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My Sermon for Yom Kippur Morning 5782 – The Great Release: 7 Lessons of Shmita in an Age of Pandemic and Climate Change

When September came, it brought a wave of cool air and clear skies. Bring on apple picking, crisp fall days, and campfire nights! While I managed to squeeze a lot of fun into the summer, I was happy to turn my back on the terrible heat and humidity, and constant storms that often came with flash flood and tornado warnings, ominous signs of climate change and a warming planet.

Like so many of you, I just want release and relief from the enormity of the problems that face us. I worry what kind of life and what kind of planet my children will inherit. We have never truly been the masters of our own fates, but during more stable times we could pretend that we were, at least for stretches of time. We could embark on a career, and plan for our future. We could extract resources from our Mother Earth, and pretend that she could give endlessly. We could elect a new president, and expect a peaceful transition. We could anticipate a vacation, and assume it would happen. We could prepare High Holiday services without multiple contingencies!

But our world has been rocked to its very foundations. This past year, the pandemic upended our ability to plan, and feel safe in so many settings we took for granted only a short while ago. Political instability has riven our democracy and society. And climate catastrophe is rapidly overtaking us, shattering – almost unimaginably – even our ability to trust in the flow of the seasons.

We find ourselves living in extremely disorienting and challenging times. We didn’t want this to be so, nor did most of us expect such a rapid unraveling, but here we are. How in heaven’s name do we move forward?
During the High Holidays we pray that God will help us return. Return us from climate disaster, return us from illness and fear.

But the High Holidays do not promise us a return to normalcy, or to the past. They urge us to wake up to the urgency of the present moment, and the call of the future. These holidays, alas, are not “feel good” celebrations. More than at any other time of the year, the High Holidays urge us to awaken to awe – to the amazingness of life on this planet, but also to how fragile and precious it is. These Days of Awe come to tell us – just as people are constantly changing, the world is changing too. Our work in this season is to awaken to this changing present and future.

But it isn’t just the High Holidays; the whole of Jewish tradition and practice is centered around humility in face of change. It is built into the very rhythm of our existence, our calendar, the cycles of our seasons.

Take Shabbat. Long before the existence of the modern labor movement, the Torah taught us that every seventh day we are required to cease from labor and to relinquish control over those who work for us, both human and animal. Every seventh day we reset our awareness, so that we would remember that we are distinct human beings apart from our achievements, created by God, and that we are fortunate recipients of life, not lords of this earthly domain.

More dramatically, every seventh year our ancestors in the land of Israel observed a sabbatical year. In Hebrew this year is called a Shmita year.
The word shmita itself means to “release,” as in opening up a clenched hand to free what is held there.” Leviticus 25:2-4 states: “The earth shall have a Divine sabbath. Six years shall you sow your field and six years shall you prune your vineyard and gather her produce. The seventh year is a Sabbath of Sabbaths to the land, a Sabbath to the Divine.”

Shmita is the seventh year in a recurring cycle of sacred sevens that traces its count back more than 2,500 years. Shmita, like Yom Kippur, is called a Shabbat Shabbaton – a Sabbath of Sabbaths. Rabbi Arthur Waskow says that it is Shabbat to its exponential power – Shabbat to its fullest, Shabbat with your whole soul.

Shmita has not been fully observed according to biblical proscription since the fall of the Second Temple 2000 years ago, and technically its laws would only apply to Jews living in the land of Israel. A form of it continues in Israel in strictly observant communities, but even so taken literally it’s a huge burden, wholly incompatible with modern life.

But aspects of it live on in modern society. It is traditional, for example, for certain vocations, including my own, to take a sabbatical, a period of time for rest and renewal, every seven years. I had a sabbatical, half which was taken just before the pandemic began in January and February of 2020, the other half which was delayed and finally taken in April and May of this year. That period of time was so valuable to me – indeed, I was able to release from old patterns and find a new rhythm that was healthier and more sustainable for me, my family, and this congregation. It was a gift, and I would argue that it is more than valuable, it is necessary. Not just for me, but for everyone, and the planet itself as well.

Well, this year we all get this gift, should you choose to receive it. This year, 5782, starting on Rosh haShana ten days ago, is a shmita year.

Given that we as liberal Diaspora community aren’t bound to the laws of shmita, what might the concept of shmita offer us as a spiritual ideal? Our goal would not be to restore a straight-up seventh-year sabbatical, but to embed and enrich our communal and individual lives with “Shmita-consciousness.”

Shmita lifts up a radical and extraordinary vision; that an entire society can reset itself under more equitable conditions, and that it can even allow cultivated lands that support the society to also rest and revitalize. Perhaps it might offer wisdom about how to live in a more sustainable rhythm with the earth? Maybe it could help us to more gracefully accept losses and changes as the pandemic stretches on? Perhaps it might even teach us how to open to a new, more just, more loving, more holy kind of normal?

Fittingly, I’ve chosen seven lessons we might learn from shmita this year.

1 – Rest!

We need the rest in order for the active parts to have meaning. Resting reminds us that we are more than what we produce. Rest can be generative, it can also allow us to step out of production mode and just be in a sacred state of being.

Rest is sacred and holy. A rest is not a void – we learn this from music! The rest is an essential part of the groove. The late great Charlie Watts, the drummer of Rolling Stones, was a master of pulling back and playing as few beats as possible for what was needed to get people dancing.

Letting things rest can mean giving something permission to emerge.
Cassady Rosenblum, who recently quit her job as a producer at “Here & Now,” a NPR program and went to live with her parents in West Virginia, wrote a great opinion piece last month in the NYT called “Work is a False Idol.” In it she writes, “Here in the hills, the new silence of my days, deepened by the solitude of the pandemic, has allowed me to observe the state of our planet in the year 2021 — and it looks to be on fire, as our oligarchs take to space. From my view down here on the carpet, I see a system that, even if it bounces back to “normal,” I have no interest in rejoining, a system that is beginning to come undone.”

She continues, “In her poem “The Summer Day,” Mary Oliver asks, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do/ with your one wild and precious life?” My reply, for now, is simple: Sit on the porch. It’s not half-bad. For what is the porch if not a place to chat with neighbors, to marvel at the hummingbird at the feeder, to listen to the wind in the chimes? An altar for cynics, an altar for the erotic, an altar for the future.

Shmita, in its call to rest, is an altar for the future.

2 – Rupture!

A few days ago I attended a funeral for a wonderful man, the father of a dear friend of mine. At the funeral, his daughter passed out buttons that said, “Why Be Normal?” because he wasn’t normal and she wasn’t normal and that was ok. Perhaps it’s time we all figure out how to be okay with not being normal. Shmita forces a rupture, upending what we might grow accustomed to thinking is normal, perhaps so that a new paradigm can emerge.

In a beautiful piece in the Financial Times last year, entitled ‘The Pandemic is a Portal’ Arundhati Roy asks: “What is this thing that has happened to us? It’s a virus, yes. In and of itself it holds no moral brief. But it is definitely more than a virus. Some believe it’s God’s way of bringing us to our senses. Others that it’s a Chinese conspiracy to take over the world. Whatever it is, coronavirus has made the mighty kneel and brought the world to a halt like nothing else could. Our minds are still racing back and forth, longing for a return to “normality”, trying to stitch our future to our past and refusing to acknowledge the rupture. But the rupture exists. And in the midst of this terrible despair, it offers us a chance to rethink the doomsday machine we have built for ourselves. Nothing could be worse than a return to normality. Historically, pandemics have forced humans to break with the past and imagine their world anew. This one is no different. It is a portal, a gateway between one world and the next. We can choose to walk through it, dragging the carcasses of our prejudice and hatred, our avarice, our data banks and dead ideas, our dead rivers and smoky skies behind us. Or we can walk through lightly, with little luggage, ready to imagine another world.”

The pandemic, in a way, has been a sabbatical for us. It has humbled us, forced us to simplify our lives and consider what the most important things in life are. It has been a gift in that sense.

3 – Reframe!

Let’s be clear: the way we’ve been doing things is not sustainable. We are tied into an economic system that glorifies private ownership and that rewards greed. Both our society and our natural world are teetering as a result. The gap between the rich and the poor grows obscenely out of balance, and the balance of nature itself has now become so disrupted by our greed that we are beginning to experience the catastrophic results.

For the Torah, the concept that people can own the earth is the height of hubris, an absurdity and a desecration. The idea that the land out of which we are formed is ours to exploit and extract from endlessly is an obvious recipe for disaster. And so the Torah insists that, if we do not provide the land with its regular sabbaticals, and maintain a right relationship with it, then there will be natural consequences. The land will no longer sustain us: Lev 26:43 warns “The land will spit you out, so that it can make up for the sabbatical years that you denied it.”

4 – Return!

Shmita calls us to return to the land, to each other, and to God. The Torah recognizes that it is human nature to forget that God truly provides for all we have. In the book of Deuteronomy, God says to the Israelites: Be careful when you come into the land that I God am giving to you. In the euphoria of arrival and your quick successes, the defeat of your enemies, the fertility of your flocks, the rain watering your fields, you’ll soon forget My role in bringing you here. You’ll get haughty. You’ll look around and say aloud “I alone did THIS.” And you’ll be wrong.

But this is not about God’s ego. This is about the damage we do to ourselves when we believe it is only thanks to our individual strength, fortitude and wisdom that we achieve success. Because when things don’t go the way we want, we sometimes shoulder the responsibility and forget to look for help. We forget that we are inextricably linked to family, friends, community, and God.

Shmita calls us to return to one another, to share our burdens, and to be humble in our blessings. This year, we can make the choice to shift the focus from one of individual accomplishment, acquisition and entrepreneurship, to one of community, faith, and collective responsibility, a far more sustainable model than the trope of the “self-made man” – for us and for future generations.

5 – Release!

Shmita envisions a year of radical release, releasing fields from cultivation and letting the land lie fallow, eating only what grows on its own, releasing debts, so that anyone who had been indentured due to their debt was freed, and redistributing food so all can access. A farmer’s fields are open to all.
You might think this is an impossible feat, especially in today’s world. But shmita challenges us to trust in the earth’s abundance, in one another, and in God. Shmita calls for us to release our tight fist – ultimately, for me it is a spiritual practice of acknowledging our vulnerability and humanity, and to keep our greed and fear in check. To neutralize our greed, amassing and hoarding the earth’s produce, we are to take only what we need, and share whatever the land spontaneously grows with all who wish to eat—rich and poor alike as well as domestic livestock and the native wildlife. By letting go in all these ways we may come to recognize that, without the land belonging to us, it can still produce, to quote Gandhi “enough for everyone’s needs, but not for everyone’s greed.”

