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Fear Blinds Us

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Sat, 11 Jan 2020 01:22:00 +0000

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This week’s Torah portion, Vayechi, the last Torah portion the book of Bereshit, Genesis, tells the story of Jacob’s death. Jacob, our ancestor, knows that the end is near, and so he calls his 12 sons together for one last time.

Jacob has had a terribly hard life. He had to run away from the home he loved, in fear for his life*. He had to bury his dear wife, Rachel. He spent many years believing he had lost his beloved son, Joseph. Now, he’s sick (and, according to tradition, he was the first man to ever become sick before dying, so I match that he must have been confused and fearful, and undoubtedly in pain). And, even worse, he’s finishing his life in the land of Egypt. He and his family were saved from starvation in Canaan, true, but he is living his last days in a kind of exile from his home, and from our holy land.

* The fact that his flight was of his own doing didn’t make it any easier for him.

As his sons gather around him, he begins addressing them by saying, “Come together, that I may tell you what is to befall you in the days to come.” (Genesis 49:1). According to a midrash (an ancient rabbinic story), as those words imply, Jacob was intending to tell his sons their future. But, the Shechina, God’s closest presence, departed from him in that moment, and he was no longer able to prophesy.

Why? Why did he lose access to God, and to prophecy? Many sages give the simple, obvious answer that God just didn’t want him telling anyone the future. Because, the future is always meant to be unknown. But, Rabbi Noah Farkas reads it differently. He proposes that it was something inside of Jacob himself which pushed away the Shechina, and which took away his ability to see the future. It was his fear, and his brokenness.

His fear, and his brokenness, kept him away from God, and took away his ability to see the future clearly. That’s the truth. Our fear, and our brokenness, can keep us away from God, and can take away our ability to see the future clearly.

There is so much to fear, right now. In general, the world seems to be on fire, and on the brink of something much worse. You just have to open the news to know what I’m talking about. That’s true for everyone, but is particularly, acutely true for those of us in the Jewish community. The rise of anti-Semitism, and the recent rash of terrible, horrific attacks on Jews and Jewish institutions, have all of us worried, most of us afraid, and some of us panicked.

The danger is real. The physical danger, to be sure, is real. We’d be foolish and naïve to not be worried. But, arguably, the real danger is different. It may not be as scary, but it’s more present. More likely. We’re in danger of losing our ability to dream, our ability to be brave. We’re in danger of losing our ability to see a future that’s worthy of us, and of our heritage.

The truth is that, in all likelihood, we are safe. Physically, at least. I’m not suggesting that we do so, but if we were to drop all of our security measures, odds are we’d make it through this Shabbat, and every foreseeable Shabbat, with no problem. We know that the 24 hour national, worldwide, new cycle makes the world seem more dangerous than it really is — every time anything happens, anywhere, we hear about it, endlessly, for days and weeks, and so it starts to feel and seem as if that horror is happening everywhere, all the time. It’s not. I’m not minimizing the horror of the attacks which have happened when I say that, on whole, the world is still a very safe place, especially for those of us sitting in synagogues tonight. Most of us are not in any real physical danger, thank God.

But, if we start acting as if we are, if we start acting too strongly out of fear, if we start pulling back, if we start leading with defense, and putting up walls around our community, and barring our doors, if we huddle and shelter rather than reaching outward, then we’re hurting ourselves. We’re damaging our ability to create holiness in our lives, and in this world.

Of course, actual, physical harm would be unthinkably horrific. Please don’t hear me saying otherwise. But I firmly, deeply believe, that that kind of harm is incredibly unlikely. It probably just won’t happen to us. But, what will happen if we stop trusting other people? What will happen if we stop trusting each other? What will happen if we let ourselves be cowed into living our lives through the lens of fear? Especially since a lens of fear always becomes, sooner, rather than later, a lens of suspicion, and of hatred. What kind of world can we build, when we believe we’re living in a world like that?

We have to ask ourselves not just how do we survive, but why do we survive? What are we here to do?

I think that our job is to bring holiness into this world. I’m not always exactly sure what that means, and am really sure how, precisely, we can do it. And, I know that people will have wildly different answers to that, and myriad different ways of bringing holiness to life. Many won’t even use those words, although I’d argue that they may still be engaged in holy work.

At the end of each day, we have to ask ourselves not just what we do to survive, but what we did because we survived. Not just whether we are still in the world, but how the world is better for my having been in it.

May we never have cause to fear for our lives. May we never have cause to fear, at all. But, when we do fear, may we have the strength to live in holy defiance of that fear. May God’s closest presence never depart from us, and may we always live with our eyes open, looking ahead to a future, to a world redeemed.

This is a version of a sermon given on Shabbat, January 10, 2020

Lockdown Drills

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Thu, 12 Dec 2019 13:48:00 +0000

Here's an email I just sent to the principal of my daughter's school:

Ms. Holloway,

My daughter, Talia Rosenberg, is an 8th grader at Walker Middle Magnet. Today, I received the notification from you that there is another Lockdown Drill this morning. I'd like to take a moment to express my opposition to these drills.

Although school shootings are horrific, and far too common, it's also clear that they are statistically low on the scale of actual threats to our children--the odds of any one of them actually being in an active shooter situation is miniscule. But, the effects of drills such as these are being scrutinized, and it's unclear if they actually provide any benefit, even in the unlikely event of an actual incident. There is, however, mounting evidence that there are real and significant negative psychological effects on students who participate in these drills. In short, we're quite possibly having a meaningful negative impact on our kids by ineffectively training them to deal with something they are unlikely to ever face.

I'm sure you've seen all of this research (and more), and I have a feeling that you aren't in control of how often, or whether, you perform these drills. And, I'm also sure that, were you to announce an end to them, you'd face an enormous backlash from some of the parents. So, I do understand that, even if you agree with my position, you're in a tough spot. That being said, I thought it was important for you to hear from at least one parent who feels this way.

Wishing you a safe day, and a happy holiday season.

Jason Rosenberg

It's not an original thought, but there's a culture of fear which pervades our society, and it's not harmless. We're being trained, in subtle and not so subtle ways, to move through the world as if it were a place of constant danger.

There is of course, danger in the world; anyone would be a fool to suggest otherwise. But, I think it's also manifestly true that the world is often described, and treated, as if it were far more dangerous than it actually is. We could skip the vast majority of the precautions we take in life, and be just fine.

That wouldn't be a problem--better safe than sorry, after all--but we have to realize that every measure that we take to make ourselves safer also has unintended consequences. And, we have to at least think about balancing out those consequences with the actual benefit that we get.

It's an easy target, but how many billions of dollars have been spent, and continue to be spent, on increased airport security since 9/11, and how much safer are we, actually? How much better off would we be as a society if that money were spent on, say, food for the hungry, or enrichment programs for the underprivileged, or, if you're more conservative than I am, tax reduction? What is the real opportunity cost of the expanded TSA?

I remember reading, years ago, about a report on child safety. It seems that because of a perceived increase in child abductions (which was largely fueled by an over-zealous, and more nation-wide media) parents were keeping their children indoors at far higher rates. But, as a result of this, childhood health was plummeting, because kids were spending less time riding their bikes and playing games on their friends' lawns, and more time watching TV and playing video games. We made our kids safer from a barely-existent threat, and gave them diabetes in return.

We have a sheriff's deputy outside our synagogue whenever we have kids in school, or whenever we have services on Shabbat. What message does that send to a person who is trying to attend synagogue for the first time? What does it say to a person of color who is entering our building, and who may have a very different relationship with law enforcement than I do? What is the cost, both financial and personal, of having armed security outside our building, and what actual benefit do we get from it?*

* I've actually asked a few of our (wonderful) deputies this question. Each time, I've been told that there is close to zero benefit in terms of actual safety. Maybe there is a deterrent factor for the random bad-actor, but there is no meaningful increase in security against a determined assailant from having 1 or 2 deputies on duty.

Of course, we need to be prudent. We need airport security. We need to keep our neighborhoods safe. We need to have serious, mature discussions about what measures, at what cost. I just wish we'd actually have those discussions a bit more, and a bit more calmly than I've usually seen them take place.

And, I sure wish my daughter's school would stop pretending that scaring her is making her safer.

Tearing and Repairing -- Yizkor, 5780

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Thu, 10 Oct 2019 18:36:00 +0000

Tearing and Repairing

Yizkor, 5780

Rabbi Jason Rosenberg

Among the many rituals which Judaism has for times of mourning, one of the better known and more visible of them is the cutting of the Kria ribbon. Jews everywhere, and many non-Jews, as well, know when they see someone wearing a small black ribbon, torn and pinned to their clothes, that this person has suffered a loss; someone dear to them has died. However, many aren’t aware that the use of a ribbon in this ritual is a relatively recent innovation. Throughout most of Jewish history, and still in many parts of the Jewish world today, the practice has been not to wear a cut ribbon or piece of cloth, but rather to make a tear in the clothes which we were already wearing. A collar, maybe a lapel, is torn on a piece of clothing which the mourner can wear throughout the period of their mourning.

When we use a ribbon, it’s easy to take it off at the end of that time. But, what do we do if we have actually torn our clothes, when the time of our mourning has passed? We are told to mend the tear, which is, among other things, a reminder that morning is not meant to continue forever. But, Rabbi David Stern points out that the Babylonian Talmud, the ancient source of rabbinic law, has some specific instructions about how we are to make that repair.

We are allowed to use a herringbone stitch, or a cross stitch. But we are not allowed to use the stitching of the skilled tailors of Alexandria. Apparently, they were so good at their craft that, when they were done, the tear would disappear completely. There would be no evidence that anything had ever happened to this piece of cloth.

A beautifully, but imperfectly, repaired tear is the perfect metaphor for Judaism’s understanding of grief. We are, indeed, instructed to not mourn forever. Depending on who we lost, we mourn for a week, a month, a year. But, inevitably, mourning must be followed by something else. We must get back to our lives. We have to move forward.

But, at the same time, we never, ever fully move on. Or, maybe more to the point, we never go back to the way things were. How could we? Our world has been changed, and we know that it can never change back. Life will never be what it was when some of its spaces were filled with the presence of the person we loved.

That’s not to say that there isn’t healing. Of course there is. The pain, which may have been so very acute, does soften. At the very least, it becomes bearable, where once it may have seemed impossible to bear. We learn to live in a world which looks so much the same as it once did, but has been irrevocably changed. We learn to live without the person who meant so much to us. We learn to live, and we do live.

But the scar – the scar remains. An ever present reminder of what we had, and what we lost. Some scars might be visible, to us and to those who love us, all our lives. Some fade with time, almost to the point of imperceptibly. But, it’s always there. Always a reminder of the love, the loss, and that pain.

Would we have it be other than this? Would we, given the chance, choose to heal fully? To no longer feel the pangs of grief, and the loneliness of absence? What would it mean for the pain of loss to fade away completely? What would it mean to no longer feel grief, even in the slightest, we think of a loved one who is no longer with us? What would it mean for the tear to be sewn so perfectly?

When I think of my grandparents, when I think of the few friends I have lost, well before their time, when I think of my father who died in this season, just a few years ago, it hurts. Thank God. Grief is the residue of love, and that sharp sliver of pain is a reminder of how much this person meant to me. Their memory always brings some sorrow along with the joy, precisely because I love them.

God forbid we can’t move forward. God forbid the pain of the loss is as great today as it was those years ago. God forbid we can’t sew up the tear in our lives. We thank God for healing, and we thank God for the lives we been able to lead since the terrible day when they first left us. But we also thank God for the scars which are left, which provide us with a constant, enduring reminder of the place they held in our lives, and the dearness of their presence.

Blessed are You, Adonai or God, who tears and sews.

Zichronam Livracha—may their memories be a blessing.

Behaving Like a Jew -- Yom Kippur, 5780

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Thu, 10 Oct 2019 18:34:00 +0000

Behaving Like a Jew

Yom Kippur, 5790

Rabbi Jason Rosenberg

Behaving Like a Jew, By Gerald Stern

When I got there the dead opossum looked like

an enormous baby sleeping on the road.

It took me only a few seconds—just

seeing him there—with the hole in his back

and the wind blowing through his hair

to get back again into my animal sorrow.

I am sick of the country, the bloodstained

bumpers, the stiff hairs sticking out of grilles,

the slimy highways, the heavy birds

refusing to move;

I am sick of the spirit of Lindbergh over everything,

that joy in death, that philosophical

understanding of carnage, that

concentration on the species.

--I am going to be unappeased at the opossum’s death.

I am going to behave like a Jew

and touch his face, and stare into his eyes,

and pull him off the road.

I am not going to stand in a wet ditch

with the Toyotas and the Chevies passing over me

at sixty miles an hour

and praise the beauty and balance

and lose myself in the immortal lifestream

when my hands are still a little shaky

from his stiffness and his bulk

and my eyes are still weak and misty

from his round belly and his curved fingers

and his black whiskers and his little dancing feet.

“Behave like a Jew.” What does it mean to “behave like a Jew?” It means, at least in part, to be open to all of the pain in the world. It means to be maladjusted to the world as it is — it means to refuse to be complacent, to refuse to acquiesce to the reality that there is agony in this world. It means to never look at suffering, wherever we might encounter it, and accept it with “that’s just the way it is.” To behave like a Jew means to realize that every animal that dies should, in theory, be a heartbreak for me. And that, all the more so, every person who dies, every person who suffers, anywhere in the world, should be, too. That’s what it means to behave like a Jew.

