The (over the top, exuberant, wonderful) Joy of Sukkot (and Simchat Torah)!

At our Sukkot Lunch-and-Learn today, we looked at a fantastic text from Kedushat Levi. He quotes Lev 23:40 which, when talking about the mitzvah of the lulav, starts off by saying, "On the first day, take the fruit of the lovely tree..."

Midrash Tanhuma notices a problem: it says "On the first day," but this is the 15th day of the 7th month. How can you call this the first day?* What this is, the midrash teaches, is the first day on which God counts our sins. Great! Conundrum solved! Except, we have no idea what that means…

* It actually means "On the first day of Sukkot," but Rabbis never let a simple answer get in the way of a good teaching.

What it means, the author (Levi Yitzhak of Berditchev) tells us is that in between Yom Kippur and the beginning of Sukkot, God doesn't pay attention when we sin.

Okay – don't take this too literally. It isn't saying that we have a four day window during which God ignores all of our sins, and we can therefore do anything that we want. There are, of course, limits. Think of it as a parent who gives a child permission to hang out in their room for a few hours, promising that they won't come and check on them. Of course there are things they still can't do, and things that will get them in trouble. But, as long as you don't go too far, you've got some time to yourself, without being watched over.

The real question, then, is why would God do this? Well, it's all about the two reasons people might repent.

The High Holy Days are focused on "repentance out of fear." Essentially, God is saying to us that we have to start being better, or we're in for it. Divine punishment, the Book Life and Death, etc. This kind of repentance is good — it is, after all, repentance. But, it's not great. It's not ideal.

But, as soon as Yom Kippur is over, we're supposed to turn our attention to Sukkot. And, unlike Yom Kippur, Sukkot is a holiday of joy. We are commanded to rejoice, and the holiday makes it pretty easy to do that – you get to go outside and play (which, if you don't live in Florida, is a real treat this time of year). You get to create a fun little hut, and decorate it. You get to take some plants and wave them all around. I'm not really capturing it very well here, I think, but Sukkot is a time of real fun. Even a bit of silliness, maybe.

This, Levi Yitzhak teaches, is an example of "repentance out of joy." We do what we're supposed to do not because we're afraid of punishment, but because we love what we're supposed to do! And, God much prefers that. God wants us to do the right thing (and, "the right thing" has a lot of room for interpretation) not because we're afraid of punishment, because we really, really want to.

In the end, the ideal is not just to act a certain way. the deal is to feel a certain way, too. Don't just act like a good Jew*. Love Judaism, too.

* whatever that means

And, that led us to a truly important side discussion. Sukkot has to be a joyous holiday. And, the truth is, we don't always get that right. Don't get me wrong – we have fun on Sukkot. But, not enough. Sukkot should be at least as much fun as Yom Kippur is difficult. And, if you ask me, that's a whole lot of fun.

Well, as Sukkot ends, we have one last chance to have FUN! Simchat Torah is a bit of an extra holiday, tacked onto the end of Sukkot. We celebrate the ending of a Torah reading cycle as we start the next one. We dance around with the Torah scrolls, sing songs and have a bit of fun in the synagogue.

And, this year, I'm excited to say that we're going to have more fun than ever before here at Beth Am, because we're also debuting our new band (name to be decided soon revealed that night)! We've got some amazingly talented musicians who are going to fill our sanctuary with music, as we fill it with joy.

And, I hope you don't mind me saying this, but that sounds a whole lot better than a day of fasting...

For The Sin of Homophobia--an important addendum

I've been incredibly gratified by the reaction to my Yom Kippur sermon, "For The Sin of Homophobia." But, it turns out that I had at least one significant error in it.

At one point, I reference the term "mishkevei isha" -- "lie with a woman," as in "do not lie with a man as one lies with a woman..." in Leviticus. It turns out that that phrase is probably a technical phrase, referring to prohibitions on sex, such as incest (which are enumerated, in great detail, elsewhere in Leviticus). Thus, I claimed, "do not lie with a man as one lies with a woman" might actually be better translated as "the same restrictions apply to men and women." It's not about homosexuality, at all, I said.

I got that last part wrong. The truth is much, much better.

