Rabbinic Reflections - Parshat Tazaria-Metzora                  April 21, 2018 - 6 Iyar 5778

04/18/2018 03:35:51 PM

Apr18

The teenage years are not kind to most kids.  In addition to social and peer pressures, many feel gawky, gangly and awkward. Their bodies are growing and changing faster than their emotional maturity and in the midst of all this, many suffer from acne or other skin ailments that they find embarrassing and shameful, even though many of their friends have the same conditions.  While the cynic reads a section of the Bible, like Leviticus Chap. 13 (dealing with the ritual purification from skin diseases) and dismisses all religion as a lot of "hocus pocus," superstition and taboo, many teens read it with their acne in mind and hope that “this too shall pass.” 

Chapters 13 and 14 of Leviticus describe the role of the ancient Israelite priesthood in diagnosing and responding to people afflicted with tzara'at, commonly but erroneously translated as leprosy.  It is highly unlikely that what the ancients called "leprosy" thousands of years ago was, in fact, what we today refer to as Hansen's disease.  The word tzara'at probably referred to any number of skin ailments.  The priest's job was to determine if the skin disease in question was contagious or not. If contagious, the person was removed from the rest of the population until the priest determined it was safe to readmit him.  In Torah terms, a person was considered Tamai (ritually impure) when diagnosed with the skin ailment and could not remain among the Children of Israel until he/she was Tahor (ritually pure).

The role of the priest extended beyond responsibility for the ancient sacrificial cult to include medical responsibilities, as well.  A priest had to be both educated in theology and medicine. In a way, the Torah is describing the ideal prototype for the modern physician.  Indeed, as Rabbi Howard Siegel points out, one of the greatest influences on Judaism was Moshe ben Maimon (1135-1204 C.E.), known by the acronym, Rambam or Maimonides.  Born in Spain, he became a rabbi, philosopher/theologian, and a practicing physician.  In addition to his writings, he taught an important lesson by example. Science and theology, the concrete and the transcendent, must exist together.

Rabbi Siegel recounts that poet and storyteller Danny Siegel tells the following true story of an encounter he had several years ago: "An eminent physician is taking his students on morning rounds. Here and there he explains to his entourage some fine point of the art of healing, adding to their store of insight and knowledge so that when they assume their positions as Healers, they, too, will demonstrate the requisite skill and wisdom needed to ease suffering and pain. The professor's expertise impresses the interns and residents.

As they go from room to room, the professor and students encounter an older woman recently arrived as a "social admission."  She is not desperately ill, but her complex of ailments makes it impossible for her neighbors and friends to take care of her.  The professor sees that she is depressed, withdrawn. She refuses to eat.  There is nothing here to be revealed in the way of book-knowledge; no advanced scholarship is needed.

The professor stops, and for twenty minutes feeds the woman.

She is capable of feeding herself, but she refuses to do so.  So, with deliberate and gentle care, the teacher teaches a lesson in kindness.  He does not do it as a demonstration to the students. No, he spoon-feeds this old woman because that is what the demands of the hour are.  If, as a result of this long delay, the students will have missed some detail of graduate training, some fact concerning prescriptions or diagnosis, it matters little to the professor.

Human beings must be served with a touch of humanity."

As both Danny Siegel and Rabbi Howard Siegel teach: One becomes a physician to heal the sick; a lawyer to defend the innocent. A firm grounding in a system of morals and ethics is a prerequisite for whatever we choose to do in life.

Shabbat Shalom!

Cantorial Comments - Parshat Shemini                                    April 14, 2018 - 29 Nisan 5778

04/12/2018 02:05:44 PM

Apr12

“May we think of freedom not as the right to do as we please, but as the opportunity to do what is right.”              --Peter Marshall (1902-1949), author and theologian

The Torah likes separating things... all kinds of things. Most of us know about separating meat and dairy, but there really is much more to it: it is also forbidden to wear a garment that contains a mixture of wool and linen (‘shatnez’), you can’t sow a mixture of different seeds in the same field (‘kilayim’), you can’t plow using an ox and a donkey yoked together. If you visit a more orthodox community, you will see men and women separated to varying degrees, from a simple rope down the middle of a synagogue (‘mechitza’), to local ordinances restricting men and women to separately designated sides of the sidewalk, and using separate entrances to public buildings. We also do a lot of separating holy from profane, such as the ritual of separating the end of Shabbat from the regular weekday is called “Havdalah”, “the separation”. We separate kosher from treif, ritually pure from the ritually impure, and I, personally, find it rather amusing that in the Talmud, the euphemism used in Aramaic for ‘going to the bathroom’ also translates to ‘making a separation’.

What’s with all the separating? Our modern sensibilities teach us to be averse to separation; togetherness is the overarching philosophy that guides most of what we believe to be socially beneficial. Borders and walls that separate ‘us’ from ‘them’ are bad, unity and a welcoming spirit is good. Exclusivity and privilege are bad, while inclusivity and equal opportunity are good. Invoking a highly controversial topic such as immigration policy quickly rouses some strong views, but for the most part, I think we all agree that in an ideal and perfect world, all people should be welcome everywhere. It is only over how much risk to take, sacrificing personal security and economic prosperity that compel us to pick our sides of the immigration argument. Meanwhile, contrary to popular ideology, it seems that Jewish tradition likes separating things, and indeed, jumps on every opportunity to do just that.

In this week’s parsha, Shmini, we learn about all kinds of separation. We are told we can only eat those animals that have split hooves and chew their cud. We also learn that we can only eat those sea creatures with both fins and scales. The Torah lists various birds which are prohibited to eat, and the four categories of locusts which are kosher (yes, some locusts are kosher!). But after listing all of the various rules and regulations about which animals are kosher and which are not, the Torah gives us an explanation as to why. “For I the Lord am your God: you shall sanctify yourselves and be holy, for I am holy.” (Lev. 11:44).  Obviously, this answer does not give us much clue as to what is so special about split hooves and cud, as so in that respect we are left to wonder and speculate. However, inherent in the answer we are given, there is a suggestion that the issue about split hooves and cud is actually completely beside the point.

God intends for us to be a holy people, and the act of separating is part of the means to achieve that holiness. Separation, in this case, is simply the practice of self-restraint. When we restrict ourselves, we show discipline, forethought, measure and purpose, all of which are among the basic building blocks of holiness. God also tells us that he will make Israel an “Am Segulah”, “a nation apart”; that is, a separate and distinguished people. And perhaps it is with this intention that the Torah offers most of its seemingly arbitrary rules, for no other reason than to have some rules at all, to have a challenge that we are meant to overcome, and an opportunity to distinguish ourselves. The Mishnah teaches “God wanted to reward Israel, and so he gave them Torah and Mitzvot” (N’zikin 3:16). That’s the direct translation, but I have my own translation that I think is just as valid: “God wanted to give Israel the opportunity to be rewarded, and so he gave them Torah and Mitzvot.” The reward for observing these laws of separation, of mastering self-restraint, is holiness.

Shabbat Shalom,
                            --ChazJ

Rabbinic Reflections - Eighth Day of Passover                        April 7, 2018 - 22 Nisan 5778

04/05/2018 11:53:03 AM

Apr5

Just imagine what would happen if the events of the Exodus had occurred in our century. Moses would be on the cover of every magazine, from CARP (“Changing Careers at Eighty”) to Business Week (“How to Succeed at Relocation Planning”), from Readers’ Digest (“The Ten Commandments – Condensed Version”) to Popular Mechanics (“Innovations in Marine Engineering”). Barbara Walters, Brian Williams, Katie Couric, and Piers Morgan would compete fiercely for the “get,” the first on-camera interview with the man everyone was talking about. Moses artifacts (real and fake) would appear on EBay, and rumors about Moses’ youthful misadventures would circulate on the internet. “Moses ben Amram” would consistently rank among the most popular searches on Google. There would be a Moses fan page on Facebook and a #Moses Twitter feed. After all, today, almost everybody wants his or her “15 minutes of fame.” It doesn’t matter how you get it, as long as you can appear on television (think about the behavior of reality TV performers or the antics of some sports fans). You haven’t lived until you have been on videotape. “I don’t care what you say about me as long as you spell my name right.” PT Barnum was right: even bad publicity is better than no publicity!

But Rabbi Joyce Newmark reminds us that things were different 3600 years ago. So much so, that Moses is absent from the Haggadah. The usual explanation for this is that the Rabbis wanted to emphasize that it was God who redeemed us from Egypt, not any human being. But there is something more. The Torah tells us (Deuteronomy 34:10): “Never again did there arise in Israel a prophet like Moses – whom the Lord singled out, face to face.” The Torah also tells us (Numbers 12:3): “Moses was a very humble man, more so than any other man on earth.” So it seems that Moses had every reason to claim celebrity status -- but he didn’t. And this is a reason for praise.

And why should Moses’ name be missing from the Pesach Haggadah in particular? In preparation for Pesach, we remove chametz from our homes, offices, and cars. In fact, we don’t just remove it – we search it out, we burn it, we nullify it, we obliterate it. Why? The simple reason is that the Torah prohibits the consumption or possession of chametz during Pesach. But Rabbi Newmark reminds us that there is also a symbolic reason:

The Rabbis interpreted the removal of chametz as a metaphor for the removal of the yetzer ha-ra, the evil inclination. Philo of Alexandria, the Greek-Jewish philosopher, narrowed the focus to pride. “Just as leaven is banned because it is puffed up, so too must we guard against the self-righteousness that puffs us up with false pride.” The Kli Yakar, Rabbi Ephraim Solomon of Luntshitz, noted, “Leaven is a symbol of arrogance, pride, boasting, and pursuit of recognition.”

Pesach, Hag HaAviv, the Spring festival, is a time of rebirth and renewal. And this process of renewal requires the removal of spiritual chametz, false pride, unwarranted ego. Rabbi Newmark concludes: Each of us should look to the example of Moshe Rabbeinu, Moses our Teacher, and remember that – just maybe – I am not the center of the world. It’s hard to be humble when you are surrounded by messages telling you that you could be the next “American Idol” – but you know what the Torah says about idolatry!

Shabbat Shalom!

Cantorial Comments - Passover                                                March 31, 2018 - 15 Nisan 5778

03/28/2018 03:01:04 PM

Mar28

“There are two great days in a person’s life – the day we are born, and the day we discover why.”
--William Barclay (1907-1978), Scottish author and theologian

 Amongst the many greetings you hear amongst the Jewish community today, Shabbat Shalom, Chag Kasher V’Same’ach, Gutt Yontif, the phrase “Shanah tovah” seems out of place.  Different holidays, right?  Well… that depends on how you look at it.  In the Torah, the month in which we celebrate Rosh Hashanah is called “chodesh hashvi’it” or “the seventh month” (yes, you read that correctly), and if you do your math, that makes the first month THIS MONTH!

If you are already confused, it’s understandable.  Defining the “New Year” is something of an odd subject in the Torah.  In fact, there are four distinct new years that the Torah discusses.  Rosh Hashanah, which takes place in the month of Tishrei is the New Year for the earth.  If we approach the Torah from a literal standpoint and do our biblical math, the creation of the earth at the beginning of the book of B’reishit took place on the first day of Tishrei, 5778 years ago.  But the Torah enumerates the months not from Tishrei, but from the month of Nisan.  Why?  Passover.  (For the curious, the other two new years are the fiscal new year for tree tithing on the 15th of Shvat, and the fiscal new year for cattle tithing on the 1st of Elul.)

On the one hand, you might think this makes perfect sense.  After all, what single event defines the Jewish people more than the exodus from Egypt?  But perhaps you might argue that the giving of the Torah is the more critical event.  In that case, we should probably be counting the months from the Festival of Shavuot in the month of Sivan.  But no, the Torah has made it’s choice – Passover, and Nisan get the grand prize, but on what basis?

I often tell my bar and bat mitzvah students to compare their coming of age to the experience of the Israelites becoming a nation.  I find that this paradigm helps kids find material in their parsha that they can then expand into their bar and bat mitzvah speeches.  Just as our parents actively protect and guide us during our formative years, so too, God behaved as an active parents, intervening on behalf of the Israelites, bringing them out of Israel, guiding them through the desert, providing mana for food, and the like. 

Ultimately, coming of age is about learning self-sufficiency and independence, so that we are able to survive on our own, relying less on our parents.  So too, the Israelites slowly learned how to rely less on the active intervention of God; they learned to organize themselves, establish systems of government and justice, establish a legal  code, norms for social behaviour and an army to defend themselves.  Once the Israelites entered the Promised Land, the mana ceased to fall, the guiding pillars of cloud and fire dissipated.  Does this mean that God left?  Does this mean that the Israelites no longer had any need of God?  Certainly not.  Similarly, our parents never truly leave us, even though the ultimate passage one day separates us.  We still draw on what we have learned from our parents, and they continue to inform our choices.  Forever, they remain a presence in our lives.

Within this same paradigm, the Israelites receiving the Torah can be compared to a bar or bat mitzvah.  The Israelites accepted the Torah, and bound themselves to it, but the task of learning Torah had really only just begun.  So too, our b’nei mitzvah kids have an entire lifetime ahead of them that we hope will be rich in Torah study.  The Exodus, however, is the birth of the Israelite nation, complete with birthing pangs.  It is a helpless infant, unable to fend for itself, or understand the nature of freedom.  This is the true beginning of the Journey.

Happy Birthday, Israel!

