God in things that are ordinary or ugly or evil!

Here is where I, and some contemporary theologians, differ with our tradition. Instead of beginning with the assumption that God pervades all reality, I ask myself: Where is God in this situation? Sometimes the answer is clear to me. The vacuum cleaner is fashioned by human beings using their God-given gift of intelligence to do something useful in the world. God is not the one who made the machine, but God is the one who implants a spark of curiosity in the human mind, and the drive to create and figure things out and make things better.

What about when our pet dies? Where is God in that situation? God is present in the process of personal grieving, when we remember the positive memories of snuggling with our pets. And God is present when we choose to love again and continue to go on with our lives.

I believe, as well, that God is present when we as parents and children fight. Even though we may disagree from time to time, and say things that are hurtful and we don’t mean it, God’s love is found in the reconciliation process — when we say we are sorry. God’s love is conveyed in the unconditional love between parents and children; the sort of love that is impenetrable to anger and hurtful words.

Human beings, says a Chasidic teaching, are the language of God. God communicates through us; God acts through us; God comes into the world through our actions. So if we are there, doing our best to be there for each other and do justice and create beauty and make peace, then God is there. And the opposite is also true. If a situation is empty of human care and concern, then as far as I am concerned, God is absent as well.

So in the end, it all depends on us

“Please, what is time?”

Parshat Vayigash, Genesis 44:18-47:27

As Published in the Jewish News

As I write this, I am, again, in Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates, at the Fifth Forum for Promoting Global Peace. I am continuing to build bridges with Muslim, Christian and Jewish faith leaders from Phoenix, the United States, and religious leaders and scholars from around the world (but that is an article for another day).

Earlier today, I was sitting at a table with religious leaders from Africa. My new friend, pointing to his bare wrist, asked me, “Please, what is time?” It was a nice exchange: I gave him the time, and he gave me this article.
“Please, what is time?” What indeed is time? Time is perhaps the one thing in the world of which the most use is made and of which the least is known. Regardless of our concept of time, our perception of time is usually negative. We allow it to exercise control over our lives. “Time to go to bed,” “Time to get up,” “Time to take a shower,” “Time to go to work or to school,” “Time to mow the lawn, to go to the dentist, to catch a plane.” And then, “Time to retire.”

We often say, “Time flies when you are having fun.” (Or as Kermit the Frog might say, “Time is fun when you are having flies.”) Time drags when you are bored; and things are timely, timeless or time worn.

In this week’s Torah portion, Vayigash, when Jacob and his family arrived in Egypt, Joseph brought Jacob, his father, to meet Pharaoh. The first words Pharaoh said to Jacob were: “How many are the days of the years of your life?” (Genesis 47:8) Of all the things that Pharaoh could ask Jacob, why did he first want to know how old Jacob was? Or did he?

I do not think Pharaoh really cared to know Jacob’s chronological age. Rather, Pharaoh wanted to know how many days that Jacob actually felt alive in his life. Just how many days were there where Jacob lived life to its fullest?

Muhammad Ali is famously quoted as saying, “Don’t count the days, make the days count.” What is fascinating to consider is that each of us gets the same amount of time each day. It doesn’t matter how rich or poor we are. It doesn’t matter how young or old we are. It doesn’t matter what continent you live on or whether you live in the city or the country. Each person on planet Earth gets the exact same amount of time each day. It is what we do with our time that differs. And isn’t it amazing that two different people can make such different use of the same amount of time. Benjamin Franklin said, “Lost time is never found again.” And it’s true. The Earth spins round, and when the day is done, the day is gone. You never get it back. There are only so many hours in the day.

So, from this week’s Torah portion, let us remind ourselves to learn to live in the present. Don’t waste time worrying about the future or regretting the past. You only have each moment as it comes, so make the most of each one. When you worry about the future or regret the past, you are wasting the present. There’s an old “Family Circle” comic strip by Bil Keane which says, “Yesterday’s the past, tomorrow’s the future, but today is a gift. That’s why it’s called the present.”
So, my new dear friend, that’s what time is.

“God was in this place and I did not know it.”