I have to say, although I hope it would go without saying, that when Stern talks about “behaving like a Jew,” I don’t think he means as opposed to how a non-Jew would act. I don’t think he’s saying, and I most certainly don’t believe, that Jews are kinder or more moral, or have a greater responsibility to be so, than people of other religions, or of no religion at all. I think what he’s saying, and what I most certainly am, is that behaving in this way is a fulfillment of the highest ideals and aspirations of our tradition, as I’m sure it is in many other traditions, as well.

Of course, it’s an impossible aspiration. None of us live this way, really. We couldn’t possibly. Refusing to accept any pain or suffering, of any living creature, anywhere in the world? Letting ourselves, demanding of ourselves, that we share in all of the pain? Impossible. It would be paralyzing. It would destroy our souls. Our ability to compartmentalize, to put on blinders, to look away from the worst parts of the world, is essential for those of us who want to actually live in this world. Can you imagine what it would be like if we truly responded to every tragedy in the news as if it had happened to our own family? The world would stop as each and every one of us fell to our knees, crying in endless despair at the sheer weight of the horror in the world. Thank God we have the ability to turn away from this, when we have to.

But, we have to occasionally be willing to open ourselves up to the fullness of the world’s pain. If we don’t, we may swing too far in the other direction. We may accept our indifference as normal, as right. We might become satisfied with a world which is good enough, at least from our safe, comfortable spaces. If we don’t, at least on occasion, look with clear, wide open eyes at the fullness of the world’s pain, we will allow ourselves to become numb, and to become unconcerned.

Religion’s job is, in part, to comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable. A religious life should give us the impetus, and should give us the courage, to be fully openhearted, without limit or condition. To feel all of the pain. All of it. To, at least for a moment, at least for this moment, on this holiest day of the year, to see it all. To feel it all.

We don’t, because it would be awful beyond imagining. But, I suspect that we also resist doing this because we understand, maybe not consciously, but on some level, what it would demand of us if we were to do so. What would my life look like if, every time I saw someone suffering on the news, it struck me as if it were a close member of my own family that I was looking at? How much would I have to give of my time, of my energy, how much would I have to give of my money if that was what I really felt? If a dear friend of mine, if a family member, was truly in desperate need, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do, nothing I wouldn’t give, to ease their pain. We say that, if we go back far enough, we’re all related, one to the other. We say that all of humanity is one family. But, we don’t act like it. Not ever, and certainly not when tragedy strikes. We react and we respond. Of course we do. But, not enough. Not as much as we could, not as much as we should. I know I don’t. I’m sure none of us do.

But, as I stand here today, on this sacred day, don’t I have to confess to you, don’t I have to admit to myself, that when I turn away, when I file away someone else’s pain in the box labeled “not my problem,” that I am ashamed. I’m ashamed because part of me, maybe the best part of me, knows that it is my problem. Precisely because I have seen it. How could the suffering of a human being, any human being, not be my problem? I’m ashamed because I know that turning away from anyone’s pain, that being indifferent to the suffering of any single human being, anywhere in the world, no matter who they are, is a sacrilege. Torah teaches us that to be a Jew is, at its best, to be responsible for it all. To refuse, adamantly and passionately, to be indifferent. It is to open my heart as wide as I can. Wider still. To be a Jew is to acknowledge that your pain is my pain. Your suffering is my suffering. Your plight is my concern. Wherever and whoever you are. To be a Jew is to refuse to accept indifference or callousness. It’s what we should expect of ourselves, and what we should expect of each other. We should be horrified when we realize that we were, in fact, indifferent to someone else’s suffering. We should be appalled when someone around us closes their eyes and hearts to another’s pain. When we drive past the beggar, when we pretend not to see the person crying, when we turn on the news and flip past another story about another group being oppressed by one set of leaders while being ignored by another. We can’t be content. We can’t say that this is good enough. We have to cling to our belief that our world needs better.

When thinking about our responsibility, about our need to respond to the pain of others, it’s impossible for my mind not to turn to politics. And, it should. This is a deeply political thought, for a deeply political moment. Not politics in the sense of any particular policy, party, or candidate. But, politics in the sense of understanding that each and every decision that we make, as individuals, as a society, as a nation, has untold impacts on those around us. We are obligated to never be satisfied with the suffering of anyone, never to be silent in its face. All the more so, when the politics and policies which I support are the cause of that suffering.

I passionately support Israel and Israel’s right to defend itself. That must never make me anything less than heartbroken to see the suffering of a single Palestinian. You might be in favor of strong immigration enforcement. We must never be anything less than horrified, devastated at the site of a person suffering because of that policy. If you believe in strong borders, I can respect that. If you are unmoved by the sight of families being pulled apart, of children in cages, if you are undisturbed by innocents being denied medical care, of people sleeping on cold, wet concrete, if you are indifferent to a parent burying a child, in an inner-city, at our border, in Gaza, then you are lost.

To choose a policy which leads to suffering is, probably, in the end, unavoidable. To be comfortable with that? To be satisfied in a world in which people suffer? To be satisfied in a world in which our decisions, justifiable as they may be, lead to that suffering? That’s inhuman. That’s profoundly, deeply, fundamentally, un-Jewish.

Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik (Leviticus 19:34) teaches that the Jewish people was formed in exile, that our Torah was given to us outside of the holy land, specifically so that we would develop a sensitivity to others. And he also teaches (Deuteronomy 1:13) that establishing a system of perfect justice was a prerequisite for entering the holy land thousands of years ago, and it remains so, today. Being sensitive to others, being open to the pain of others, is literally the foundational trait of Judaism. Being satisfied with less than perfect justice will always keep us from full redemption. 1000 years ago, Maimonides taught that not being kind to others is enough to allow us to be suspicious about whether someone is truly a Jew. This is who we are. This is who we’ve always been. We care for others. All of them.

Today is Yom Kippur. Today is the day in which we open ourselves up to all of the ways in which we have failed, all of the ways in which we have fallen short. And, each one of us is surely guilty, at some point this past year, at some point in each and every year of our lives, of a failure of compassion. We have cared, but we have not cared enough. We have allowed ourselves to be appeased, we have allowed ourselves to accept the presence of suffering in our world. I know it’s not realistic, and I know it’s not possible. But, today I have to look at myself as if I am responsible to give, and to work, and to speak out, without limit, without pause, until the last tear is shed in our world. Today I accept that I am responsible for it all, because if I accept that today, then I might be more moved to act tomorrow.

I will never fully live this. I know that. I will never be able to be this caring, this open, this good. But, if I let myself, for at least today, believe that I should be so, maybe I’ll push myself more this year. If I allow myself to understand what my best self is capable of, and what my best self is responsible for, maybe I’ll be a bit more like him than I otherwise would. Today, I do not accept my acceptance of pain. Not one bit.

I talked last night about the idea of chet, a word which we usually translate as “sin,” as really being about missing the mark. I said that maybe, in our generation, we can best understand this not as “transgression,” but as “falling short.” Not being bad, so much as not being enough. Have we actively sinned? Have those of us sitting here today gone out and done terrible things to others? Probably not. Not most of us. But, have we responded to as many needs as possible? Have we been as caring, as openhearted as we should be? No, surely we haven’t. In that way, we’ve fallen short. Today, we don’t accept that. Today, we open ourselves up to that pain, and to those failures, and we use that as a goad to drive us forward. To drive us to be better. Today, we can’t care enough.

Al chet shechatanu l’fanecha—for the ways we have fallen short abusing our power. For the ways we have fallen short through cynicism and scorn. For the ways we have fallen short by hardening our hearts. For all these, God of forgiveness, forgive us, pardon us, lead us to atonement.

Saying "Yes" -- Kol Nidrei, 5780

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Thu, 10 Oct 2019 18:32:00 +0000

Saying “Yes”

Kol Nidrei, 5780

Rabbi Jason Rosenberg

Ron Fischman: My Book of Days

From Ten Poems for the High Holy Days

3, say yes

thinking back to the derailment I

search for switches thrown, tracks mislaid

gross mistakes not evident

fine errors that tilted track

downward

faith that a promise made,

however inconvenient,

is kept

or it wasn’t a promise

I long for the chance to say yes

and have it matter

yes to equity, yes to offering,

yes to custody, yes to commitments

yes when my children ask

if they can tell the truth to mama

not maybe her lawyer will use it in court

like she did my other poem

yes to openness without

evisceration

can I say yes to life again

can I go to synagogue and sing Kol Nidrei

take my place as a treasured member

knowing that I have a

place

can I say yes when offered

the chance to work for no reward

except for the sense that the world

looks fondly on my toil and

smiles

can I say yes to my children

yes to my writing yes to my rabbis

yes to commitment to leadership

to my ex her lawyer my

children

I pray

Tonight is Kol Nidrei, a service which we call by the name of its opening prayer. In truth, Kol Nidrei is not a prayer at all, but rather a legal formula. It is an annulment of vows. “All vows, resolutions, and commitments… That we promise and swear to God from this Day of Atonement until next Day of Atonement… Let all of them be discarded and forgiven… They are not valid and they are not binding. Our vows shall not be vows; our resolutions shall not be resolutions; our oath’s shall not be oaths.” It’s an exceptionally strange way to open a service — any service, let alone one which begins the holiest day of our year. Why would we begin this night with a public, legal declaration that any oaths or vows that we make are essentially meaningless? It’s hard to understand, especially given how seriously the rabbis of old took the idea of a vow. A vow is a promise which we swear to by God’s name, and in doing so, we elevate the fulfillment of that vow to the level of mitzvah — sacred commandment. Swearing by God’s name to do something, and then not following through is not just breaking a promise. It’s defying our God. Our sages found this idea so potentially dangerous that their advice is to never make a vow in the first place. But, if one is made, we must do everything in our power to see it through. Why then Kol Nidrei? Why do we declare that any vow that we make is as if it was never made, at all?

An explanation might come from the poem with which I began tonight. “I long for the chance to say yes and have it matter… Yes to offering… Yes to commitments… Can I say yes to life again?” These are the words of a man who finds himself afraid to say “yes.” Afraid to respond as he wants to when he feels called. Can I let myself say “yes” to the commitments which call to me? Even if not sure I can live up to them, am I willing to offer, from my deepest place, my “yes”? Kol Nidrei isn’t giving us permission to make promises to others that we don’t intend to keep. Kol Nidrei is giving us permission to make promises to ourselves that we suspect we can’t possibly keep.

The poet Robert Browning said that a person’s reach should always exceed her grasp. I should always be trying to touch that which I can’t really attain. I should always be striving for more than I believe I can achieve. Maybe Kol Nidrei is about giving myself permission to try to be what I dream I can be, even if am not sure I really can get there.

I went to a college with an extraordinarily unusual, possibly unique, grading system. Any class that we took, as many as we wanted, we were allowed to take pass/fail. But, more importantly, any class which we failed, whether or not we were taking it for grade, was wiped from our record. Our transcript wouldn’t show an “F.” It wouldn’t show anything about the class at all. It was as if we had never taken it. The class wasn’t a class.

The reason for this system was explained to us during our orientation week by one of the Deans of the school. I remember her saying to us that the idea was that each student should have the opportunity to take some classes which he or she could not possibly pass. And, to do so without fear or hesitation. If you are a science nerd, she said, but you’re interested in taking an advanced seminar on Shakespeare, then go for it. If you are a Poly Sci major, but want to take a class in the art department, then take it. There’s no penalty for failure, so there’s no reason not to try. We were being given permission to exceed our own boundaries, to strive, to try to be different from who we usually were, to try to be more than what we usually were. By being told that our failures were forgiven in advance, it took away any valid reason to not try something. It set us free to dream.

That’s what Kol Nidre is giving to us. It’s giving us permission to fail, which is inherently permission to strive. It’s giving us permission to dream about who we could be, if we were just willing to try.

Like everyone here, I am not exactly who I want to be. I can easily imagine a much better version of myself. Professionally and personally, there is so much that I want to do, so much that I want to be. Why don’t I? What holds me back?

Some of it is, to be honest, exhaustion. Just like almost everyone here. We’ve all got so much pulling at us—for some, it’s children who rely on us. For others its older parents who have started to need to be cared for themselves. Some of us are lucky enough to be juggling both of those demands at the same time. We’ve got jobs which seem to offer fewer and fewer moments of downtime. Homes which need upkeep, bodies which need attention. Every time I have a spark of inspiration to do something big, it’s followed by a deep, soulful “oy.” Who has the time? Who has the energy? Promising myself that I’m going to add something to my list, as truly deeply important as it might be, feels like a prelude to failure.

Even scarier is the idea that I might actually be able to commit to this new idea, I might give it the time and attention that it deserves, and I still might fail. I might fail at it because I’m just not up to the task. I’m just not good enough. What’s more frightening than running up against the outer limits of our own competence, especially when others can watch it happen?

And, since this is the night of confession, I’ll also admit that I’m afraid of how I’ll look when I’m trying something truly new. Most of you know that, for a few years now, I’ve been getting more and more involved with Mindfulness practice and meditation. It hasn’t been easy for me, and it hasn’t been comfortable. All of my life, through rabbinical school and well into my rabbinate, I was the intellectual, the rationalist. It was how I understood the world, and how I understood myself. And, it was how I wanted to be seen. What would people say if I started meditating? If I started closing my eyes more in services, or talking about our souls more than I used to? Would they still take me seriously? Would I still take myself seriously?

Those were real questions I had to ask, real fears I had to face. It would have been so much easier to just dodge them by staying how I was, by remaining who I was. But, I was tired of who I was, I was dissatisfied with how I was living. I had to find a way to get past those fears, those doubts, and to be willing to try something different, even if I wasn’t sure it was possible. Even if I wasn’t sure I could do it. Kol Nidrei says to me, says to all of us, try. Try. Strive. Reach. Dream. What do you have to lose? You are forgiven before you even begin, so begin already!