Our tradition recognizes that greed is inherent in human nature. Deut. 15:9-10 warns us: “Beware lest you harbor the selfish thought, ‘the sabbatical year is approaching’ and you refuse to give to your needy kin. Rather, give readily and have no regrets when you do so, for in return YHVH your God will bless you in all your efforts and in all your undertakings.” A commentary on this text (Midrash Sifrei Devarim #43) states: “Human beings rebel against God only from satiety.” And this is what we must guard against. Accumulation of wealth leads to entitlement and arrogance. When we are greedy, we stop up the flow of blessing in which we all share.

It is tempting to stock up on toilet paper or whatever seems to be cleaned out of the shelves at the grocery store (these days it is dairy products), but we must not let fear or greed get the better of us. Even in our individualistic, capitalistic society we can practice shmita-consciousness, sharing our abundance and generously giving what we can.

Beginning October 10, I will be teaching a three-part class called “A Generous Spirit” in which we will discuss Jewish values and money, scarcity and abundance, and mitzvah of giving. I hope you will join me!

6 – Relief

We must give the earth relief from human overuse and depredation, and that’s a huge task, but it can be addressed one mitzvah at a time. I am excited that our Tikkun Olam committee has chosen to focus on shmita as its theme for the year, as we explore ways as a community we can do more with less, feed our neighbors, and be better stewards of the land. We’ll have dinner in the sukkah on Sept 25 with Cathy Snyder, Founder and Director of Rolling Harvest Food Rescue. We will learn about shmita and how we can incorporate its concepts into local farming and feeding. And on October 9 we’ll have a gleaning event at the Gravity Hill Farm as we learn about the mitzvah of gleaning fields to share with our neighbors in need. Lastly, I invite you to check out the Buy Nothing flyer in your Shana Tova bags, which is a great way to practice doing more with less and being stifled with all that we have. There are so many ways to bring shmita-consciousness into our individual and communal practice – it is very exciting to explore all the opportunities!

7 – Restore!

Lastly, and perhaps the most challenging – Shmita calls us to forgive all debts. Everyone should be able to reset, particularly the stranger, the immigrant, the servant or low-wage worker, the orphan and widow (see Deut. 15). Shmita is the biblical path out of the cycle of servitude and poverty.

Life today is vastly different than in biblical times, but we are still sadly quite familiar with the burden of debt ,whether it is our mortgage on our homes, college loans we have been repaying for decades, or the medical bills piling up. This concern is especially concerning during a global pandemic, which tests the strongest health care systems – even as tens of millions of Americans remain un- or under-insured, and billions around the world struggle with inadequate resources.

A modern shmita practice would challenge us to reduce our own debt and the debt of the neediest among us. Kol Tzedek, a Reconstructionist synagogue in West Philadelphia, is working on abolishing the equivalent of $2.5 million in medical debt. By raising $25,000, they would eliminate $2.5 million in health care bills because hospital systems sell unpayable debt at discounted rates.

Imagine having no debt, and the kind of freedom it would enable on every scale. When one isn’t burdened by debt, one is less concerned with the need to make money at a certain level or inhibited to follow one’s dreams regardless of what one could earn. One can plan for the future proactively and build a more sustainable future.

Isn’t that what we desperately need? I believe these extraordinary times call for the radical vision such as shmita. I pray that we come out the other side on this pandemic stronger, wiser, and more interdependent. I pray that this sabbatical year brings us closer to a sustainable human presence on the earth. I pray that perhaps we can also release one another, on this Yom Kippur Day, from any accumulated resentments, any sense of being owed something.

Today, let us remember who we are and whose we are; that we are here but for a short time, and that the most enduring aspect of our lives is not what we consume but what we leave behind.

Tzom Kal – May you have a meaningful fast and a transformative holiday.


My Rosh HaShana Day 1 Sermon 5782 : Expanding the Tent

Ma Tovu ohalecha yaakov – how beautiful are your tents O Jacob, your dwelling places O Israel…it is an amazing blessing to be sharing this tent with you this morning. If you knew all the work over the last month that went into making this set up work…it is wonderful to see you all here, and here (wave to zoomers) this morning.

I have talked about the ingenuity and resilience of our community over the past 18 months, but I must say that from where I stand now it feels in a way like it was preparation for the last month, a month when we realized that in spite of all the mask wearing, isolating, and vaccinating this thing is not over. And yet, here we are. I need to express my gratitude to everyone who, in their own way, kept us together over this year and a half, and really made us stronger than ever. Adversity does indeed inspire creativity and it has revealed a strength in our community as well.

That is not to say that we are not exhausted and heart worn. Life for me feels more out of my control than ever before. The High Holidays come this year with a message: Accept your losses, accept help. We can’t do it alone. Have a little faith and let God hold you sometimes. In the past year and a half the importance of community is clearer to me more than ever. Amidst these challenging times, as a Jewish community we ground ourselves in the transcendent – in prayer, tradition, respect for humanity, acts of kindness and justice.

And the pandemic had its own message – don’t continue to do things the way you always have because “tradition.” You must respond to the present moment, to the needs of your community. More than just being responsive, you must live into the future and who you want to become if you are to thrive. And this too is the central message of the HHDs. You must expand your tent. And so I’d like to explore what that means for us as a community today

Kol Emet is a beautiful tent. Our beauty is not just aesthetic, though we are blessed with our beautiful grounds and sacred space. Our tent is exemplified by kindness, and a love for meaningful, evolving, creative Judaism. It is a living Judaism, a doing Judaism, a Judaism for our times, where we respond to the present moment with honesty and nuance, drawing from the deep well of Jewish values. As a Reconstructionist Jewish congregation, we are inspired by our tradition but not bound by it. And as much as I am your spiritual leader, our members govern our community and truly drive its Jewish vision and mission.

Let me share an example of this. Kol Emet, since its inception, has welcomed and included interfaith families in a way that was pretty radical 30 years ago. And I’d say we’re still ahead of the game. We invite everyone in our community to be involved, have a voice, and get involved in our committees regardless of their religious background or how much they know. We allow any adult to come up to the bimah for a Torah honor. We count every adult in a minyan.

It is not that we are blind to difference. We at Kol Emet have long recognized that people who weren’t raised Jewish bring their own religious and personal perspectives to bear in the Jewish community that are important and beneficial. We know that it is important that we seek diversity in our committees, even and especially in religious matters. Our Ritual Committee invites the perspectives of those who weren’t raised Jewish, or who have young kids at home to make services and holidays accessible and relevant to everyone.

I want to point out that this is more than just Kol Emet policy; over time it has shaped our identity and our synagogue culture. Rather than being united by an assumption of our shared background, we have evolved into a congregation that is united by our values, by how we treat one another, and by our spiritual practice.

But naturally, we have boundaries – as every community or congregation should. We must have boundaries to protect our community norms, our progressive Jewish values, and our sacred tradition. We must stand for something even when, or especially when it feels hard. However, as a Reconstructionist synagogue, we are much more focused on our positive mission and than in erecting walls to keep the wrong people out.

But we also must set boundaries for our physical safety. Unfortunately this is the world we live in and we need to think in this way. The sad reality is that 59.1% of all hate crimes motivated by religious bias in the US in 2020 were anti-Jewish (https://www.justice.gov/hatecrimes/facts-and-statistics). I could give a whole other sermon on anti-semitism, or racism, and I have. The reality is that we always need to balance being welcoming and accessible with looking out for our safety, and this is not just a challenge unique to Kol Emet.

But it must be said that communities also set boundaries in ways that are more unspoken, implicit, reflexive, even unintentional. And it’s important that we acknowledge this so that we can become aware of our unconscious biases and fears. For example, if somebody comes in that we don’t recognize, we might come up to them and talk to them and try to find out about them. If we somehow feel that something is off, we might start getting worried.

But how do we determine whether someone fits in, or doesn’t, in a synagogue setting? That is often a more subconscious process of looking for something recognizably Jewish, like a star around a person’s neck, or a Jewish sounding last name, or even facial features that look familiar.

I say this with great compassion for those of us who grew up with Jewish people and Jewish community looking or behaving in a certain way, or sounding or eating in a certain way. Certainly, in the United States, Ashkenazi culture, ritual, language, and food have been the norm for over 100 years. Between 1880 and the onset of restrictive immigration quotas in 1924, over 2 million Jews from Russia, Austria-Hungary, and Romania came to America. The character of American Jewry was transformed, as the Eastern Europeans became the majority. Before that time, interestingly, the American Jewish community largely adhered to Sephardic ritual customs particularly in Jewish hubs including Newport, R.I., New Amsterdam (later New York), Philadelphia.

Now, again, in the last thirty years, while we weren’t looking, the American Jewish landscape has transformed yet again. Just look at our community – Jewish last names are no longer reliably Rosenbaum or Katz; they are also Boswell, O’Rourke, and Santarsiero. This is indicative of the changing face of the Jewish community in America as we continue to integrate into the diverse fabric of American society.

The recent 2020 Pew population study (https://www.pewforum.org/2021/05/11/jewish-americans-in-2020/) gives us some perspective on these changes. 72% of Jews married since 2010 are married to non-Jews. That is compared an 18% intermarriage rate of Jews who married before 1980. Now, this is not necessarily bad for the Jews. The adult Jewish population in America has been fairly stable in percentage terms, while rising in absolute numbers, roughly in line with the growth of the U.S. population. And, as one might expect, like the overall U.S. population, Jews appear to be growing more racially and ethnically diverse as one might expect with intermarriage.

Now, approximately 1 in 10 Jews identify with other racial or ethnic categories. Among Jews ages 18 to 29, however, the share who identify as a race or ethnicity other than white rises to 15%. Overall, 17% of Jews surveyed – including 29% of Jewish adults under the age of 30 – live in households in which at least one child or adult is Black, Latinx, Asian, non-White multiethnic, or multiracial. I should note that Jewish families of color and Jewish interfaith families are not necessarily the same thing, though there may be some overlap.

That diversity is reflected at Kol Emet, and especially so in our religious school. And I write this sermon because of them. Our kids are awesome – they learn in many different ways and have wide-ranging abilities and talents. They also have diverse ethnic and racial backgrounds, and gender and sexual orientations. We need to ensure that every part of them is seen, welcomed and appreciated in our community.