Parshat Vayeitzei, Genesis 28:10–32:3

As Published in the Jewish News

Over the last two years, an evangelical pastor, an imam and this rabbi have worked intentionally to create bonds of friendship through shared experiences in our community. This is not a joke. And it is not “interfaith dialogue.” It is “multifaith dialogue.” Multifaith dialogue differs from interfaith dialogue in that it allows people with deep convictions to faithfully represent what they believe, work for peace, engage in dialogue, build friendships, and not feel like they have to compromise.

Multifaith dialogue is based on common ethics and the common good, rather than common theology. We can work together for peace, justice, poverty alleviation, education, civility, strengthening neighborhoods, fighting disease, standing against terrorism and breaking down stereotypes of the “other.”

“Did Abram exist? Does it matter?“

Lech-Lecha, Genesis 12:1-17:27

As Published in the Jewish News

This Shabbat we begin reading the stories of Abram, soon to be known as Abraham. With these narratives, the story of the Jewish people begins. Over the next few weeks, we will follow the story of this biblical family as it faces a variety of crises. The remainder of the book of Genesis might be described as a family affair, with few references to public events.

These stories are not historical narratives, but rather theological legends. They are not an accurate historical account of the lives of ancient people, but a collection of stories, which attempt to present important religious and ethical teachings in a historical context.

Did Abraham exist? And does it matter? We must begin by acknowledging that any evidence outside the Bible has confirmed no specific details about the life of Abraham. There is, for example, no mention outside of the Bible of the war of the five kings against the four kings, which is recounted in Genesis 14, nor of any of the kings mentioned in the text.

Now an argument from silence does not definitively prove that these events did not occur, nor that the individuals mentioned did not exist; it is certainly possible that future archaeological discoveries will authenticate at least some of the events and persons mentioned. Despite a lack of specific references to Abraham, some scholars argue that archeology can shed light on the biblical stories.

So we must move on to the next question: Does it matter? Is it important that we are unable to historically verify the existence of Abraham? I believe that we can confidently answer “no” to both questions. As Jews, we do not look to the stories of Abraham for history; we look to these stories as the source of our religious and ethical values. We have long recognized that these stories are not historical narratives, but theological legends. The lessons that we derive from them are independent of their historicity.

Noted author and rabbi, David Wolpe, drew headlines in the Los Angeles Times by preaching in a sermon on the results of a contemporary archaeological study. He said that the Israelite Exodus from Egypt likely never occurred, that the Israelites likely originated as indigenous Canaanites who over time developed a distinctive new identity, and that the biblical stories of the Exodus under Moses and the conquest under Joshua are therefore to be understood as later, national identity-building legends. I suppose one can debate the liturgical wisdom of raising these issues precisely on Passover (one congregant is said to have complained, “It’s like a priest telling his congregation on Christmas Day that Jesus never existed”). He said, “I wanted to give my congregants tools with which to work out their own theology. My goal was to teach my congregation how to learn about its faith from modern disciplines and scientific faiths … I think faith ought not rest on splitting seas. For a Jew, it should rest on the wonder of God’s world, the marvel of the human soul, and the miracle of this small people’s survival throughout the millennia.”

While we should not ignore the scholarly debates concerning the historical nature of this material, we can rest assured that any conclusion that scholars draw will not materially affect our religious faith and practice. The stories we read about Abraham, beginning with his journey from Haran to Canaan, are powerful narratives, regardless of whether they occurred exactly as the Bible records them. They teach us and inspire us and provide the basis for our religious beliefs and practices. They provide meaningful lessons that have inspired generations of Jews, as well as non-Jews, and will no doubt continue to do so. May their messages continue to guide and teach us.

“Geologists of the Soul“

Parshats Behar-Bechukotai; Leviticus 25:1–26:2, Leviticus 26:3–27:34

As Published in the Jewish News

Just in case you were looking forward to this, the last portion of Leviticus is a bit of a downer. Actually, make that a major downer. God tells the Israelites what will happen to them if they follow God’s laws. That part is OK. It is the part about what happens if they do not follow the laws — oy!