Can I promise myself, right now, that I’ll be better? That I’ll change, that I’ll grow? Even knowing that I will fail, that I will never live up to the version of myself I dream of tonight, can I swear to God that I’ll be that person? Even if, even when I fall short, will I be better for the effort? Can I get myself 5% of the way there? And, would I get that 5% if I didn’t dream tonight? If I didn’t strive beyond the boundaries of my own realism? Tonight is a night for dreaming about the best versions of ourselves, and for promising ourselves, vowing before God, that we’re going to be those people. We’re going to be our best selves. And, to realize that, when we fail, it’s not because we’re failures, but because we’re striving. That I fall short, because my reach exceeds my grasp.

Throughout the Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe, we constantly use the word “chet.” Not that long ago, the most common translation of that word was “sin,” but that wasn’t a great translation, since chet doesn’t really carry all of the moralistic overtones of “sin.” More and more, we used the phrase “missed the mark,” which is actually a pretty good rendering of the word, which originally come from the world of archery and such. But, maybe the best translation of it for this generation isn’t “sin,” or “missed the mark,” but “falling short.” That’s what we’ve done. We’ve fallen short. It’s not that we’ve been bad. We just haven’t done enough. We haven’t been enough. To use an often lighthearted phrase in a serious way, we aren’t living our best lives, at least not in the ways which really matter.

One of my favorite teachings from these past few years comes from the prayer Modeh Ani. It’s a prayer which is meant to be said first thing upon waking up, every day. As soon as we open our eyes, before we say anything else, we’re supposed to say, “Modeh Ani Lifanecha Melech chai v’kayam, shehechezarta bi nishmati b’chemla. Rabah emunatecha-- I thank You, living and eternal God, for returning my soul to me with compassion. Great is Your trust.” Our ancestors believed that sleeping was a tiny taste of death. And so, waking up wasn’t just waking up, but rather having our soul returned to us, every day. But, it’s the last couple of words which really grab me. Rabah emunatecha -- great is Your trust. Because, that could be read a couple of different ways. It could mean how great it is to trust in God. But, it could also be praising God for how great, how endless God’s trust in us is.

Yesterday, God, You gave me my soul. And, I wasted it. I didn’t use it to anything like its full potential. Not even close. The same thing happened the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that. And, despite my constant failure to live a life worthy of this precious soul which You gave me, day after day, here You are again, trusting me with it, one more time. Rabah emunatecha.

Are we using this day, are we using this soul, this chance, to its full potential, or even something close to it? Is this the life we want to live? Is this the legacy we really want to leave behind? If they had to be written today, would we be satisfied with our eulogies, if they were told honestly? If I’m being honest, I’m not worried that people will say bad things about me. But, I am very worried that if they are clear eyed and truthful, there won’t be enough good things to say.

Ask yourself tonight: are you truly satisfied with the life you’ve been living? Would you be content with the eulogy you could write for yourself, today? If not, then what are you waiting for? We don’t have a lot of time, and it may well be less than we think. That’s the overwhelming, desperate message of Yom Kippur, with all of its imagery and talk of death. It is a brutally honest reminder that we are mortal, and that therefore our days are limited. Are we doing the things, planting the seeds that will make the best use of the limited time that we have? Are we living in ways which truly, deeply give testimony to our having been created betzelem Elohim, in the image of God?

It’s not easy. We really are busy and overtaxed and overwhelmed. But, if we don’t let ourselves feel the depth of our desire, the depth of our aspiration, and the pain of our failures, then we won’t be motivated enough to take our shot when we have the chance. Tonight is the night to dream of what we could be, so that when the opportunity presents itself, we don’t respond with that tired “oy.” We respond instead with the fulness of ourselves. Our lives are meaningless unless we give them meaning. There is no day to begin other than today. So let’s begin.

The Practice of Prayer--Rosh Hashana, 5780

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Tue, 01 Oct 2019 14:34:00 +0000

The Practice of Prayer

Rosh Hashana, 5780

Rabbi Jason Rosenberg

Shana Tova.

Let me ask you something. Why are you here today? I mean that as a serious question. Why did you decide to come here today? Some of you just answered in your heads something along the lines of, “Well, it’s Rosh Hashanah. I have to be here.” But, unless you’re a kid, you didn’t have to be here, at all. The truth is that you had plenty of choices of how to spend your morning. And, we know that in part because so many people are making choices different from this one. More and more people are not joining synagogues, and many who are members of synagogues choose not to attend services, opting for work or school, instead. I’m not saying this to shame them, at all, just to point out that you really did have other options about what to do with these few hours. So, why are you spending them here, doing this?

It’s especially worth asking because this is a pretty difficult day, and Yom Kippur is even more so. High Holy Day services are long. And, more importantly, they are philosophically and theologically difficult. The prayers of the season talk about God literally deciding who is going to live and who is going to die during this next year. Writing down in a book what our fate will be, but giving us one last chance to change that decree, if we just pray hard enough. It’s incredibly difficult for many of us, maybe most of us, to take this idea literally. It’s pretty hard to even take it seriously. Do I really think that God is making a list? Do I really believe that, based on how fervently I pray today, I might be able to get God to change the column in which I find my name scribbled down? No. I don’t believe that we’re here to change God’s mind. I don’t believe that we’re here to change God, at all. Through our prayers, we’re here to change ourselves.

A 17th century sage, Rabbi Leona Medina, taught that we should understand prayer as if it were a boat. Imagine a person standing in a boat, holding onto a rope. The other end of that rope is anchored to the shore, and that person is pulling on the rope, pulling herself in. If I am standing some distance away, and if I completely misunderstand how physics works, I might mistakenly believe that that person is actually pulling the shore towards herself, not herself toward the shore. They look pretty much the same. Of course, they are not the same. When we pray, it sometimes looks like we’re trying to pull God towards us. Really, we’re always trying to pull ourselves closer to God.

It’s what we might call a “devotional practice.” It’s a practice which is meant to increase our love of, our closeness to, God. If the God language is confusing or off-putting to you, as it is to many of us, then it’s a practice which is intended to make us more aware of holiness in this world, and in ourselves.

That language of holiness, rather than of God, is important. Some of us believe in God, and some of us don’t. Many of us have questions. That’s all a good and important discussion for another day. But, for right now, if you don’t believe in God, or if you aren’t sure, just ask yourself if you believe in holiness. Do you believe in the possibility of transcendence? Have you ever had the vague, unnerving, unnamable sense that something larger than yourself, larger than the simplest reality that we see around us, was happening? I’m not talking about some mystical, astral plane. I’m just talking about a way to see this world, but to see it suffused with meaning.

That’s one of the great insights of Judaism. We don’t actually need to believe in God, per se, to pray, and to pray honestly, and deeply. In fact, people who think that we do might have it exactly backwards. We don’t pray because we believe. We pray because doing so helps us to believe. And, when I say “believe,” I don’t mean that we are trying to accept a reality that we don’t think we really agree with. I don’t mean that were trying to trick ourselves into thinking that there’s actually some Being who once created the world, and who is deciding our fate today, if that’s not what we really already believe. I’m using “believe” in the sense which the Hebrew conveys, which is the sense of being aware of, and connected to, a holiness which seems to suffuse reality, and transcend our selves, and our sense of the ordinariness which dominates most of our waking hours.

That’s the key. Our awareness of the sacred. Rabbi Art Green defines the sacred as, “an inward, mysterious sense of awesome presence, a reality deeper than the kind we ordinarily experience.” This world can either be “just this world.” Or, it can be a place of astounding beauty, and power, and meaning. A sunset can simply be the result of the rotation of the planet, which it is. Or, it can be beautiful. Or, it can be more than even that. It can move us in our deepest places, the places which, for lack of a better word, we’ve always called “our soul.”

Who here doesn’t want to be moved like that? Who here doesn’t need to be moved like that? The world around us is so broken, so damaged and so damaging. We read the news and we see story after story of human cruelty and indifference. We see environmental disasters and hear ominous reports of more to come. Disease, hatred, evil, anywhere we look. It sometimes feels as if the world is on fire, and many of us suspect that, when it doesn’t look like that, it’s only because we’re not paying attention. If we have any awareness, and the least bit of sensitivity, we will see so much pain.

Sometimes, we need to see the world that way, because that’s real. We can’t hide from it. But, sometimes we need to be able to see the world not just as it is, but as it could be, as well. Sometimes we need to see ourselves not just with our myriad flaws and failings, but with our endless, holy potential. Sometimes, we need to search for the hidden sparks of holiness, buried in the ashes which too often fall around us.

Last night, I told the story of some artists trying to paint a picture of true peace. The best of them wasn’t a perfect, idyllic scene, but rather a picture of a mother and her baby, huddled against and protected from a raging storm. In a storm tossed world, each one of us needs to find a sanctuary from the storm. We need some space for peace. Not permanently — I am not suggesting that we hide away from the world, and that we pretend that everything is all right. This isn’t about being a Pollyanna; it’s not about hiding from our obligation to engage with the world, to make the world better. But, we do need a sanctuary to which we can retreat, from time to time.

We need that sanctuary in part because we need to restore ourselves. We need to restore our strength, and we need to restore our hope. This world is so terrible that it can lead to despair. We need to recharge, and just feel good again, if we want to keep doing the hard work that the world is calling us to do.

But, we also need this sanctuary from the storm in part because we deserve it. As human beings, beings created betzelem Elohim, in the image of God, beings created to be just a little bit less than divine, we deserve to lead lives of meaning, to lead lives of blessing, of happiness. Lives of dignity. The world is set up in a way which makes this just so difficult, and so unlikely. If we just go about our way, let life and the world unfold as they will, we’ll almost never have the opportunity to explore the transcendent. To search for, to encounter, the sacred. Days will turn to months will turn to years will turn into a lifetime, and we’ll have lived it without ever having fully lived a single day of it.

We deserve, and we need, a space in which we can ask ourselves the deepest questions. What really matters in this life? What was I put here to do? What kind of impact am I having on this world, and what kind of imprint in my leaving with my life? That’s how I want to go through this world, asking myself those most essential of questions. Usually, I don’t. I’m pretty sure I’m not in the minority with this. Life is so busy and overwhelming. Even in a job like mine, ostensibly focused on holiness, I can go days, weeks, without ever asking myself those sacred questions. I can live a life unconcerned with holiness. It would be quite easy to do so. But I don’t want to. So, how do I do that? How do I get myself to focus on those questions, and that holiness?

In a word, prayer. Prayer is a way — not the way, but a way — to move ourselves. To change ourselves. To pull ourselves closer to that shore. Prayer and religion mean something different to each of us, but whatever it means to you, it got you here today. Something in you is calling you toward religion, or you’d be somewhere else right now. You may not be able to fully identify or name it. But, it’s there, inside of you. Why are we here if not to make ourselves somehow better? “Better” doesn’t only mean “more moral.” It can also mean better functioning. More fulfilled, more fully realized. That’s what we’re here to do. That’s what prayer is supposed to help us do.

It’s not easy. It’s not always clear exactly how prayer can actually accomplish this. Especially if you read the translations — what they’re saying can sometimes feel very remote from anything meaningful. Just coming into the room, sitting down, and singing along isn’t going to do much for most of us. This isn’t magic, and it’s not even medicine — it doesn’t work just because you take it in. It takes work.

So, how to do it? How do we pray in a way which might actually move us, inspire us, change us? There isn’t a single way, of course. But, think about taking time during services some Shabbat, or some holy day, picking one prayer from the prayerbook, and approaching it like a poem. Read it, slowly and closely. Ask yourself what it means, and then ask yourself what it stirs inside of you. If you can’t find a prayer which resonates that day, look at the alternative readings. In our weekly siddur, and especially in our High Holy Day mahzor, there are some truly stunning pieces of spiritual writing. Read them. Use them.

Try sitting down, closing your eyes, and listening to the music as deeply as possible. Feel what happens when you let yourself sing along without worrying about what anyone else is thinking. Or, just take a few moments to breathe — use this time as a meditation practice. There isn’t one right way to do this, and what works for me might not necessarily work for you. Which means that we have to be willing to try a few different things to see what clicks. Try coming by some Shabbat morning when there isn’t a bar or bat mitzvah, and our services are small, friendly, and more personal. Drop in for our monthly Making Prayer Real sessions before services. It’s just a group of us willing to take an hour to think about and talk about what’s going on inside of us when we try to pray.

I’ve come to realize that physical exercise is an almost perfect metaphor for spiritual exercise. In part, that’s a reminder that none of this “religion stuff” is required. Nothing is mandated, and nothing is forced. If you don’t want to get physically stronger, then you don’t have to go to the gym and lift weights. Not working out most certainly does not make you a bad person. There’s no penalty for staying home, other than not getting the potential benefits. If you don’t want to come and pray, then you really don’t have to come and pray. It doesn’t make you a bad person, and you’re not going to miss out on a place in the afterlife because your Shabbat attendance wasn’t sufficient.

But, if you’re looking at the brokenness around you, and asking how you can deal with the overwhelm that you feel, this could help. That’s what we’re here for, or, at least, it’s what we’re supposed to be here for. And, you’ve got nothing to lose by trying — there are no negative side effects to prayer. It’s no guaranteed magic bullet, either, but then again, nothing is. The only way to know if it will work is to try it. Tsemah HaShalem Li-Tzevi teaches that God is like a source of water, and prayer is a pump. When we first start to use it, nothing happens.