Mordechai Kaplan, the founder of Reconstructionist Judaism, who was also a student of sociology, wrote about assimilation, that word so often used in a negative sense in describing Jewish integration into American society. (“Active, Not Passive, Assimilation” article in A Different Light ed. by Noam Zion and Barbara Spectre with excerpts from “The Meaning of God in Modern Jewish Religion,” 1937) He wrote that it actually means two opposite things. In one sense, to BE assimilated is to passively integrate into the dominant culture, leaving one’s particular heritage behind. But in another sense, to actively assimilate means to take the best of the principles and ideals of the greater society into one’s particular heritage or culture or religion. Jews have actually done this for millenia. We’ve taken European foods like kugel, challah, and bagels and made them Jewish food. American Jews have integrated Eastern practices like yoga and meditation into our spiritual practice in congregational life.

So yes, we are engaged in active assimilation here at Kol Emet. We bring Jewish values and ancient wisdom forward to address the changes and challenges in American society. And we bring American values and practices into our rhythm here at Kol Emet. That’s why our tagline is “Judaism for today’s world.”

But yes, to answer the critics, with all this assimilation there is a danger of staying true to our heritage. But then, there is also a danger of our heritage remaining static as everything changes around us. One hundred years ago, Rabbi Kaplan was greatly concerned about Jewish practice remaining stagnant and prayer being done by rote while American values of democracy, pluralism, and egalitarianism were embraced in the public sphere. We have to change with the times, regardless, and this is something the Reconstructionist movement has always recognized.

And so, seeking home in synagogue life are people – adults, kids – who are interfaith, multiracial, multinational, LGBTQ. And just as we are demanding that our Jewish selves be embraced fully in American life, they expect no less – that the Jewish community welcome every part of who they are as well.

By they, I really should say “we” – after all, my own family is interfaith, bi-racial, and multinational. And I would not be a rabbi, or maybe even Jewish at all, if my then-Christian, Swiss mother and my Jewish New Yorker father weren’t accepted in the Jewish community at every step of their journey. But I myself have been told in Jewish spaces, and after services that I have led, that I don’t look Jewish, and that my daughter is too blond to be Jewish. I have been questioned about my “exotic” Jewish heritage, which is not Ashkenazi, but Sephardic, as my grandmother was born and raised in Kingston, Jamaica. I have experienced the assumption that I should know Yiddish or least have heard it in my home growing up. In fact, I heard Hebrew of Western Sephardic vocalization mixed with Judeo-Spanish, or Ladino, (and of course a lot of Patwa and curse-words if you were blessed to know my grandmother).

I bring up my experience because unfortunately these experiences are not unique to me. Jews come from all parts of the world – we speak different languages, speak Hebrew with different accents, have different musical and culinary traditions. But somehow there is an implicit assumption in too many Jewish spaces that Jews are Ashkenazi and that they are white. Indeed, unfortunately these “othering” experiences are more pronounced for Jews of color. This spring, at our Shabbat services, we had the blessing of hearing from Zohara Armstrong, my study partner and a Jew of color, about her negative and positive experiences in Jewish spaces.
Just a few weeks ago another landmark study called “Beyond the Count” came out, which surveyed the experiences of 1000 Jews of Color in the US. (https://jewsofcolorinitiative.org/what-we-do/research-field-building/) The good news is that a slight majority of Jews of Color do feel that they belong in Jewish spaces, and it is clear that being Jewish is important and meaningful to the respondents. The majority of them also indicated that honoring their Jewish identity and their racial or ethnic identity is meaningful to them. And, encouragingly, many respondents felt most comfortable expressing the fullness of their identities around their Jewish family members.
However, a full eighty percent of respondents indicate experiencing discrimination in predominantly white Jewish spaces, ranging from racist microaggressions to outright challenges to their Jewish status. And the majority of respondents feel that the organized Jewish community is not doing enough to address it.
This is very concerning, but it is also energizing. The Beyond the Count study did offer concrete recommendations for advancing the work of building an increasingly inclusive and diverse community that represents all Jews, not just some.
So what can we do at Kol Emet? Aren’t we a welcoming, loving community as we are? I would say emphatically, yes. However, I believe that if we also expand our tent intentionally, we won’t just be reacting or responding to our current reality, we will be building consciously toward the future and our kids’ future.

An insightful article came out recently in the online journal eJewish Philanthropy, called “Expanding not diluting: Embracing Jewish+ families,” co-written by Jewish educators Alison Weikel and Rachel Weinstein White. In it, they share personal stories of feeling “less than” in spite of being career Jewish educators because to their interfaith, interracial marriages. They also take on certain terms we’ve become accustomed to, namely the terms “interfaith family” and “non-Jew.”

The term “non-Jew” they argue, frames a person in the negative, focusing only on what the person is not. They also point out that the word “interfaith” is not an accurate way to describe a family who only celebrates Judaism, or another family where the non-Jewish partner is of no faith. And, while “interfaith” works for some, is a challenging term for others because it has been used in a pejorative sense by those who disparage interfaith marriage. They offer instead the terms “Jewish adjacent” and “Jewish+ family” which I will try out with you now.

While it is certainly true that some “Jewish+ families” move away from Jewish community life, it is also true that Jewish adjacent family members inspire their Jewish counterparts to live more Jewishly in profound ways. This is what happened with my own parents in their journey of raising my brother and I as Jews. I’ve witnessed it over and over again wherever Jewish adjacent partners are fully welcomed. At Kol Emet, our Jewish Adjacent parents raise Jewish children, celebrate Jewish holidays at home and at shul, and yes, ask Jewish questions that raise our awareness and question our assumptions. They add to the Jewish experience and narrative, and I would argue that you do not dilute the Jewish experience; you are making it richer.

Now, I am not wedded to one term or another, it is more important to me that we as a community consider the words we use carefully in our informal conversations, as well as at our meetings, services, on our forms and website. Indeed, language holds such power and words frame our communal attitude and action.

But of course it’s not just words; we need to walk the walk. We need to have those conversations about our experiences, positive and negative. We need to listen open heartedly and learn from one another about how we can enrich the Jewishness of our community for everyone and how we can better engage the diversity of our community.

Why bring this up now, on Rosh Hashanah, of all times? Rosh Hashanah is a beginning; the precipice of a new year. We reflect on the past and commit to doing better, and we marvel at the endless possibilities that await us in this new year. And interestingly, Torah and Haftarah portions for this day help us to reflect on both the entrenched, generations-old biases we hold and assumptions we make, and challenge us to become more aware, to become more loving and more accepting.

We just read about Sarah and Hagar – the two wives of Abraham who were in competition with each other for yerusha, which is more than inheritance – it is the family line. It was Sarah and her son Isaac vying for supremacy versus Hagar and Ishmael, who was the older son of the two. But Sarah was the primary wife, and when she told Abraham to kick Hagar and Ishmael out, he did so. It is a painful story of exclusion and it is a lesson to all of us about the power we have to shape the future of the Jewish people.

And, we read in the Haftarah about a priest named Eli who saw a woman Hannah acting unusually in his temple. Eli assumed that Hannah must be drunk and spoke harshly to her. But Hannah was simply there, praying fervently for a child, as if her life depended upon it. Thankfully, Hannah didn’t leave the temple when she was chastened, she spoke up and corrected Eli. And when he realized his error, he apologized. The son Hannah would have, Samuel, would himself become a priest and would become one of the most important prophets in Israel. By holding Eli accountable, Hannah maintained that not only did she and her prayer have a rightful place in the temple, but that her son would also have an unquestioned place in Israel.

Rabbi Harold Kushner wrote that, “Judaism is less about believing and more about belonging. It is less about what we owe God and more about what we owe each other, because we believe God cares more about how we treat each other than…about our theology.” (To Life! A Celebration of Jewish Being and Thinking by Harold Kushner) This Rosh Hashanah, let’s consider what binds us together and what we truly owe one another. May we be blessed with a sweet new year, ripe with possibility, joy, and openness to expansive growth.

Shana tova u’metuka!


On Despair (and Dissent)

Yom Kippur Sermon for 5781

On Erev Rosh haShanah, just after a wonderful dinner and as I was about to take Adar up for bedtime, I made the mistake of checking my phone.  I stared at the headline, frozen, informing me that Ruth Bader Ginsberg had passed away.  Adar ran up to me, from the other room, concerned: “Mommy are you ok?”  I must have screamed.

We have the children’s book “I Dissent” about RBG’s life. Adar could understand my sadness, but not the cry of despair.  So we sat down and I explained to her about the balance of power and how Supreme Court Justices get a lifetime appointment.  Then, we went to bed.  I lay there next to my sleeping daughter, my phone lit up in the dark, scrolling through the articles and all the reactions from friends and colleagues, tears rolling down my face.  

One rabbi wrote, “Now I have to tear up all my sermons!” I thought about my own sermon on hope, yet to be delivered, and said to myself sardonically, “Well, if your sermon has to be torn up now, maybe it wasn’t all that good to begin with!”  I decided that a sermon on hope was needed now, perhaps more than ever.

But I do think a follow up is warranted.  I think it worth talking about despair. I referenced the difficult and often dark history of the Jewish people last week – do we really think we always clung to hope, never giving up no matter what?

Rebbe Nachman of Bratzlav, the brilliant Hasidic master who led an extremely difficult life wrote his seminal text Likutei Moharan about the importance of not falling into despair, that even should you fall into the belly of Hell, like Jonah, you should not despair (Part II 78:7). In this passage he went on to say, “There is no such thing as despair.” 

With all due respect to Reb Nachman, I think that’s taking it a bit far.  Without a measure of despair, hope can consume us and lead us to reject possibilities all around us, because we think there might be something better to come. Sometimes it is important to admit that our dreams aren’t going to materialize. 

We cannot change the past, but we can free ourselves from it so that we can pursue a different future. We do not forget the loss, but we allow it to stop tormenting us. We stop hoping for what will never be. 

So if Rosh haShanah is about hope, as I’ve argued, then Yom Kippur is about despair – letting go of we must, releasing what no longer serves us, so that we can step wholeheartedly into the future. The rituals of Yom Kippur – abstaining from food and drink, dressing in white (a color that evokes a funeral shroud) – are meant to push us to feel close to death, grieving our lives, enabling us our regrets and what no longer serves us so that we can truly begin again.   

Kol Nidre ve’esarei…  All these vows that we have made…may they be nullified.

We began last night by absolving ourselves of vows that hold us back.  Yom Kippur is about release.  Today our confessions, our beating of chests, are our heartfelt effort reshape our beings and our lives into ones that have less armor and heart, less blame and more responsibility, less posturing and more humility, less cynicism and more wonder.

On Yom Kippur we come together to face our losses, acknowledge the relentless passage of time, and forge a path forward.  In naming these losses we begin the long, complex process of doing teshuvah, of changing ourselves. Life is not perfect – we tried, and sometimes we have failed.  Today, we release ourselves of guilt, regret, unfulfilled, impossible promises made.  On this day, we can let ourselves feel despair together.