“What is your particular calling and how are you using it?“

Torah Commentary on Parshat Vayikra, Leviticus 1:1–5:26

As Published in the Jewish News

Harvard Business School psychologist Timothy Butler writes: “There are three words that tend to be used interchangeably — and shouldn’t be. They are ‘vocation,’ ‘career’ and ‘job.’ Vocation is the most profound of the three, and it has to do with your calling. It’s what you’re doing in life that makes a difference for you, that builds meaning for you, that you can look back on in your later years to see the impact you’ve made on the world. A calling is something you have to listen for. You don’t hear it once and then immediately recognize it. You’ve got to attune yourself to the message.”

“One rabbi’s reflections on the National Prayer Breakfast“

Torah Commentary on Parshat Terumah, Exodus 25:1–27:19

As Published in the Jewish News

Last week, I was honored to be one of the representatives from Arizona at the 66th National Prayer Breakfast in Washington, D.C. As I mingled with political and religious leaders from all 50 states and 140 countries, I kept thinking of Martin Buber, who said, “All real life is meeting.” Events like the National Prayer Breakfast are so important when they allow us to set aside our particular views, come together to build meaningful relationships and celebrate diversity of religious expression. Established in 1953, the National Prayer Breakfast unites individuals of different nationalities, religions, and political perspectives through the power of prayer.

“Dispelling the dark with the lights of Chanukah“

Torah Commentary on Parshat Vayeishev, Genesis 37:1–40:23

As Published in the Jewish News

After all our efforts to separate Chanukah and Christmas, pushing back against the tide of assimilation, our constant declarations that these are completely different, unrelated, and distinct holidays, and despite their chronological proximity … it’s no accident that both holidays are celebrated at this time of year. It’s no mere coincidence that both are associated with the lighting of lights, stringing lights on trees, around homes, or placing lights in windows. Because, in fact, Christmas and Chanukah are related through a common symbol.

“Lessons learned on my trip to Morroco — there is hope”

Torah Commentary on Parshat Chayei Sarah, Genesis 23:1–25:18

As Published in the Jewish News

Last week, I traveled to Rabat, Morocco, to gather with fellow Jewish, Muslim and Christian leaders as part of an “American Caravan for Peace.” This meeting in Morocco was a follow-up experience to meetings I had in Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates, in May 2017. These difficult conversations and relationship-building exercises with faith leaders with whom I fundamentally disagree on many issues are critically important if I want to do my part to help work toward constructive paths forward together in our respective communities, even here in the Valley of the Sun.

During my visit in Morocco, I learned a lot about the Jewish community. Moroccan Jews constitute an ancient community, immigrating to the region as early as 70 CE. Until the 1950s, the majority of Morocco’s Jews were still living in Morocco. After Israel’s independence in 1948, and due to domestic strife in the 1950s, the next several decades saw waves of Jewish emigration to Israel, France and Canada. By the time of the Yom Kippur War in 1973, the majority of Morocco’s Jewish population had emigrated.

I also learned about the actions of the Moroccan King Mohammed V. During World War II, King Mohammed V kept the lives and property of the Moroccan Jews under his protection and did not subject them to the Vichy Laws. Later on, in response to anti-Jewish rhetoric in the wake of the creation of the state of Israel, Mohammed V warned Muslims not to hurt Moroccan Jews, reminding them that Jews had always been protected in Morocco.

During my time in Morocco, we traveled together, rabbis, pastors and imams, to the final resting place of King Mohammed V. We were reminded that there is and can be friendship and mutual respect between the vast majority of Jews, Muslims and Christians who advocate for religious freedom, not fanaticism.

Abraham was laid to rest by both of his sons together. There is hope for the future in this story of the past. There is hope for our future from leaders like the kings of Morocco. There is hope for the future in the meetings that are happening today between leaders of different faiths. I know this because I am taking part in it.

“Interfaith Dialogue is Tikkun Olam/Repairing the World and THAT is ‘Doing Jewish'”

“The first step toward ‘I’m sorry’ starts with ‘I’”

Torah Commentary on Leviticus 16:1–34, Leviticus 23:26–32, Numbers 29:7–11

As Published in the Jewish News

Yom Kippur is about teshuvah: looking at ourselves. It’s about asking ourselves serious questions. It’s too easy to blame someone else or define ourselves by what somebody else does or does not do.

In Rabbi Larry Kushner’s book “God Was in This Place & I, I Did Not Know,” he opens with a story about giving a class of pre-school students a tour of the sanctuary. He lost track of time and realized, as the teacher was motioning that school was almost over, that he had yet to talk about the ark.