When I was writing the sermon, I couldn’t find the reference about mishkevei isha, but I had clearly remembered learning it, so I included it. But, I had this nagging feeling that something was a bit off. Then, the morning after Yom Kippur (of course), I remembered where I had seen this. It was in Rabbi Gordon Tucker’s amazing responsum (Rabbinic legal opinion) on Same Sex Marriage for the Conservative Movement’s Rabbinical Assembly (see bottom of p. 5)*. When I checked it, I discovered that I had remembered the definition of mishkevei isha correctly, but the new translation of that verse is even more dramatic.

* It's a long, somewhat technical piece. But, it's brilliant. If you like Rabbinic writing, it's a must-read.

According to Biblical Scholar Jacob Milgrom, it quite possibly might be properly rendered as, “All of the restrictions on sex with a woman apply equally to sex with a man.” So, the verses bandied about by homophobes might actually be acknowledging the legality of homosexual sex, so long as it’s non-incestuous, non-adulterous and the like.

Judaism didn't have to become anti-homosexuality. But, it did. It does not, however, have to remain so.

The Holiness of Sadness

A few days before Rosh Hashanah, Hillary pointed out an article she had read about yoga and sadness. Essentially, it was pointing out the mistake that many people make in thinking that yoga, or any spiritual practice, is about making us feel happier.

It isn't.

It's not that yoga, or meditation, or prayer, or any spiritual exercise isn't able to make us feel better. Quite often, there's nothing that is more effective at doing exactly that. But, that's not exactly the point of these practices. At their core, they aren't about feeling happier, or feeling better. They're about feeling reality. They're about feeling what we really feel, with complete, open honesty.

Here is the thing. Yoga is not about bliss, but about honesty. Spirituality is not certainty, but the longing of the heart. Enlightenment is not ‘letting go’ of bad feelings, but understanding them, what they’re doing to us, and how they are expressed in the body. Non-harming and forgiveness are not about feeling generous or big enough (bigger than and condescending), but knowing the difficulty of right actions and assuming responsibility for the difficult. Forgiveness often comes directly out of acknowledging how bloody bitter we are. Love is not joy, all the time. Sometimes, love hurts. Love is raw.

It's true that, long-term, these spiritual practices can be an essential part of leading a happy, balanced life. But, it's an enormous mistake to confuse that long-term goal with the short-term reality. If we are currently experiencing some distress, great or small, in our lives, then something which simply glosses over it and makes us feel better isn't really helping — that's not progress, it's denial. Real progress (on a personal, emotional, spiritual level) happens when we face whatever is bothering us, and then figure out how we can move through it, and past it.

If someone told you that they exercised to be healthier, and to feel better, you would think that makes perfect sense. But, if that same person told you that they quit exercising because they felt strained, and sometimes were in pain, during the exercise? You'd think they weren't serious about trying to get healthier. Sometimes, you have to fight through the pain in order to feel better, later.

This is one of the insights which has stayed with me, as much as any other, from my teacher Rabbi Larry Hoffman. Officially, he was our professor of liturgy in Rabbinical School, but he taught us all so much more. One of the things which he tried to make us understand was exactly what this article is saying: religion isn't about being happy all the time. Religion isn't about convincing ourselves that the world is peachy keen, and all we have to do is sit back with a blissful smile and bask in the warm radiance of divine love.

Religion is (or, should be) about facing reality. It's about going through life with honesty, but with a language which helps us name and understand that reality, and a community which supports us as we go through it. Imagine speaking with someone who is just endured some terrible tragedy, and telling them that, really, everything is all right. There's nothing to be sad about. That's not spiritual, it's offensive. There is, quite probably, something about that which the person should be incredibly sad — tragedies are real, and they are (not to put too fine a point on it) tragic.

Our hope is that by facing that reality, and doing it in a meaningful way, within a loving, supportive community, that person will be able to move on with life. And, in the best case, find happiness, once again. But sadness is part of everyone's life, and pretending otherwise isn't helpful, and isn't holy.