Chag Kasher V’Same’ach,
                                          --ChazJ

 Rabbinic Reflections - Parshat Tzav                                 March 24, 2018 - 8 Nisan 5778

03/23/2018 11:53:19 AM

Mar23

Someone recently remarked: “I’m 35 but I still feel like I’m 20…until I hang out with 20-year-olds…then I’m, like, nope, never mind, I’m 35.” Apparently we are the company we keep. It is a lesson our Torah teaches us in Parshat Tzav.

 

This week's Torah portion spells out more of the laws regarding the sacrifices the Jewish people brought. God commands (Leviticus 7:19): "... flesh that touches any contaminated thing may not be eaten, it shall be burned in fire..."  Why would flesh that was pure suddenly become contaminated by merely "touching" something else that was contaminated?

 

Rabbi Adam Lieberman teaches a valuable and powerful lesson; namely, we are profoundly influenced by our surroundings. We do become a product of our environment. Being around any type of behavior that we don't want to fully engage in ourselves is never a good idea. The fact is, when we’re around people we don't want to become more like, their behavior - whether we decide to presently do it or not - will eventually rub off on us. We can't just declare that "I will never become like them." Good or bad, our environment will affect us.

 

This is true even if people aren't involved. If someone has a problem controlling his drinking, then it's clearly unwise for him to keep alcohol in his possession. Merely seeing the alcohol or knowing that's it's easily accessible could tempt an otherwise strong and determined person. In many cases, we just have to completely distance ourselves from any behavior we don't want to engage in.

 

Whether we like it or not, we're influenced by the company we keep. And given enough time, we can eventually become more and more like those who surround us. So we should choose our environment wisely. No matter how much willpower and conviction we have to stay "true to who we are," we're all human and for better or worse, we'll change every day whether we like it or not.

 

Shabbat Shalom!

Cantorial Comments - Parsha Vayikra                              March 17, 2018 - 1 Nisan, 5778

03/15/2018 04:58:06 PM

Mar15

 “We stand at Armageddon and we battle for the Lord.”
--Theodore Roosevelt

An enormous archeological discovery in Israel this week has got a lot of people very excited.  About 30 km south of Haifa, a royal burial chamber was uncovered that scientists believe had been undisturbed for more than 3600 years.  That means that the last time that this chamber saw the light of day, Israel was known as Canaan, and the Israelites were slaves in Egypt.  The chamber was discovered in the remains of the ancient city-state of Megiddo - a trade hub, a coastal port city, a rest-stop for traders travelling between Europe, Asia Minor and North Africa, and a place mentioned often in the Torah.  In the National Geographic article that I read on this exciting discovery, I learned a new little “fun-fact” that has given me a lot to think about.

 “The ancient site of Megiddo dominated a strategic pass on major international military and trade routes for nearly five millennia, from 3000 B.C. to 1918. Overlooking the Jezreel Valley, the site has witnessed numerous decisive battles that have altered the course of history, earning it the figurative name of Armageddon (from Har-Megiddo, or 'Hill of Megiddo') first coined in the Book of Revelation.”

How deliciously amazing is language?  I believe that language gives more substance to history and culture than any other factor, be it food, lifestyle, dress, dance, music, folk-legend… anything.  The way language evolves and spreads over time is directly related to what is happening in the lives of the people who speak it.  For example, the word “Lechem”, most commonly understood as Modern Hebrew for “bread”, is a word used in the Torah that migrated to many other ancient languages, and took on different meanings in different places.  In coastal regions, “Lechem” meant “fish”.  In the plains, it meant “meat”.  In ancient Hebrew, particularly in this week’s parsha, Vayikra, “lechem” could also mean “food”, or even “sacrifice” – and that’s a big problem for Jewish theologians.

One of the principles of pagan idol worship is that the gods require sacrifices not only for worship, but also for nourishment.  An offering to an idol is meant to be food for the god, from which that god derives sustenance in the same way that human beings need food; to survive.  In Judaism, the idea that God requires any sustenance from human beings is entirely against our concept of who and what God is.  In ancient Judaism, sacrificial offerings were not given to sustain God, but rather they were acts of contrition, submission and/or devotion to God. 

Jews sacrificed because Jews needed to sacrifice, not because God required anything from Jews for His own sake.  What this means is that Jewish sacrifices could not be understood as “food” for God, and yet, the language in the Torah suggests that this is the case.  No doubt, this is an ideological conflict that is tough to swallow (pardon the double-entendre).

Modern rabbis understand this to be a linguistic fossil – the term “lechem” is likely one of the oldest words in the Hebrew language, obviously, much older than the Torah.  It is a word that was in use a time long before monotheism, when sacrifices were thought of as food, “lechem”, for a pagan god.  The Torah certainly could have defined entirely new words so as to remove any link between the idea of pagan food-sacrifices and Jewish devotional sacrifices, and in many cases it does just that: the “olah” (burnt offering), “shelamim” (peace offering), “chattat” (sin offering) and “asham” (guilt offering).  Instead, the Torah borrows from terminology already in use, well-understood by society.

Sometimes, when we want to build a new building, we have to tear down the previous building, right down to its foundations – to completely wipe away the old, and start fresh.  The Torah describes God doing as much with the entire earth when bringing about the Great Flood in the time of Noah.  However, it can also be wise to build on top of an existing foundation – to retain something familiar, particularly amidst fundamental change.  Modern Jews often wonder why the Torah mandated sacrifices at all – after all God doesn’t really need them, the Jewish people seem to be in agreement that Judaism is managing just fine today without them.  The answer is that at the time, we needed them.  At that period in history, civilization itself, let alone religion, could not be separated from human urge to sacrifice to a deity.  Institutionalized sacrifice was necessary, and so, the Torah offered an avenue for it, in the language that satisfied that urge.  But it is amazing, that inherent within the language that invokes an antiquated sense of the meaning of sacrifice, simultaneously addressed the need of the time, as well as invited modern thinkers to recognize that sacrifice was only meant as a temporary measure, to be shed when Jewish society was ready to embrace a more thoughtful and honest understanding of the nature of God, and His relationship with humanity.  This is yet another example of the timelessness of Torah.

Shabbat Shalom,
                          --ChazJ

Rabbinic Reflections - Parshat Vayaqel-Pequdei                    March 10, 2018 - 23 Adar, 5778

03/09/2018 01:11:36 PM

Mar9

When I was a younger rabbi working in Chicago, I was invited to my uncle and aunt’s 40th wedding anniversary party in Montreal. I was extremely busy, with two individuals expected to pass away imminently and felt I was just too busy to get away for the family simcha. Two weeks later, my uncle died of a heart attack and I went to the funeral; indeed, I conducted it. Later I turned to Gilah and said, “If I can make time to come to a funeral, I should be able to make time to come to a simcha.” Since then, I have never missed a family simcha. Unlike the procrastinator, who says, “Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow,” I say, “Why put off until tomorrow what you can do today.” This is an important lesson that we learn in this week’s double portion, which concludes the Book of Exodus (Sefer Shemot).

The latter half of the book, once the Ten Commandments are given, deals with the instruction to build the Mishkan, the Sanctuary that accompanied the Israelites throughout their desert wanderings. After elaborately giving instructions to the Israelites over the past few Torah readings, in today’s portion, the Israelites actually build the structure in accordance with the previously given instructions. And, essentially, the Torah repeats what we already read, as the Torah describes how each element was made just as instructed. Even the great medieval commentator Rashi has almost nothing new to add.

However, because we trust the belief of our Sages that there is nothing superfluous in the Torah, we continue to search these portions for lessons to learn and discover that the Torah does have important things to teach us. Rabbi Joyce Newmark of NJ, in her reflections on this portion, points out that near the beginning of this week’s reading, we learn that Moses asked the people to donate the materials needed to make the Mishkan. The men and women responded generously, so much so that the Torah says (Exodus.36.5-6): “The artisans who were engaged in the tasks of the sanctuary came . . . and said to Moses, “The people are bringing more than is needed for the tasks entailed in the work that the Lord has commanded to be done.” Moses thereupon had this proclamation made throughout the camp – let no man or woman make further effort toward gifts for the sanctuary.” Newmark writes: “Certainly, this was the first – and very possibly the last – time in the history of Jewish fundraising that people were told to stop donating.

However, as Moses’ accounting shows, all the donations were used for their intended purpose, with nothing left over for operating expenses or an endowment fund.”

According to the midrash Tanhuma, it took only two days to collect all of the materials needed for the Mishkan. That being the case,  there must have been hundreds, even thousands, of people who had things they sincerely wanted to contribute to the project, but they waited – just a little bit—and thus missed out on the opportunity. Perhaps they had something else they wanted to finish first, or they got distracted. Perhaps they were tired or the weather was lousy. “I’ll get to it tomorrow or maybe the next day,” they thought. But suddenly, it was too late. Everything that was needed had been collected and the procrastinators lost their chance to be part of this most holy effort. Newmark concludes: “We never know how much time we have. We go around assuming we can take care of this or that task tomorrow or next week, and quite often this is fine. Our parasha reminds us that sometimes putting it off for even a day or two means you will be too late.” What we learn is precisely the hard lesson I learned with my uncle’s passing: Don’t put off to tomorrow what you can do today!

So, as Rabbi Newmark emphasizes, if it’s really important to  make that phone call, thank someone who helped you, visit a family member, see the doctor, offer an apology, buy a gift, or say, “I love you,” don’t wait until it’s too late; do it now!

Shabbat Shalom!

Cantorial Comments - Parshat Ki Tissa                                March 3, 2018 - 16 Adar, 5778

03/02/2018 12:48:56 PM

Mar2

“Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?”
                                                                         
--William Shakespeare

In this week’s parsha, Ki Tissa, the Sin of the Golden Calf, known in Hebrew as “chet HaEgel”, has bothered Judeo-Christian theologians and Biblical scholars for millennia. It seems beyond human reason that the Israelites, having witnessed only days earlier, ten plagues in Egypt, the parting of the Red Sea, and the public Revelation at Sinai, could then doubt and contravene God so profoundly by fashioning and worshiping an idol of their own creation. What could have possibly been going through their minds? Let’s also not forget, that the Israelites had already received the Ten Commandments verbally, in which God made it quite clear that worshiping idols was a serious infraction, not to mention the rather ominous sounding bit about God being very jealous, who visits punishment upon the third and fourth generations of a transgressor. There’s a flaw in the logic of the story vis-a-vis human reason, and it’s even harder to accept than an invisible God who parts the Red Sea.

Human beings have an amazing capacity to suspend their disbelief as we watch a movie, a tv show or a play. We know we are observing actors reciting a script, but we tell ourselves to forget all that, to just go with it, and allow ourselves to be taken over by the story. It is quite amazing how far we can push ourselves to accept far-fetched realities in which all of the events we are witnessing make perfect sense (I really enjoyed “Black Panther”). The unspoken agreement between story teller and audience is that the former lies, while the latter agrees to forget that they are being lied to. Strangely, while we have this seemingly unending capacity to accept new realities, what sets off our internal alert system and makes us suddenly see the actor as opposed to the character, is a flaw in human logic, a plot hole, a sequence of events that doesn’t follow the rule of cause and effect. The story of the Golden Calf makes no sense, and if we want to re-enter the story of Torah and continue to suspend our disbelief, we are going to have to work hard to give it some validating context.

In Christian theology, the story of Adam eating the apple in the Garden of Eden is known as the “original sin” and it plays a critical role within Christian ideology. In a nutshell, God holds children accountable for the sins of their parents, and Adam and Even are parents to all mankind. Therefore, everyone is born with Original Sin hanging over their heads, and only belief in Jesus can grant absolution which grants access to an afterlife in Heaven. But what’s so bad about Adam eating the apple that all of humanity is doomed forever? Now here is where Christianity and Judaism agree – God told Adam directly and specifically that he was not to eat the fruit of that particular tree, and he did it anyways; violating a direct order is a big one. But what could have possibly compelled Adam to violate such an order… direct… from GOD? Our tradition teaches that in the Garden of Eden, Adam and Eve’s skin was luminescent, radiating with the direct knowledge of God’s existence. When we recite the blessing of the Havdalah candle, we hold up our hands to observe the light of the candle reflected off of our fingernails to imagine what Adam and Eve’s skin must have looked like. The rabbis teach that to transgress a commandment of God for Adam, must have been like poking a needle into his own eye; an act that would have to have contravened all sense of human reason. This means, that the only way for Adam to have committed the sin of eating the apple was for Adam to have been convinced that, however mistakenly, God intended for him to do it.

How did Adam become convinced that eating the apple was God’s intention? You can take your pick – perhaps he thought it was a test of asserting independence, perhaps he was led to believe that God intended for mankind to gain knowledge of good and evil by first understanding the meaning of transgression. Let us, however, apply this logic to our original issue. Can we justify the idea that the reason that the Israelites committed the Sin of the Golden Calf was because they thought that this was God’s intention?