Despair is a human emotion, one that we have all felt at times.  And I think it is important to acknowledge the grief and despair that many of us feel these days.  We are holding a lot of loss these days, much of it ambiguous and uncertain.  Hope isn’t going to be something that we can always access.  So I am here to say, it is ok to feel despair. We must make room for it too.

The process of teshuvah, in some ways, begins with recognizing our own loss.  Sometimes teshuvah involves grieving – the self we might have become, a relationship that will not be what you hoped it would, a future that cannot be any longer.  Teshuvah involves grief, loss, anger, and yes, despair.  Despair is a necessary element of teshuvah if we are to really reckon with our current circumstances and piece together realistic future.

In rabbinic law, despair is an important facet of the laws concerning lost objects.  The rabbis of the Talmud spend an excessive amount of time discussing, an entire tractate of the Talmud called Bava Metzia, discussing lost objects.  According to halacha, Jewish law, if someone finds an object, they have an obligation to try to return it to its owner as long as the owner still hopes to find it. It is an important mitzvah in the Torah to return lost objects.  Concerning the return of a neighbor’s lost animal Deuteronomy teaches: “Do not remain indifferent” (Deut. 22:3).  Based on this injunction, the rabbis of the Talmud explored a litany of scenarios involving lost objects and finally creating an elaborate ritual to be performed when looking for a lost object.

But at some point, lost objects are really lost, and the time comes for us to give up looking for them. It’s at that point that we come to a place of ye’ush – despair – acknowledging that it is gone forever.  Because it spite of all the rabbis efforts, there is no foolproof system that can ensure that everything can be found, no matter how thorough you are. Some things cannot be returned. Some losses are final.  Despair is inevitable.

Only when we get to the point of despair, when we truly let go of ever retrieving the object, can we free ourselves from it. It enters into the public domain and it is no longer ours. It’s at that moment that we relinquish hope for a dream that is lost, when we acknowledge to ourselves that we have to let go and walk a different path. This is the redemptive aspect of ye’ush.

Why were the rabbis so obsessed with returning lost objects?  Perhaps because it is part of the human condition to lose things – like socks, or keys.  For me, it is earrings.  I still ache over the memory of losing a beloved earring.  

But maybe the rabbis were laying a foundation for a discussion of loss and despair in general. Rabbi Laurie Zimmerman, drawing on the teachings of Dr Marjorie Lehman, posits that the losses of our rabbinic sages were much more profound than keys or socks. They were mourning the loss of their holy Temple, of their community, of their authority – the very foundation of everything they knew. 

I think the example of the destruction of the second Temple in Jerusalem is instructive for us today.  It was a permanent destruction; the Temple was never rebuilt.  But that calamity paved the way a completed new form of Judaism.  Our religious practice transformed virtually overnight from one of animal sacrifice overseen by priests to one of prayer and torah study, legislated by rabbis.  

It is incredible to consider that we survived the destruction of not one, but two Temples.  How did we do it?  How in the world did we manage to rebuild after such a catastrophic loss, the loss of our spiritual center and exile from our home? I would argue that despair played a key role.

There is a famous story recorded in the Talmud of Rabbi Yochanan ben Zakkai, who would later become one of the leaders of rabbinic Judaism.  Ben Zakkai was a young pacifist in Jerusalem in 68 C.E. when the city was under siege by General Vespasian. Unable to convince the Zealots who controlled Jerusalem to surrender to Rome, ben Zakkai faked his own death and had his disciples smuggle him out of Jerusalem in a coffin. They carried the coffin to Vespasian’s tent, where ben Zakkai emerged from the coffin. He told Vespasian that he had had a vision (some would say, a shrewd political insight) that Vespasian would soon be emperor, and he asked Vespasian to set aside a place in Yavneh (near modern Rehovot) where he could start a small school and study Torah in peace. Vespasian promised that if the prophesy came true, he would grant ben Zakkai’s request. Vespasian became Emperor within a year, and kept his word, allowing the school to be established after the war was over. The school ben Zakkai established at Yavneh became the center of Jewish learning for centuries and replaced Jerusalem as the seat of the Sanhedrin, the great rabbinic council.

Ben Zakkai did the unthinkable – he abandoned Jerusalem.  The coffin he was carried out in was the metaphor for his accepting the death of what was.  It was ye’ush – despair.  His brilliance was that he also had a vision for what could take the place of Jerusalem, and in this way Yavneh became the point of rebirth for the Jewish people. 

Now, I am not suggesting that if things aren’t working for us; that we should necessarily throw up our hands.  I think we should be inspired by the example of Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg, who set an example of dissent.  Rabbi Lauren Holtzblatt eulogized her on Friday saying that “And even when her views did not prevail, she still fought. In recent years Justice Ginsberg became famous for her dissents.  Despair was not an option.”  Rabbi Holtzblatt quoted Ginsberg herself as saying, “Dissents speak to a future age…the greatest dissents do become court opinions, and gradually, over time their views become the dominant view.” We learn from Justice Ginsburg that even when it is clear we won’t be on the winning side, it is important to actively speak out and dissent.  Despair is releasing ourselves of an impossible; it does not mean that we are silent or passive in the face of it.

Going into ye’ush enables us to see in a new way, to recognize that a different story can be written, a different future can emerge, a different journey can unfold. We give ourselves permission to disengage from the suffering that we cause to ourselves. 

Yom Kippur starkly reminds us that we are imperfect human beings. We let ourselves down, we fail ourselves. We hold onto dreams instead of being fully here, now, in the present. 

On Yom Kippur we create a space to discover who we really are. Not who we wished we were. Not who we hoped we would become. But to see ourselves candidly, honestly, genuinely. 

On this Yom Kippur, let’s gather together so we can find what we have lost. Let this be a time of real discernment. Let’s bravely embrace ye’ush, despair, death. And then let’s live. Really live. Live with intention, with meaning, with awareness of who we really are, with all of our imperfections. 

Gmar chatimah tovah.


On Hope

Rosh haShanah Sermon 5781

Hope.  These days it’s been in short supply.  I think that when this pandemic reached our shores, people rushed to the grocery stores, whisked it from the shelves along with stores of food, but it never was restocked. 

2020 has been unreal – so hard, so exhausting, so bitterly sad.  As a country, as a planet, we were already facing huge challenges and social divisions, and when the pandemic started, we had to make major changes to our daily lives in a short space of time, with very little time to plan or adjust.  And with the science being very new with regard to COVID-19 we just had to make the best decisions we could with what information we had, as we did our best to keep our heads above water. 

At first, even amongst the fear and uncertainty we could see the silver linings.  It was nice to work from home, to be with the kids more, but the novelty has now worn off. As the seasons turn, I am very present to all the losses – no camp, no visiting grandparents.  Now the summer has passed and kids are in school, albeit in a very different way.  We treasure what we have, but we have endured so much, and at what cost? 

And I say all this as a person who has so much; indeed, one who has more than most.  What of the people for whom this is more than an inconvenience?  I am glad that this pandemic has exposed inequalities and injustices long hidden in our society, but the suffering in this country is palpable.  As I read the news about the politicization of this pandemic, racial violence, fears around voting access, growing anti-Semitism amidst the surge in popularity of right-wing conspiracy theories, and the continuation of the climate crisis: in addition to feeling outrage and heartache, I also feel a deepening sense of responsibility from my privileged perch. In 1972, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote, “In a free society, some are guilty, but all are responsible.”

But what to do?  Of course we must continue to put one foot in front of the other and work to fix what we can, but where is our faith in the future and hope for a better tomorrow, for ourselves and for our children? 

I understand that is important to have hope – but to be honest, it is just hard for me to have it these days, and normally I consider myself an optimist.  I see the darker side of society and human nature winning a lot these days. And who could not feel pain and even despair as we follow the headlines, that being present to what is happening in the world causes. 

We aren’t equipped physiologically to be delivered catastrophic or confusing news 24/7. I have to remind myself of this; that is okay take in news just once a day. Because the news headlines are not the full story of us, which is focused on what is catastrophic, corrupt, failing. We have a responsibility, I think, to strive to live toward a narrative of hope, healing, goodness. When you don’t have hope, can’t see the good, it is sign that we need to step back if we are able to, and find something that gives us hope. 

Practices like observing Shabbat and being engaged in community help us step back from the aches of the world.  And, having a consistent gratitude practice is crucial.  Saying thank you, being grateful, giving in the ways that we can – these are subtle but powerful practices that are not just nice things to do, they help keep us sane and balanced.  We cannot give in to grief and despair – yes, feel it, but not to let it rule us.

Hope at this point might seem laughable to some of you, but hope is exactly what we need.  It’s certainly what I need, if I am to inspire you to not during these holy days, but to really focus on the problems and believe that they are fixable. 

Taking about hope today was the sermon that I needed hear.  And, Rosh HaShanah is all about hope – that this coming year might be better than the one before it; that this year we might truly turn ourselves around.

Hope is what motivates us not only to vote, but to get others to vote and engaged. Hope is not is not a panacea needed to make ourselves feel good; hope is a belief that around the corner, there is possibility. A true sense of hopefulness engenders curiosity and openness.

I think it is important to examine what exactly hope is and is not.  Hope is not just resilience (which I’ve spoken about before on Rosh HaShanah) or perseverance, thought is surely underpins them. It is more than being persistent or strong.  Hope, as I’ve conventionally thought of it, is a belief, a feeling that things will get better.  In a sense to be hopeful is a kind of faith or existential optimism.

Rebecca Solnit, the author of “Hope in the Dark,” (2016) writes that hope is not simply optimism; that everything is going to be fine. To have hope, she says, means to embrace a sense of uncertainty – to come to terms with the fact that we don’t know what will happen, and that there is room for us to intervene. She says that if we are to have hope, we have to let go of the certainty that people seems to love more than hope.  We live a very surprising world – one in which saw the creation of the State of Israel, the Berlin Wall falling, a Black president getting elected in America, and yes, Trump becoming president. Unexpected things will happen, and that is certain. 

Rabbi Leora Frankel posits that hope is central to Judaism. Hope, she writes, “sustained our people through 3,000 of wandering, expulsion, and eventually return. Like a baton passed down through the generations, it was hope that emboldened Abraham to first follow God’s call and leave behind everything he knew, and hope that flickered to Moses from the burning bush, igniting our Exodus from Egypt. Hope produced our written Torah in Babylonian exile and transformed Judaism into a portable religion when the Romans torched the Second Temple. Through countless inquisitions and pogroms, through the horrors of the Holocaust, our ancestors held fast to hope and it nourished them. Of course, there is no greater, more tangible manifestation of hope in Jewish history than the modern State of Israel. It is no surprise that Israel’s national anthem is simply named HaTikvah, ‘the hope.’”