Some of you (members of my congregation) might recognize this teaching — it's essentially what I said before the Haftarah reading on Rosh Hashanah.  Hannah is unable to have children, and her husband, Elkanah, response to her by saying, essentially, "Why are you so sad? Isn't having me in your life good enough?" His response is wrong on so many levels, but one of them is that rather than trying to be there to support her in her pain, he was trying to get her to simply feel better, to behave, and feel, as if there was no pain. "Cheer up — your life is pretty good, and there's no reason to be so down." His mistake was in thinking that his job was to cheer her up. Even if his attempt hadn't been as ham-handed as it was, it was still misguided. His job should have been to simply be there with her, and try to help her through the pain.

It's not always pleasant, and it's not always fun. But it's real. And, therefore, it's holy.

The end isn’t this negativity, this disappointment. But negativity is part of the path, and it has to be gone through if you want to understand it, to understand yourself, at all. If you don’t, you’ll be shutting down half of your experience of life, and probably the best strengths you’ll ever find. If you don’t, you’ll continue to skip, overcompensate, repeat and lull. You’ll segue irritation into nicety, stuff it, and it will erupt later as rage toward an intimate or yourself.

The sages teach that God's seal is truth. Seal--as in that imprint made in the wax which closes a letter, in order to verify its sender. Truth is the sign that the letter we just received, so to speak, is really from God, not from some impostor. That which is not true can never be from God. It can never be holy.

As we approach Yom Kippur, may we do so with complete, open, even brutal honesty. May we face our lives with all of the happiness and sorrow they bring us. And may we leave the day stronger, for having faced our truths, together.

G'mar Chatima Tova.

Swab A Cheek, Inscribed For Life

On Yom Kippur, food is not allowed to go in your mouth. But cotton swabs are, and that’s important, because that (along with a bit of paperwork) is how you register to become a potential bone marrow donor.

Like many other congregations in our movement, Congregation Beth Am is partnering with Gift of Life to try to get as many people as possible registered in the National Marrow Donor Program. For many who are suffering from blood cancers or certain genetic diseases, a bone marrow or stem cell transplant is their best, or only, hope for a cure. By registering to become a donor, you might actually save someone’s life. On the day when we plead with God to include us in the Book of Life, we can be an active part in keeping someone else’s name written in that book. There is, quite simply, no higher mitzvah then this.

You might be surprised that there is no blessing for this act of potential life-saving (although some have been written in recent years). That’s not an oversight — in Judaism, we say many blessings, but none of those blessings are for moral deeds. They’re all for rituals. Is that because Judaism places a greater emphasis on ritual than it does on morality? No — it’s because of exactly the opposite.

When we say a blessing, we are attempting to elevate an ordinary act into a sacred one. Rather than just light a candle, I’m going to say a blessing first. And now, this candlelighting has become a moment of holiness. I can just eat a piece of bread, and enjoy it. Or, I can pause for moment, say a blessing, focus on how wondrous the simple act of eating bread can be, and thereby elevate that moment into something transcendent. Blessings are our tool for turning the ordinary into the holy.

But, you can’t turn a moment of helping another person into a holy moment, because it already is one.

When we register to be a bone marrow donor, or an organ donor, or when we give blood, or when we give tzedakah, or when we do any other act, large or small, which helps another person, we are doing something which is, inherently, holy. Trying to make it holy would be like trying to make the ocean wet. It’s already wetter than we can ever make it. Registering to potentially save someone’s life — that’s already holier than any words we might utter can ever make it.

We spend so much energy in synagogue trying to connect with the holy parts of our world. It would be an enormous shame if we missed this most sacred opportunity—the opportunity to save someone’s life. On the holiest day of the year, it will almost certainly be the holiest thing you will  do.

G’mar Chatimah Tova—May you be inscribed in the Book of Life.

This is my column in CBA's September Digest, hitting your mailbox soon, if you're a Congregation Beth Am member. But, I wanted to get this out today, too. You see, today, Sam Sommer is getting a Bone Marrow Transplant. Sam is the son of my dear friends Rabbis Phyllis and Michael Sommer. You can read all about him, and his fight against cancer, at SuperManSamuel.blogspot.com. May he be inscribed in the Book of Life for many, many years to come.

#BlogElul 3 - Blessings

[For those who don't know, #BlogElul is an invention of the brilliant Rabbi Phyllis Sommer. Elul is the month leading up to the High Holy Days, and is traditionally a month of introspection. She blogs on an Elul-related topic daily, and encourages others to do the same. You can read her stuff at ImaBima.BlogSpot.com]

What, exactly, is a blessing? What does it mean to bless someone? What does it mean to be blessed?