In the Torah, God states that the Israelites are to “become a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Ex. 19:16). To achieve this incredible feat, God supercharges their spirituality – beginning with a heritage of slavery, the Israelites watch God defeat their enemies for them by supernatural means, led through the desert by pillars of smoke and fire, they witness the Revelation at Sinai whereupon God speaks amidst thunder and the blast of an unseen shofar. Chazal teaches that at this point, it was simply too much spiritual juice for the Israelites to handle. Without the guidance of Moses (he was busy on the mountain), they craved a physical manifestation of God in which to pour out their surging spiritual energies. My imagination conjures an 8 year old kid who has just figured out on his own how to use his parents’ espresso machine, and has led to a dangerous caffeine overdose. The Israelites went a bit bananas (shout out to my Purim buddies!). What is important to consider however, is that the Israelites may not have believed that this was a sin, but rather an outburst of raw, un-channeled spiritual exuberance. Who among us can’t relate to the idea of getting carried away with a good thing? We all know how easy it is to fall into that trap, and how devastating the repercussions can be. Maturity and moderation go hand in hand – this is an axiom that hold as true for individuals as it does for a nation. (Yes, there is a political statement here.)

Shabbat Shalom,
                          
--ChazJ

Rabbinic Reflections - Parshat Tetzaveh                      February 24, 2018 - 9 Adar, 5778

02/22/2018 07:09:58 PM

Feb22

A woman was standing in line at McDonald’s wearing those jeans; you know the ones with the patch on the back pocket that says "Guess." The guy behind her says: “I'm thinking 250, maybe 300 pounds!”

This week’s portion, Tetzaveh, deals with the people who will serve in the sanctuary – the kohanim (priests). We read about the elaborate vestments that were to be made for Aaron, the kohen gadol (high priest) and the special garments that were to be made for his sons. We also read about the ritual of consecration of the kohanim. The Torah tells us that on the day of their ordination, Aaron and his sons were to be dressed in their priestly vestments. Aaron was to be anointed with special oil and then sacrifices were to be offered on behalf of the new priests.

The Torah then says (Exodus 29:20): “Slaughter the ram, and take some of its blood and put it on the ridge of Aaron’s right ear and on the ridges of his sons’ right ears, and on the thumbs of their right hands, and on the big toes of their right feet.” This marking of ears, thumbs, and toes is obviously symbolic, but just what does it symbolize?

Rabbi Joseph Hertz’s Torah commentary explains: “The ear was touched with the blood, that it might be consecrated to hear the word of God; the hand, to perform the duties connected with the priesthood; and the foot, to walk the path of righteousness.” In other words, this ordination ritual was intended to symbolize piety and devotion to God and God’s Torah. Another explanation, by Rabbi Aharon Yaakov Greenberg, explains: “These three, the ear, the hand, and the foot, are what the Kohen and every leader must have: an ear to hear the cries of the Jews, to know and understand their needs and requirements; hands, not only to accept the offering due the priests, but also to bestow a blessing on whoever needs it; and feet which hasten to run and help whoever is in need.” That is, the kohanim were never to forget that their mission was to serve the people, particularly those in need.

Rabbi Newmark, in her comments on the portion, asks: so which is it? She answers, and I agree, that it seems clear to that it must be both. The kohanim were ordained to serve God and their fellow human beings. Torah and mitzvot are not an end in themselves, but a means to building a just and compassionate society. We are taught in Bereshit Rabbah 44:1, “Rav said, the mitzvot were given only in order that human beings might be refined by them. For what does the Holy Blessed One care whether a person slaughters an animal by the throat or by the nape of the neck? Hence its purpose is to refine human beings.”

This is more than a nice teaching. Rabbi Newmark tells of an incident that happened to her in NJ this winter: I had to dig my car out of huge mounds of snow many times. On several of these occasions, young men from a nearby yeshiva walked by singly or in pairs, some of them actually turning their heads away so they could pretend that they didn’t see me. I wondered, what good were their long hours of Torah study if none of these young men was willing to take a few minutes to help a 60-something-year-old woman struggling with a snow shovel only a few hundred yards from their beit midrash? Isn’t the point of learning to help bring God into the world?”

The Torah tells us that Aaron and his sons were installed in the priesthood through the marking of their ears, hands and feet. Moreover, the Torah also tells us (Exodus 19:6) that God has called us to be a “kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” Like the very first kohanim, we fulfill that destiny when we turn our ears, hands, and feet to the service of God and to the service of our fellow human beings.

Shabbat Shalom!

Cantorial Comments - Parshat Terumah                    February 17, 2018 - 2 Adar, 5778

02/16/2018 01:21:16 PM

Feb16

“What do you have to do with the Kotel? Reform [Jews], go bar-mitzvah your dogs.” 
                                                                                                           --MK Eliezer Moses

I apologize.  For the regular readers of my Shabbat column, I usually begin with a fun, uplifting or interesting quote that serves as a little spiritual cookie; a thematically relevant morsel of soul food to nibble on over Shabbat.  This week’s quote is anything but that.  It was quoted just this week from a member of the Israeli Knesset, Eliezer Moses, at a government special committee meeting discussing the administration body and protocols for the Western Wall Plaza in Jerusalem.  The meeting was also boycotted at the last moment by the government-appointed Chief Rabbi of the Western Wall and chairman of the Western Wall Heritage Foundation, Rabbi Shmuel Rabinowitz.  Not that it makes any significant difference, but it should also be mentioned that in the above quote, MK Moses is referring collectively to both the Reform Jewish community and the Conservative Jewish community when he uses the term “Reform”.

 The Western Wall plaza has been run like a privately owned orthodox synagogue since its first chief rabbi was installed, Rabbi Meir Yehuda Getz, by the Israeli government, immediately following the 6 Day War.  Upon Rabbi Getz’s death in 1995, he was succeeded by the current incumbent, Rabbi Shmuel Rabinovitch.  For most of the entire history of Israeli control of the site, these two rabbis assumed broad authority over the Western Wall Plaza at the behest of the Israeli government, drawing a government salary, without every actually being bothered by the Knesset as to the manner in which the site was run.  In all this time, in accordance with orthodox Jewish practice, women at the Western Wall have been separated from the men, women have not been permitted to touch a Torah scroll, they have not been permitted to wear a tallit (although, in recent months, women wishing to wear a tallit have been allowed to get around this particular site rule by wearing the garment in the same manner as a scarf), women may not even be permitted to be heard praying too loudly.  In recent years, activist groups such as the Women of the Wall, and various other lobbying groups representing extra-orthodox Jewish interests, have brought to light the fact that non-orthodox Jews have been prohibited from worshiping at the kotel in their traditional manner.  Fearing a loss of key financial support from American non-orthodox Jewish organizations, the Knesset had promised to review the issue, and some solutions have since been considered – all without the consent of Rabbi Rabinovitch, the government appointee, supposedly charged with managing religious affairs of the site.

This week, a government meeting, carefully planned in order to accommodate Rabbi Rabinovitch’s schedule was snubbed by the rabbi, at the recommendation of the ultra-orthodox Shas party.  At the meeting, MK Moses, member of the Shas party, asserted that it was beneath Rabbi Rabinovitch to have to answer to the Knesset on the ritual regulations and policies that he maintains and institutes to manage the Western Wall site.  Then, as MK Moses rose to leave the meeting in disgust, he blasted the quote that began this article.

As an ironic coincidence, this week’s Parsha, Tetzaveh, deals primarily with the rules and rituals governing the Tabernacle – the object that marked the place of the resting presence of God, to whom all Israelites, rich and poor, came to offer sacrifices, gifts and donations.

Who gets the privilege of being close to God?  Most other religions require some kind of anointed intermediary, a person imbued with a Divine gift (priest, Imam, etc.) who acts as a bridge between God and common folk.  This is not the Jewish way.  Becoming a rabbi or cantor or any other Jewish official does not involve any process by which they are imbued with any more holiness than anybody else.  The title “rabbi” represents scholarship and leadership.  The title “cantor” represents the skill of being able to jazz up an otherwise dry Hebrew prayer service.  One of the many uniquenesses of Judaism is that none of us needs an intermediary to talk to God.  Just like Tevye, any one of us is welcome to look up and say “I know we are the chosen people, but once in a while, can’t you choose somebody else?”

Jewish tradition has evolved over the millennia into a wide range of ideas, beliefs and traditions, but yet, all still united by a basic theology, and a common heritage.  I am a Conservative Jew because I think that Conservative Judaism is the most legitimate form of Judaism, more so than Orthodoxy, more so than Reform.  But never, would I ever claim that my belief in the legitimacy of my practice gives me the right to deny someone else the freedom to practice theirs.

The Western Wall belongs to all Jews (and really, all people) around the world – not just orthodox Jews, and certainly not Rabbi Rabinovitch, to dictate how we practice our Judaism at our holy site.  It is important to remember that comments like that of MK Moses do not reflect the feelings of all orthodox Jews, and that his words of ignorance, stubbornness and narrowmindedness are not shared by all members of the orthodox community.  Nevertheless, it is a belief that is supported by many within Israel’s religious leadership.  Luckily, it is offhanded comments like these that expose such people as the bigots they are.  We hope that the fallout will awaken the sensibilities of the majority to the issues, and begin the process of change for the better.

Shabbat Shalom,
                          --ChazJ

Rabbinic Reflections—Parshat Mishpatim                  February 10, 2018 - 25 Shevat, 5778

02/07/2018 03:24:17 PM

Feb7

A red-faced judge convened court after a long lunch. The first case involved a man charged with drunk driving who claimed it simply wasn't true.

"I'm as sober as you are, your honor," the man claimed.

The judge replied, "Clerk, please enter a guilty plea. The defendant is sentenced to 30 days."

In this week’s Torah reading, we learn about Mishapatim, laws and ordinances, which add to the basic teachings of the Ten Commandments.  However, for the Jewish People, the literal word of the text is not the final word in understanding Torah. The Judaism we celebrate today is largely the product of the ancient Rabbis of the first centuries CE.  In transforming Judaism from a biblical to a modern tradition, they introduced a method for making Torah relevant to generations present and future.

Their methodology of Torah study consisted of four levels of understanding and examination: P’shat-first understand the “literal meaning” of the verse; Drash-then, look for the interpretative meaning; Remez-discover the philosophical underpinnings, the homiletical/moral lesson learned from this verse; and finally, Sod-pursue the hidden, mystical meaning. By means of these four levels of understanding, the ancient Rabbis empowered every generation with the authority to interpret the meaning of Torah in their times.  They also made clear that the Torah is a God-inspired document.  As mere mortals, we cannot hope to completely understand the reasoning or moral underpinning of every verse (thus, the notion of Sod/hidden meaning).

This week’s Torah portion contains two good examples of rabbinic method. The famous principle of lex talionis (retaliation) states (Ex. 21:24-25): “…. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, hand for a hand, foot for a foot, burn for a burn, wound for a wound, bruise for a bruise.”  There is no doubt in the context of biblical times these verses were meant to be understood literally.  Their origin is attributed to King Hamurabi of Babylonia in the 18th century BCE.  However, later rabbinic literature never understood it this way. The Talmud understands "an eye for an eye" as meaning that someone who damages an eye must pay the value of that eye.  An eye's worth for an eye.  The Drash (interpretive meaning) and Remez (moral lesson) become as important as the P’shat (literal meaning) in understanding this portion of Torah.

Another example (Ex. 22:17) teaches: “You shall not let a sorceress (witch) live.”  Rabbi Howard Siegel points out that this verse, understood literally, became the basis for executing innocent women in 17th century Salem Massachusetts. However, already by the 2nd century CE the ancient Rabbis understood this verse to mean “you shall not provide a witch with a livelihood.”  Today, the Wiccan religion and neo-paganism—the modern religious practice of witchcraft—bears no semblance to the ancient taboos addressed by the Torah. This verse requires a re-interpretation and understanding in our own day.

By placing Torah at the center of Jewish practice, we recognize the centrality of God’s presence and the never-ending evolution of God’s word.

Shabbat Shalom!

Cantorial Comments - Parshat Yitro                                    February 3, 2018 - 18 Shevat, 5778

02/02/2018 11:31:02 AM

Feb2

“There is no Wi-Fi in the forest, but I promise, you will find a better connection.”            --Unknown

When I served my first pulpit in London, England, one of my duties was to teach the conversion class.  Of all duties that I have performed as a career cantor, this may perhaps have been my favourite.  The conversion classes that I taught were typically full of young professionals around my own age, all eager to learn and absorb everything they possibly could.  Many of them were present together with a Jewish fiancée, supporting them through the process, who, themselves were often learning many things about Judaism for the first time.  In my mind, there is absolutely nothing like watching people become exposed to Jewish ideas for the first time, particularly those concerning behaviour and values that will forever alter their perceptions of personal integrity, relationships, accountability, priorities and focus.  Our discussions on Shabbat invariably hit on all of these simultaneously, and this made for the most exciting sessions of the entire course.

For a newbie, the idea of Shabbat is extremely hard to process.  On the one hand, we’re supposed to rest, on the other, we are not supposed to have access to many of the things that help us do that in the modern age – no TV, internet, music, we aren’t even supposed to turn a light off if we want to take a nap.  On the one hand, we are meant to spend Shabbat with family, but on the other, we aren’t supposed to travel so that we can go and visit them.  On the one hand, we are meant to have a break from our usual obligations, but on the other, we still have to wake up early so that we can spend half our day in shul.  It’s easy to see why this could be very confusing to the uninitiated.  As Jews, we have great answers to all of these very legitimate questions.   To answer them requires a long discussion, often drawing on cultural and textual references that can easily go right over the head of a rookie Jew.  For me class, I needed a simple answer; one that would instantly appease initial curiosities and also help facilitate a deeper understanding.  For my class, we developed a motto, “sometimes, you have to DO it in order to UNDERSTAND it”.  