Not wanting to rush through its sacred contents, he decided to leave it for another time. Yet later he learned from the teacher that the lack of closure on their tour left the children obsessed with what was behind the curtain.

Kushner writes, “One kid, doubtless a budding nihilist, thought it was empty. Another, apparently already a devotee of American television consumer culture, suggested that behind the curtain was ‘a brand new car!’ Another correctly guessed that it held scrolls of the Torah. But one kid, the teacher insists, said, ‘You’re all wrong. When the rabbi opens that curtain next week, there will just be a mirror.’”

That’s kind of the way I like to imagine Yom Kippur. A day where we look at ourselves. Teshuvah. Mirroring. Reflecting. Seeing yourself as you really are. The “I” that only you can see. And if we can do that, if we can look at ourselves in the mirror, if we can be honest with ourselves and accept what we see, then although it’s not clear that the universe will be appreciably better at the end of the day, it’s a good bet that we will.

Jewish tradition tells the story of a man who, so filled with a pursuit of justice, set out to repair the world. Of course, it did not take him long to realize that this was far too large a task for any one man. So he redefined his mission to his village, but there too he saw that it was beyond his capabilities. So he turned toward his family, thinking, “Surely I can bring about change in the behaviors of my wife and children,” but we know all too well the impossibility of such a task. It was then, of course, that he realized that there was only one place where he could effectively bring about change: in himself. So says our tradition: “When a man has made peace within himself, he will be able to make peace in the whole world.”

Fay Vincent, the former commissioner of Major League Baseball, once commented on the nature of the game: “Baseball teaches us how to deal with failure. We learn at a very young age that failure is the norm in baseball … errors are part of the game, part of its rigorous truth.” It’s no different with life. Being flawed is what makes us human. Our only alternative, then, is to embrace our imperfections. Admit them. Accept them.

Teshuvah expects us to seriously examine who we are. We are not good and we are not evil. Rather, we have the ability to do good and we have the ability to do evil. And when the latter happens, teshuvah is the means by which we bring about reconciliation, both with ourselves, as well as with others.

And that is how we start with “I” and end with “I’m sorry.”

“This year, put the ‘yo’ in ‘oy'”

Torah Commentary on Parshat Ki Teitzei, Deuteronomy 21:10–25:19

As Published in the Jewish News

We all have problems. The problems we face are of various kinds: personal, interpersonal, societal and global. What keeps us from confronting our problems — even when we can’t ignore them or avoid them, even when they keep getting bigger and bigger, ruining our sleep — is fear.

Fear makes us recoil; it pushes our defensive buttons; it makes us distrust others. The basic animal response to fear is fight or flight. We escape or we attack. Research at the Institute for Bio-Cultural Study of Religion at Boston University has shown that “one-third to one-half of human beings seem genetically predisposed toward emphasizing the danger of threats over the possibilities of new experiences.”

We are wired and from early on, trained to be suspicious, fearful (“don’t talk to strangers”). Anger and raw emotion rush naturally. But we also have the capacity to step back, to reflect on options and move forward. When we are open to attacks from lions and bears, fight-or-flight makes sense. But if our problems are not lions and bears; rather loss, pain and difficulty, we cannot run away.

Our faith tradition can be an antidote to fear. The most oft-repeated assurance in the Bible is “al tirah” — “do not be afraid, because I am with you.” “I am here” is God’s most reassuring response. When we visit a person in pain, or at a time of loss, we do not come to offer answers or explanations; we come to offer our presence, our care, our love, to say, “Here I am.”

Israel’s former president and prime minister, Shimon Peres (z”l — of blessed memory), even though he occupied many important positions in government, was not a successful politician. He lost many elections and was often overshadowed by his rival Yitzhak Rabin. Yet Peres endured and endeared himself, living to be the last of Israel’s founding fathers and luminaries until his death.

Peres understood that failure is something to overcome rather than to brood over; to engage rather than let it define you.

He said: “Optimists and pessimists die the exact same death, [yet] they live very different lives.”

He proposed that “when you have two alternatives, the first thing you have to do is look for the third.”