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, the former chief rabbi of England, would even say that we Jews invented hope – a belief that we can be free if we have faith, that we can look toward a messianic age, a time when there will be no poverty or strife.  “To be a Jew,” Sacks teaches, “is to be an agent of hope in a world serially threatened by despair. Every ritual, every mitzvah, every syllable of the Jewish story, every element of Jewish law, is a protest against escapism, resignation, or the blind acceptance of fate.” 

It is amazing to think of our forebears sustaining hope in ghettos and concentration camps. I think that truly a deep faith of God and miracles was essentials for many of them.  But what if we don’t have that same kind of faith or belief?  I think it was Mel Brooks, a good secular Jew, who sang, “No way of knowing, which way it’s going – hope for the best, expect the worst…” (That is more my husband’s approach.)

Here is my approach: Hope is part of our human condition to strive for something better. Hope is a uniquely human quality because it is future-focused, forcing us to squarely face the facts of life and then seeing something past them.  It is like memory, only it is directed toward our future, not the past.  So, I would say: Hope is the story we tell about our future.  It is our vision of what is possible.

The author and teacher Brene Brown teaches that hope is a function of struggle.  It is not an emotion, but a cognitive behavioral process that we learn when we experience adversity.  So, in other words, if you have lived through something hard and have gotten out from under it, you know it is possible to get through hard things.  This strengthens one’s sense of hope for yourself and for others.

We won’t always know how to get from under that hard place though.  Some things are going to feel insurmountable. But it is natural, human, to feel that sense of inadequacy or helplessness. So, rather than give up, we need to learn to accompany each other in this inadequacy, despair, and then to focus on what we can do, and the long view.  In the words of Krista Tippett, who hosts the wonderful radio show called onbeing, “Hope is a muscle that we have to flex, it is a vigorous choice to see what needs repair and attention and also to keep our hearts and imaginations oriented toward what we want to build, what we are walking towards.”

It is tempting to want to get on an airplane and just leave, so that we don’t feel the burden of America’s problems so personally. Tippett believes that we in the United States are in the midst of culture shift and that we must embody how we want to live in contrast to the awfulness – systemic racism, family separation, climate change.  She says, “if we want to build a world of justice, of joy, then we must embody joy and justice. We must be present to frailty and suffering but also to see what is generative, what you can engage with.”

What can you hope for in this New Year?  What can you build?  I think that is the central question and challenge of Rosh Hashanah.  How will you be partners with God in the holy work of recreating this world?  We need to locate our hope, and live inside it, not admire it from a distance.  Flex the muscles of hope daily in whatever way works for you – whether it is prayer, journaling, gardening, or acts of justice, kindness, and giving.  Recognize the good, focus on it, and build it. This is part of our covenant with God that we are affirming today.

So this Rosh Hashanah, with the gates of heaven open and waiting, let us take a few minutes of personal reflection, to consider this question: What would it mean for you, in your own way, to truly live this New Year with hope in your heart?

Shanah Tovah U’metukah, wishing you a year of good health, of sweetness, and of hope.


On Memory

Kol Nidrei Sermon 5780

One of my favorite memories as a child was going to see the Nutcracker with my family.  We lived in a college town, and the performance brought together the university community and the townsfolk.  As I remember it, we went every year.  

So, when I became a mom, of course I wanted to create that tradition with my children.  Adar and I have been now twice to see the Nutcracker, just us, a mother-daughter date.  Last winter around Chanukah time, my parents came to visit, and it so happened that their visit coincided with my planned Nutcracker date with Adar.  So I told them, “We are continuing the tradition you started with me!”  And they said, “What tradition?”  My mother had absolutely no memory of ever seeing it with me.  My dad was a little better… “Maybe we went once…” he said.  I was crushed!

Isn’t it amazing how things stick in your mind though?  What was a cherished memory for me, a formative memory in terms of how I viewed parenting, traditions, and creating memories, was something that I largely created in my mind.  We probably went once, maybe twice, to the Nutcracker, but for me, the feeling of going someplace special with my family stuck.  We did not often go to see shows often, and so the significance of the event outweighed the actual history of what actually took place.

And this begs the question: What is memory? What do our memories tell us about ourselves? And, how does it shape us – both in constructive and positive ways, and how does hinder it us or harm us?

These holy days put central importance on the value of memory.  One of the names for Rosh Hashanah is Yom haZikaron – the Day of Memory. And tomorrow on Yom Kippur we will recite not only Yizkor, the Memorial Service, but also Eleh Ezkerah, the service in memory of those who were killed because they were guardians of our faith.  Zikaron, Yizkor, Ezkerah – all evoke the root zachar, to remember.  But, what are we supposed to remember?  Is it the past year?  Our whole lifetimes?  Our deeds? Our sins?  Our connection to our people to our faith?  

Perhaps it is because the role of memory is critical to the process of introspection. Indeed, memories are how we explain who we are today, in light of who we were once upon a time. Memories are more than the sum of their parts – the events, places, people, or emotions of our lives.  No two people will remember the same event the same way – we all see life through a uniquely personal lens.

We are a people who revere memory.  No word in the Jewish language is revered more than the word “zakhor” – remember. Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi, in his now classic book, “Zakhor,” notes that “only in Israel and nowhere else is the injunction to remember felt as a religious imperative to an entire people.”  We hold Yizkor services four times a year, including on Yom Kippur, which are devoted solely to remembering our loved ones who have passed on.   We are bidden in the Ten Commandments to “remember” the Sabbath day and sanctify it (Exodus 20:8).  In multiple places in Torah we are told to “remember” that we were slaves in Egypt lest we forget ourselves…. Indeed, the word zakhor appears in the Torah 169 times.

In fact, one could argue that the Torah is our collective memory – it is more than history, it is not simply a collection of stories, or laws.  Biblical scholars and sages have long noticed the Torah is full of gaps in the narrative and apparent contradictions.  For example, we have different Creation stories – the six days of Creation, and then also the account of the Garden of Eden.  How can we understand this other than to suggest that our Torah is a collection of our people’s dearest memories?  

While history is objective, memory is subjective – it is personal.  Rabbi Lisa Rubin writes, “Where history is about facts and timelines, memory is about transmitting stories and culture.  Where history seeks certainty, memory is flawed and fragile.  History is thorough; memory is selective.  History is cerebral; memory is sensory.”

So, if we can’t say that every word of the Torah is provable fact; surely we can state that it is true according to our people’s lived experience and memory.  And everyone remembers things differently.  

Truly, Jews are less interested in dry facts than living, breathing experiences. It is for this reason that much of Jewish tradition and ritual draws on reenactment. We don’t just commemorate, we remember. The entire Passover seder can in some sense be seen as a symbolic reenactment of a historical moment.  One of the central themes of the seder is that “in each and every generation let each person regard themselves as though they had emerged from Egypt,” thus enforcing the fusion of past and present. 

Memory, however, is often elusive and selective, as my personal example of my family’s Nutcracker tradition illustrates.  But that doesn’t mean it lacks integrity. Our memory informs who we are and how we see the world.  Everything about us, essentially, is a function of our memory.  

Rabbi Amy Perlin writes of the dangers of living in a fast-paced world where we place so many of our cherished memories in a virtual Cloud.  She warns, “We live in a world with a vast array of readable material, which we usually read only once.  We read by skimming or reading for overall meaning, not always remembering exactly what we read or where.  We sacrifice quality of memory for quantity of resources… we externalize memory, meaning that we outsource, because we can.  We leave everything to digital recall.”  That is to say, why remember something when you can google it? Why remember phone numbers when there is speed dial?

But, God, God remembers us, even when we forget ourselves.  God sees us and knows all of us.  While we just remember fragments, God remembers us with great compassion. Today, we ask God to remember us for life – zochrenu le’chayim

Isn’t it curious though, this request – how can God, who created us and remembers us completely also forget us?  With this liturgy, aren’t we really asking ourselves to remember that life matters, that we are unique and finite and precious and irreplaceable? Today we pray that just as God remembers us, we can remember ourselves and come back to who we truly are meant to be.

But there is a danger of being so attached to memory – memories of the past, memories of who we once were, memories of regret and shame, and memories of trauma.  Jews could also be accused of living too much in the past, of living only to keep memory and past traditions alive.  We cry, “Never forget!” the six million murdered, the atrocities our people suffered in the Holocaust.  We can never forget, and we must always honor the millions dead and survivors, but nor can we stay in the past.  We must remember in order to live, in order to focus our direction forward.  Avraham Burg, a prominent Israeli politician wrote a provocative book entitled “The Holocaust is Over; We Must Rise from its Ashes.”  In it he writes that by living in the shadow of the Holocaust, Jewish society fails to define itself by its positive attributes, which inhibits its ability to move forward.  As a child of Holocaust survivors, he urges Jews not to isolate themselves by constantly mourning the past and fearing the future, but rather by reconnecting to and remembering our unique humanistic perspective and our core values.

But to do this, any therapist will tell you that you have to deal with your trauma and face the past.  This is also key to our inner work during the High Holidays.

It is critical that we strive for this balance between not drowning in memories of the past, and also not being so forward-thinking that we forget who we are.  I would argue that this was the main concern of Moses as he prepared the Israelite people to enter the land of Israel.  He wants to ensure that they will be successful in quest to take the land and dwell in it but his worry is two-fold:  1) that they will be stuck in the traumatic past of slavery and won’t have faith in themselves or God, and 2) that they might become too successful and forget that God is the reason for their success.   

Leading up to the High Holidays and through this season, we read the book of Deuteronomy.  This is a book where Moses goes on and on to the children of Israel about what need to do and remember once they enter the land of Israel.  He also reviews with them many of the things they experienced together during their wanderings through the desert.  In a sense, Deuteronomy is a book of Moses’ memories of what they have been through.  

But why the need for such an extensive review?   Rabbi Francine Roston, a rabbi out in Montana, encourages us to understand Deuteronomy from a trauma informed perspective.  She points out that, even after all that God had done for them, the Israelites were stuck in their trauma of having living through slavery and all kinds of oppression.  Thus, they still were fearful of every threat, imagined or real, and unable to accurately understand the situation before them. 

And that is why Moses needs to walk the Israelites through each of their experiences together, so that they could reflect on them and reframe their narrative. And, so that as they encounter new experiences and challenges in their new land, they could see the promise therein, and not only danger and threat.  