It seems like it should be obvious. Ask someone, "Do you know what a blessing is?" and they'll undoubtably tell you that they do. Ask them to define blessing, and you'll probably get a lot of hemming and hawing. And then some self-referential, non-specific definition. We all kind of know what blessing is, but we can't really pin it down.

A few years back, I was able to take an on-line class led by Nehemia Polen, a brilliant Rabbi and professor, all about Blessing. And, he had a pretty radical theory about what "blessing" really meant, originally.

Plainly and simply, it meant acknowledgment.

You know how countries "recognize" each other? How we all like to make jokes about it ("Israel? Didn't I see you at the Feinstein Bar Mitzvah?"). What does it mean to recognize a country? It means to acknowledge that they exist, and therefore to be willing to engage in dialogue with them. Nothing more. But, it's so important, because it's the beginning--the beginning of relationship. Before that, nothing is possible. Afterwards, anything is.

That's everything.

What do we want from God? Blessing*. What does that mean? It means that what we want from God, more than anything else, is to be acknowledged. To be recognized as existing. As ourselves. After that, anything is possible. A conversation--a real conversation--can occur, because we've been acknowledged. As a human being, in the fullest sense of that term. As some one who matters.

* When do we want it? Now!

All relationship starts with that seemingly trivial, but ultimately foundationally sacred moment, of being recognized. With seeing the humanity, the spark of holiness, that lies within each of us.

Baruch Atah Adonai. God, You are blessed.

Now, bless me, too.

Immigration Reform

Immigration Reform has been a hot issue, these past few months. A Comprehensive Immigration Reform bill has recently passed through the Senate, and the house is now debating what, if any, bill it might pass. What does Judaism have to offer this conversation?

Clearly, there isn't a single "correct" Jewish position on Immigration Reform. That's especially true when we're talking about specific policies or legislation. Judaism doesn't tell us precisely how long is too long for a path to citizenship to take. Judaism has little if anything to offer in helping us decide what percentage, precisely, of our money should we be spending on border security, as opposed to other aspects of Immigration policy.

But, Judaism does have quite a bit to say about values — which values should be important to us, and which values should undergird our society.

One of the values integral to Judaism is Hachnasot Orchim—welcoming the stranger. Welcoming the stranger has always been part of Judaism. In the Book of Genesis, we hear of Abraham, the first Jew, who was sitting in the entrance of his tent, when three strangers passed by. He immediately invited them in, and treated them like royalty — preparing a meal for them himself, not even letting his servants do it for him. That was probably fairly common and expected — we still see echoes of this kind of behavior in that part of the world. Our people inherited this tradition, and we built it into our theology.

You see, there is a natural, human tendency to favor those to whom we are the closest. We tend to take care of our own, and to be wary or afraid of "the other." The mitzvah of welcoming the stranger is, in part, a counterbalance to this reflex. It reminds us that this person, whom I do not know is, among other things, a human being. And that means that they were created in the image of God. The moment I encounter him or her, I have an obligation to him or her. There is no one — not a single, solitary person — from whom I can completely turn away, and to whom I have no obligation.

These people — these immigrants — who are not, at least not yet, part of our nation are still people. And we have an obligation towards them. We have to welcome them.

We can't welcome everyone equally, of course. No one is suggesting that we don't have any Immigration policy — that we open our borders and make everyone and anyone a citizen. But, our starting place has to be one of care and welcoming. We have to work to figure out how we can bring the greatest number of people possible into our country, and into our lives, rather than starting from a place of rejection and isolationism.

It would be incredibly ironic for us, as Jews, to be less than welcoming when it comes to immigration policy. Because, we've often been the victim of it. We've been the victims of restrictions on our own migrations for centuries. We’ve fled persecution and been told, time and again, "you're not welcome here." Even when others were trying to wipe our people off the map, we've been told to go somewhere else. Just not here.