He believed that “we should use our imagination more than our memory,” and that “it is better to dream than to remember.”

Peres reminded us that “there are two things that cannot be achieved unless you close your eyes a little: love and peace. If you want perfection, you won’t obtain either of them.”

During this Hebrew month of introspection, and in tribute to Shimon Peres’ legacy, let us ask ourselves:

How will we deal with the opportunities that arise from problems?
How will we seize the possibility hidden in a difficult situation?
How will we live with problems we cannot solve but just manage?
How will we live with questions we cannot fully answer?
What will we choose to remember?
What will we dare to dream and imagine?

There is a large sculpture installed on the waterfront of Brooklyn Bridge Park. As you cross the bridge from one side of the waterfront, the sculpture reads “OY!” From the other side, it reads “YO!” When life’s oy’s come, as they inevitably will, let us respond to them with an affirmative “yo!”

And, as the High Holy Days quickly approach, let us dream, hope and imagine a new year of opportunity and possibility; a year abundant in blessings of joy, goodness and the promise of shalom. And may, this year, we all be able to put the “yo!” in the “oy!”

“We are not ‘hard of hearing,’ rather ‘hard of listening’”

Torah Commentary on Parshot Va’etchanan, Deuteronomy 3:23–7:11

As Published in the Jewish News

Alittle girl comes home from Hebrew school, eager to show her mother a drawing. Her mother is washing dishes.

“The Magic of Hershel Potter-Stein”

Torah Commentary on Korach, Numbers 16:1-17:15

As Published in the Jewish News

How many of you use magic on a daily basis? I mean, how many of you, when you wish to disarm someone, take out your wand and yell out, “Expelliarmus” or “Expecto Patronum”? Or how many of you, when you forget your keys in your car, take out your wand and say, “Abracadabra”?

A Rabbi, an Imam, and a Pastor…

As published in the Arizona Republic

Tell me if you heard this one before: A Rabbi, an Imam, and an Evangelical Pastor board a plane and fly to Abu Dhabi, the capital of the United Arab Emirates. Ok, you got me. This is no joke. At the invitation of Sheikh Bin Bayyah, of the United Arab Emirates, I and nine other rabbis, ten evangelical pastors, and ten imams were invited to Abu Dhabi in early May 2017 to gather and discuss religious freedom. For three full days we listened, probed, questioned, argued, discussed, and work-shopped an action plan for constructive paths forward in our respective communities, like here in the Valley of the Sun.

Why? Because we have a problem. We, Jews, Evangelicals and Muslims do not trust each other. We have irrational fears of each other based on misunderstandings, misconceptions and stereotypes of the other. And the first step to problem-solving is admitting it.

Stereotypes are part of life, but the level of negativity in stereotypes tends to reflect the level of tension in the society in which the stereotypes exist. When people of different cultures, religions, or nations live in fear or resentment of one another, negative stereotypes grow quickly. The emotions and stereotypes then feed off each other and the situation worsens.

The first step to break this vicious cycle is to learn about the other’s faith tradition. When we do so, we will see how we have been interconnected since the time of Abraham. We have much in common: our ancient belief in monotheism, cultural similarities, and, as minority religions in America, experiences with assimilation and discrimination.  In the 21^st century, we cannot continue to segregate ourselves in our churches, mosques and synagogues. Only through education, of ourselves and each other, can we take the necessary steps towards understanding.

The next step to better understanding is to personally experience each other by engaging in sincere and honest relationship building. One way is by breaking bread together. Over a meal, dialogue inevitably happens. Dialogue means listening and learning from the other. It does not mean seeking out the opportunity to teach or change the other. As we communicate, the misinformation we have accumulated is discarded. We recognize our own biases and build honesty, trust, and appreciation. We may still find areas of disagreement, but at least we will have first-hand knowledge of the facts.

And once we are in dialogue, important relationships begin. Trust develops. We begin to see the other when we spend time peeling back the layers of what we project out. We learn to hear the other and recognize the humanity in the other. And when this happens, when we can see and hear the other, not just as someone we tolerate, but as someone with whom we can partner, we realize the incredible impact we can do; together, right here in our shared community.