But the other side of the coin is that they then could actually succeed in conquering the land, and then what?  What if, in their success, in their comfort, they forget what God has done for them?  Deuteronomy 8 warns, “Be careful that you do not forget Adonai your God, failing to observe God’s command, law, and degrees…. Otherwise, when you eat and are satisfied, when you build fine houses and settle down, and when your herds and flocks grow large and your silver and gold increase and all you have is multiplied, then your heart will become proud and you will forget Adonai your God, who brought you out of Egypt… You may say to yourself, “My power and the strength of my hands have produced this wealth for me.” But remember Adonai your God, for it is God who gives you the ability to produce wealth.”  In the words of Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, Moses is warning the Israelites, perhaps counterintuitively, that the real test “is not poverty, but affluence, not slavery but freedom, not homelessness but home.” 

Prophetically, Moses sees that the biggest danger facing the Israelite nation (who is us today) is that as they (we) became more wealthy and comfortable, they (we) would forget our past, forget God, forget our humility, forget our values and our sense of social solidarity, our responsibility to one another.

And so this is the balancing we must do during these Days of Awe: to reexamine our lives, taking the memory of what we have experienced in order to move forward with intention, clarity, and purpose.  We need to heal, to learn from our mistakes, to figure out how to repair, and finally, to forgive.

On this sacred day, we come back to memory – of our most authentic selves, of God and God’s central place in our world, and of our responsibility to one another and generations yet to come.  As we begin a new year, let us commit to create loving memories, memories of Shabbat with family and community, memories of holiday traditions, memories of Nutcracker outings, with our community and our children that shape our present and serve to guide us joyfully and meaningfully into the future. 

Shana tova and Tzom Kal – May you have an easy fast and reflective holiday.


Teshuvah for the Earth

Yom Kippur Sermon 5780

A story, one I loved as a child: 

“Once there was a tree and she loved a little boy. And every day the boy would come and he would gather her leaves and make them into crowns and play king of the forest. He would climb up her trunk and swing from her branches and eat apples… And when he was tired he would sleep in her shade. And the boy loved the tree very much. And the tree was happy. But time went by. And the boy grew older… The tree was often alone. Then one day the boy came to the tree, and the tree said ‘Come Boy, come and climb up my trunk and swing from my branches and eat apples and play in my shade and be happy.’ ‘I am too big to climb and play,’ said the boy. ‘I want to buy things and have fun. I want some money. Can you give me money?’ ‘I’m sorry,’ said the tree, ‘but I have no money. I have only leaves and apples. Take my apples, Boy, and sell them in the city. Then you will have money and then you will be happy.’ And the boy climbed up the tree and gathered her apples and carried them away. And the tree was happy.” 

I’m sure you know it – it is The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein.  The boy stayed away for a long time and the tree was sad. And then the boy/man came back and cut the tree’s branches to make a house… and then her trunk to make a boat… until finally, there was almost nothing left of the tree. The story ends with an image of a very sad old man sitting on a tree stump… with the words: “And the tree was happy.” 

Now, that story makes me terribly sad. I can’t think the tree was happy, and I don’t think the grown-up boy was truly happy either. How is one truly happy to continually take from another, never giving anything back in return, and reducing a proud tree to a stump?  

Today I can’t bring myself to read that story to my children, though I so treasured it as a child.  I realize that today, we are that boy/man, usurping the natural beauty and resources of our planet.  Soon there will be nothing left… for us or for our children. 

On Rosh Hashanah we celebrate the “birthday of the world.” Today, on this Yom Kippur, we face ourselves and contend with the grim consequences of our actions on this precious and only world we have. 

The reality is that we are destroying everything that we claim to celebrate. After a September that was the hottest one yet on record, I hope I don’t need to convince any of you that global warming is real, though we may differ its causes. I am not a scientist, so I am not here to prove anything to you.  We have all seen the headlines, and maybe out of fear we’ve seen the headlines but have skipped past reading the articles themselves.  They warn not just of melting glaciers but of plastics filling the oceans and the oceans becoming increasingly more acidic and warming, causing more volatile weather.  Recent hurricanes have done more than damaged homes; they have rendered large areas uninhabitable and under water.   We have read articles about climate refugees, homeless because of hurricanes, fires, and droughts.  We have heard about whole populations of penguins in Antarctica and birds across North America disappearing because their food sources are inaccessible.  We have read about the rate of species going extinct, which is now 100 times faster than normal.  This phenomenon is being called the sixth mass extinction.  Imagine in a few decades children not recognizing the animals depicted in the Noah’s ark story. 

But what is scarier to contemplate, is that if we keep up with this destruction, we will make our world inhospitable to human life.  The late Reverend William Sloane Coffin wrote in his 2004 book “Credo,” that “It is not really the world but the human race that is fragile, and getting ever more so as it is far from certain that we care enough for future generations to pay the price for their survival.”

It strikes me that our planet and all its life forms are both equally fragile.  This idea that we humans can live out our lives merely sitting on top of the earth, divorced from the reality that humans and the natural world are completely interdependent, is an unsustainable fiction.  

This is all terrifying stuff, stuff we would rather not talk about.  But we must.  And the one encouraging thing is that finally we humans seems to be paying attention, learning about sea levels rising and why we should care, and what we each can do to save our planet. Four years ago, none of the presidential candidates were talking about climate change, now they are.  And, in less than a year, the teenage climate activist Greta Thunberg has sparked a global movement to force world leaders to commit to major environmental initiatives.  

She spoke at the UN Climate Action summit in New York a few weeks ago, saying, “This is all wrong. I shouldn’t be standing here. I should be back in school on the other side of the ocean. Yet you all come to me for hope? How dare you! You have stolen my dreams and my childhood with your empty words. And yet I’m one of the lucky ones. People are suffering. People are dying. Entire ecosystems are collapsing. We are in the beginning of a mass extinction. And all you can talk about is money and fairytales of eternal economic growth. How dare you! For more than 30 years the science has been crystal clear. How dare you continue to look away, and come here saying that you are doing enough, when the politics and solutions needed are still nowhere in sight. You are failing us. But the young people are starting to understand your betrayal. The eyes of all future generations are upon you. And if you choose to fail us I say we will never forgive you. We will not let you get away with this. Right here, right now is where we draw the line. The world is waking up. And change is coming, whether you like it or not.”

I stand before you, on this holiest day of the year, as a fellow polluter, someone who enjoys shopping and my many conveniences provided by my first world life.  Al chet she’chatanu lifanecha – for the sins I have committed before You, O God… My carbon footprint is enormous.  I need to learn alongside all of my fellow Jews and earth dwellers what I can do, and we need to support one another to change. 

This is not a partisan, political issue; it is a religious issue, a moral issue, a Jewish issue.  If we Jews claim to practice teshuvah, repentance, the process of admitting our wrongs and changing our ways, then let’s get to work and begin again together.  Let’s commit to doing teshuvah for the earth.

This requires many steps, but first as Jews, we need to shift our mindset. There is a midrash (rabbinic commentary) on the book of Ecclesiastes that is often cited in defense of the environment: “When God created the first human beings, God led them around the garden of Eden and said: ‘Look at my works! See how beautiful they are — how excellent! For your sake I created them all. See to it that you do not spoil and destroy My world; for if you do, there will be no one else to repair it'” (Midrash Kohelet Rabbah, 1 on Ecclesiastes 7:13) This is a lovely midrash.  However, in light of climate change, the idea that the world was created for humanity is something I believe we need to question. The world is not ours to do with it what we desire, it belongs to God. 

Another text I am now view differently because of climate change is that part of the Shema that we recite in every service that ] instructs us to do God’s bidding.  Then God will give rain in its appointed time, and grass on the field to feed our animals, and we will eat and be content.  But if not, the earth will cease to function as it should and we would be forced to leave.  For generations this text was viewed as God acting in a supernatural kind of way, punishing the wicked and rewarding the pious.  But the climate crisis has me seeing this text from Deuteronomy as a warning we should live in deep connection with the earth and the diversity of life that it holds, humbly and gratefully appreciating their gifts to us humans and in turn making sure we are responsible stewards.

But, unlike the relationships we have with other humans, we don’t have a mutual relationship with the earth such that if you hurt it, it will let you know.  And we can’t apologize to the planet and have it forgive us.  This is no ordinary teshuvah process. But it is possible.  A midrash from the Talmud, Pesachim 54a, even says that “Repentance was created before the world was created.”

We humans operate in the here and now – it hard to accept responsibility for and figure out how to change decades and centuries misuse and abuse.  It also requires deep change, change on a global level. For this reason it is so difficult to face the reality of climate change. 

Let’s also admit that this is a deeply scary, anxiety producing topic. It is easy to fall into denial. And so, denial is a form of self-defense (much like anger, which I spoke about on Rosh Hashanah.) It is soothing and makes normal lives possible, otherwise we might never be able to sleep with all the fear and anxiety.  Being in denial helps us to enjoy the present time, which for us is the realest thing.   

The writer Jonathan Franzen, wrote a frank and hard hitting essay in the New Yorker last month on climate change entitled, “What If We Stopped Pretending?”  He writes about the apparent inevitability of climate change, our ongoing denial of it, saying that, “psychologically, denial makes sense. Despite the outrageous fact that I’ll soon be dead forever, I live in the present, not the future. Given a choice between an alarming abstraction (death) and the reassuring evidence of my senses (breakfast!), my mind prefers to focus on the latter. The planet, too, is still marvelously intact, still basically normal—seasons changing, another election year coming, new comedies on Netflix—and its impending collapse is even harder to wrap my mind around than death…. Things will get very bad, but maybe not too soon, and maybe not for everyone. Maybe not for me.” (“What If We Stopped Pretending?” The New Yorker, September 8, 2019)

But this problem isn’t going to go away.  Sometimes we will be awake and present to the fear and uncertainty of the future.  Sometimes we will dip the sleep of denial.  Let us be aware of our human nature and keep a balanced perspective as best we can.  

The reality is that the problem of global warming did not start with us and will not end with us. , Ethics of our Ancestors, Pirkei Avot 2:21 says, “It is not upon us to complete the task, but neither are we free to desist from it.” 

Our feelings of guilt will not serve us, nor the planet.  And neither can we say that this is an inevitable, insurmountable problem, so why bother?  

But Judaism commands us to always choose life. Here again I will quote from the Shema, “I have placed before you blessing and curse. Choose life, that you may live, you and your seed!”