In the case of Shabbat, it is so clear to so many that you can never appreciate what Shabbat means from the outside looking in.  To everyone else, the rules of Shabbat appear to be anything but rest-inducing.  To experience it once won’t change a newbie’s opinion either, and that’s because it only works once you get used to it.  It’s like camping.  A first time camper seems to be experiencing withdrawal symptoms when he or she can’t recharge a cell phone.  The seasoned camper can’t wait to turn the phone off for the weekend. 

In this week’s parsha, Yitro, the Israelites receive the Ten Commandments.  Three times, the Israelites verbally acknowledge acceptance of God’s law.  The third time, the Israelites respond, “Na’aseh, v’nishma” – “we will do, and we will listen”.  The idea of being forced to do something before being able to understand something is one of the great Jewish principles that is in direct conflict with today’s modern sensibilities: “doing” and “understanding” are in the wrong order.  We are conditioned to need proof, to be given a reason, before we are finally convinced to take action.  Can you imagine a social action campaigner asking for money first, before explaining what the money is for?

As a conversion class teacher, regardless of the context of almost any discussion, this simple concept is the fundamental principle that the entire course is trying to teach – that in order to get most things in Judaism, you sort of have to shoot first and ask questions later.  This doesn’t negate the need for questions.  Judaism loves questions!  Ask lots of them, challenge the conventional wisdom, weigh different approaches, a true scholar of Judaism is never afraid of any of these things, and is often inclined to do them him or herself.  But for anyone, Jewish scholar or newbie alike, to assume to ever have a complete understanding of the wisdom of Torah is the ultimate expression of hubris.  In the meantime, it’s the Torah, and as Jews it is our duty first to “do”.  We have the rest of our lives to pursue the endless endeavor that is learning to understand.

Shabbat Shalom,
                              --ChazJ

Rabbinic Reflections - Tu B'Shevat                                 January 20, 2018 - 11 Shevat, 5778

01/26/2018 01:46:24 PM

Jan26

“Oh, the weather outside is frightful / But the fire is so delightful; / Since we've no place to go / Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. / Doesn't show signs of stopping / And I brought some corn for popping / The lights are turned way down low / Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow... “For many of us, the frigid temperatures outside and the blowing wind are rather less romantic than the lyrics of "Let It Snow," a song written by lyricist Sammy Cahn and composer Jule Styne in July 1945; just one of many "Christmas hits" written by Jews. It was written in Hollywood, CA during a heat wave as Cahn and Styne imagined cooler conditions. Although the song's lyrics make no mention of Christmas, it is played on radio stations during the Christmas season and is often covered by various artists on Christmas-themed albums.

So, "if the weather outside is frightful" why entitle a blog "Spring Already?" Because, January 31 will mark the onset of Spring... in Israel, with the celebration of Tu B'Shevat, "The Jewish New Year for Trees!" Tu B'Shevat, the 15th day of the Jewish month of Shevat, is a holiday also known as the New Year for Trees or Jewish Arbor Day. The word "Tu" is not really a word; it is the number 15 in Hebrew, as if you were to call Remembrance Day, November 11, "November XI" (XI being 11 in Roman numerals).

Judaism has four different "new years." This is not as strange a concept as it sounds at first blush; in Canada, we have the calendar new year (January 1), the school new year (September), and many businesses have fiscal new years and each of us celebrates our birthday as a new year for each of us. It's basically the same idea with the various Jewish new years.

Tu B'Shevat is the New Year for the purpose of calculating the age of trees for tithing. In the Book of Leviticus 19:23-25, the Torah states that fruit from trees may not be eaten during the first three years; the fourth year's fruit is for God (tithed), and after that, we can eat the fruit. Each tree is considered to have aged one year as of Tu B'Shevat, so if you planted a tree on Shevat 14, it begins its second year the next day, but if you plant a tree two days later, on Shevat 16, it does not reach its second year until the next Tu B'Shevat.

However, Tu B'Shevat is not mentioned in the Torah. There is only one reference to it in the Mishnah (an early Jewish Law Code c. 180 CE) and the only thing said there is that it is the new year for trees. In fact, in the Mishnah, there is a dispute as to the proper date for the holiday. The followers of the great Sage Shammai (Beit Shammai) said the proper day was the first of Shevat, when the almond trees blossom in the lowlands; but the followers of the great Sage Hillel (Beit Hillel) said it should be the 15th day of Shevat, when the almonds blossom in the Galilee (the highlands) and the whole of Israel is in bloom. As is the legal tradition in Judaism, we follow Beit Hillel. Hence the New Year for Trees begins on the 15th of the month, rather than on the first of the month of Shevat.

There are few customs or observances related to this holiday. One custom is to eat a new fruit on this day, or to eat from the Seven Species (shivat haminim) described in the Bible as being abundant in the land of Israel. The Shivat Haminim are (according to Deuteronomy 8:8): wheat, barley, grapes (vines), figs, pomegranates, olives and dates (honey). One can make a nice vegetarian pilaf from the shivat haminim: a bed of cooked bulgar wheat or wheat berries and barley, topped with figs, dates, raisins (grapes), and pomegranate seeds, served with a dressing of olive oil, balsamic vinegar (grapes) and pomegranate juice.

Some people plant trees on this day, particularly in Israel through Jewish National Fund (Keren Kayyemet L'Israel). In my childhood, Jewish children commonly went around collecting money to plant trees in Israel at this time of year. For each x cents (growing up, for me, it went from 5 to 10 to 25 cents per leaf) we'd get a leaf on a tree. When the tree was full, we'd submit it with the money and a tree would be planted.

In the 16th century, kabbalists, developed a seder ritual conceptually similar to the Pesach (Passover) seder, discussing the spiritual significance of fruits and of the shivat haminim. They drank four cups of wine and said blessings over the fruits beseeching God for a fertile and bountiful year. This custom spread primarily in Sephardi communities (Jews of the Mediterranean basin) and Mizrachi communities (Jews of Arab lands), but in recent years it has been getting more attention among Ashkenazi (Jews of Northern, Eastern and Western Europe).

Nowadays, it has also become a Jewish expression of environmental awareness and ecology, with many using it as an opportunity to do something that helps preserve and maintain conservation and ecologically fragile or important areas here, in Israel and abroad. I encourage all of us to take a moment to give thanks for the natural beauty we have here in Canada, around the world, and especially in Israel; and to commit ourselves to living lives that acknowledge the importance of preserving our ecosystems for future generations. And to pray for an early spring!

Shabbat Shalom!

Cantorial Comments:  Parshat Bo                                           January 20, 2018   - 4 Shevat, 5778

01/19/2018 01:33:56 PM

Jan19

“What I fear most is power with impunity.  I fear the abuse of power, and the power to abuse.”
--Isabelle Allende, Chilean-American novelist and recipient of the Presidential Medal of Freedom

Comedian and actor Aziz Ansari in connection with the #MeToo movement has been at the center of a hot debate this week.  This past Sunday, Ansari was awarded a Golden Globe for best actor in a TV series for his role in “Master of None”.  In is award photos, he proudly displayed his #MeToo and #TimesUp pins, in support of the movement that is encouraging women to speak about their experiences with sexual assault and harassment, at last holding offenders accountable for their crimes.  A woman, under the pseudonym “Grace”, seeing the photos, decided it was time to tell her story as a victim of Ansari, stating that it was, “cringeworthy that he was wearing the Time’s Up pin”.  When the story was picked up by mainstream media, the public shaming began.  Ansari was immediately black-balled by the Hollywood industry, as his name was being mentioned in the same breath as the likes of Harvey Weinstein and Kevin Spacey.  The problem is, according to Grace’s own story, Ansari never actually committed any act of sexual misconduct.

Avoiding crude terms, there’s no question that Grace’s episode with Ansari was unpleasant for her – unpleasant, but consensual.  She engaged with him voluntarily until she decided she would go no further, at which point, she left without further incident.  Once again, according to Grace’s own story, at no point was Ansari in a position of power over her, he did not use any force or coercion, and as soon as Grace made it verbally clear that she was uncomfortable, he withdrew.  Some notable few are defending Ansari, like CNN host, Ashleigh Banfield, who stated in an open letter, “You [Grace] have chiseled away at a movement that I, along with all my sisters in the workplace, have been dreaming of for decades, a movement that has finally changed an oversexed professional environment that I, too, have struggled through at times over the last 30 years.”  Others remain critical of Ansari, saying that he behaved boorishly; that he should have been better tuned in to Grace’s body language and understood that she was uncomfortable without her having to say so.

Though the comparison may be a strange leap between sexual assault and the story of Exodus, our parsha this week, Bo, illustrates the criteria for willful negligence on the part of Pharoah, which incurs punishment from God.

The timeless phrase that Moses says to Pharoah, “let my people go”, is actually misleading.  Up until the very last plague, Moses never actually asks Pharoah to free the Israelites.  Far less dramatically, Moses asks Pharoah only that the Israelites may be allowed to go to the desert for a time, specifically to celebrate a festival to God and worship, and though the Torah doesn’t say so specifically, the language makes it seem that the Moses plans to return with Israelites to Egypt when they are done.  “Moses and Aaron were returned to Pharoah and he said to them, ‘Go and serve your God; which of you will be going?’  Moses said, ‘with our youngsters and with our elders shall we go; with our sons and with our daughters, with our flock and with our cattle shall we go, because it is a festival of God for us.’” (Ex. 10:8-9)

By this point, seven plagues have already been visited upon Egypt.  Pharoah is worn down and so he concedes to Moses, “’Let you go with the men [to the desert].  Serve your God, for that is what you are asking.’  And he drove them [Moses and Aaron] out from Pharoah’s presence.” (Ex. 10:11)  A part of me wonders what might have happened to the Israelite civilization if Pharoah had been a better listener here.  We would have gone to the desert, had a nice little festival, returned to Egypt as slaves and perhaps that would have been the end of the story of Judaism.  Herein lies the willful negligence – Moses made his intentions clear – everybody gets to go.  Even though Pharoah believes he is conceding by allowing only the men, he has missed the critical point that it is his failure to listen, to heed the warnings, that is leading him to his own destruction.

Today, power has the uncanny ability to inhibit listening skills.  Awareness of the needs of others requires a semblance of humility, the ability to put aside our own wants and needs, to quiet our ego, which is often contrary to the nature of power and dominance.  This is equally true for world leaders as it is in the workplace relationships, and indeed, any situation in which one person holds power over another.  The nature of the #MeToo movement is to call attention to those instances where power is willfully abused in the most heinous of ways.  However, when if this cause is invoked where there is no misuse of power, and communication is clearly acknowledged, it is the cause that is abused, and its value diminished.

--ChazJ

Rabbinic Reflections - Parshat Vaera                               January 13, 2018 - 26 Tevet, 5778

01/12/2018 10:14:32 AM

Jan12

This week I share the insights of Rabbi Joyce Newmark who writes: Everyone knows that thirteen is the age of Bar Mitzvah. What is less well-known is that in Pirkei Avot Yehudah ben Tema offers a complete chronology of Jewish life:  At five years of age - the study of Bible, at ten - the study of Mishnah, at thirteen - responsibility for the mitzvot, at fifteen - the study of Talmud, at eighteen - marriage, at twenty - pursuit of a livelihood, at thirty - the peak of one's powers, at forty - the age of understanding, at fifty - the age of counsel, at sixty - old age, at seventy - the hoary head, at eighty - the age of strength, at ninety - the bent back, at one hundred - as one dead and out of this world.

At eighty - the age of strength?  That's certainly not how most of our society perceives eighty. Someone who is eighty, in our Western mentality, is “over the hill,” useless, frail and sickly, just waiting to die, and often seen as a burden to his or her family and community.  It's no wonder that nobody wants to be old - or to be perceived as old.  We spend billions of dollars to cover up gray hair and bald heads.  We rush to buy the newest product that promises to conceal wrinkles and age spots.  We squeeze aging bodies into clothing designed for teenagers.  And if none of this works - well, there's always cosmetic surgery.  Old age seems to be a modern form of leprosy.  We hide old people in nursing homes, retirement communities, and senior citizen centers because we don't want young people to be frightened by glimpses of their future.

In this week's Torah portion, Vaera, we come to the heart of the Exodus story. Moses and Aaron go to Pharaoh and demand that he let the Israelites go. Pharaoh, of course, refuses, and so the plagues begin, but before the first plague we read, “Moses was eighty years old and Aaron eighty-three, when they made their demand on Pharaoh.”  They were old men! Moses and Aaron should have been living in the Egyptian equivalent of the Jewish Home for the Aged, not contending with Pharaoh for the future of the Jewish people.  Yet the Torah actually stops in the middle of the narrative to tell us that Moses was 80 and Aaron 83 at the beginning of their mission.

The 12th century Spanish commentator Abraham Ibn Ezra writes, “We do not find prophets anywhere else in Tanakh about whom the text points out that they prophesied when elderly, except these.” Why? Ibn Ezra continues, “Because [Torah] attributes greatness to them beyond all other prophets, for onlyto them did God appear . . . for only to them was the Torah given, and thus through their hands do the righteous inherit the world to come.” Ibn Ezra's comment makes it seem as if, somehow, the greatness of Moses and Aaron was attributable to their age, as if 80 years were required to learn the lessons that would be needed to carry out their mission.