Then, we might get a tiny trickle. It’s going to take at least a little while to really get things moving. God is always there. Holiness is always on tap. But, if we want to draw anything from it, we’re going to have to try. Don’t be surprised when it doesn’t work at first. Giving up when our first attempts at prayer don’t give us the results that were looking for is a bit like someone going out for their first run and saying, “Well, that felt terrible. I’m never going to do that again!” This is a discipline which, if we’re willing to stick with it for a little bit, truly can transform our lives.

And, don’t forget that there are ways to do this outside of the synagogue, as well. Some of us need the gym, some prefer to work out on our own. If you’re not sure which is right for you, come talk to me — I’m happy to help you create your own spiritual workout plan.

But, get started, because this is the perfect time to start. Today, Rosh Hashanah, is the birthday of the world. The anniversary of the world’s creation. Our sages, and our prayers, tell us that God did not create the world once, 5780, or 6 billion, years ago. God creates the world anew every day, every moment. We, too, have the ability to re-create the world, at least our own world, the world that starts within. Every day. Every moment. Today is the first day of your life. As it always is. Let’s make this first day, and every day which follows, a holy one.

Shelter From The Storm--Erev Rosh Hashana, 5780

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Tue, 01 Oct 2019 14:33:00 +0000

Shelter From The Storm

Erev Rosh Hashana, 5780

Rabbi Jason Rosenberg

“Peace unto you, and to your kingdom, your majesty.”

Everywhere she went, people greeted the queen with these words. “Peace unto you, and to your kingdom, your majesty.” For her entire life, from the days before she even understood the words, everyone who saw her would say the same thing. “Peace unto you, and to your kingdom, your majesty.” Her advisors at court, foreign dignitaries, even common people in the street, when she was out walking, taking in the sights of the realm, people would sometimes wave, often smile, but always, always offer a heartfelt, “Peace unto you, and to your kingdom, your majesty.”

It had been this way for generations. This is how the king or queen was always greeted. What better blessing, what fonder hope could there be? But, the truth was that this queen had never truly known peace. Oh, of course there had been moments of peace. But, true peace? Widespread peace? Enduring peace? No.

There was always some neighboring nation which was rattling their sabers, or maybe starting a few skirmishes along the border, just testing to see how strong the kingdom was. And, there was always some province here or there which wasn't happy. Maybe they didn't have enough food that season, or maybe they thought their taxes were too high that year. The Queen was always having meetings with her advisors, discussing how to shore up this defense, or quell that unrest.

It wasn't just with this queen, of course. She read her histories, and she knew that each of her ancestors had much the same story to tell. Some faced times of outright war or national disaster. Some lived in more tranquil times, but none had ever known complete peace. There hadn’t been a single day when there wasn’t a war, or a fight, or a struggle, somewhere in the realm. Not ever.

The Queen was distressed. Everyone in the kingdom professed to love peace, but they were talking about a fantasy, a dream. How could you claim to love peace when you had never really seen it? Why would you keep wishing peace on each other when it seemed that peace would never come?

Was peace even possible, she wondered? Could we even dream of a day when there would actually be full and complete peace in the land? The more history she read, and the more she looked at the world around her, the less the queen could conceive of it. She started to realize that she didn’t even really know what peace meant. She couldn’t even imagine what peace, true peace, would look like. She became obsessed with one, singular goal—to have, at the very least, an image, a vision of peace. To know what, exactly, she was striving for.

She asked her advisors to try to help her—to show her, to imagine for her, what real peace would be. What the world would look like if everyone was at peace. No one really could do it. The queen started to despair—how can we pursue peace when there is always strife? How can we pursue peace when we can’t even imagine what it really looks like?

Haunted by this notion, that she didn’t even understand, couldn’t even fully imagine peace, the queen started asking everyone, from all walks of life, to explain it. Teachers, scientists, religious leaders—none of them could. They all said that they could, but when pushed to actually come up with an answer...

The queen couldn’t sleep. The queen couldn’t rest. She had been raised being taught that peace was the ultimate good, that peace was the standard by which she’d be judged, that peace was what was most needed in this world. But, now it seemed impossible. How could she bring what she couldn’t even dream of?

So, desperate, she turned to the artists. She announced a contest throughout the land—the man or woman who could make a painting of peace, the person who could at least show, through art, what peace might really look like, might actually feel like, would be given riches behind her wildest dreams. There were no shortage of entries—every artist wanted to take a shot at making this wonderful, sacred work. And, of course, every artist wanted to take a shot at getting rich!

Artist after artist, painting after painting, came through the queen’s court. “Peace unto you, and to your kingdom, your majesty,” they’d say as they showed off their creations. Oh, they were beautiful. The most vivid, lush, pastoral scenes, rendered with the finest skill. Rolling landscapes, covered in wildflowers, colors practically jumping off the canvas. Skies so blue they would bring a tear to a grown woman’s eye. Children, in many of them, playing, frolicking, laughing, as their parents beamed from afar. One had a musician, sitting on a rock, offering lullabies to lions and lambs, laying down together. Birds in silent, graceful flight. Sun drenched hammocks. Rolling, bubbling streams. Trees bearing fruit big enough to feed a world. Each painting more stunning than the last, but each one not quite right. Each one looked like an unattainable fantasy world, and so each one made the queen feel even more sure that, in the real world, we’re doomed to live without true peace.

Then, when the queen was ready to give up hope, in walked an old lady. Wizened, stooped and frail. In her hand was a canvas covered in gray upon gray. “Peace unto you, and to your kingdom, your majesty,” as she revealed a painting unlike any the queen had yet seen. It was a painting of a storm-tossed shore. A moon was barely visible, covered as it was by the thick, gray storm clouds. Rain poured down, and wind churned up the sea into an angry assault on the shore. Waves raged and crashed into the cliffs, which almost seemed to shiver from the cold. There was steely misery in every inch of that painting.

Except, for one spot. In the corner, tucked away, there was a warm glow of light. As the queen looked, she saw in that corner, wedged into a crevice in the cliff wall, a small cave, probably dug out by the force of the endless onslaught of tide. And, in that cave, a small fire. Huddled around the fire was a woman, cradling her baby. Their back to the sea, the baby saw only the warm flames, and the mother saw only the face of her darling babe, eyes lit up from the fire reflecting in them. Together, shielded and protected, they looked content. At peace.

“Your majesty,” the old woman offered. “Peace is not found in a perfect world, for such a world has never existed, and it never will. There is always a storm raging, just outside our door. Peace, my queen, will only be found in a shelter from the storm.”

“Peace unto you, my teacher,” said the queen. “Peace unto us all, as we take shelter from the storm.”

Marriage, Justice and Mercy

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Fri, 06 Sep 2019 16:47:00 +0000

“You shall place judges and guards in all of your gates which Adonai your God has given you to dwell in. You shall judge the people with righteousness. (Deuteronomy 16:18)”

In trying to understand this passage the Chatam Sofer connects it to a passage from Hosea (Chapter 2) in which the prophet links righteousness and judgment with kindness and mercy. He (the Chatam Sofer) sees that later passage as a kind of quid pro quo between us and God. God gives us kindness and mercy, while we are expected to give the world righteousness and judgment (judgment, probably in the sense of fairness, in this context). In fact, it’s a bit more than an ordinary deal that God made with us — it was, essentially, our “bride price.” It was the exchange by which our marriage to God (the Rabbi’s favorite metaphor for our covenant with God) was created. God said, “I promise to give you kindness and mercy; you promise to judge fairly and with righteousness, and by this exchange, we will be linked forever.”

That’s why we have to put “judges and guards” at our gates to make sure that we judge with righteousness: if we don’t have those protections, and our righteousness falters, we’re in violation of our marriage contract. We have to hold up our end of this bargain, or we’ll have no right to expect God to do so in return.

Our entire relationship with God is contingent on our being willing to continually act with righteousness and justice in the world.

As always, I don’t take this literally. I don’t believe that, were we to stop caring about justice, the earth would rebel and start treating us with viciousness. I don’t think that the rains will stop or disease will descend on us if we stop pursuing justice. But, I very much believe that our relationship with God is based in our willingness to pursue justice, and that there’s no way to ignore justice without violating that relationship. I believe that our ability to connect with the Most High only exists when we are concerned with fairness “down here.”

I’m pretty sure that religion which is unconcerned with justice isn’t actually religion, at all. It’s sacrilege.

Jean Vanier and Accepting Care

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Tue, 07 May 2019 14:19:00 +0000

I just learned of the passing of Jean Vanier. Vanier was a priest who dedicated his life to serving some of the most underserved members of society. I first encountered him when he came to speak at Holy Blossom Temple as the first ever recipient of the Rabbi Gunther Plaut Humanitarian Award. I was instantly taken by his quiet, dignified demeanor, the gentle sweetness which he radiated, and the simple wisdom of his words. He was one of those people who embodied the best of a spiritual life, and it showed so naturally.

He's appeared as a guest on the wonderful podcast "On Being," and it's worth a listen. One thing he said on one of his appearances there (I couldn't find the right one) really stuck with me--he talked about growing older, and growing infirm, and he said that one of the joys of it was that he was finally forced to learn to let other people take care of him.

That struck me, because it is precisely the opposite reaction that most of us have to growing older, and less independent. I can't tell you how many people I've heard lament their loss of independence, and how frustrating it is to no longer be able to fully take care of themselves. And, I get it — I can't even begin to imagine what it's really like, and I'm certainly not looking forward to it, myself. But, it amazed me that this man found a completely different way to understand his new reality. He saw beauty in other people being willing to do for him what he had been willing and eager to for others all through his life.

That doesn't necessarily mean that, given the choice, he would choose this for himself. That he prefers this dependence over this former way of living. But, he wasn't given a choice in the matter--he became frail, and he needed help. And, rather than rail against it, he chose instead to find beauty in it.

And, it is beautiful. Again, I'm not claiming that I'm looking forward to that day, but there is an undeniable beauty in a person being willing to give so freely and deeply of themselves. And, if we allow ourselves, we can be even more appreciative of that beauty, and that gift, when we're the recipients of it. I don't know if I'll be able to, but if and when my day comes, I hope I'll be able to receive it as he did.

Rest in peace, Jean Vanier. May your memory be a blessing.

Anti-Semitic Criticism of Israel?

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Wed, 06 Mar 2019 20:22:00 +0000

There has been a whole lot of talk for the past few weeks about a series of comments made by new House of Representatives member, Ilhan Omar. On the off chance that you don't know what I'm talking about, Omar, who is Muslim, has spoken out against our country's ongoing support of Israel, and against AIPAC’s role in ensuring that support. And, many people have responded to her comments by accusing her of anti-Semitism. And then, inevitably, many people have responded to those comments by accusing the people who made them of Islamaphobia, stifling free speech, giving too much blind support to Israel, and so on. It’s not been pretty. Probably the best, most evenhanded summary of the situation I've seen can be found here.

As per usual, most of the articles and posts (although, I'll gladly admit that I've read very few posts, as I've been actively avoiding Facebook for a while now) take a "one side or the other" approach. Either Congresswoman Omar is making a valid point, or she is being anti-Semitic.

It seems to me that it's quite possible that both of those are true.

Let me be clear — I disagree with the vast majority of the substance of what I have heard her say. I continue to be a strong supporter of Israel, and I will happily argue (respectfully, sticking to the issues) with anyone who claims that Israel is an evil actor, and unrepentant oppressor, a colonizer, or anything of the sort. But, I do think that there are valid criticisms that one can make of Israel, just as there are of any country in the world. As I've said before, I'm not at all a fan of the current government in Israel, or of many of their policies. And, pointing out policies which might be wrong, or even immoral, does not make you anti-Israel, or anti-Semitic. And, even though I am generally supportive of AIPAC, and of their mission, I also don't think that they are above criticism.

However, it's possible to be right on the specifics of your criticism while still engaging in anti-Semitism.

Let me try an analogy. Let's say that a Muslim-American engages in an act of domestic terrorism. And, let's say that a certain news source speaks out against that act, vigorously. They call the act an act of evil, and they condemn its perpetrator in similar terms. But, let's also imagine that this same news source has a long-standing pattern of ignoring terrorist acts by white Christian men. It rarely covers them, and when it does, it refuses to use the word "terrorism." But, is never so reticent when the violence is done by a Muslim. In every one of those cases, it runs large headlines condemning the act, and the perpetrator. And, it sometimes uses language which is often used by Islamaphobes-- it talks about how "those people" tend towards violence. It sprinkles the word "jihadist" liberally throughout its coverage. And so on.

I would say that, on this specific issue, that news source is being correct — an act of terrorism should be condemned, as should the terrorist. But, given the larger context, it's also clear that this news coverage is displaying an anti-Muslim bias. I’d be right to be suspicious of their motives.

We don't even have to be getting into hidden agendas and masked ill-intent. Racism can exist in someone's actions even when their hearts are pure (well, at least as pure as anyone's heart can be in the real world). One of the powerful teachings from the left about racism over the past few years (decades?) Has been the way in which good-hearted people can nonetheless, often unintentionally, partake of and reinforce systematic racism. Even if I have absolutely no ill feelings towards African-American people, if I support a policy which does harm to the African-American community, then I'm supporting racism. Intent matters, but impact matters more, and if my impact is racist, even if my intent wasn't, then I have to be held accountable for that racism.

Back to the case at hand… I don't know (and, most likely, neither do you) what Congresswoman Omar's thoughts about Jews really are. And, I truly do not believe that it is out of bounds to criticize Israel, AIPAC, or just about anything else in our society. But, when someone goes out of their way to criticize Israel above and beyond other countries, and when they do so continually, and when they use classically anti-Semitic tropes about using money to subtly control ("brainwash") our government, or which accuse Jews of "dual loyalty," yeah, I get a little nervous, and more than a little suspicious.