And, in less dramatic times, we still had to leave one home to seek a better life elsewhere. Very few of us in the Jewish community have an American heritage which goes back more than a few generations. We are a people of immigrants in a nation of immigrants. It is our repeated memory of being a stranger in a strange land which is supposed to drive our moral dedication to helping others to never feel like strangers themselves. Or, as it says in Leviticus (19:33-34), "When strangers sojourn with you in your land, you shall not do them wrong. The strangers who sojourn with you shall be to you as the natives among you, and you shall love them as yourself; for you were strangers in the land of Egypt."

Because we were strangers, we know how it feels. And so, we are commanded to help other strangers. We have an obligation to immigrants not in spite of the fact that they are strangers, but precisely because of it.

We also have to remember that many immigrants, whether legal or illegal, are among the most vulnerable in our society. And that's another, perhaps even greater reason that we are obligated to help them. We are told over and over that we are obligated to protect the weak — the Bible commands us to protect the widow and the orphan, because those categories were the weakest, and the most vulnerable, in ancient society.

By contrast, "They’re not my problem" appears exactly never in our text.

It's so easy to get caught up in the specifics of policy, discussions about "who should get in first" and rhetoric about amnesty and such that we can forget a very basic, fundamental fact: we're talking about people here. Were talking about people — not "illegals," but people — who are suffering. People who, perhaps because they came here illegally, are not afforded, or do not know about, the legal protections to which they are entitled. They are exploited and abused, with startling regularity and severity. Even if we hold them accountable for entering this country illegally, it should still shock our moral centers that human beings are treated in this way. Workers are abused physically, and are threatened with deportation should they utter any protest, or seek help. Children are left without their parents, often put in dubious foster care, because their parents were deported, while they weren't. Husbands and wives are kept apart for years and years because the one who came here, legally or not, doesn't have the right, or perhaps just the resources, to bring their loved one over. Young women are forced into slavery and the sex trade, because as far as society is concerned, they don’t even exist. It’s an abomination.

As I said, the policy issues are deeply, deeply complicated. And, no one policy, or set of policies, is going to solve all these problems. But, that simply doesn't give us the right to lose our sense of empathy for people who are suffering. The fact that we can't make the problem go away in no way diminishes our responsibility to make it better. We have to remember that behind every story, behind every argument, behind every policy debate live real people with real lives. And they’re in real pain.

That, more than anything else, drives my support of Immigration Reform. It is a belief that, flawed, imperfect and incomplete as it will inevitably be, it is a step in the direction of justice, and of mercy. It is a step in the direction of forging a society which more closely holds to the ideals and values set out in our tradition.

Your conscience will tell you how to act, when it comes to laws and policies. Judaism can’t tell you, and neither can I, which candidate to support, or which bill to protest. but, I urge you to do something. Call your Senator, or call your representative. Urge them to act. Urge them to act in a way which will make our country, and our society, a place which welcomes the stranger, protects the weak, and strives to be a shining example of our greatest ideals.

This is a version of the sermon I gave on Friday, July 19th.

                                                                                                                       

Science, Stars and Awe

Does our knowledge about the world diminish or enhance our sense of awe?

Our ancient ancestors looked at the sky, and they wondered. They saw the stars marching, night after night, in endless, perfect balance. They watched the moon wax and wane with absolute, unerring precision, and they were awestruck. They looked up to the heavens, and they had absolutely no idea, not the first inkling of a clue, how it happened. How it all worked. And so, they composed poems and prayers to the One who made it all, who made it all possible. And they were breathless with Awe.

But, we're different. We have science, and so we understand things that they couldn't possibly. We know about gravity. We know about nuclear fusion, and luminosity, and the rotation of the Earth. Knowing all of that, and more, we can explain how a star's light comes to exist, and how it comes to us.

But, can we truly comprehend what it's like for light to be so bright that it can survive the trip of thousands of light years? Yes, we can measure, within millimeters, the distance to the moon. That only makes it even more wondrous that human beings have left their footprints in its dust.

The more we know, the more we are left breathless with Awe by what we see.

God grants us knowledge — knowledge of infinite variety and scope. Science. History. Music. Art. Philosophy. Everything that we know, everything that we learn, is a revelation. A revelation of greater truth. A revelation of the Awe-inspiring nature of our reality. A revelation of wonder. A revelation of the One.