And what are the lessons of age?  The compassion that comes from seeing that everyone is capable of foolishness and that no one is immune to pain.  The humility that comes from seeing plans and aspirations - one's own and others' - fall short and discovering that success can strike without warning. The strength that comes from learning, finally, that your most important judge is yourself, that the favor of kings and princes is worthless if you have no self-respect.  The strength of eighty is not physical.  Few people who reach eighty do so without aches and pains, without slowing down, and some only reach this age with severely diminished powers.  The strength of eighty is the strength of character that comes from a lifetime of learning.

When we see only the physical, the external, and when we fear aging and therefore the aged, we sacrifice a precious resource. The Torah commands us (Leviticus 19:32), “you shall rise before the aged and show deference to the old” because the word for old, zakein, is often used in Rabbinic literature to mean scholar, the Talmud asks: does this apply only to an old person who is wise and scholarly, one who is to be respected for his learning? The answer is no, even an am ha-aretz, an uneducated person, who has reached old age has something worthwhile to teach.

The elderly are not to be hidden away and shunned as if carrying some dread disease. “Rabbi Yehuda said, be careful with an old person who has forgotten his learning because of his circumstances (Rashi explains, because of illness or poverty). The Tablets [of the Ten Commandments] and the broken pieces of the [first] Tablets were both placed in the Ark.” (Berakhot 8b) And never forget, by the way we treat our elders we are teaching our children how to one day treat us.

Shabbat Shalom!

Cantorial Comments: Parshat Shemot                          January 6, 2018-  4 Tevet, 5778

01/05/2018 10:33:24 AM

Jan5

"What children need most are the essentials that grandparents provide in abundance. They give unconditional love, kindness, patience, humor, comfort, lessons in life.  And, most importantly, cookies." – Rudy Giuliani

My parents enjoy telling me the story of the first musical I ever went to see.  In 1983 we were living in Santa Barbara, California, and I was taken to a production of Gilbert & Sullivan’s Pirates of Penzance at a local theatre; I was eighteen months old.  You might wonder, what exactly does an eighteen-month-old baby get out of a theatre experience?  Why bother taking them?  They don’t form lasting memories at that age, they can’t follow a complex storyline, and nothing holds their attention for more than 3 minutes.  An eighteen-month-old is likely just as happy playing with a two-dollar red rubber ball as they would be on an expensive vacation to Disney World.  Nevertheless, I am told that after coming home from the production, I would not go to sleep.  Rather, I stood up in my crib and screamed over and over at the top of my lungs, “I AM THE PIRATE KING!  HURRAH FOR THE PIRATE KING!”.

I have no personal recollection of that experience, but for as long as I can remember, I have had an infatuation with music and theatre.  What about my Jewish identity?  To what magical combination of experiences in my history do I owe that?

This week, we are kicking off the next book in the Torah, the book of Exodus.  The entire previous book, Genesis, you might even just think of as a long introduction – kind of like what The Hobbit is to The Lord of the Rings trilogy.  We are about to get started into the main epic story of the Israelite nation, and we are at last introduced to our main character… Moses.  In a few quick chapters, Moses has already grown up as a prince of Egypt, he flees to Midian where he has a psychedelic experience with some holy shrubbery, and is on his way back to Egypt with a divine mission.  Before he arrives in Egypt, though, Moses arranges to do some very critical recruitment.  He meets up with his brother, Aaron in the desert, along with “kol ziknei beit Yisrael”, “all of the elders of the Israelites”.  In Midrash Shmot Rabbah, Rabbi Akivah explains that it was critical to bring aboard the elders of the Israelites before Moses makes his first move against the Pharoah.  As an educated prince of Egypt, Moses understood that for an insurrection to be successful, it must be supported by the people, and the people had no reason at the time to trust or believe in him as their leader.  So, Moses first had to win over the people who were considered by the Israelites to be their beloved leaders, and carriers of the wisdom of their forefathers.  Rabbi Akivah compares Jewish elders to wings on a bird – that they are the very things that give a bird its identity, and enable it to be where it belongs, in the sky.  Clearly, Rabbi Akivah hadn’t considered penguins, ostriches or other flightless birds, but his metaphor, is nonetheless easy to understand.  He believes that our elders are the source of our Jewish identity.

I remember Friday night dinners at the homes of all of my grandparents – my paternal grandparents, I called Grandma and Grandpa, and maternal grandparents I called Bubie and Zaidy.  At Grandma and Grandpa’s, I remember the distinctive sounding Mason & Rich piano, the layout of the split-back house, and my Grandpa’s distinctive Hungarian-Chassidishe accent when he made Kiddush.  At my Bubie and Zaidy’s, I remember the smell of the basement, the plastic wrapped sofa cushions, the sound of my Bubie’s voice reciting the blessing of the candles, and the taste of Crown Royal that I was allowed to dip my finger into to try.  These memories will last my entire lifetime, and I have heard countless stories from others whose similar warm memories of grandparents are also the root of their Jewish identities today.

Montreal Chassidic singer/songwriter of the 1960s, Moshe Yess, sums up Rabbi Akivah’s philosophy in his song, My Zaidy:

Zaidy made us laugh, and Zaidy made us sing. And Zaidy made a kiddush Friday night

And Zaidy, oh my Zaidy, how I love him so. And Zaidy used to teach me wrong from right.

His eyes lit up when he would teach me Torah. // He taught me every line so carefully

He spoke about our slavery in Egypt // And how G-d took us out to make us free.

But winter went by, summer came along, // I went to camp to run and play

And when I came back home, they said “Zaidy’s gone. // And all his books were packed and stored away.”

I don’t know how or why it came to be // It happened slowly over many years

We just stopped being Jewish like my Zaidy was // And no one cared enough to shed a tear.

Many winters went by, many summers came along // And now my children sit in front of me

And who will be the Zaidy of my children? // Who will be their Zaidy, if not me?

Who will be the Zaidys of our children? // Who will be their Zaidys, if not we?

Shabbat Shalom,
                           --ChazJ

Rabbinic Reflections - Parshat Vayechi                    December 30, 2017 - 12 Tevet, 5778

12/29/2017 01:35:02 PM

Dec29

These are from actual resumes: REASONS FOR LEAVING THE LAST JOB: "Responsibility makes me nervous." "They insisted that all employees get to work by 8:45 every morning. Couldn't work under those conditions." "The company made me a scapegoat - just like my three previous employers." Aaron Lieberman of Aish HaTorah teaches us an important lesson from this week’s Torah portion about personal responsibility:

Right before Jacob passed away, he asked his son, Joseph, to promise him that he would be buried in Israel and not in Egypt. Joseph immediately said (Genesis 47:30): "I will personally do as you have said". Lieberman writes: We've all had the experience after being told that something will get done, that for one reason or another, it never happens. The person might have had all of the best intentions to do it himself, but quite often he asks others to assist him, or he delegates it to someone else entirely, and then someone drops the ball and it never gets done at all, or gets done poorly.

But when someone assures us that he will personally do something, taking full responsibility for the task, it almost always gets done right. This is what Joseph did -- he told Jacob that he will do as he said, making a personal guarantee that his request will be done. This is because a piece of the person is now on the line. People who take explicit ownership for something will feel a sense of healthy pressure to make sure that it gets done because their own self-esteem and self-respect are now all tied into the completion of this task.

Many people don't take personal responsibility because it's so much easier just to pass the buck. By verbalizing to others that [we're] taking on a task [ourselves], then [we] will now gain enormous self-esteem. This is because [we’ll] now see [ourselves] as someone who isn't afraid to commit and as someone who keeps our word.

It's also comforting to hear someone say he'll personally take care of something. It shows just how much the person cares and the importance he places on our request. So the next time [we’re] asked if [we] can do something, don't just agree. Say "I will personally do as you have said," and watch the contentment and ease flush the requester's face. And since taking full, total, and complete responsibility will also dramatically increase [our] own self-esteem, [we’ll] feel even better than the requester does.

Shabbat Shalom,
                     Rabbi Geoff

Cantorial Comments: Parshat Vayyigash                 December 22, 2017 -  4 Tevet, 5778

12/22/2017 02:58:39 PM

Dec22

Cantor Jeremy Burko

 

"Wise men speak because they have something to say.  
Fools speak because they have to say something."  
--Plato

Two weeks ago, the United States officially recognized Jerusalem as the capital of Israel, and initiated plans to move their embassy from Tel-Aviv to Jerusalem. My last article explored the history of this momentous decision, along with some important considerations and consequences of this change in policy. However, I ultimately (and reluctantly) applauded President Donald Trump for championing this important issue for Jews around the world, and boldly forging a stronger American-Israeli relationship, than had existed under the Obama presidency. Since that decision, world Jewry has been carefully observing the inevitable fallout – violence from the Palestinians, outcry from the Arab/Muslim world, and condemnation from other world leaders. By the time you all read this article, the next card will be played by the United Nations, as they will have voted on a resolution to formally condemn America’s decision to recognize Jerusalem as the capital of Israel.

As I write this article, the vote has not yet happened, but as the UN is perhaps one of the most outlandishly anti-Semitic international organizations on earth, I’m going to go out on a proverbial limb here and assume that it passed (sarcasm intended). In fact, I don’t think I’m being overly pessimistic in imagining that Israel and the United States will be the only countries to vote against the resolution. I hope that Canada will vote against it. I hope that Germany and the United Kingdom will vote against it. I hope, but I do not expect.

I’ve been wondering, what would I say if I had Nikki Haley’s job as the US Ambassador to the UN? What would I say to this shameful body of delegates who’s vote against me is a forgone conclusion? Do I try and butter them up with flattery? Do I try and actually compose a logical argument in some futile effort to change their minds? Or do I publicly shame them for what they are going to do anyway, and stand up for my own beliefs and principles? Ambassador Haley took this latter approach, and while I don’t blame her for a single second, I’m also not sure what she accomplished. That being said, I know that I certainly couldn’t have done any better.

Oddly enough, our great Rabbis of Blessed Memory, have a very similar argument over this week’s parsha, regarding Judah’s speech to Joseph which begins the Torah reading. In the Biblical narrative, the eleven sons of Jacob have returned to Egypt to meet with Pharoah’s second-in-command (Joseph in disguise) to beg and plead for food. Joseph has tested the familial bond between the brothers by framing Benjamin for stealing, and observing their reaction. Rather than give up their youngest brother to a life of slavery, Judah, addresses Joseph and the Egyptian court with a tear-jerking and impassioned speech on his youngest brother’s behalf.

Judah carefully uses every rhetorical skill he knows – he appeals to Joseph with flattery, appeals to Joseph’s emotions, he uses argumentative logic, he admonishes Joseph for imposing such a harsh punishment, and finally, offers himself to accept the punishment in place of his brother. Upon hearing these words, Joseph bursts into tears and reveals his identity – a happy ending. But which of Judah’s rhetorical tools or arguments was the one that clinched the deal? Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch is certain that it was the flattery, Rashi says that it was the admonishment for the overly harsh punishment, Nachmonides says it was the emotional appeal. Nachama Leibovitz points out that Judah uses the term ‘father’ four times in his speech, that Judah was appealing to Joseph using the most basic understanding of love that a human being can have, the love of a parent.

Ultimately, though, does it matter which argument was the one that worked? Rabbi Harvey Fields says no - that what was important was not so much what was said, but that Judah said it. He stood up for his brother, defended him in the best way that he knew how, and in so doing, Judah became a champion for justice. The Torah teaches “tzedek tzedek tirdof” “true justice shall you pursue”. Sometimes we don’t get justice, but this never negates the commandment to pursue it with everything we can muster. It is a world that seems to always be upside down as time after time, the Jewish people are forced to stand up alone in front of a room filled with adversaries, those who seek to undermine justice, those who propagate intolerance, and those who support hatred and conflict. Yet, even if we are alone, we stand up for ourselves nonetheless. We stand up for ourselves, and for the state of Israel, now and always.

Shabbat Shalom,

--Chaz

Rabbinic Reflections - Parshat Miqetz                      December 16, 2017 - 28 Kislev, 5778

12/13/2017 06:21:07 PM

Dec13

The secular New Year is around the corner and with it comes our New Year’s resolutions. We have dreams about the things we’d like to accomplish in the New Year: quit smoking, lose weight, by kinder and so forth. The problem is that most of our resolutions last only a couple of weeks. So, my New Year’s resolution is to stop hanging out with people who ask me about my New Year’s resolutions.

In a similar vein, the story of Joseph is filled with dreams: Joseph’s dreams about the sheaves of wheat and the sun, moon, and stars that caused his brothers to hate him and brought him to Egypt as a slave; the dreams of Pharaoh’s courtiers, the cupbearer and the baker, which Joseph interpreted correctly and led the cupbearer to suggest that Joseph be brought to interpret Pharaoh’s dreams; and Pharaoh’s dreams of the cattle and the grain which Joseph interpreted as a message from God to Pharaoh to prepare for the future and then led to Joseph’s appointment as viceroy of Egypt. We all dream and, to shift the meaning of the word slightly, we all have dreams – things we want to accomplish, ambitions we want to fulfill, goals for ourselves and those close to us, hopes.

But how do hopes become reality? Theodor Herzl, the founder of modern Zionism, was known for the saying, “Im tirtzu, ein lo aggadah,” If you will it, it is no dream. But it takes more than will, more than wishing, more than prayer.