I do truly believe that it is the right of any citizen of America to criticize Israel, or our policies regarding Israel. But, the larger context of those criticisms matter a great deal, and don't be surprised when Jews like me point out anti-Semitism where we clearly see it.

Stop Waiting For Pharaoh

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Thu, 17 Jan 2019 14:21:00 +0000

Earlier this week, I came across a teaching I found a few years ago, but had completely forgotten about. I used it at our Board meeting last night and again with some students this morning. I really love it, so it's probably worth sharing a bit more widely.

It starts (as always) with this week's Torah portion, Parashat Beshallach. We're at the part of the Exodus story where our people are finally leaving Egypt. This Torah portion begins, "When Pharaoh sent the people out of Egypt…" Rabbi Tzadok HaCohen (Itturei Torah III 108b, if you’re following along at home) says that those words are meant as a criticism of us. That kind of makes sense if you think about it; why mention Pharaoh here, at all? The Torah easily could have said, "When God freed us from Egypt," or, "When we left Egypt." Why give Pharaoh top billing a this seminal moment?

Actually, it was because God wanted to remind us that it was Pharaoh who, in a way, actually set us free. I mean, God was obviously behind it — God was the driving force behind Pharaoh's decision — but, ultimately, we went free when Pharaoh said, "Get out." But, that wasn't what God had hoped for.

The 10 plagues are usually understood to be an escalating set of attacks on Egypt and Pharaoh, staged in order to convince him to set us free. But, according to Tzadok HaCohen, at least part of God's motivation was to impress us, the enslaved Israelites, with God's power. And, God's hope was that, impressed and inspired by that power, and knowing that God, and all that power, was behind us, we would find the strength to free ourselves.

It's an amazing thought. What if, after the first or second plague, we had just got up and left? Rather than go to Pharaoh and ask for permission, what if we just packed our bags and walked out?* I mean, what could the Egyptians have done about it? If they tried to stop us, God could have stepped in. We had the ultimate trump card, the ultimate reinforcement lying in wait. The only reason we didn't go free earlier is that we didn't try to.

* One kid this morning, before I even got to this teaching, asked why our people didn't just sneak out during the plague of darkness which, according to the Torah, didn't affect our people, just Egyptians. That sure would have made for less dramatic but more comical episode — the lights come on to find the Egyptian people looking around going, "Did anyone see the Israelites? I swear to Ra, they were here a minute ago…"

As always, this teaching isn't really about the Israelites or Pharaoh; it's about us. It's about the way that we tend to underestimate our own power, and instead look to others to lead us, or to save us. It happens in religion, for sure — people want their rabbi (or, I imagine, their priest, Imam…) to take care of their religion for them. To speak to God for them. To show them exactly what "the right way" to do something is when, in actuality, they could just try doing it for themselves.

It happens in society when people look to political or civic leaders, or official organizations, to address some major need, or to right a wrong, rather than just getting up and doing it themselves.

I could probably think of a dozen more examples, but I'm short on time, and I think you get the idea (at least, I hope you do).

Salvation, redemption, freedom, whatever you want to call it — we might not have to wait for it. It might be waiting for us.

Wearing Black

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Sun, 13 Jan 2019 19:14:00 +0000

Rabbi Chanina taught, “I have learned much from my teachers. I have learned more from my colleagues than my teachers. But I have learned more from my students than from all of them.” (Babylonian Talmud, Taanit, 7a)

Confession time—I’ve never really loved that quote. Or, to be a bit more precise, I’ve had to do some (typically rabbinic) mental gymnastics to make it work. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I love the idea of learning from my students. But, mostly for me, that’s meant learning because I’ve had to prepare well to teach, or because they’ve pushed me to think more carefully. There aren’t many times when a student has, in a direct way, taught me something.

Today, we were talking about death and dying with our 5th grade class (students and parents together). As part of it, the kids wrote down all of the questions that they could think of. Then, I had each kid pick one of their questions, and then each student had to try to answer it with their parents. The idea was to show that, especially on this topic, wondering out loud together is at least as important (and at least as accurate) as listening to a so-called expert.

One of the kids asked an unusual question (“unusual” in that I’ve run this program a dozen times, and never heard this one before). “Why do we wear black when someone dies?”

“Good question! You all answer first—why do you think we wear black?”

One little girl raised her hand.

“Well, black is the absence of color, so maybe we’re trying to show the absence of the person that we’re feeling?”

You know what? I don’t know if that was the reason, but it sure is now.

Responding not to love, but to pain

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Thu, 10 Jan 2019 21:01:00 +0000

Last month, I had the chance to attend a 2-day convention of Rabbis who are involved with Social Justice. I was just glancing through my notes from that event, and I came across an idea from some speaker, but I didn't write down who shared it. Which is a shame, because it's a beautiful, powerful idea, and I'd like to give her or him credit. Anyway...

The point that this speaker made was that, in justice work (as well as in other realms, I'd add), we often put too much emphasis on love. We are moved towards justice because we love the other. We are compelled to help the needy because we love the one in need. Or, so we say. It's a potent idea, but it falls short because of a difficult, not often acknowledged complication.

There are a lot of people whom I don't love.

I'm not just being sarcastic; I'm being quite honest. There are a lot of people out there towards whom I don't feel love. There are the people that I know whom I dislike, of course. But, there are literally billions of people whom I've never met, to whom I don't have the faintest connection (beyond the proverbial "7 degrees" by which we are all connected). I can say that I love them. But, can I look you in the eye and tell you that, really, I love them? I understand that my Christian friends and colleagues might approach this differently, and might understand love as a more basic, fundamental aspect of existence. But, to me, to someone who relates to love as a deep, personal, actual relationship with another, I can't honestly claim that I love people I don't know.

But, I can honestly tell you that I respond to their pain.

When I see a child suffering on TV, I don't know that child, so I can't really tell you that I love them. But, I can see that they're in pain, and I can be moved by that pain. In my experience, that's an honest claim--I am moved by pain, even when I don't know that one that is in pain. The truth is, that I'm even moved by the pain of people I hate. I can honestly say that I don't wish pain on anyone, and if I saw someone I actively disliked in pain, I'd be moved to try to help them. My love has limits; my response to pain doesn't seem to.

The trick, of course, is to actually see the pain. To be willing to look--both in the sense of being willing to watch and read and listen to the hard stories, which I want to avoid, because they cause me pain, as well as to acknowledge that, whatever else I think, that pain is real. That acknowledgement keeps me from saying "you deserve it" to someone who doesn't agree with me on politics, or religion, or whatever else. That's part of the power of pain, and of responding to it--pain doesn't know of tribalism, or of politics, or of identity groups. Pain, and the humanity of the one in pain, precede these categories, and so it affects me before I can wall it off with a sense of "otherness."

I don't want to get too overtly political, but it's impossible here. So, let me just dive in. To take one current example, I'm sure that many/most people reading this aren't in favor of building a wall along our southern border, and that some of you are. I guess there's an intelligent debate to be had about that practical policy question. But, whatever you think about walls, or The Wall, or immigrants, or refugees, we have to be able to recognize the pain of the real people who are involved in this. The pain of people who are running for their lives is real, and it must be acknowledged, and it must be responded to. And, the pain of people who fear for the jobs or their lives (even if I firmly believe that their jobs and their lives aren't actually in danger from these immigrants) is real, too, and it must be acknowledged, and it must be responded to.

I'm thinking as I'm writing, as I often do when I blog, and I think I just got to the point. Even if I disagree with the cause or the philosophy or the belief which is behind your pain, I can't honestly deny that you are in pain. And, if I'm human, I'll want that pain to end. I may not be able to make it so, but I want to try.

I want your pain to end. That, just maybe, is the wellspring of justice.

The One Who Sets Me Free

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Fri, 04 Jan 2019 18:59:00 +0000

A bit of a long, somewhat rambly exploration of God’s nature, and the reason to be religious. What else is there to do on a Friday afternoon…?

Nehama Leibowitz was a 20th century Torah scholar — one of the greats of her generation. Her commentaries on the weekly Torah portion were some of the most interesting, challenging pieces we read in rabbinical school, and are remarkable (among other reasons) for their combination of traditional text-learning and modern, thoughtful approach. She’s worth checking out if you want a bit of a challenge.

Early in my career as a rabbi, I often used her teachings — sometimes for sermons, more often for adult education. Over the years, I’ve turned to her less and less, partially because I realized that her dense, esoteric teachings tend to appeal more to rabbinical types than to laypeople, and partly because I tend to overuse my favorite sources (as I’m sure that any of our regulars will attest to), and then, after a while, try to find other sources to keep things fresh. Anyway, I was studying with a new friend/colleague today, and we decided to look at some of her teachings.

She always finishes with “Questions for Further Study,” and one of those questions for this week’s Torah portion, Vaera, concerns a tiny linguistic variation, which might hint at a larger, philosophical idea. In Exodus 6:6, God says:

I am Adonai, Who is bringing you out from under the burdens of Egypt.

And then, in the very next verse, God says:

I am Adonai your God, the One who brings you out from under the burdens of Egypt.

There are two differences here. First of all, the second verse adds “your God” to God’s name. And, there’s a subtle shift in the Hebrew which I tried to (hopefully accurately) capture as the difference between “Who is bringing you out” and “the One who brings you out.” Why the difference?

The first version, “Who is bringing you out,” is using the phrase to talk about something which God is doing, at this very moment. But, it’s only at this moment. The second phrase has a bit more of a sense of God’s identity. “Bringing you out” isn’t just something which God does at some given moment. “Brings you out” is something which God does, regularly. Or, more to the point, it’s part of who God is. It’s like the difference between “I’m going to play baseball” and “I’m a baseball player.” The first describes an activity of the moment; the second says something about identity.

God is “bringing you out from Egypt” at this moment. But, more importantly, God is the God who, regularly and reliably, “brings you out from Egypt.” The first speaks only of the current moment; the second also hints at a future promise.

And, that might explain the other difference — the inclusion of “your God” in the second verse. Because, it’s only when we recognize God as the One who will, in some ongoing way, take us out of Egypt, that God becomes “our God.” We don’t follow God because God freed us once. We follow God because God frees us. Always.

I’m putting a (possibly too) fine point on this because it speaks to something fundamental about how I see Judaism, and (I guess) all religion.

Some people promote religion based on what it has done — you should be religious because of what God did for us. You should be religious because of what religion meant to your parents, or to theirs. You should be religious because of something which happened when you were young. And so on. I’m not going to argue the logic or morality of this. Instead, I’m going to argue the effectiveness of it. Or, to be more precise, the lack of effectiveness.

Look, I can give you all sorts of history-based reasons to be religious. I might even believe some of them (although, many would be hollow arguments coming from me, to be honest). But, I won’t bother, because I don’t expect that many of them would be particularly effective. People just don’t get involved in religion because of abstract arguments and “should’s,” which are just thinly masked guilt trips. People get involved in religion if religion brings something to their lives. Arguably it’s always been this way, but especially in our modern (postmodern, to be precise) world, this is the reality. People are not going to get deeply involved in and connected to their religion simply because someone tells them it’s a good idea, or because they have some historical, or genetic, or vestigial obligation to do so. People are going to get deeply involved in and connected to their religion if, and only if, it has a profound impact* on them. Only if they believe, even if it’s metaphorically, that God sets them free.

* EK—if you’re reading this, I changed that from “profoundly impacts them” for you…
Is this selfish? Is this just a religious version of “what have you done for me lately?” Maybe. Probably. Yet, I guess that it is. But, I think it’s fair, and it’s honest. The various versions of “you should” that people use to try to get other people involved religion just don’t work, at least not for most people I encounter (and, from the bit I read about it, not for those who are my age or younger, generally speaking). Either religion speaks to me in my situation in a deep and meaningful way, or it’s just not going to be compelling enough to me to spend my time and money on it.

Maybe I’m comfortable admitting all this because I do believe that religion, and God, have had an enormous, positive impact on me. And, that they can for many others, too. That, although I highly doubt that God literally set our people free from Egypt, I know that God has, metaphorically, but nonetheless transformatively, set me free in many ways.

My God is a God who sets me free. Yesterday, today and tomorrow.

Good Enough

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Tue, 04 Dec 2018 21:24:00 +0000

My family has often joked that our official motto is "Good enough." We didn't really mean it as self-praise, but maybe we should have. It turns out that "Good enough" might be a good motto for Chanukah, too.

There aren't a whole lot of laws around lighting the Chanukah menorah (especially as compared to just about everything else in Judaism). But, one of them is that the candles should be large enough (or, there should be enough oil) to ensure that the lights will stay lit until at least a half-hour after nightfall. But, oddly, if the light goes out before that 30-minute mark, we aren't obligated to relight them.

There's no obvious reason for this. On Shabbat, once you've lit the candles (and said the blessing) it's forbidden to light any new flames, so it makes sense that we can't relight a Shabbat candle if it goes out. But, why not Chanukah? There's no prohibition against lighting a flame or anything like that during this holiday.

According to Rabbi Nahman of Bratzlov, it's a reminder about our own limitations. The reality of the world is that, very often, our attempts fall short. We have the best of intentions, and we try to do something helpful, or necessary, or holy. We try, but we fail. And, if we're normal, well-intentioned people, we feel bad about it. We may even beat ourselves up about it.

But, Nahman teaches, God sees our intention, and God cares about our intentions more than God cares about our results (B'nei Yissachar, Kislev 3:11). God knows that our limits and imperfections were given to us; the only thing we can really control is our effort, and our intention.

Light a candles that can last into the night. Light a candle that should last into the night. A candle that will last into the night, guaranteed? Can't promise that. Can't, and don't have to.