But what does that mean, choose life, for us, in this time of climate crisis? Choosing life is about having hope.  And I don’t mean a hope that is simplistic, thinking somehow that “everything just works out for the best.”  To hope is to dare to act in a positive way in spite of a challenging situation.  Jim Antal, author of the 2018 book Climate Church, Climate World, writes that, “Hope is the most important contribution people of faith can and must make as humanity confronts the climate crisis. To become a people of hope we must be willing to stare reality in the face.” (Climate Church, Climate World, p.157)

Choosing life means that every good deed, every mitzvah, no matter how small and seemingly trivial, has immense and immeasurable significance. We act in the righteous, ethical way not because we expect a particular outcome, but because it is the right thing to do regardless of what happens or whether anyone recognizes what we do.  

We can never know the full impact of our deeds, either in the present or for future generations.  No act is trivial. The great medieval sage Maimonides writes in his laws of repentance that every person should consider themselves as perfectly balanced between good and bad and the world as perfectly balanced between good and evil. The next action you do–however trivial–can tilt you and the whole world toward the side of good and life or to the side of evil and death. 

This is what it means to choose life. You have no way of knowing the full impact of your actions on this and future generations. So: let’s commit to buy less new things, to reuse and recycle more, to cut down on using plastic, to conserve water and fossil fuels in every we can, to plant trees and create homes for living creatures, to buying food locally and eating what we buy instead of letting it go to waste.  Instead of being overwhelmed at the amount of actions we must take, let us be grateful for all the myriad ways, large and small, every one of us can make a difference.  

The Tikkun Olam committee has chosen climate justice to be Kol Emet’s tikkun olam theme for the year.  Its kickoff event is appropriately on the eve of Sukkot – we will have a potluck dinner in the sukkah, watch a movie and have a discussion, which will be moderated by Tom Wells, a local climate activist. As a community, we will learn more about this issue over the course of the year, and I am excited to see the change we can make as a collective force. We will learn together, question together, grow together, and support one another toward change.

This is the moment we must rise to: We must align our personal teshuvah with a teshuvah for the earth.   On Rosh HaShanah I shared the wisdom of taking a breath to restore the souls, and we need to do this on a global level as well.  We breathe out what the trees breathe in. The teshuvah that we are called to do in our time is to restore the breath of the world.  

I want to close with a bit of Jewish eco-theology by the late Rabbi Lawrence Troster, who was the rabbi of Kesher Israel in Chester County and who passed away a few months ago.  He was mensch and a brilliant eco-theologian.  He wrote a piece called “10 Teachings on Judaism and the Environment,” a kind of Ten Commandments for the earth.  So if the regular ten commandments are ten basic ways we should behave with one another (honor your parents, do not lie, etc) these eco-ten commandments are ten basic ways we should live in concert with the earth.  They are ten measures for our teshuvah of the earth, and they are:

1. God created the universe.

2. God’s Creation is good.

3. Human beings are created in the image of God.

4. Humanity should view their place in Creation with love and awe.

5. The Sabbath and prayer help us to achieve this state of mind.

6. The Torah prohibits the wasteful consumption of anything.

7. The Torah gives an obligation to save human life.

8. The Torah prohibits the extinction of species and causing undo pain to non-human creatures.

9. Environmental Justice is a Jewish value.

And 10. Tikkun Olam: The perfection/fixing of the world is in our hands.  

Rabbi Troster quotes the Aleinu prayer in which we ask that the world soon be perfected under the sovereignty of God (l’takein olam b’malkhut Shaddai). Tikkun olam, the perfecting or the repairing of the world, is usually described as an activity that must be done by humans in partnership with God. 

In our ignorance and our greed, we have damaged the world and silenced many of the voices of the choir of Creation. Now we must fix it. There is no one else to repair it but us. May our prayers today be heard and answered, and tomorrow let us go out partner with God and one another in the task choosing life for ourselves and for our planet. Aleinu – it is up to us and it is in our hands.

Tzom Kal – Wishing you an easy yet transformative fast.


Transforming Anger

Sermon for Rosh haShanah Day 1 5780

I heard a story on the radio this summer that stopped me in my tracks.  Content warning: It contains violence that may be hard to hear, but it does have a happy ending.  It was about a woman in Austria, who was out for a bike ride and was hit intentionally by a driver.  He got out of the car and continued to assault her.  Then he hauled her injured body into his vehicle, he took her to his remote house where he tied her up and proceeded to find various ways to hurt and maim her.   She later told reporters that she thought he would kill her, saying, “He was full of hatred.”  

But the thing was, she had just become a mother 14 weeks earlier, and her little son was waiting at home for her.  So she drew upon every bit of her wits and observed her surroundings.  She noticed that there were orchids all over the house and so she complimented him on them. It changed everything – he became nice to her!  He told her that he was a gardener and started talking to her about his difficult life – the death of his father, his alcoholic mother, and the girlfriends who had betrayed him.  He told her that he had done what he did because he needed to vent his anger through violence.  

She had taken some courses in psychology and knew enough that she should express sympathy for where he was coming from.  She listened to him.  And when she saw an opportunity, she suggested a way out of their predicament; that they pretend the whole thing was an accident if he would simply let her go.  He agreed, and actually went so far as to drive her home.  It was only after she was safely inside with the doors locked that she called the police.  (Source: Austrian newspaper Kronen Zeitung, August 1, 2019)

This story is amazing to me because it is a miracle.  As a parent, I know I would fight like she did to escape her ordeal and return to her child.  And, also as a mom of two 3-year olds, I know how difficult it is to get through the storm of anger.  This woman saw a window, a way of possibly returning to her baby boy, and she grabbed it.  But there was no guarantee that it would work – she just had to try.

And so it is with us.  We are living through a storm of anger in this country and in this world.  We are witness to the kind of rage, darkness, and hopelessness that impels people to take up firearms and kill innocent bystanders.  The kind of anger and fear of immigrants that enables a horrible kind of callousness, permitting to be families to be separated and little children neglected in crowded detention camps. The kind of anger that makes permissible bullying, hate speech and acts of anti-Semitism, racism, xenophobia, and bigotry. This is the kind of anger that kills, just as it killed my friend Jerry and ten other Jewish souls at the Tree of Life synagogue on October 27, 2018. 

And if I may: we have a president who was elected in part because he understood and tapped into the anger many people were feeling in this country.  And now, with the impeachment proceedings, his opponents, who have been incredibly frustrated and angry at his behavior, are gleefully and hungrily waiting for him to go down. It is a cycle of anger; a continued storm of fury.  

I cannot guarantee how or when it will pass, but like the woman who was captured, we have to be ready for the windows of opportunity as they present themselves to deescalate the situation, to show empathy, to present solutions that may or may not work. 

How do we transform anger, whether it is someone else’s or our own? 

I am reminded of the classic 1976 movie “Network,” where the character Howard Beale, a newscaster, is played by the actor Peter Finch.  Here is a bit of his famous monologue:

“I don’t have to tell you things are bad… It’s a depression. Everybody’s out of work or scared of losing their job. The dollar buys a nickel’s worth. Banks are going bust. Shopkeepers keep a gun under the counter…We know the air is unfit to breathe, our food is unfit to eat, and we sit watching our TVs while some local newscaster tells us that today we had 15 homicides and 63 violent crimes as if that’s the way it’s supposed to be. We know things are bad. Worse than bad… It’s like everything everywhere is going crazy so we don’t go out anymore. We sit in a house as slowly the world we’re living in is getting smaller and all we say is, “Please, at least leave us alone in our living rooms. Let me have my toaster, and TV, and my steel belted radials and I won’t say anything.” Well I’m not going to leave you alone. I want you to get mad. … You’ve got to say, “I’m a human being. G-d Dammit, my life has value.” So, I want you to get up now. I want all of you to get up out of your chairs. I want you to get up right now and go to the window, open it, and stick your head out, and yell, “I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore!””

We laugh, because this all still feels terribly relatable today. And that anger he has, that righteous anger, it is powerful and it is good.  But while anger can be a necessary and healthy response to injustice, it is dangerous to remain angry or resort too easily to anger. It is not a new thing, this anger in our country, but the level of it has been rising for decades – imperceptibly but surely as the seawater levels.  I feel we are now at a breaking point.  Being ignorant or becoming numb is only an option for the most privileged among us.  But hopefully, there are windows of opportunity if we act with skill, love, purpose. 

Let’s talk about anger, yes today of all days, because Rosh haShanah, the head of the year, is such a window, calling us to reflect on and challenge the cycles of destructive behavior that we have become accustomed to over the course of time.  Now is the time for change. 

Anger is right here, in our Rosh haShanah Torah and Haftarah readings that we read every year.  The backdrop of our Torah portion is that, Sarah, Abraham’s wife, had long been frustrated that she could not bear a child.  Her maidservant Hagar had a son by Abraham, which incensed her.  So, Sarah mistreated her, and Hagar ran away as a result, and then came back.  Now finally, Sarah conceived and bore a son, and this is where our parsha today begins.  But Sarah, even though she celebrated and felt joy at Isaac’s arrival, wanted Hagar and son gone. Abraham, though troubled, allowed it to happen because God assured him that Ishmael will live and will be the head of a nation. Sarah’s jealousy and rage toward Hagar sets the entire drama in motion.  Imagine if she could have somehow allowed Hagar and Ishmael to stay – would today the descendants of Isaac and Ishmael be adversaries?

And in our Haftarah, we will hear of Hannah’s infertility and how she prayed to God and made deals with God in order to have a child.  She is driven to the God’s temple to pray in sadness, desperation, and yes, anger, at her plight.  The text explicitly uses the word ka’as – anger – multiple times to describe Hannah’s feelings.  Not only was she sad about not having a child, but her husband’s other wife Peninah would frequently provoke her because Peninah had children and lorded it over poor Hannah. Hannah would then get so upset she would cry and could not eat. When God at last did grant her a child, she promised her son Samuel to God’s service as a priest.

Here we have two very different models in our holy texts for how to deal with anger. It is not for me to judge whether their anger was justified or if one approach was more right than the other, but I do find it interesting that their anger is not usually discussed in traditional commentaries.  I think there is a reason for that.  Classical Jewish texts instruct us to avoid anger and keep it in check.  A few actually liken it to idolatry.

Here is a well-known example from the Talmud, tractate Shabbat 105b: 

R’ Shimon Ben Elazar said in the name of Chilfa bar Agra, who said in the name of R’ Yochanan Ben Nuri: One who tears his clothing in anger, or who smashed vessels in his anger, or who scatters money in his anger – he should be in your eyes like an idolater. For this is the way of the evil inclination: Today it tells him to do this, and tomorrow it tells him to do that, until it tells him to worship idolatry, and he goes and worships.