Faith traditions are ultimately about relationships. That is why the meetings in Abu Dhabi and continued relationship building here in the Valley of the Sun are so important. Many of the ideas we explored and will explore are the same…it is our perspective that is different. But by continuing the conversations, we have the opportunity to acknowledge our perspectives so that we may learn from each other. We are not trying to convince anyone of each other’s truth. We are merely sharing our perspective and working towards a common good.  If we don’t, the forces of division will win the day. I pray we will all work together, despite our theological differences, find a common moral vision, and create a world that will be stable and peaceful for future generations.

How Can Jews Be Both an Ethnic Group and a Religion?

As published in the Arizona Jewish Life Magazine

Judaism is not just a religion. Judaism is a civilization with a language, a land and a religion.

We have always been passionate about God, Holiness and Morality. In that respect, Judaism resembles a religion. But, I believe, Judaism goes well beyond that. Being a Jew involves identifying with a specific people, with their history, culture and identity. Often, Jewish religion and Jewish identity find themselves at odds. Look into, for instance, the writings of Rabbi Mordechai Kaplan, most especially his book Judaism as a Civilization to see this conflict at work.

According to Maslow, the first level in the hierarchy of needs is physiological. We have bodies, and we need basic ingredients for our bodies to survive. We need food; we need water; we need shelter. We need air to breath and a place to sleep and a way to meet our biological needs. And we need good health, the ability of our bodies to work correctly. The Rabbis recognized this idea from the very beginning. They said Im Ain Kemach Ain Torah. “Without flour, there can be no Torah.” The Baal Shem Tov tells the story of a pious man who ran a soup kitchen for the poor of the community. He provided meals, but first he had these poor people gather in a sanctuary for prayers. The Baal Shem Tov walked in on this, and challenged him. “Why are you making those hungry people pray?” The man answered, “I am worried about their souls.” The Baal Shem Tov answered, “Better you should worry about their bodies and your own soul.” Judaism is built on the idea that we need to care for the bodies of others and our own souls.

Most religions speak about compassion, feeding the hungry and helping the poor. But in a way Judaism is different. Other religions emphasize heaven, some other spiritual world. It is the spiritual that is important, not the physical. To our Christian and Muslim friends, this physical world, the world of our bodies, is an inferior world. They ask, “Will you get to heaven?” I have never seen the words on a synagogue sign, “Will you get to Heaven?” Eastern religions also de-emphasize this physical world. Buddhism teaches that this world is Duhka – suffering. We move beyond suffering by letting go of the things of this world. The goal is to live the endless circle of samsara, death and rebirth in this world, and to reach nirvana. Only Judaism teaches that this physical world is where the action is. This physical world is where we can do mitzvot.

For thousands of years, attempts have been made to define “Judaism.” The word “Judaism” denotes a full civilization; the total actualities, past and present, of the historic group of human beings known as the Jewish people. For some, Judaism may also stand for something more limited: the spiritual aspect of that civilization. Understood in this way, we understand Judaism in seven threads that cannot be untangled:

1. A doctrine concerning God, the universe and human beings;
2. A morality for the individual and society;
3. A regimen of rite, custom and ceremony;
4. A body of law;
5. A sacred literature;
6. Institutions through which “Jews” find expression;
7. A people, Israel, connected to a land.

Two thousand years ago, a pagan challenged Rabbi Hillel to summarize Judaism while he stood on one foot. Rabbi Hillel responded: “That which is hurtful to you, do not do to your neighbor. This is the whole doctrine. The rest is commentary. Now go and learn.”  In conclusion, Judaism is more than the sum of its parts.

Time Travel Through Torah

Torah Commentary on Tazria-Metzora

As published in the Jewish News

As I study Torah, I sometimes imagine myself a time traveler, trying to glean some awareness of the lives of my Israelite ancestors without the perspective of my own contemporary view of the world. This week’s torah portion, Tazria–Metzora, provides me with a challenging journey through time.

What is this talk of uncleanness following childbirth, blood purification, different time periods based on the birth of a boy or a girl, and sin offerings after the birth of a child?

Today, the birth of a child, boy or girl, is cause for rejoicing; there is no talk of uncleanness, purification, or sin offerings. But since I have traveled back through time, it is no longer “our day”; therefore, I must try to understand the meaning of these rituals in the world I have just entered.