That's good enough for God. That's good enough.

Chag Chanukah Sameach--A happy Chanukah to you all!

Freedom To Be

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Fri, 05 Oct 2018 15:15:00 +0000

In his Torah commentary Covenant and Conversation, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks presents an interesting interpretation of what it might mean when the Torah describes human beings as being created betzelem Elohim, in the image of God (Genesis 1:27). A major, implicit principle in the creation story is that God is independent of and beyond the natural world. God transcends nature. So, maybe in saying that we were created in God's image, the Torah is telling us that we do, too?

That isn't to say that we're supernatural, obviously. Physically, we are just as bound by nature's laws as any other creature. But, in the sense of our own, internal natures, we seem to have a level of freedom which isn't shared with anything else in the world.

A dog, for example, will always be, more or less, what it was born to be. I have a (mostly) terrier at home, and he will always want to chase squirrels. Better owners might have convinced him to stay when told to do so, and age will eventually take away his ability to actually go after them. But, he will never stop, contemplate his existence, and think to himself, "Maybe there is a better way to spend my time than chasing that squirrel."* At his core, he will always be a terrier.

* And, yes, I'm aware that technically I can't prove this. We don't know what's going on in animals brains, etc. I'm pretty comfortable making this claim...

Human beings are very different from that. We have the ability to interrogate our deepest selves, and to try to make changes in what we find there. Those changes will almost always be incredibly difficult to make; we'll probably fail a lot more than we'll succeed. But, regardless, the possibility remains.

I was born with certain personality traits — I have a certain amount of materialism, a certain amount of bigotry and hate, a certain amount (a surfeit, really) of laziness, and so on. These will always be in there, I suspect, but I don't have to give in to them, and I don't have to be satisfied with them. I can choose to transcend them and, with enough time and effort, I may be able to change them. Maybe not completely, but somewhat. Significantly, even.

It's a lovely idea. What makes us most different from the other animals, and what makes us most like the Divine, is our freedom to be not who we were born to be, but rather who we choose to be.

Act Without Thinking.

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Wed, 16 May 2018 18:58:00 +0000

I was going through a stack of papers, looking for an old teaching, when I came across some notes I took while listening to Rabbi Art Green* speak at a CCAR convention back in 2012. Like just about everything I encounter from Rabbi Green, it was great to read through. One bit jumped out at me, for some reason:

* It was a bit like going to a Springsteen concert**--nothing was actually new to me, but to hear the man cover his classics like this, in person, was so damn thrilling.

** I'm not really a Springsteen fan. For some reason, though, that seemed like the right analogy at the time. And, for some reason, I remember it 6 years later, and it still seems right.

I'm not sure how directly this was taken from what he said, but here is what I wrote:

A personal theology is less important than a personal religious life. It's about piety. Our tradition/piety is rooted in the open, loving study of text.

It's like the Jews not taking the time to make provisions when they left Egypt. Don't stop to plan your escape from your personal Egypt. Just go, or you'll never get out.

I talk to so many people who, in one way or another, tell me that they're searching for something. That they want meaning, that they want to feel connected to Judaism, that they want to feel comfortable in their Judaism. And, so often, it's a sense of insecurity, a sense of not really knowing exactly what they want, or what they believe, which holds them back. They lack something, and they know that they lack it, and they want it, but that same lack keeps them from looking for it in the first place. "How can I search for religion/meaning, when I don't already have it?"

The trick in Judaism is always that we don't have to understand or believe anything before we start acting. More than that--we can't truly understand or believe anything until we start acting. Because, ultimately, we aren't a theological or doctrinal people--we don't assert facts about God and base our lives on them. We act, and we practice, and we experiment, and something grows out of that. Our belief is an inchoate sense of something which is the result of things that we do, things that we read, things that we try.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that if you want to feel more connected to your Judaism (or, I guess to anything) don't wait. Don't make preparations. Don't worry about which way to go, or what to read, or how to do something. Just go. Do something. Read anything. See what happens. Then go somewhere else, do something else, or read something else. It won't make sense, not really, at least not at first. But, with enough time, enough trying, enough openness, and maybe a little bit of grace, something might start to stir, or coalesce, or present itself. Something might start to mean something.

Yeah, I'm being vague. I can't really tell you what you're looking for, or where to find it, or what it'll look like when you do. Each person has to find this for him or herself. But, I'm pretty sure that sitting around doing nothing isn't going to help.

Holy Work

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Wed, 28 Mar 2018 14:19:00 +0000

Every now and then, I get asked to contribute to the URJ's "Ask Your Jewish Question" (formerly known as "Ask a Rabbi") feature. One recently came my way:

Could you do a piece about how going to work during the 6 days of the week is part of the mitzvah of fulfilling Shabbat, and how we should also find meaning in what we do during those 6 days? Sometimes it is easy to forget that going to our jobs can be meaningful...and even a mitzvah. I get easily lost in the daily grind of my own job. Thanks for all the hard work you guys do. Best—Marie (Chana)

It's not published yet, but here's my response:

During the week, are we allowed to work, or are we commanded to work? And, is any of that work holy?

“6 days you shall labor and do all your work, but the 7th day is a Sabbath to Adonai your God: you shall not do any work…” That’s what God said at Sinai, according to Exodus 20:9-10. And, in its context, the Hebrew is probably saying that we’re allowed to work during the 6 days. That’s just a preamble to the real commandment, which is Shabbat.

But, whatever the original intent was, that’s not how the rabbis of old read it. Midrash Rabbah, an ancient collection of Midrashim (Rabbinic teachings on the Torah) reads the text hyper-literally and understands both parts to be commandments—you must work during the 6 days, just like you must rest on the 7th. In fact, we are told that “Great is work, because God’s presence does not rest upon Israel until they perform work, as it says, ‘Let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.’ ” Holiness doesn’t come to those who sit around and wait for it; holiness comes to those who are willing to work for it! So, our tradition understands that there is, indeed, holy work to be done during the week. Anything that we do which makes it possible to experience holiness in the world is, itself, holy work. And, although not every moment of every job is easily understood as helping to bring holiness to the world, each of us can find ways to do so, at least some of the time. We can challenge ourselves by asking how our jobs, how our efforts, can not only justify our salaries, but can also make the world a bit holier.

There are, however, some rabbis who are willing to go a step further. Rabbeinu Bahai, speaking in the name of Maimonides teaches that even seemingly mundane acts can, in fact, be holy. Deeds which seem totally secular, such as commercial matters, can be done with holy intent. That’s a grounding principle of the spiritual philosophy of the Hassidic masters—the intent with which we do something has more to do with its holiness than the act itself. Anything that we do, no matter how far from holy pursuit it may seem, can be holy if we decide to make it so. By inclining our minds and our hearts towards holiness, the simplest, least obviously holy work can be filled with sanctity. After all, if there is really no place without God (and, we seem pretty sure that there isn’t!), then there is also no action where we can’t find God’s presence—God is everywhere, including in our jobs, even if it’s not always obvious how.

So, find ways to use your daily work to make our world holier, and find ways to make our daily work holy itself. Then, and only then, will we be fulfilling the full mitzvah of Shabbat!

Prophetic Teens

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Sun, 18 Mar 2018 00:58:00 +0000

A few days ago, it came to my attention that some of the teens at our synagogue were upset with me. They felt that I hadn’t been publically supportive of their participation in the March For Our Lives. As you probably know, the march was organized as a reaction to the shootings at the Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, just over a month ago. About a dozen of our teens are joining some others from this area to head up to DC to join in what is shaping up to be a historic march. To make this trip more accessible to anyone who wanted to go, they also ran a GoFundMe, with all money raised going to subsidize the trip.

From what I heard, at least some of them feel that I should have spoken about the march and about their fundraising from the pulpit, and that I should have encouraged more donations in that way, too. There are plenty of reasons why I didn’t, but that isn’t the point—even if I was right on some level to not speak about this (at least in that forum), they are also right that I should have done so, because what they’re doing is so deeply important.

This shooting, and the movement which has been growing in its aftermath, has had a profound effect on some of our teens. For one thing, this was geographically close, which always seems to make tragedies feel more personal. But, more importantly, this shooting was close to our kids in other ways, too. Many of the students at Stoneman participate in NFTY-STR, our youth group region, and some of them also attend Camp Coleman, where some of our teens attend. A family who used to attend Beth Am send their child there. The point is that some of our teens personally know people who attend that school. Some of them were friends with one of the victims, Alyssa Alhadeff z”l. This is personal. And so, they are finding themselves deeply committed to this new, student-led effort to get something done to make our schools, and our society, safer. This isn’t just another march to these youth; this is bigger than that.

What we’re seeing—from our kids, and from the leaders of this new movement—is sacred work. And, I’m not using that term lightly, or generically. I think that we’re watching a group suddenly find themselves in the role of Prophets, whether or not they realize it.

One of the first pieces I read in Rabbinical School (during the introductory week of our first year) was an essay by Ahad Ha’am entitled Priest and Prophet. The essence of that essay has stuck with me just about as well as anything I encountered in school. The gist of it is that every religious system (or, probably every vaguely-religious system, maybe every system of any sort) relies on a creative tension between Priests and Prophets. “Priests” represent the institution, the establishment. They work from within. They are a part of the system. So, they are good at getting things done, and finding compromises that work and so on. But, they are also subject to corruption—they can become slaves to the institution, serving it more than they serve the higher goals that they profess to hold to. Their willingness to compromise can, eventually, compromise them. We’ve seen this with religious leaders, with politicians, with just about anyone who gets into some line of work or calling for noble reasons, and eventually “learns to play to game” a bit too well.

They are countered by prophets who, in this extended metaphor, represent the purity of vision. Prophets are uncompromising figures of devotion to those higher ideals which, originally and ideally, animated the cause. Prophets are the ones who never lose sight of what we’re striving for, and refuse to water down that message, or that effort. They are zealous in pursuit of their goals.

But, they’re royal pains in the ass, too.

Because prophets won’t compromise and won’t back down, they’re annoying. They’re frustrating. And, they’re wildly ineffective. They’re good at yelling about important principles, but they’re terrible at actualizing any of them, because that always requires some adjustments and compromises along the way. Ideals are clean, but realty isn’t, and prophets just keep insisting that reality bend to their ideals, even though reality tends to stubbornly refuse to do so.

Ahad Ha’am’s point was that we need both. Without Priests, nothing can get accomplished. Without Prophets, eventually no one bothers even trying anymore. Priests apply the energy; Prophets create it.

Well, I can’t think of a group that better embodies the idea of unreasonable, unwavering, uncompromising, pain-in-the-ass dedication to a cause than teenagers do.

Our world has plenty of Priests. Our world has more than enough people who are willing to find ways to get things done, and to work in incremental steps, and to be reasonable. Our world is sorely lacking in people who refuse to back down, refuse to waver, and refuse to accept anything less than what they envision. We need those people to drive us forward, and to keep us on track.

Plenty of adults have tried to move the needle on gun-control. None have been as effective as these “kids,” in part because none have been as dogged. None have been as focused. None have been as prophetic.

We need this. We need these teens (and all those who agree with them) to stand up at yell. To scream, at the top of their unreasonable, unyielding lungs, that this will not do. That we, the adults who are ostensibly in charge, have to do something, anything to make this better. They may not know exactly how (although, they do have some ideas), but that isn’t the Prophet’s job. The Priests who hold the reigns of power will have to work through the details. But, they’ll do so only because these Prophets are holding their feet to the fire.

I’m going with our teens to DC, mostly because I wanted to be a witness to this. I wanted to see what happens when these young adults start to realize how much power they have in their lungs. I want to see what happens when these Prophets gather in such numbers as to scare the living hell out of the comfortable Priests of our day.

And, to anyone who thinks they can stand in their way, all I can say is: be careful. The teens are awake, and they’re angry. And they’ve found their voice. Thank God.

Building Holiness

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Fri, 16 Feb 2018 12:30:00 +0000

Vayidabeir Adonai el Mosheh leimor: dabeir el bnei Yisrael vayikchu lee terumah m’ate kol ish asher yidbeinu leebo, tikchu terumatee. The Eternal One spoke to Moses and said: Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart is so moved.

That’s how this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Terumah, begins. With a commandment from God, through Moses, for everyone whose heart is so moved to bring gifts. These gifts can be gold, silver, fine linen, animal skins, and a host of other precious objects. And why do we need to bring these gifts? “v’Asu lee mikdash, v’shachanti b’tocham--And let them build Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.”

It’s possible that, more than any other single verse in the entire Torah, these words contain the ultimate, true essence of what Judaism is about. Of what we’re trying to do by leading Jewish lives. The ultimate commandment, our ultimate responsibility, is to take from the best of what we have, bring it all together as a community, and together try to create something. Try to create something holy, and in doing so, allow the presence of God to dwell among us. And, of course, were not just talking about physical buildings here — anything that we “build,” anything we create can, if built properly, make it easier for us to experience the presence of God. It’s pointed out by sages and teachers throughout the generations (including by myself, quite often) that the Torah doesn’t tell to build a sanctuary so that God can dwell in it. We are told to build a sanctuary so that God can dwell among us. Possibly even within us. It isn’t that God needs a house. It’s that, by trying to build something for God, we evoke, find, or possibly even make possible God’s presence in the world, and in our lives.

It’s always been a bit of a contradiction in Judaism. On one hand, God is everywhere – that’s the first thing most of us learn about God. There is no place without God’s presence. On the other hand, we build special, sacred places. We build sanctuaries in the desert, Temples in Jerusalem, and synagogues all over the world. Usually, we understand those holy places to be for us, not for God. God doesn’t need a special building — after all, God really is everywhere. But we are limited, imperfect human beings, and it’s much easier for us to think about God, to see God, to feel God, maybe even to believe in God, in some places, rather than others.