In my Rabbinic life, the synagogues I served often spoke about creating a strategic plan.  It is the idea that shul should not just lurch from year to year, but should invest in planning where they wanted to go over the next five-year (or longer) period. So, we hired consultants to help us create strategic plans, and spent fortunes for binders full of data outlining mission statements, goals, and strategies. Too often, though, the congregations just used these documents to fill several feet of bookcases and didn’t do anything that was recommended in them. It wasn’t that the plans weren’t good. The problem was that the synagogues didn’t know how to turn them into reality. Knowing this, one of my shuls had an in-house retreat on a Sunday for the staff and board where we had to prepare a list of specific things they were going to do on Monday morning (when we returned to our offices) to implement the plan. The success of the plan depended on taking concrete actions right away.

And this was also the basis of Joseph’s success. Rabbi Joyce Newmark (20th c., USA) teaches that when Joseph heard Pharaoh’s dream, he did not merely explain that God was warning the king about seven years of plenty followed by seven years of famine; he also offered a plan of action: Let Pharaoh find a man of discernment and wisdom and set him over the land of Egypt; and let Pharaoh take steps to appoint overseers over the land; and let the grain be collected under Pharaoh’s authority as food to be stored in the cities; and let that food be a reserve for the seven years of famine. And since it was Joseph’s plan, he was appointed to carry it out, so that he saved not only Egypt, but also his family, from the ravages of starvation. Rabbi Newmark observes: it’s not enough to have a dream, it’s not even enough to have a plan. To accomplish anything worthwhile, you have to know what you’re going to do on Monday morning. It need not be a huge task, but it must be a real one – not a wish or a fantasy, but a concrete action.

Like Rabbi Newmark, I often speak to people about becoming more involved Jewishly, taking on new mitzvot, participating more fully in services and synagogue life. I tell them, don’t worry about doing everything – just do something. After all, many people find the idea of becoming kosher or shomer Shabbat daunting – it’s too much, “I don’t want to completely give up my current life, I’m not sure if my family can live with the change.  I understand that. It’s a big commitment” – so start with a small commitment. Decide that you won’t eat pork products any more, or that you won’t use the computer on Shabbat. These are real, solid, important steps on a Jewish journey. The point is to decide to take action and to do it – on Monday morning. The Chinese proverb says, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” So take that first step from dream to reality.

Shabbat Shalom!
Rabbi Geoff

Cantorial Comments: Parshat Vayyeshev                December 9, 2017 - 14 Kislev, 5778

12/08/2017 02:14:43 PM

Dec8

“May you live in interesting times.”
--Traditional Chinese curse

Jerusalem is the capital of Israel!  This big announcement was issued from the White House this past Wednesday, and in related news, in turns out that water is wet, dogs have a tendency to bark and children should avoid performing brain surgery on their younger siblings.

Since the 6-Day War, when Israel captured the Temple mount and East Jerusalem from the Jordanians, it was never a real question as to which city Israel considered to be its capital.  In Jerusalem, you will find the Knesset (Israeli parliament building), Israel’s supreme court, the residences of both the Israeli prime minister and president, along with pretty much anything one would expect to find in a capital city, with one exception… foreign embassies.  Whether we attribute this to anti-Semitism, or strategic non-partisanship on the issue of middle east peace, what we can say for certain is that the ambiguity of Israel’s capital city is not a question of the ignorance on the part of state leaders around the world.

On the world stage, Jerusalem is considered contested territory between Israel and Palestinians, and until now, every other nation in the world has been reluctant to formally recognize Israel’s assertion that Jerusalem is its capital.  Even on some commercially available maps, the capital of Israel is identified as Tel-Aviv.  The USA has considered it strategically important as the mediators of Middle East peace talks to very careful avoid making any mention as to which city it officially recognizes as Israel’s capital.  However, in 1995 Congress (under Bill Clinton) passed the Jerusalem Embassy Act, which, in addition to authorizing the relocating of the United States’ Embassy in Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, formally recognized Jerusalem as the capital of Israel.  One would imagine that that would clear up any ambiguity, but since that time, every American president, every six months, has signed an executive waiver, delaying the relocation plan of the American Embassy in Tel Aviv (the waiver has been signed 44 times).  On Monday, President Trump could have signed the waiver once again, like all of his predecessors, but didn’t, and as a result, America officially recognizes Jerusalem as the capital, and the relocation of the American embassy is in progress.

Do we, as the Jewish community, jump up and shout ‘hurray’ on this one?  Certainly, a big part of me wants to – at long last one of the annoyingly not-funny, long-running jokes of American politics on Israel has come to an end.  Israeli legitimacy scores another point, and perhaps it paves the way for other countries to follow American lead (news reports say that some countries are already considering it).  But the Jewish community has learned to be cautious in playing this game.  We have learned to often sacrifice the small token victories in order to gain leverage for larger victories in the future.  We also look ahead and consider how the other shoe might drop in response to our actions.

In response to the American decision, Palestinian leaders are calling for ‘Days of Rage’, i.e. acts of violence and terrorism, Hamas has called for a new intifada, and clashes have already taken place in Jerusalem, Ramallah and Bethlehem.  As frightening as this is, we as Jews know that responding to terrorism with fear is what proves that terrorism works.   Furthermore, we know that if it wasn’t for this reason today, the same response from the Palestinians should be expected for some other reason tomorrow.

My knee-jerk reaction is to loathe anything that Donald Trump supports, and I imagine that I am not alone in this feeling.  However, Trump does not suffer a bully, and in this he is correct. Throughout the Obama administration, Israel has been scolded by the Americans over taking necessary steps to ensure the safety and security of Israel’s borders and its citizens while it has simultaneously placated and gingerly coddled the disgruntled Palestinian leadership, known for executing anyone suspected of sympathy towards Israel.  Trump’s decision may perhaps mark the end of senseless American middle eastern policy.

We, the Jewish community in the Diaspora, stand with Israel as it faces the brunt of the backlash from this latest development.  Despite the threats and dangers, I reluctantly applaud Trump for this first major decision on middle east policy.  For now, I will walk this road, and hope that it leads to new strength for Israel and the Jewish people.

Shabbat Shalom,
                        
--ChazJ

Rabbinic Reflections:  Parshat Vayishlach                    December 2, 2017 - 14 Kislev, 5778

11/30/2017 03:34:00 PM

Nov30

A religious man is on top of a roof during a great flood. A man comes by in a boat and says "get in, get in!" The religious man replies, "No, I have faith in God, he will grant me a miracle."

Later the water is up to his waist and another boat comes by and the guy tells him to get in again. He responds that he has faith in God and God will give him a miracle. With the water at about chest high, another boat comes to rescue him, but he turns down the offer again because "God will grant him a miracle."

With the water at chin high, a helicopter throws down a ladder and they tell him to get in, mumbling with the water in his mouth, he again turns down the request for help for the faith of God. In the end he drowns.

The man arrives at the gates of heaven with broken faith and says to God: “I thought You would grand me a miracle and I have been let down." God chuckles and responds, "I don't know what you're complaining about, I sent you three boats and a helicopter!"

This week’s portion begins with Jacob sending messengers to greet his brother Esau. They return with the news that Esau is coming to meet him with 400 men, and the Torah tells us, “Jacob was greatly afraid and distressed.” And, of course, this wasn’t without reason – Jacob had not seen his brother for 20 years, since he had fled from his home after Esau had threatened to kill him for stealing his blessing.

So what did Jacob do? Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo ben Isaac, 11th C. France) quotes the Middrash Tanhuma, “He prepared himself for three things – for a gift, for prayer, and for war.” When you think about it, it’s an odd combination. God had explicitly promised to protect Jacob and to be with him both when he set out on his journey to Haran and when God commanded him to return to Canaan.

Rabbi Joyce Newmark (20th c., USA) asks:  If Jacob truly trusted God and His promise, wasn’t his prayer enough? Why did he also need a gift (a bribe) and preparations for defense against attack? On the other hand, if Jacob believed that his options were buying Esau off or fighting him, what good would praying do? Sh answers her own question by observing that Jacob prepared for both human and divine aid. And that’s not really so strange. When someone is ill, we try to find the best doctor, the best hospital, and the best medicines, but we also say a Mi Shebeirakh prayer for healing and pledge tzedakah for their recovery. And we expect that the physician who uses all of his or her training and skill on a difficult case also asks for God’s help to do it right. Likewise, a farmer prepares the soil, gets the best seed and fertilizers, and then prays for the right amount of sun and rain. Simialrly, parents do everything they can to raise their children to be responsible, to stay out of trouble, to do the right thing – and they pray every time their kids go to a party where there might be alcohol or drugs and when they’re out driving on a rainy night.

Rabbi Yitzhak Arama (, 15th c., Spain) wrote, “The proper way is for man to keep both in mind, to make his own plans, as far as possible, not to shun industry and self-help neither relying on merit nor giving himself up to despair, but doing as much as is humanly possible in furthering his interests, not trusting however in the success of his own efforts but in the will of God in whose hands is everything.”

In other words, there’s a time for prayer and a time for action. When the Israelites escaped from Egypt and stood at the shore of the Reed Sea, they were terribly afraid. They berated Moses, saying, “better that we serve the Egyptians than die in the wilderness.” Moses replied, “Do not be afraid; stand here and see the deliverance that God will do for you today.” Yet God responded, “Why are you crying out to Me? Tell the people to go forward!” In other words, prayer alone is not enough – even on a day on which God performed miracles in the sight of all Israel and Egypt. Indeed, the Talmud teaches (Pesachim), we are not to rely on miracles. Quite simply, if we lie down in the middle of the street and expect God to perform a miracle to save us, we deserve to be run over.

God can’t do it alone – not because God is unable to do whatever human beings might need or want, but because leaving everything to God robs our lives of meaning. Rabbi Newmark teaches: It is fundamentally wrong to abdicate responsibility for ourselves or others, to simply trust that God will provide. And it is also fundamentally wrong to believe that everything is within our control, that God plays no role in our lives.

There was a popular song during World War II called, “Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition.” That’s what Jacob did. He prepared for three things – for a gift, for prayer, and for war. He did everything he could to help himself and also prayed to God for His aid. And so we learn from our father Jacob that as long as we live we must never stop trying and we must never stop praying.

Shabbat Shalom

Cantorial Comments:  Parshat Vayetze                    November 25, 2017 - 7 Kislev, 5778

11/23/2017 12:05:56 PM

Nov23

“In the name of God, stop a moment, cease your work, look around you.”
--Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910)

This past Sunday evening, was something truly amazing.  Our sanctuary was filled nearly to capacity as we welcomed seven guest cantors to our bimah to put on a very memorable show.  From the feedback I have been getting, it sounds like it was as much fun out in the audience as it was for the performers up on stage.  All the while, we raised some desperately needed money for our friends in the southern United States, still recovering their homes and belongings following the wave of devastating hurricanes only a few short months ago.  We did ourselves proud, Beth Radom proud, and we made the Toronto Jewish community proud.  Yishar Koach to all of us, especially those who put in hours of hard work into helping make this event happen.

I would like to relay some wise words regarding this week’s parsha, Vayetzei, from a great rabbi with whom I had the privilege of serving in London, Rabbi Jonathan Wittenberg…

Awaking from his dream of angels on the ladder which reaches into heaven, Jacob cries out ‘Indeed there is God in this place, ve’anochi lo yadati - but I had not known’. It’s one of those sentences from Scripture which follows one round for the whole of one’s life. How often, maybe always, it isn’t the absence of God but the absenteeism of our own consciousness which leads us to miss the essence or the beauty, the poignancy or the wonder of the moment. For God is in all being and in every place, - unless, the mystics also say, we drive God away.

Or perhaps we look for God in the wrong direction; I don’t mean in the north instead of the north-west, but rather in the wrong dimension, amongst the wrong coordinates entirely. Maybe we want god to fit an image graven in our mind of what god is supposed to be, all-powerful, all-knowing, a voice from heaven calling down with audible instructions in our specific language. So perhaps when Jacob says ‘I hadn’t known’ what he meant was that he had been deploying the wrong kind of mental sensors. ‘I had no awareness’, he acknowledges; but now something has awoken in his consciousness. Or maybe what he means is anochi, ‘I’, had not known; when I was all focused on ‘I’ and ‘me’ I did not find God. But now life is speaking and, at least for this moment, my ‘I’ has been dissolved in listening.

It isn’t solely in terrains of great beauty that one can find oneself saying ‘But God is on this place’. One can sense it too in situations where there is great pain, but also great compassion, among nurses, with carers, wherever there is attentiveness, attunement. For, in the words of theologian and scholar of Jewish mysticism Art Green, ‘God is the innermost reality of all that is’.

I believe that it is true that we each find our own unique way to have a relationship with the Divine.  Some find that the way they experience God is in nature, hiking in the wilderness.  Others experience God when they go to a hospital to visit the sick.  For me, I find that one of the most accessible ways for me to experience God is through music.  Communal prayer is also a method by which we, as a community experience God, but this is something that takes a great deal of focus and effort.  This past Sunday evening, however, I think we all got there together.  We celebrated a moment in our lives, knowing that what we were doing together was something very unique and special.  I look forward to many more with you all.