Regarding the different time periods for boys and girls, traditional interpreters assumed that this was because the birth of a girl creates some kind of double impurity, possibly because girls contain the latent capacity for menstruation and reproduction. In the new Women’s Torah Commentary, we learn that in ancient Israel, baby girls arguably faced lives filled with more risks than did baby boys. Israel was a society in which economic value accrued primarily to sons. They remained party of their fathers’ households even when they married, inherited their families’ ancestral lands, and cared for their aging parents. In contrast, there is evidence to suggest that girls were sometimes thought of as expandable. In times of need, famine, and war, baby girls might suffer hunger and neglect, or even be abandoned and left to die.

The priestly authors seem to be concerned about this situation and try to avert such tragedies by ensuring that baby girls stay in their mothers’ protective care for an extended period of time. This not only allows mother and daughter to bond tightly, but also ensures that the child is nursed and cared for. Thus, this troubling passage can be understood not as discrimination against woman but as a way to promote God’s loving community – and to guarantee that women and men, both created in the divine image, are nurtured and protected.

The little we know of conception and pregnancy in this world of long ago makes each birth seem like a miracle. In later generations, our rabbis will speculate that the awe and mystery that surround the act of bringing forth new life, as well as God’s Presence during this miracle, demanded offerings of gratitude and thanksgiving in the form of sacrificial offerings. We see that childbirth immerses one into a different world, where recovery from the physical stresses of childbirth and the care needed by a newborn demand total attention and time away from the activities and needs of the rest of the community. Does that help to explain why a new mother is considered tamei, most often translated as “unclean”? Contact with the mikdash, the “sanctuary,” and its sacred objects and rituals requires wholehearted dedication. Can this be possible for one whose newborn child also demands total devotion? Tamei, then, no longer connotes uncleanness but a state of inaccessibility to what is considered sacred by the community as a whole.

Rabbi Judith Abrams’s study of Talmud inspired me to connect to Torah in this way. Challenging myself to see the world through a women’s point of view with the bits and pieces of text available helps me to imagine and to appreciate that world. As a Reform Jew, I am not obligated to re-create their world in my time, only to use their lives to inspire and inform my life. My brief excursion into the world of Tazria has reminded me that childbirth demands its own sacred time and space, no matter where and when it happens.

“A Facebook Discussion”

Torah Commentary on Vayikra, Leviticus 1:1-5:26

As published in the Jewish News

Even rabbis wrestle with the meanings found in the Book of Leviticus. The following is a Facebook thread I was in with a group of rabbis regarding the Torah portion, Vayikra, the beginning of the Book of Leviticus.

‘One Quarter of 1 Percent’
Torah Commentary on Lech Lecha, Genesis 12:1-17:27

as Published in the Jewish News

Miracles are, well, miraculous. In the darkest times, they represent our deepest hopes, but are contrary to our expectations. And, for the most part, they happened so long ago that the only record we have of them is a single book called the Bible that has no cross-references, no proof and no pictures. This means that those of us who like concrete scientific examples find miracles very hard to believe. We want something we can see and touch.

‘The Importance of Giving’
Arizona Jewish Life

We asked Rabbi Jeremy Schneider, the spiritual leader of Temple Kol Ami in Scottsdale and president of the Greater Phoenix Board of Rabbis, to answer questions regarding giving and Judaism.

Why is the act of giving so important in Judaism?

The obligation of giving comes from the Torah: “Tzedek, tzedek you shall pursue” (Deuteronomy 16:20). Hundreds of years later, the Talmud taught: “Tzedakah is equal to all the other commandments combined” (Bava Batra 9b). From Judaism’s perspective, therefore, one who gives tzedakah is acting justly; one who doesn’t, unjustly. And Jewish law views this lack of justice as not only mean-spirited but also illegal. Thus, throughout history, whenever Jewish communities were self-governing, Jews were assessed tzedakah just as everyone today is assessed a tax.

By way of “too much information,” let me add: the Torah legislated that Jews give 10% of their earnings to the poor every third year (Deuteronomy 26:12), and an additional percentage of their income annually (Leviticus 19:9-10). Hundreds of years later, after the Temple was destroyed and the annual tithe levied upon each Jew for the support of the priests and Levites was suspended, the Talmud ordered that Jews were to give at least 10% of their annual net earnings to tzedakah (Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, Laws Concerning Gifts to the Poor, 7:5)

Is there a difference between doing tzedakah and giving to a charity?