Some sages, however, are willing to go at least a half-step further. Some say that when a place is unholy, when a place is broken, when a place is vile, it’s as if God can’t, or won’t, be there. It’s as if there is actually a place where God isn’t. Or, maybe it’s not “as if.” Maybe God really won’t go to those places. In the end, I’m not so interested in the metaphysics – in the underlying, objective reality here. At the end of the day, from our point of view, God not being somewhere, and our complete inability to see God in a place, are pretty much the exact same thing. If a tree falls in the forest, and all that. And so, we’re commanded to build something holy, and in doing so, to try to bring God’s presence into our world, and into our lives.

I’ve been thinking about these verses, and this teaching, and this idea of building holiness, especially since Wednesday afternoon. As I’m sure everyone here knows, on Wednesday, 17 people were killed in yet another school shooting, this time in Parkland, Florida. 17 people were murdered in just a few moments. They were: Alyssa Alhadeff, Scott Beigel, Martin Duque Anguiano, Nicholas Dworet, Aaron Feis, Jamie Guttenberg, Chris Hixon, Luke Hoyer, Cara Loughran, Gina Montalto, Joaquin Oliver, Alaina Petty, Meadow Pollack, Helena Ramsay, Alex Schachter, Carmen Schentrup, Peter Wang. One person, whose name I will not utter, whose heart was filled with some toxic mix of anger, and hatred, and evil, and sickness, murdered them, destroyed the lives of their families, friends, and loved ones, and God only knows what he did to the survivors — they’ll be living with this for the rest of their lives, God help them.

It occurred to me, not for the first time, but with a new force and clarity, and a new import, that one of the fundamental, inescapable differences between creating something holy, and destroying something holy, is that the latter is so, so much easier. It is frighteningly easy to destroy. It is so terribly difficult to create. And it is especially difficult to create something holy. If you like pithy formulations, you can find one in Schopenhauer’s Law of Entropy: if you put a spoonful of wine into a barrel full of sewage, you get sewage. If you put a spoonful of sewage into a barrel full of wine, you get sewage. A little bit of awful, a little bit of evil, can destroy so much good.

It doesn’t matter what level of society, what granularity we’re looking at, the maxim holds true. It’s true with people in our lives — it’s easier to tear them down than to build them up. It’s easier with institutions — one troublemaker or kvetcher can undermine a place so effectively that a whole team of well-meaning, positive people can barely keep up. It’s true in politics — it’s easier to ruin people’s lives than to help them. It’s easier to point out the problems with someone else’s proposed ideas then to create a better plan yourself. And, It’s easier to kill 17 people then it is to stop one sick, awful man getting a gun and going to his old school.

It’s a bit of an aside, but there is a debate about Creation, at least as told in our Torah. The majority of commentators hold that God created the world out of nothing. But, there are a few who contend that God actually had some raw material to work with — that there was some primordial chaos which served as the raw materials of Creation. I actually lean more towards the “Creation out of chaos” view. In part because it’s actually truer to the text, I’d say. But, more importantly, it reflects an important teaching. Chaos is the natural state of everything. Chaos is the given. It took a Divine effort to hold back the chaos, to bring in some order. And, it’s not over — the chaos is always trying to creep back in. So, it takes an ongoing Divine effort, or at least a divine-sized effort, to keep it at bay. Sometimes, it seems, nothing can.

But, that’s exactly why we’re needed. That’s why God needs us. Again, I don’t pretend to be able to really explain the metaphysical reality. I don’t know if God can’t continue to hold back the chaos, or God chose to let some chaos through for us to deal with, or maybe if God just got sick of being the only One fighting the fight. I don’t know, and I don’t care. I just know that, a very long time ago, God came to us and said, “Please. Take what you’ve got. Take the best of what you’ve got. Take it from anyone who’s got it, and from anyone who’s heart so moves them to give it, and build something. Build something holy.”

It’s hard. It’s so damn hard. It’s hard to know what our gifts are, and where they can best be used. It’s hard to work together, to coordinate our gifts, to jostle over who gets to work on one part and all that. It’s really hard to work with people we may not like so much sometimes, and especially to recognize and appreciate their gifts. It’s hard to sustain the effort, especially when the walls of our building project seem to be crumbling against the chaos from the very moment we put them up. It’s hard, but it’s the only way. If the only way to build something of value. It’s the only way to build something holy. It’s the only way to make a place for God in our world, or in our lives.

Vayidabeir Adonai el Mosheh leimor: dabeir el bnei Yisrael vyikchu lee terumah m’ate kol ish asher yidbeinu leebo, tikchu terumatee. The Eternal One spoke to Moses and said: Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart is so moved…v’Asu lee mikdash, v’shachanti b’tocham--And let them build Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.”

Cain yehi ratzon—may this be God’s will.

This is a version of the sermon I gave on February 16^th, 2018

To Grow In Kindness

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Thu, 25 Jan 2018 13:55:00 +0000

Yesterday, I was having lunch with two of my oldest and dearest friends. I've known them both since our early High School years, so we go way back. While paying the bill and figuring out the tip, one of them joked that his simple mental math skills, never his strong suit, have actually started to get worse.

"Well, you have to realize something," I ventured. "We're 46. That means that, in every conceivable facet of our lives, we've peaked. This is it. We'll never get better. Physically, mentally, whatever--we're as close to perfection as we can ever dream of getting. Hopefully it's a gentle slope, but it's all downhill from here."

At that point, they wondered why, exactly, they decided to spend time with me. But, they didn't actually argue...

But, I did thrown in an exception. I said, "Except, I guess, we can grow in kindness*." Maybe a bit pretentious for the moment, but I was trying to find a bright side.

* "To grow in kindness" is not my phrase, but I can't remember from where or from whom I'm stealing it.

I didn't tell them this background, but on the drive to see them, I had been listening to a podcast from "Crooked Conversations." This one was a conversation between host Ana Marie Cox and ABC News’ Dan Harris about meditation. Apparently, Harris has become a pretty well-known evangelist for meditating, and he's been effective in part because he's not what most people think of as a typical meditator--very few mentions of "psychic energy" or "souls," and more curse words than most of these types of books deliver. Worth checking out if you're interested in meditation, but get turned off by the ethereal, new-agey tone of a lot of those books.

Anyway, one of the points that Harris makes is that, whether or not we are consciously aware of it, most of us assume that our personalities are more or less set in stone. Certainly, once we become adults, we are who we are. If not completely, then awfully close to it. Oh, sure, we can learn things, in terms of knowledge, skills, and the like. But, our basic, core personalities, our personal qualities, are really not malleable any more (if they ever were). We're as generous as we're ever going to be. We're as kind, as forgiving, as patient as we're ever going to be. And, maybe more to the point, we didn't get to choose these qualities, any more than we chose our height or our hairlines. I might wish I were kinder, but that's just wishing. I can pretend to be kinder, I guess. But, at my core, kindness is something I have (or don't have) in some predetermined measure. There just isn't much to do about it.

Bullshit.

The entire point of a spiritual life, the entire point of spiritual practice, and the entire point of a meditation practice (which, he's eager to point out, doesn't have to be a spiritual meditation practice) is that we actually are able to change. And, we're able to change deep, important, fundamental parts of ourselves. It's not easy, by any means. It takes dedication, determination and not a small amount of constancy. But, bit by bit, slowly but surely, it is possible, without any doubt whatsoever, to change who we are. If we want to, and if we are willing to do the work, we can become kinder. We can become more generous, more forgiving, more loving. More patient. More open-minded.

I've been seriously engaged (albeit sporadically) with mindfulness practice for a number years now. It's getting close to a decade, actually. And, there are times when it feels like it hasn't really had an effect on me--that it isn't "working." But, there are also times when I think I can see a change. That, although I am far from perfect, my work has made me more patient. More understanding. More generous. I think I'm a better person than I was 5 years ago. I think I'm more worthy of admiration (my own, anyway) than I was. There's no false modesty when I say that I've got a long way to go. I am not, in any way, claiming to be adequately kind, or exceptionally generous, or in any sense a paragon of virtue. I've got a lifetime of work ahead of me, and I'm sure that, when it's all said and done, I'll leave this earth a deeply, deeply flawed person. But, I sincerely hope, and somewhat expect, that I'll be less so than I am now. And, I like that direction.

The podcast is a good listen--two smart people talking, openly and honestly, about some very personal stuff (including drug addiction and recovery). Give it a go--I'd love to hear what you think.

Freedom is Caring

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Fri, 19 Jan 2018 17:03:00 +0000

During my sabbatical, I've been spending some time with Rabbi Joseph Soloveitchik's Torah commentary. For those who don't know, Soloveitchik was one of the giants of the 20th century, and he more or less created what we now know as Modern Orthodoxy. He never actually wrote a Torah commentary, but one of his students gathered various teachings of his which related to various parts of the Torah, and assembled them into a single work. It's a pretty fantastic bit of Torah.

In this week's Torah portion, Parashat Bo, we get the Passover story, including the commandment of the Paschal sacrifice. It is, according to at least some sages, the only sacrifice which is closely tied to the idea of chavurah, community. One sage even asserts that this one particular sacrifice can only be offered by a group, never an individual. This one offering, so closely tied to freedom, can never be an individual act.

But, a chavurah, a community, is more than a group. It must be bound by something. And, that something is chesed. What's chesed? It's usually translated as "kindness," but it also has a sense of communal obligation about it. Loving responsibility. That, Soloveitchik teaches, is what freedom is really about. The ability to display chesed.

The ceremony of the Passover meal, centered around the paschal lamb, aims at the emergence of the new chesed community--for chesed is the characteristic mark of the free man...the birth of the chesed community--of a nation within which people unite, give things away, care for each other, share what they possess--is symbolized by the paschal sacrifice...[God] simply wanted the people--slaves who had just come out of the house of bondage--to emerge from their isolation and insane self-centeredness into the chesed community, where the little that man has is too much for himself.

To emerge from our insane self-centeredness. What a phrase. And, what a great definition of freedom. The ability to emerge from our insane self-centeredness.

As you may know, during my sabbatical, I've also been focussing a bit on Social Justice, and on trying to find ways, and partners, to work towards a world which cares more for the oppressed and the marginalized. And, although I don't know that Soloveitchik would have liked this application (he was speaking about the Jewish community here, not the world community), I still found his words resonant with the world of Justice. And, quite dissonant with much of the hatred and anger, and with the treatment of "the other," that I see in the news.

What is freedom? Freedom is defined, and symbolized, by our ability, and our willingness, to emerge from our insane self-centeredness, and to instead live within a nation built on caring for each other.

Cain Yehi Ratzon--May that be God's will.

Shabbat Shalom.

Mindfulness vs. Justice?

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Tue, 09 Jan 2018 22:34:00 +0000

For a while now, two of the most important aspects of my Judaism (and of my rabbinate) have been Mindfulness and Social Justice. And, for just about as long, I’ve been struggling with a tension between the two. They certainly aren’t in direct conflict; in many ways they are complementary. But, in at least one major way, they are most most definitely in tension.

My mindfulness training is always coming back to lovingkindness, in one form or another. It pushes me to be calm and levelheaded, and to be open to others as much as possible. Mindfulness and meditation are supposed to lead us to peace and calm. Screaming in anger is most definitely not a mindful way to be.

But, screaming in anger is precisely what my Social Justice work often pushes me to want to do. When I read about injustice—racial*, economic, gender; it doesn’t really matter what kind—I get angry. No surprise there; anyone who can read about these kinds of injustices and not get angry should be concerned. And, when I read or hear from others who don’t seem to care about these things, from those who dismiss others’ cries of injustice, from those who deny that injustice is real—well, that doesn’t exactly create a groundswell of mindful serenity within me.

By the way, I recently read Ta-Nehisi Coates’ We Were Eight Years In Power. I cannot recommend this book enough. It’s a difficult book (not the writing, which is beautiful, but the content), but so, so important in its subject matter.

I sometimes feel pretty torn about all of this. On the one hand, I want to continue to explore what mindfulness can bring to me, and how it can change me. I admire the equanimity that truly mindful, spiritual people can bring to their lives. I admire the effect that peaceful equanimity can have on those around them. I want to be calm, and thoughtful, and respectful, and to be someone who engenders those qualities in others.

On the other hand, I want to scream, and rant, and rail. I want to stand on the corner and yell at people who, knowingly or not, abuse their privilege and, unwittingly or not, remain complicit in the oppression of others. Part of me wants to be monklike, and part of me wants to be a righteous prophet. And, while I hope (and kind of assume) that time will help me find some kind of a balance between those two poles, I currently have no real idea how to imagine, let alone achieve, that balance.

Maybe one piece of the puzzle is in an article I set aside a long time ago, but never got around to reading, “Hard on Systems; Soft on People” by Tim Wise. The basic idea? Wise suggests that we be unforgiving in our resiststance to unfair and unjust systems. That we fight, tooth and nail, against the larger forces of oppression. But, that we also remember that not every person who is connected to those systems is evil, or deserving of being screamed at.

Why? Well, in part it’s strategic. Screaming at people is often just an ineffective way to engage in advocacy, for so many reasons. But, more importantly (to me, and my current balancing act, at least) is that it acknowledges that people are complicated, and flawed, and somewhat conditioned by our circumstances. Sometimes good people think or say or do bad things. We don’t have to be kind or forgiving to those things that they think, say, or do. But, we can still be kind to the person who thought, said or did them.