That is to say, that terrible storm of anger that makes you see red?  It is a strange god that threatens to overpower you and leads you to make poor choices at best; destructive choices at worst.  In psychological terms, anger is created by ego, an image of our esteem or importance.  Anger is a byproduct of the ego feeling threatened.  

But anger, in my view, should not be dismissed; it is an important indicator that our boundaries, our healthy limits, might be under attack.  Sarah was angry because she felt her son Isaac’s future was being undermined.  And we may rightfully be angry when someone breaks into our home and steals our stuff.  Anger is a healthy response to a violation or trespass of any kind.

However, anger is not a primary emotion.  Psychologists will tell you another feeling always gives rise to anger.  For example, say you were cut off on the road, and you felt angry at the other driver.  But in the exact moment the accident almost happened, there was, even for a split second, another emotion, and that was probably fear.  Anger comes, actually, to soothe.  Just like in the case of the man who assaulted the woman biker, he used anger as a way of soothing his loneliness and sense of rejection and powerlessness.

Many of us are self-medicating with anger against all sorts of psychological pain.  It hardly gives us a sense of inner harmony, but anger does help give us a certain comfort.  After all, we’re not wrong, or bad, or selfish or inconsiderate – it’s our spouse, our child, our neighbor, our co-worker.  It’s that bigoted or naive person on the other side of the political aisle. In the face of a sense of powerlessness, anger helps us feel more in control.

And so in that way, anger can be a drug, an addiction, indeed, an idol we erect.  It is so easy, so tempting to resort to anger and to blame.  If we let anger numb us, if we let anger control us, we lose ourselves, we lose our soul.

The second century mystic Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai, in his work Metok miDvash, describes how anger chips away at our souls. He says:

The Hebrew word for “soul” is neshama; the word for “breath” is “nesheema“. This explains why breathing exercises affect the soul. It is also the reason why anger – called “kotzer ruach“, or “short breath” – weakens the soul by affecting the breath. Another name for “anger” is “af ” which means “nose”. Anger is expressed by the snorting of the breath in the nostrils. Controlling anger with a long breath reasserts the soul. 

We must figure out how to respond to anger, to transform it and use for good.  In this way we can reclaim our soul.

Anger, when honored, has something deeply important to tell us about ourselves and about the concerns or needs of another person.  When you are angry, it is telling you something – so, what is it saying?  Perhaps we can ask it, “Why, anger, are you here?” And then listen.  

In his book, simply entitled “Anger,” Thich Nhat Hahn, a Buddhist monk and Nobel Peace Prize laureate, instructs us that listening without judgment or blame is the quickest way for the anger to dissipate.  This kind of intentional listening is deeply compassionate and humane, restoring a person’s sense of dignity.

It may seem counterintuitive, because we may instinctively want to push away or dismiss anger, either our own anger or that of another person.  In our haftarah this morning, when Hannah, in her anger and pain, came to pray at the temple, the priest Eli misjudges and scornes her.  He accuses her of being a drunk. But Hannah wisely names and honors her anger. She says to him, “No sir, I am a woman sore in spirit, and no wine have I drunk. For I was only pouring out my soul to God…I was just speaking out of great preoccupation and anger.”  Eli then joins her in prayer, saying “May the God of Israel give you what you ask.”

Anger is neither bad nor good, it is energy – it is telling you something valuable about yourself – your limits, your values. To ignore it is to ignore your voice, your values.  But it cannot have the last word.

The poet Maya Angelou famously wrote, “You should be angry. You must not be bitter. Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. It doesn’t do anything to the object of its displeasure. So use that anger. You write it. You paint it. You dance it. You march it. You vote it. You do everything about it. You talk it. Never stop talking it.”

So the next step is to talk back, with love, to our anger. Anger must be responded to proactively, lest we become bitter or resentful.  When someone treats you badly, we must find a healthy, constructive way to respond.  Maybe you decide to speak with the person, or maybe you resolve not to engage in that behavior yourself.  With sacred intention, we can use anger to create a better, loving world. In this way, anger is essential to our healing and also to our teshuvah process, our path of returning to God.

In our daily life we run continuously.  We rarely give ourselves the capacity or opportunity to stop and look deeply into our life and our feelings.   But if we can take time for reflection and sit with anger or other difficult feelings, they will speak to you.  

Like Hannah, you can ask yourself, “What positive action can I take to transform my feelings of anger?” For her, it was prayer; for ourselves, it could be meditation, writing, speaking out, or acts of social justice or compassion.  This High Holiday season, let us give ourselves that gift – to breath, to pray, to sit, and hopefully to take constructive action.  

Lest your anger become an idol, you must take your anger and transform it into something healthy and positive.  Proverbs 16:32 encourages us not only to be slow to anger, but to master our passions.  This Rosh HaShanah let us remember that our true power lies in mastering our passions – understanding our anger and our desires and responding to them with our truth. When we are able to live and serve others in connection with a vision of a world fulfilled we will not become bitter and we will naturally be slow to anger. 

Keyn yehi ratzon – may it be so.  Shana tova.


Statement on Poway Chabad shooting

We are heartbroken, and angered, to write you again concerning the shooting at another synagogue, this time at the Chabad in Poway California, exactly six months after the Tree of Life shooting in Pittsburgh. Truly, it is a unique form of evil to shoot people while they are praying. We are sickened to see yet another house of worship attacked and we mourn the loss of Lori Gilbert-Kaye, a pillar of the Chabad Poway community.  The shooter in Poway has also claimed responsibility for an arson attack on a nearby mosque last month. Americans, Jewish and all others, deserve to be safe.

The attack occurred on the final day of Passover, our festival of freedom. There is a curious passage in our haggadah called “V’hi sheh-amda” which declares that “in every generation our enemies have tried to destroy us, but God has saved us from their hands.”  If we are really free, why are we singing about unending violence against us? After this attack, it is a sobering acknowledgement that though we are no longer slaves, we are never fully free from so many other evils. We must continually rely on God’s saving power and our own strength to keep going. Singing this line becomes an act of resistance: in spite of ever-present evil, we are still here. They will not destroy our spirit.  We refuse to accept such violence as normal.

But the sobering new reality is that Jewish communities in the United States now must reckon with the possibility, however remote, of terrorist attacks directed at us.

At Kol Emet, enhancing our security measures is a vital part of our response. Since Oct 27th we have been continually making improvements, and additional security cameras are being installed this week. 

But security cannot be our only answer to the rising expressions of anti-Semitism, hatred, and bigotry we are seeing today. Minorities of all faiths, colors, and backgrounds are vulnerable. We must continue to stand for what is right and good, comfort those in pain, build strong relationships with our neighbors, and show up for one another. This Passover, the bitterness of hatred still lingers in our mouths, but we stand together, clear in our resolve to bring more light into this world. 

On Shabbat morning at Kol Emet, we celebrated a beautiful festival service and surrounded ourselves with the memories of our loved ones as we honored them with our Yizkor (memorial) prayers.  On Sunday morning, our Kadima/Mechina classes met downstairs, while upstairs adults gathered to learn with Fran Fried about the Holocaust and its lessons for today. Our mourning, celebrating, learning, and growing is continually intertwined. In this very real sense, Am Yisrael Chai – the people of Israel live.

In a moving video clip, Rabbi Yisrael Goldstein, who was injured in the shooting, suggested that one thing that we can all do is to show up for Shabbat next week. We have a Heymish Shabbat scheduled for Friday night, and I hope you will choose to join us to share a Shabbat dinner together and hear Jonathan Snipes talk about food insecurity and sustainability.  

These acts of terror will not stop us. May our resolve only increase as we stand with our community and bring more love into our fractured world.  


Leviticus on danger and evil

I am thinking about evil more often than I’d like to these days. The death of Samantha Josephson, the college student who was murdered by a man she thought was her Uber driver, hit very close to home. Her funeral was held at Beth Chaim, just across the river in New Jersey. Also, two of our members are connected to her family. One person said to me that, for her, the case wasn’t about someone getting into the wrong car, it was about a person intent on evil.

I am not naïve enough to think that each of us doesn’t have the potential to do something terrible. But we are taught right from wrong, love and commitment, responsibility and kindness. I don’t believe more people have evil in their hearts today than in days gone by, but I do think, however, that there is more of a permissibility granted these days for incivility and isolation. And that leads directly toward violence.

For the ancient Israelites, the sense that God would save them from evil and danger was quite literal. I often think of the classic book “Purity and Danger,” in which the sociologist Mary Douglas discusses how the book of Leviticus is really a manual about how to keep people safe from harm. It is often viewed as entirely anachronistic; we no longer do sacrifices, so why read Leviticus? But sacrifices were the way to ensure that God would remain with the community, thereby protecting it from danger and evildoers.

Wandering in the desert as they were, life was fraught with danger and uncertainty for the ancient Israelites. Today, I search the book of Leviticus, not to re-create some ancient protective technology, but to reflect how I might ensure that divine presence and Godliness remain in our midst, enabling me and our precious community to feel more safe and whole. 


On the eve of Adar’s 7th birthday weekend, something I wrote for her birthday parsha, Tetzaveh

Seven years ago, my oldest daughter, Adar, was born in the early morning hours of Shabbat Tetzaveh. Josh and I had decided that her first name would be for the Hebrew month of her birth, but we weren’t sure what or if she would have a second Hebrew name. We went back and forth with names, unable to commit. But, when little Adar was in my arms and I read the first words of this Torah portion for guidance, I knew. 

Moses is told by God, “You shall further command the sons of Israel to use pure olive oil for kindling the light of the lamps. Aaron shall set up this light to burn continuously in the sanctuary. It will serve as a light for God for all generations.” (Exodus 27:10)

It is no small thing, this commandment. Where would the Israelites procure the oil? How could they be prepared to have this special pure oil continuously available so that this light would burn eternally?

When I think about the responsibilities we take on, how many of them do we commit to in perpetuity? In this day and age, we can let go of almost everything. We can sell the house. We can get divorced. And even religious obligations don’t seem to carry the same weight as they used to, no matter how hard we religious leaders try. But parenthood is a sacred responsibility we can never be relieved of. No matter what happened, I would never un-become a mother. My heart would forever live outside my body; my greatest commitment would always be to her and any children that would come after her.

So, Adar’s second Hebrew name is Meirah – light. This week, I invite you to consider your most eternal commitments. What lights you up and gives your life purpose and meaning? How do you ensure that you are prepared to keep your sacred fire burning? 

May your fire burn strong and bright, without fail.

Rabbi Anna