Our tradition has built an edifice of law and practice and tradition to express this notion of giving and taking. It is called tzedakah, which is often translated as “charity.” The truth, though, is that it is not charity. Charity comes from the word meaning “affection” or “love.” Now, while there may be affection and love in tzedakah – the word tzedakah comes from the Hebrew word that means “righteousness.” Doing tzedakah is engaging in a righteous act, whether we are feeling charitable or not.

How has the culture of giving in Judaism changed from the past to present day? Are there different trends (i.e., synagogues, Jewish organizations, Israel, Soviet Jews, Darfur, abused children, food banks)?

Sure there are different trends – look at Jewish federations! And with the internet, etc., we tend to give directly to those causes we choose – it’s true not just with Jewish life.

What advice do you give to people who aren’t financially able to give?

Give of the heart. The true gifts of our hearts, what I call the three Ss: soulfulness, supportiveness and being surrounded by community.

Those who suffer understand the importance of being understood. They need others to be soulful; soulful of their own blessings, soulful of their gifts, soulful of the words they utter and soulful that though misery may love company, those in pain need respect and love to give them strength to break out. That is the tzedakah of the heart.

Maimonides tells us, “If a poor person requests money from you, and you have nothing to give him, speak to him consolingly.” This is like the story of a beggar who asked a man for money. The man had no money to give to the beggar, so he said to the beggar, “Brother, I have nothing to give you.” The beggar thanked the man. The man asked, “Why did you thank me? I have given you nothing?” The beggar responded, “You called me brother.”

We need to be supportive even if we are sometimes disinclined to be, for we don’t know how the tzedakah from our heart will change a life. There is the story from the Talmud about Rabbi Tarfon, who was the wealthiest rabbi of the Talmudic era and, interestingly enough, not in the habit of giving substantially to the poor. The Talmud tells the story this way:

One time, Rabbi Akiva asked him: “Would you like me to be your agent in buying a town or two?” “Certainly,” replied Rabbi Tarfon. Rabbi Tarfon then brought 4,000 gold dinars, which Rabbi Akiva took and distributed to the poor. Sometime later, Rabbi Tarfon sought out Rabbi Akiva and asked him: “Where are the towns that you bought for me?” Rabbi Akiva took him by the hand and brought him to the school that the money had built. A student quoted a verse from Psalms that says, “Happy is the one who gives freely to the poor; his tzedakah lasts forever.” Rabbi Akiva said: “This is the property which I bought for you.” Rabbi Tarfon hugged Rabbi Akiva and said: “You are my teacher and my leader, a real rabbi to me.”

I love that story. Rabbi Akiva was gentle, he was loving, he was respectful and instead of telling Tarfon what he needed to do, he led him to a place that changed the lives of so many for so many generations and changed Tarfon’s life as well.

And, finally, the tzedakah of the heart which is expressed in community. When we suffer, we have an instinctive need to feel protected and warmed and told that we are loved. I am amazed at some of the letters of appreciation that we get at the temple because of the efforts of our front office, our staff, our tzedakah projects and so forth. It is incredible to know how much the gifts of our hearts bring comfort and joy.

Tzedakah is not limited to the giving of money, although that is certainly part of it. Our real tzedakah is the gift that comes from the need we feel deep inside to want to give a gift, no matter how small or how insignificant we may think it is.

‘Learning From the Past’
Ha’azinu, Deuteronomy 32:1-32:52

Years ago, while in Israel, I visited Jordan. My last stop was Mount Nebo, which according to tradition is the site of Moses’ death and burial. I stood gazing toward a distant Israel barely visible through the afternoon haze.

‘Give a Spiritual Bandage to Those Around You’
Korach, Numbers 16:1-18:32

This week’s portion is arguably one of the most disturbing in the entire Torah. In the portion, Korach, a Levite, along with Datan and Aviram, and 250 chieftains, rebel against Moses. They question Moses’ authority and question who has entitled Moses to speak on behalf of the Israelite people.