Shabbat Shalom,
                        
--ChazJ

Rabbinic Reflections - Parshat Toldot                      November 18, 2017      29 Cheshvan, 5778

11/17/2017 12:53:27 PM

Nov17

A lawyer comes before the judge to defend his client and enters the following plea: “Your honor, my client pleads not guilty by virtue of moral relativism.” Moral relativism may be any of several philosophical positions concerned with the differences in moral judgments across different people and cultures. Descriptive moral relativism holds only that some people do in fact disagree about what is moral; meta-ethical moral relativism holds that in such disagreements, nobody is objectively right or wrong; and normative moral relativism holds that because nobody is right or wrong, we ought to tolerate the behavior of others even when we disagree about the morality of it.  Some say that it means that “anything goes.”  Judaism believes that while the ethics of cultures and societies might differ (bein Adam laChaveroh, “between man and man”) there is a universal moral standard of behavior accountable before God (bein Adam laMakom, “between God and man”).  If such is the case, how do we reconcile Yaakov (Jacob)’s actions and those of his mother Rivka (Rebecca) in this week’s Torah reading?

The Torah reading begins with the birth of twins: Yaakov and Esav.  The story continues with Yaakov cheating his brother out of his birthright. Later, with the assistance of his mother, Rivka, he takes advantage of the poor eyesight of Yitzhak, his father, and steals the blessing meant for Esav, the first-born. The Torah reading clearly focuses on the actions of Yaakov and Rivka. Rabbi Howard Siegal poignantly asks: What is the role of the patriarch, Yitzhak, in all of this?

He brings forward the insights of biblical scholar Everett Fox, who notes, “Yitzhak functions in Genesis as a classic second generation, that is, as a transmitter and stabilizing force, rather than as an active participant in the process of building a people. There hardly exists a story about him in which he is anything but a son and heir, a husband, or a father.” In fact, the most pro-active character in the Torah portion is Rivka. She struggles with birth (Gen. 25:22): “And the children struggled together within her; and she said, “’If this be so, why do I live!?’” Rivka’s greater love for Yaakov than Esav compels her to devise a way for him to steal the blessing of the first-born; rightfully intended for Esav (refer to Gen. 27:5-17). She even plots Yaakov’s escape from the wrath of his brother (Gen. 27: 42-43): “And [Rivka] said to [Yaakov]: ‘Here, Esav your brother is consoling himself about you, with (the thought of) killing you. So now, my son, listen to my voice: Arise and flee to Lavan my brother in Haran.’”

Again Siegel asks and answers with reference to Everett Fox: Was Rivka wrong in conspiring to elevate her “favorite” son Yaakov? Everett Fox doesn’t think so. He writes, “The true dynamic figure of the second generation here is Rivka. It is she to whom God reveals his plan, and she who puts into motion the mechanism for seeing that it is properly carried out. She is ultimately the one responsible for bridging the gap between the dream, as typified by Avraham, and the hard-won reality, as realized by Yaakov.”

Are there times when, for the sake of maintaining the vision, one is required to violate the basic tenets of morality? Can one act in a way that appears morally wrong at the time, but is morally correct in the end? In an age of moral relativism, it is an important question to ask and answer. Do we do as we feel is right or do we do what we know is right? It is a question with which we all must struggle.

Shabbat Shalom,
                        Rabbi Geoff

 

Cantorial Comments - Parshat Chaye Sarah                        November 11, 2017      22 Cheshvan, 5778

11/09/2017 05:16:38 PM

Nov9

“We don’t need legitimacy.  We exist.  Therefore, we are legitimate.”
         -Menachem Begin (1913-1992), 6th Prime Minister of Israel (1977-1983)

With great humility and deepest respect for one of Israel’s historic leaders, quoted above, I must disagree with him.  Existence does not automatically imply legitimacy.  To make an easy point, ISIS exists, and we can all agree that not only is their claim on their occupied territory illegitimate, but their ideology is an illegitimate perversion of Islam.  L’havdil L’havdil (a Yiddishism, literally meaning “to widely separate”, used to lessen the taboo of making an inappropriate comparison between something evil and something good) Israel exists, but that existence, by itself, does not assuage our responsibility of hasbarah, defending Israel’s legitimacy on the battlefield of public opinion.  We use every means at our disposal to demonstrate that our claim to the land is legal, moral, historical and rightful.

In this week’s parsha, Chayei Sarah, Avraham purchases the cave Maharat Hamachpela as a burial ground for his family.  In thirteen verses, the Torah reviews the purchase in detail, including the name of the seller, the price of 400 shekels of silver, and even records a conversation where Avraham refuses to accept the land as a gift, rather, insisting on paying the full price, which the Torah then records was accepted by the merchant.  Three times, the merchant, Ephron son of Zohar the Hittite of the Land of the Sons of Heth, confirms the bill of sale, saying “the land is given”.  In these thirteen verses, the Torah reads almost like a legal contract.

The Torah is our guide to fulfilling commandments, mitzvot.  It contains stories about our history, depicting characters we wish to emulate and to fulfill our goals of becoming better people both personally, and as a Jewish people.  Why is this legal contract so important that it should be included in the Torah?  Why is this contract any more significant than an old crumpled receipt for coffee that you found in the pocket of your winter-jacket on the first snow of the season?  This receipt is critical to our history.  It is the oldest evidence of a legal claim on our land that legitimizes our right to it today.  It is evidence that we were not only there first, but we bought it fairly and legally.  We planted our proverbial flag in the ground, and when Avraham buried Sarah in our newly purchased land, it marked the beginning of our spiritual investment in it as well.

Once again, with all respect to Menachim Begin, formal, legal legitimacy is important.  So much so, that the Torah goes to great lengths to provide us with it.  Unfortunately, by modern legal standards, this by itself does not prove the legitimacy of our claim to Israel, and so the battle of hasbarah wages on.  But there is so much more to be learned from our history, throughout the millennia that builds upon the foundation of legitimate claim that the Torah has laid for us.

Beginning on January 11, 2018, join me in the new year for an exciting exploration of the history of our legal claim to the Judean territory, from the Judean Kings of old, to the Jewish administration of the Judean province under the Babylonian, Greek, Roman and Persian empires.  We’ll explore the Balfour Declaration, the original division of the British Mandate for Palestine between the Jews and Arabs, and the history of the territorial disputes between the Arab nations, the Palestinians and the modern State of Israel.  Come out, and let’s arm ourselves with the facts that enable us to stand up to those that seek to delegitimize Israel.  I am calling this exciting new series, “Game of Thrones: Israel Edition”.

Shabbat Shalom,
--ChazJ

Rabbinic Reflections - Parshat Vayera                        November 4, 2017     15 Cheshvan, 5778

10/27/2017 02:25:11 PM

Oct27

Women of Faith: Parshat Vayera

This week I share with you the comments of Dr. Amy Kalmanofsky, Associate Vice Chancellor and Associate Professor of Bible, Jewish Theological Seminary

Abraham passed God’s litmus test of faith.  God commands Abraham to take his beloved son Isaac to the land of Moriah and kill him.  Faithful Abraham does not hesitate.  Genesis 22 may be the most loved and hated story in the Torah by every reader, no matter what their faith.  Certainly, generations of Jews have struggled to make sense of this story, and of the father and God it portrays. Rashi, the 11th-century French commentator, cannot bear to think that God intended Abraham to kill Isaac.  He writes: “God did not say ‘kill him [שחטהו], because the Holy One Blessed Be He did not want him to kill him.  Rather, God commanded Abraham to “bring him up [להעלותו] with the intention to give Isaac the status of being an offering (on Gen. 22:2).

Although I appreciate Rashi’s motivation and the elegance of his reading, it seems clear to me that God commands Abraham to kill his son.  And equally clear to me that God wants Abraham willing to do so.  Abraham proves himself to be God-fearing [ירא אלהים, v.12], or what 19th-century Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard calls a knight of faith.  Contemporary Jews may not be comfortable with this level of faith, but we rely upon it every year when we pray on Rosh Hashanah: “Hold before You the image of our ancestor Abraham binding his son Isaac on the altar, when he overcame his compassion in order to obey Your command wholeheartedly.”

Abraham passes God’s test, but to do so, he must forego fundamental aspects of his life and character as a patriarch.  In significant ways, he must fail as a man in order to become a man of faith.  Remarkably, the women in Parashat Vayera take up the slack, and behave more like patriarchs than Abraham does. Lot’s daughters, Sarah, Hagar, and the Shunammite—the subject of the haftarah—assume patriarchal duties.  The deeds of these matriarchs—and noticeably, they all behave as mothers in their stories—offers insight into the complex roles women play in Torah.

Although men in the Torah may fairly be labeled patriarchal, there are only three official patriarchs in Jewish tradition: Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.  What identifies these patriarchs is that each receives the twofold divine blessing of progeny and property.[i] Their essential task as patriarchs is to establish and secure their inheritance by having children and by acquiring and protecting their property. In other words, they should behave as fathers who protect the life and property of their sons.

When Abraham raises the knife to kill Isaac, he does not behave like a father. In that moment, for that moment, he relinquishes his role as patriarch and becomes a knight of faith.  As any Game of Thrones watcher knows, knights must sacrifice the needs and demands of the flesh in order to serve their higher cause.  More than anything else, children epitomize those needs and demands.

Abraham’s story could be over, and with it Israel’s story.  Faith alone cannot create a nation and define its people.  There need to be individuals who advocate for the lives and property of their children. In this week’s parashah and haftarah, these individuals are women.  They are mothers who do what is necessary, if at times repugnant from our contemporary perspective, in order to secure the lives of their children.

Having survived the destruction of Sodom, convinced that there are no men left in the world, Lot’s daughters sleep with their father to sustain life and preserve his seed [ונחיה מאבינו זרע, 19:32].  Sarah commands Abraham to exile Hagar and Ishmael in or order to protect Isaac’s inheritance [כי לא יירש בן האמה הזאת, 21:10].  Unlike Abraham, who sends one son into the wilderness and lifts a knife to kill the other, Hagar cannot watch her son Ishmael die [אל אראה במות הילד, 21:16], and works to sustain his life.  Unwilling to accept the death of her son, the Shunammite also behaves like an anti-Abraham.  Like Abraham, she saddles a donkey and takes a servant [2 Kings 4:24; Gen 22:3] to pursue the prophet Elisha.  Yet unlike Abraham, the Shunammite works for her son’s life, not his death, and demands that the prophet revive him.  As a woman of faith, she believes her son can be revived.

Given the life-sustaining and -affirming role these women play, it is easy to say that they are the heroes of their stories, and, arguably, of Israel’s.  Yet it remains a question whether the Torah views them as heroes.  It is possible that the Torah does not. Certainly, Lot’s daughters and Hagar, as mothers to Israel’s enemies, are not part of Israel’s story.  Although God sides with Sarah, the Torah seems to have more sympathy (perhaps surprisingly, given her progeny) for Hagar, who receives divine revelation and assurance.  The Shunammite may work on her son’s behalf, but it is the prophet Elisha who miraculously revives him.  At the story’s conclusion, the Shunammite lies in humble gratitude at the prophet’s feet.

The Torah may not view these women as the heroes, but it certainly sees them as essential characters, and perhaps even uses them to offer a critique of Abraham, the man of faith. Sarah and Hagar do not receive God’s direct blessing, but they work for its fulfillment.  Without them, Abraham would have no inheritance and Israel no story.  The Shunammite may offer the strongest critique of Abraham, which could be the Rabbis’ intention when assigning her story to this parashah.  The Shunammite, like Lot’s daughters, does not submit to death, but works to sustain life.  Her story, like the stories of all these women, displays ferocious maternal power and perseverance.

As women of faith, the women of Parashat Vayera remind us of a faith that does not demand human sacrifice or death but recognizes the needs and demands of the flesh, and serves life above all.

 [i] Gen 12:2–3, 7; 13:14–17; 15:5–7, 18–21; 17:1–8, 22:15–18, 26:1–5, 23–25, 28:13–15, 35:9–11
the publication and distribution of the JTS Commentary are made possible by a generous grant from Rita Dee (z”l) and Harold Hassenfeld (z”l).

Rabbi Geoff

Rabbinic Reflections - Parshat Noah                            October 21, 2017    1 Cheshvan, 5778

10/20/2017 01:51:42 PM

Oct20

Growing up, my friends thought I was weird because I actually liked school. I liked to learn and was in awe of the world and how it worked, about the depth of human imagination and that the more we know, the more we realize how much we don’t know.  As the alphabet soup at the end of my name will attest (and I usually leave most of it out)—Rabbi Dr. Geoffrey Haber, BA, BA, MA, DMin, DD, BCC (NAJC), CSCP (CASC), CSE (CASC), RP (CRPO), LCDR  (CHC, USN)—I am a lifelong learner.  There is a statement in Jewish Tradition about the nature of Torah study which beckons: Hafoch ba v’hafoch ba ki hakol ba, “Turn it over and turn it over because everything is in it.” It is the idea that the more we study Torah, the more insights we find and the more insights we find the more wondrous becomes our world, our relationship to it and to God.

Traditionally, Jewish learning takes place using one (or more) methods of Bible interpretation. The acronym for them is PaRDeS , the Hebrew word for orchard (referring to the Garden of Eden) or paradise; for the study of Torah is in itself an experience of Paradise.  It describes four ways to read and understand any Torah text:  P stands for p’shat, the simple, literal reading; R for remez, the allegorical reading; D for d’rash, the interpretive reading; and S for sod, the mystical reading.  Rabbi Rami Shapiro (1951-; author, poet, essayist, and educator) uses Parashat Noah, the story of Noah and the flood, to illustrate how PaRDes works. 