Just to be clear--Wise says (and I wholeheartedly agree) that this isn't advice for every situation. Some people are so awful (or, if you prefer, behave so awfully) that a bit of vitriol is appropriate to send their way. But, at least some people deserve a bit more compassion. And, it might be easier to show it to them if we remember that we are often the ones who fall short and need that forgiveness.

Look, here's my reality. I'm racist. And sexist. And homophobic. Hell, I'm probably somewhat Antisemitic. I'm obviously not a mouth-breathing, White-Power-rally-attending fascist. But, I struggle with just about every -ism you could name. I have, in the past (probably more recently than I'd be willing to remember or admit) said terrible, hurtful things. I know I've spent most of my life not being aware of, or taking responsibility for, my privilege. And, I'm not done with any of that. I probably won't ever be.

Maybe if I remember that I've got my own demons to keep fighting, I'll be a bit more able to be kind to others who are doing the same. And, hopefully none of that will keep me from fighting to make sure that our darker inclinations are never allowed to go unchallenged. Maybe I'll find a way to keep fighting, while growing more mindfully loving. Maybe, God willing, one day they'll even feel like the same thing.

Yizkor - Our After Life

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Mon, 02 Oct 2017 20:55:00 +0000

Our After Life

Rabbi Jason Rosenberg

Yizkor, 5778

One thing which often surprises people about Judaism is that we don’t have a definitive answer to the question, “What happens after we die?” Naturally, sages and scholars have been discussing this mystery for thousands of years, but it remains exactly that — a mystery. No one knows for sure what the afterlife is, or if there is one at all. It is, I would argue, a rather sensible form of agnosticism. The simple truth is that no one has been there and back, and we have no reliable communication from beyond. The matter could hardly be anything other than unsettled.

What we do have, then, is an endless string of supposition, imagination, hope, and storytelling. Throughout the generations, we have not so much tried to define precisely what the afterlife is actually like, as we have told stories about what it might be like, and about how we can imagine it. One rabbi tells a story of sitting in an eternal study hall, pouring over sacred books, day after day. One mystic tries to explain what it must be like to be reunified with the All. And so on.

One of the most moving moments of afterlife theology came to me from the most unlikely of sources: my non-Jewish, devoutly atheist brother-in-law. Once, at a family gathering, another family member was quizzing him about his lack of belief in God. Along the way, he was asked if he believed in any kind of an afterlife. After thinking for a moment, he answered, “I believe that I will live on after my death in precisely the same way my personality remains in the room after I’ve left it.”

I will die someday. Of that, I can be sure. When that day comes, will I, in some literal way, ascend up to heaven, and find a seat at the right hand of God? I don’t think so, but I can’t say with any certainty whether I will or won’t. Will I possibly remain on this earth as a disembodied spirit, trying to contact my relatives and descendents for all of eternity? I doubt it very much, but I suppose that anything is possible. I won’t claim any special knowledge; certainly not more than the sages of our tradition.

What I know for sure is that, when I do finally pass from this world, I will not be fully gone. I will have students who learned from me, and carry my lessons, and through them a piece of me, in their hearts. I will have people I’ve helped whose lives will be better because of me, and who will spare me a kind thought, now and again. I will have friends who remember a joke that I loved, and will tell it in my name. I will have family members who love me, and speak of me often. In that way, at least, I know I will live on after my life.

My father died a year ago, but I can still remember his laugh, and the look of almost confused awe and pleasure which crossed his face when he held his grandchildren for the first time. My grandpa Bernie died while I was in rabbinical school, but I can still remember, as if it were yesterday, the stoop of his shoulders, and the slow, quiet way he talked about things that concerned him deeply. My grandma Gus died my first year as Rabbi here, but I can still remember the taste of the chocolate cake she made me for every special event, knowing that it was my favorite. I could go on, but I’m sharing these not because they’re particularly special, but because they’re so common. Each of us could list the people we’ve lost, and the almost tangible memories they’ve left behind with us.

There is nothing in the world which is more real than the memory of a loved one. When we remember them, we deeply and truly keep them alive in our hearts, and therefore in this world. Through us, even if through no other means, they live on after their life. Through us, even if through no other means, they have an afterlife.

Zichronam Livracha—may their memories be an abiding blessing.

Yom Kippur - Love Your Neighbor As Yourself

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Jason Rosenberg) — Mon, 02 Oct 2017 20:55:00 +0000

Love Your Neighbor As Yourself

Rabbi Jason Rosenberg

Yom Kippur, 5778

2000 years ago, a potential convert went up to one of the great sages of the day — one of the great sages in all of Jewish history — by the name of Shammai. This anonymous man demanded of Shammai, in a nearly always mistranslated quote, “Teach me all of the Torah in a single rule.” Shammai, apparently not without a sarcastic side, grabbed a nearby measuring stick — a ruler, if you will — and beat the man away. The man then tried again with Shammai’s counterpart, Hillel. “Teach me all of the Torah in a single rule.” To which Hillel replied, “That which is hateful to you, do not do to any other person. All the rest is commentary; now, go and learn it.”

Hillel’s quote has, of course, become one of the most famous in all Judaism. Perhaps, the most famous of all time. In various forms, it has become known as the Golden Rule — the most basic guideline for decent living. If you would hate having something done to you, don’t do it to anyone else. We hear the quote, or something like it, so often that is easy to not take it seriously. It sounds almost trite to our ears — something more deserving of being on a bumper sticker or an Internet meme than as a foundational text for a major religion. And so, it’s easy to miss how incredibly profound, and how incredibly challenging, Hillel’s maxim actually is.

What the Sage was trying to teach that man — what he was trying to teach all of us, really — is that, in Judaism, morality is primary. Morality comes first. Morality isn’t the entirety of our religion — there is more, and we are obligated to learn it, according to Hillel. But, the first thing we have to know if we’re going to be engaged in Judaism is that we are obligated to lead moral lives. That’s the source text around which all of the rest of Judaism is commentary.

It’s an idea which is an echo of the words of the prophet Isaiah. The words which we read just a few minutes ago as part of the haftarah:

Is this the fast I desire?

A day to afflict body and soul?

Bowing your head like a reed, covering yourself with sackcloth and ashes?

Do you call this a fast — a day worthy of the favor of Adonai?

Is this not the fast I desire —

to break the bonds of injustice and remove the heavy yoke;

to let the oppressed go free and release all those enslaved?

Is it not to share your bread with the hungry

and to take the homeless poor into your home,

and never to neglect your own flesh and blood?

What Isaiah, Hillel, and countless sages and teachers since were trying to teach us, and continue to try to teach us, until this day, is that there can be no meaningful Judaism, and that there can be no striving for holiness, no attempts to approach the divine, which are not firmly grounded in how we act towards one another. That making the world moral and just is a prerequisite for making it holy. How we treat others is everything. Or, at the very least, it is the beginning of everything. It is the wellspring from which all other good flows. Once, Rabbi Akiva was asked about the Song of Songs, a book from our bible in the form of an extended love poem. Akiva, one of the greatest rabbis, and one of the most dedicated lawmakers in Jewish history, said that if Song of Songs was the only sacred book which we had been given, it would have been enough. A book about love, he said, would be all that we would really need to understand how we were supposed to act in this world. That, on some level, a much later sage was right when he said, “Love is all you need.” “What is the loving, compassionate thing to do?” might not be the only question we need to answer. But, it isn’t a bad rule of thumb for sacred living, or a bad starting place. It may or may not be all that we need to lead meaningful Jewish lives, but a Jewish life without that guideline is empty.

Hillel’s “What is hateful to you do not do to any other person” was really a variation on the commandment from Leviticus, “V’ahavta l’reecha kamocha-- love your neighbor as yourself.” That commandment is part of what we refer to as “the holiness code,” which will be our Torah reading this afternoon. It begins with the directive, “You shall be holy because I, Adonai your God, am holy.” It is an instruction manual for how to lead a holy life. “Holiness” is actually a tough concept to define. But, the rabbis have always understood it to be primarily about the attempt to act like God. None of us can be exactly like God, of course. But, the more we act in ways which we understand God to act, the more we are living holy lives. And, by including “love your neighbor as yourself” as part of these instructions, our tradition is teaching us that we can’t be holy, we can’t claim to be imitating God, until we learn to love the other as ourselves. We are commanded to love the other as ourselves. But, can we be commanded to love someone? And, what does it even mean to love them “as yourself?”

It doesn’t make sense to command love. Love is an emotion, and we can’t control what we feel, at least, not directly. We’re told that God would never demand something of us that wasn’t in our power to do, so how do we explain this? Our tradition resolves this conundrum by teaching that the Torah isn’t actually commanding us about how to feel, but rather about how to act. I don’t have to love you, I just have to behave as if I do. Hillel’s formulation, which concerns our actions, not our feelings, reflects that understanding, as do countless teachings from the rabbis who follow him. Judaism overwhelmingly takes the view that it is our actions, not our emotions, which define us. How I feel about you is complicated. Regardless, I am commanded to behave towards you, towards everyone, as if I loved you as myself.

But, what about that “as myself?” Can I love anyone “as myself?” What does that even mean? At a minimum, it seems clear that we’re being commanded to do something rather radical. This is not a small commandment. Sforno, one of the great medieval rabbis, says that we are being given the obligation of actually imagining that our roles were reversed. We have to imagine that we were the one in that other person’s situation, and then ask ourselves what we would want someone to do were they to see us so. Not to begin with, “what is my obligation to you in this moment?” Rather, to begin by asking myself what I would hope you would do were you to see me in pain, or in need. Maybe, standing by the side of the road, with a sign in my hand, asking for money for food. How would I hope you would respond were you to notice that I was the one who was cold, or scared? What would I hope your reaction would be? That should be my reaction.

What that means is that we have to see people, we have to encounter people, as they really are. We have to try to see them from their own perspective, not from ours. We have to train ourselves to remember that we aren’t seeing case studies or “just another one of them’s.” We are seeing actual people, as they really are. God, it’s not easy. It’s hard intellectually — we can’t really know another person, or his or her situation, or how we would react, were we in their place. But, more challengingly, it’s incredibly hard emotionally. It’s so much easier to shut them out, even if we’re going to do the kind thing and help a little. Give them a dollar or lend a hand, and then turn away and move on, as fast as possible. To actually imagine that it’s us that’s cold, or hungry, or in need? That it’s our children, not theirs? What will that do to us? How will that make us feel, sitting in our comfortable places? What obligations will we acknowledge, if we allow ourselves to open our hearts that wide?

Can we learn to truly listen to the people around us? Can we train ourselves to hear their voices, and to hear their cries, in all the various ways that they cry out? Can we hear them as they want to be heard, as they need to be heard, not as we want or need to hear them? To really listen, not applying our own filters, and not listening with half an ear, in order to better ready our own counterarguments? Can we truly act towards them in the way that we would wish they would act towards us if, God forbid, we were they?

We have to train ourselves to approach other people — each and every one of them — as though they were just as important as we are. Because, they are. Of course they are. That’s what it means when we’re told that all people are created betzelem Elohim, in the image of God. Each one of us was created by God. Each one of us contains within us a spark, a fragment, of divinity. And, each and every one of us is equally important to, and equally loved by, God. It’s another phrase that gets thrown around so often and so easily that it loses its power. Betzelem Elohim — being created in the image of God — is not a slogan. It’s a radical challenge. It’s the foundation stone of all of Judaism.

Now we can start to understand that loving the other as ourselves is not simply one component of living in a holy way. It is a fundamental, integral piece of holiness. Remember, living a holy life is defined in Judaism as trying our best to act like God. And so, if God loves each of us equally, then treating everyone as if we love them, equally, is part of how we have to act if we want to act in holy ways. Not loving our neighbor as ourselves, or at least not trying to, is understood as denying that we are all equally from, and equally loved by, God. That’s why the Sage known as Gadol Echad teaches that not obeying “love your neighbor as yourself” is the same as refusing to obey “love Adonai your God.” Or, even more radically, why the Ba’al Shem Tov would teach that if we do not love our neighbors as ourselves, then it is as if God is not really God, at all. How we treat each other is how we make God real in the world.

To put it slightly differently, Judaism teaches that morality is theological. Caring for others is theological. It is impossible to be holy, it is impossible to feel the presence of God, without first caring for those around us. For all of those around us. It is through other people that we can most readily meet God. Every time we see someone, especially someone in need, and we ignore them, we push God away. Every time we refuse to acknowledge that person, or to acknowledge their need, we push holiness out of this world. Every act of hate, every act of oppression, every act of uncaring. These are the anti-God, the anti-holiness, which keep our world broken.

Hillel was right — this really is the whole Torah. Loving other people brings God into the world. Treating other people as if we loved them, acting towards other people in the way that we would want to be treated, were we truly in their place, brings God into the world. Hating other people, oppressing other people, refusing to hear the cries of other people — these things push God away. They make our world less holy. Holiness begins with love, and with caring. For everyone.

The Ba’al Shem Tov had a practice. He had written a chant for the words, “Hareini Mikabeil Alai Et Mitzvat HaBorei—v’Ahavta l’re’echa kamocha—here I am, ready to accept upon myself the commandment of the creator: love your neighbor as yourself.” And he would repeat this chant, over and over, before he prayed. He would not let himself begin to actually pray until he could recite this chant with a whole heart. He understood that it was impossible, that it is contradictory, to attempt to reach God, to attempt to touch holiness, without first accepting our responsibility to love those around us. The world is made holy when we accept our obligation to act lovingly towards one another. When we accept our obligation to act lovingly towards everyone, each one of us created betzelem Elohim. All the rest is commentary. Let us go and learn it.