Literally (P’shat), Parashat Noach tells how the wicked of the earth are drowned and only Noah and the inhabitants of the ark are saved to start a new world.  Allegorically, though, (Remez), it’s a parable about maintaining your balance in a time of crisis (Noah means calmness or equanimity).  It also can be interpreted (D’rash) as follows:  the Hebrew word teva, or ark, can be linked to teivot, which means letters.  Now it’s a story about how the letters of the Torah are a refuge from strife.  Finally, read through a mystical lens (Sod) the skylight in the ark (Gen.  6:16) teaches words alone can trap you unless you have a portal through which divine wisdom can enter. 

Rabbi David Ackerman, reflecting of Rabbi Shapiro’s teaching, points out: The different readings seem hierarchical, but one doesn’t necessarily lead to another; each is legitimate and complete on its own.  In fact, one may conflict with another, illustrating a central dynamic of PaRDes:  it doesn’t require us to resolve the conflict.  Rather, it offers a discipline for developing an open mind capable of maintaining multiple propositions, simultaneously.  That’s called thinking. 

Shabbat Shalom!

Cantorial Comments - Parshat Bereshit                        October 14, 2017      24 Tishrei, 5778

10/11/2017 04:37:14 PM

Oct11

“Language exerts hidden power, like the moon on the tides.”   
--Rita Mae Brown (1944-), New York Times Best-selling Author

The story of Cain and Abel amounts to a grand total of 16 verses in the Torah.  Even as short stories go, a story 16 verses in length is impressively short to include a complete beginning, middle and end narrative.  Nevertheless, the story of Cain and Abel seems to cover the bases – jealousy, murder, a cover-up… a real nail-biter.  But as with any short story, we don’t get too many details in the Cain and Abel narrative, and we are basically left to our creativity and imagination to fill in the gaps.  So, let’s get a bit creative.

Abel’s name in Hebrew is Hevel.  It is a word we have actually come across quite recently in shul.  On Shabbat Chol Hamo’ed Sukkot (just last week), we read the book of Ecclesiastes, traditionally thought to be written by King David towards the end of his life.  It is a book of reflection, an old man looking back on his life, trying to make some sense out of the nature of existence.  The opening phrase is “Haval havalim, hakol havel” – “vanity of vanities, all is vanity”.  The word “vanity” is perhaps the most commonly used translation of the Hebrew word, “havel”, but like most translations, it’s far from perfect.  From the context of Ecclesiastes, the word “havel” has several other connotations: fleeting, vapour, futility, insubstantial.  As names are never coincidental in the Torah (‘Moshe’ means ‘I drew him from the water [the Nile river]’, Yitzchak means ‘I laughed [when I learned I was pregnant with him]’), we are invited to assume this is also the case for Abel’s Hebrew name, “Hevel”, and wonder what it could mean in this context.

The first place to look for answers should be Abel’s birth story, which would be typically indicate how he got his name in the first place, but as it turns out, the Torah will confuse us even further.  If we inspect the text carefully, references to Cain’s conception, birth and naming are clear, but Abel’s story seems to be barely a footnote. 

 “Now the man knew his wife Eve, and she conceived and bore Cain, and she said, ‘I have acquired (kaniti – from which the name Cain is derived) a man with the Lord’.  And she continued to bear his brother Abel, and Abel was a shepherd of flocks, and Cain was a tiller of the soil.” (Gen. 4:1-2)

The next place we might investigate for answers to the question of Abel’s name would be clues in Abel’s personality.  What does he do?  How does he behave?  What does he say?  Once again, the answer is frustrating.  In the case of Cain, we see his personality quite clearly.  The Torah describes how Cain’s “countenance fell” when his sacrifice was rejected.  The Torah indicates that Cain becoming annoyed, and God converses with him about it, even before the Abel’s murder.  Then afterwards, of course, are Cain’s infamous words, “am I my brother’s keeper?”.  Abel however, does not speak at all, anywhere in the story.  There does not exist even a single clue about his personality.  Abel is born, Abel is a shepherd, Abel offers a sacrifice to God, Abel is killed.  Abel had no legacy.  He never married, he did not have children. 

Calling the story of “Cain and Abel” just that, is misleading.  Really, it’s just the story of Cain and his experience, the lesson he learned, and how Cain represents the flawed nature of humanity that will continue to be a part of the human condition for all time.  Abel is inconsequential to the story, little more than a means for Cain’s harrowing fall from grace, a catalyst to expose human imperfection.

You might say, Abel wasn’t really a person at all.  So what was he?  The Torah tells us… “nothing”.

Shabbat Shalom,
                         
--ChazJ

Rabbinic Reflections - Shabbat Hol Hamoed Sukkot          October 7, 2017      17 Tishrei, 5778

10/04/2017 01:27:28 PM

Oct4

I love autumn! The air is crisp and fresh; the leaves are beautiful and crunch under my feet. And we celebrate Sukkot, my favorite holy day. I love the decorations, the food, the wonder on children’s faces and the joy of the moment. Yet, for some, fall is not a joyous time. The weather is cold, the land lies fallow, the days are short and winter is around the corner. Everything seems either dead or dying. Perhaps that is why we hear two stories on Shabbat Hol HaMoed Sukkot (the intermediate Shabbat of Sukkot). The first is the book of Kohelet, or Ecclesiastes, which opens with a pretty dismal world-view (Ecc. 1:2):  Havel havalim…, “Vanity of vanities, said Kohelet, vanity of vanities, all is vanity.”  Then we read from the Torah about the aftermath of the golden calf, certainly a low point in Jewish history. These choices are puzzling; neither seems fitting for Sukkot, described as z’man simchateinu, “the time of our rejoicing.”

Rabbi David Ackerman provides a perspective on this incongruence: The sukkah, or hut, is the connecting and clarifying link.  A sukkah is a temporary structure, fragile and impermanent.  It’s a reminder of humanity’s place in the cosmos.  This supports Kohelet’s message.  Kohelet employs the word havel five times in one verse; we can’t miss it.  But havel doesn’t mean “vanity.”  It means “breath” or “vapor” and is used as a metaphor for life:  something ephemeral and fleeting.  The sukkah suggests Kohelet is challenging us:  life is short, what will we make of it?  The sukkah does suggest a similar message regarding the illusion of the golden calf (which provides no safety or security for the Israelites): life is short, what is worth believing?

The practice of ushpizin, or inviting guests (real or historical) into the sukkah, is the final piece of the puzzle.  Offering the hospitality of a minimal shelter stands in contrast to Kohelet and the Golden Calf: the dense network of human relationships that over time creates community is what is of value and what will endure, and not the material objects surrounding us. Coming together is what makes Sukkot z’man simchateinu, “the time of our rejoicing.”

Shabbat Shalom and Chag Sameach!

Cantorial Comments - Haazinu                                               September 23, 2017     3 Tishrei, 5778

09/20/2017 01:54:22 PM

Sep20

“The weak can never forgive.  Forgiveness is an attribute of the strong.”    --Mahatma Gandhi

This Hassidic story is attributed to Rebbe Elimelech of Lizhensk (1717-1787):

It was the day before Yom Kippur, and the hassidim came to the great Rebbe Elimelech to ask him how he prepares for the most holy of days.

“To tell you the truth,” said the old rabbi, “I don’t know how to do it. But Moishele, the shoemaker, he knows how to do it.  Go ask him.”

So the hassidim walked over to Moishele’s house, and they peeked in through the window, and they saw this simple man sitting around his simple wooden table eating dinner.  And when he was done, he called out to his children, “the great moment is here!  Bring out the books.” And the children returned shortly with two books.  The Hassidim saw that one book appeared to be a small, plain old notebook, while the other was very large and thick, bound in expensive leather.

Moishele, looked up, and began to speak. “Dear God, master of the world,” he said, “it’s me, Moishele, the shoemaker.  God, I want to read you something.”

Moishele took the small notebook and opened it to the first page. “God,” he continued, “I will read to you a list of my sins.”  And Moishele began to recite:

“I’ve yelled at my wife.

I’ve been impatient with my children.

I’ve charged a bit too much for shoes sometimes.

I kept a scrap of material for myself instead of giving it to the customer who paid for it. 

These sins, I humbly confess I have committed against you, my family, and my fellow men.”

Moishele then closed the small notebook and picked up the large one. “And now, God,” he says, “now, I will read to you a list of your sins.”

“A mother of nine died this year, leaving all of her small children orphans.

A recent famine I heard of in the next town forced entire families to forage for their food like animals.

I heard of a war on the other side of the world that has taken thousands of innocent lives.”

With that, Moishele looked solemnly to the heavens.  “I don’t know how my small sins can compare to Yours.  But I’ll tell you what, God,” he said, “this year, if You forgive me each and every one of my sins, I’ll forgive You each and every one of Yours.”

The hassidim became elated with what they had just witnessed! They ran back to Rebbe Elimelech and told him all about Moishele’s wisdom. But hearing the story, Elimelech wept.

 “What is the matter?” the hassidim asked.

The Rebbe looked at them with his eyes all swollen. “Do none of you see?” he cried. “Moishele had God in the palm of his hand!  He should’ve said, ‘No, God, I won’t forgive you!  I won’t forgive you until you redeem the entire world.'”

From the Memorial Service:

“Hatzur tamim b’chol po’al. Mi lomar lo ma tif’al? – The Rock, perfect in all ways, how can we ask Him what he is doing?”

Is it wrong to blame God for the injustices we feel He has wrought upon ourselves, or the world?  The Jewish concept of God is all knowing and all powerful, and so it would seem that God should be the natural target of our blame.  Simply put, the answer is… yes.  It’s ok to blame God!  Of course, without being able to see the world from God’s perspective, it is impossible for us to understand God’s actions.  But although we cannot understand, it does not preclude us the right to blame God, and be angry with Him sometimes.

Being angry with God is both a Jewish right and a Jewish privilege.  But it comes with a terrible responsibility as well.  Unlike other religions which require an intermediary for the average supplicant to beseech God (a priest, minister, shaman, etc), Jews require no intermediary.  We all recall the scenes from Fiddler on the Roof, where Tevya has spontaneous conversations with God, asking for help and insight, “I know, I know, we are Your chosen people.  But once in a while, can’t You choose somebody else?”.  Without an intermediary, Jews cultivate a personal relationship with the Divine, which means, just like family, it is not uncommon to get into arguments, even fights.   Like a family member, though, a relationship with God is not something that is so easily broken.  In order to preserve our families, we brave our discomfort, and we wrestle with our anger, all in order to see our way towards forgiveness.  So too, this is our responsibility to God.  We are invited to be angry with Him, we are invited to wrestle with Him, but our responsibility is to commit to seeing our way towards forgiveness and reconciliation.

Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, can be a two-way street.  God doesn’t let us off the hook so easily, but like Moishele in the story, it is not wrong for us to do the same.  We must remember, however, that at the end of the day, we must find it in our hearts to forgive God, just as He forgives us.

Shabbat Shalom,
                           
--ChazJ

Rabbinic Reflections - Nitzavim-Vayelekh                               September 16, 2017     25 Elul, 5777

09/15/2017 01:38:03 PM

Sep15

Are you ready to host Rosh HaShanah meals yet?  Me neither. There’s lots left to do before next week and not enough time: guests, menus, groceries, and - of course - cooking. But what about the food for the soul? The table conversation is an amazing opportunity that should not be missed. It’s fun to catch up with family and friends. Go ahead and indulge. But it’s also essential to talk about the High Holy Days, Teshuvah (Repentance), and the year ahead. When we come to shul—in addition to talking with our friends and relatives— we pray, listen, sing, reflect, but we don’t have a chance to have a real conversation (rabbi-approved!) about these important things.

But, as Rabbi Alex Freedman points out in his Shabbat message for this week, we do get a chance to talk at our meals. For Rosh HaShanah to be an active experience, we should talk about it. To enable our families to feel that the opportunities of a new year aren’t limited to the synagogue, but extend into our homes, we should talk about it and celebrate it. If we don’t talk about the New Year, we won’t fully internalize it.

We can begin our meal with apples and honey—and ask why we eat them; we can say the Kiddush, the blessing over the wine, and ask what makes this day special. During the meal, we can ask ourselves and those around us how this new year will be different, what our hopes are and why it is important to us.

Rabbi Freedman suggests that as dessert is being served, we could ask those seated at our tables one of the following questions:

What’s one thing we want to do better next year?

What’s one thing we feel great about that we want to continue next year?

Where can our family improve next year?

Do we agree or disagree with the rabbi’s sermon? Why?

Where is God in our life?

Or we can ask a question of our own, tailored to our specific guests. It’s important enough to think of the question in advance so we make sure it happens.

Rabbi Freedman reminds us that this week’s portion, Nitzavim-Vayelekh, speaks of a new generation of Israelites standing on the edge of the Jordan River about to cross into the Promised Land. The opening verses read (Dt. 29:9-11): “You are standing today, all of you, before Adonai your God—the heads of your tribes, your elders, your officers, all the men of Israel, your children, your women, and the stranger in your camp, from the woodchopper to the water drawer—to enter into the covenant of Adonai your God...that [God] seals with you today. It’s fitting that we read this portion precisely when we stand on the edge of the New Year about to cross over together as a community. We need everybody on board, from young to old, for this to work today. Recall that “today - HaYom” is one of the final prayers at the morning service’s end. But how do we make this happen today? Let’s talk about it.

Next week it may feel awkward to stop the meal for a moment, but I assure you the conversation will be rich and meaningful; as satisfying as the dessert itself.

Shabbat Shalom and Shana Tova U’metukah!

Thu, April 26 2018 11 Iyyar 5778