Special

This week, we begin reading the book of Shemot, known in English as “Exodus.” It begins, “These are the names of the children of Israel who came to Egypt.” It then goes on to list the names of the 12 children of Jacob — the large family which is about to become a nation, and eventually, a religion. The great commentator Rashi notices a problem, though. These verses don’t add any new information — we were already told, at the end of the book Bereishit (Genesis) who traveled to Egypt; this is repetitive. And, a core Rabbinic belief is that nothing in the Torah is ever repetitive, extraneous or otherwise unnecessary. God doesn’t waste words. So, why this relisting of the names of our ancestors?

Rashi teaches that these opening words are not meant to give us information about the brother’s names. Rather, this is a sign of God’s love. God is acting like a parent who, rather than simply saying, “good night kids,” instead goes up to each one, calls each by his or her name, maybe gives them a gentle kiss on the keppe, and then moves on to the next one. One by one, each child gets recognized, and so each child is shown that they’re special.

Rashi then goes on to say that this is just like what God does with the stars, each and every night, to get them to shine. God doesn’t just call them out as a group; God calls each star by name. I can’t help but think that this reference to stars is purposeful — it’s an allusion to the promise God made to Abraham, and then to Jacob, that eventually we would outnumber the stars of the sky. We are the stars. God loves each of us, as individuals. Every one of us. Each and every life — every single, solitary life — is holy to God. Each one is equally holy.

Every person is dear to God. Every person is dear.

On Monday, we said goodbye to Samuel Sommer. We buried Shmuel Asher Uzziel ben HaRav Michael Aharon v’haRav Pesach Esther. Most of you know him better as “Superman Sam.” About a year and a half ago, Sam was diagnosed with AML — acute myeloid leukemia. And, from the earliest days of his illness, his parents have been blogging about their trials, fears, ups and downs. At first, it was just read by those who knew the Sommer family, but it started to get read more and more widely, and eventually went viral to a degree which no one could have, or would have, predicted. Sam’s story, through Phyllis and Michael’s writing, has reached tens of thousands — maybe hundreds of thousands of people. It made them care about Sam. It caused them to mourn his death.

Over the past few days, I’ve been reading the comments sections of various articles on the web, and am consistently amazed by how many people, from all over the world, feel connected to Sam, and to his family. They feel the loss of his life. People who would have otherwise know nothing of the life of this little boy, let alone his death, are truly, deeply moved. It has been amazing and inspiring to watch.

And, here’s the thing: Sam wasn’t special.

Of course, he was special to his parents. Immeasurably special. He was special to his entire family, and he was special to their friends (who, in the Sommer clan, are really just an extended family). He was special to everyone who knew him. He was special.

Just like every kid.

They’re all special. All of them. Each one is unique. Each one is loved with an endless, painful intensity, by those around them. Each is special to those who love them.

Around seven kids died of cancer today. Around seven kids die of cancer, every day. About 1500 people, total, die of cancer, every day. Roughly the same number die from heart disease. Over 300 die in accidents. Something like 100 take their own lives. Every day.

And, each and every one of them has a blog.

Most of them never got written, of course. Most of them will never be written. But, each and every one of them has a mother who rails against the unfairness of the decree. Each and every one of them has a father who worries, constantly, about whether he’s doing the right thing. Each had more to give, more stories to tell. Sam was special to us because we were brought inside. We were allowed, through the grace, generosity of spirit, and unfathomable strength of his parents, to read his blog. But, every child, every person, has a story. And that story is as heartbreaking as Sam’s.

We hide from this reality. Of course we do; we have to hide from it. We couldn’t make it through one day, we couldn’t make it through one minute of one day, if we really thought about, if we really understood, if we really felt the pain of each and every one of these people.

We aren’t God, after all.

But, in counting every star, in kissing every little offensively prematurely bald head, God is reminding us, oh so gently, that we can only hide so well from what is real. However tightly we may shut our eyes, reality abides, just outside of our awareness. Every now and then, we have to be willing to take a deep breath, steel ourselves, and look. Because, when we realize the depth of the pain, when we realize how broken our world truly is, then we will realize that, whatever we have done, whatever we are doing to fix this world, it is not enough. It is not nearly enough.

Tikkun Olam can take so many forms. It can take the form of giving tzedakah, Or of joining a few dozen other slightly meshuganeh rabbis in shaving our heads, to raise awareness and more money. It can take the form of cooking a meal, or offering a ride to someone in need right here in our synagogue. It can just be the simple act of treating someone kindly, of offering a kind word instead of a reprimand, of asking someone how they are, rather than telling them what’s bothering you. These are ways — a few ways — in which we can repair our world.

I often teach that Shabbat is a time of make-believe, when we pretend that everything is right in the world, so that we can remind ourselves of our goal, remind ourselves of what a perfect world looks like, and restore our energy to make another attempt at reaching it. You’ll forgive me if, today, I can’t quite do that. You’ll forgive me if, today, like every day for the past week or few, I’m keenly aware of how imperfect our world is. How broken. How desperately in need of tikkun, of fixing. Of healing.

We have to be healers of our world. That’s what it means to be human – to be truly and fully human. That’s why we’re here, in this broken world. We’re here to be the healers and the fixers.

The very first thing we ever learn about human beings, before we are even created, is that we are betzelem Elohim, created in the image of God. That means that each and every one of us, in some way, is a shard of the Divine. That each and every one of us has infinite worth.

The Talmud teaches that, were we to be given a choice to extend one person’s life by one second, or to restore the Temple once and for all, we must choose the life. A single moment of a single life—any life—is worth more than the entire Temple itself. That’s what it means to be betzelem Elohim.

But, being betzelem Elohim also means that each of us has the potential, the capacity, for infinite compassion. Each of us really can kiss the heads of every child in pain, and call by name, every single person in need. There is no end to the call to fix the world, but there is no end to our capacity to do so, either. I pray for the strength to live my life as one created in the image of the Merciful One.

Zichrono livracha—May Samuel Sommer’s memory be a blessing. May our lives be a blessing, as well.

This is a version of the sermon I gave on Friday, Dec 20th, 2013.

Duck Dynasty and Hiding Homophobia

This is one of those times when I wonder if this is going to come out right...

You've probably heard about the recent controversy surrounding the show Duck Dynasty. In case you're new to this, Duck Dynasty is a show about a self-described "white-trash" family from Louisiana who got rich from making duck-calls. One of the characters, the patriarch Phil, recently got himself into hot water with some comments he made about homosexuality. You can probably guess them--it's ungodly. It's just like bestiality. And so on.

Let me be perfectly clear: these views, and these comments, are disgusting. Irredeemably so. Anyone who knows me knows (I hope) that I'm a strong, vocal supporter of LGBT equality, and I find these kinds of views repellant. So, I'm not about to say anything which undermines that--no, "It really wasn't that bad, was it?" Yes; It is that bad. No, "Everyone's entitled to their own religious views, right?" Sure--you're entitled to them, and I'm entitled to find them repulsive.

At the same time, I want to express some discomfort with the fact that A&E, creators of the show, suspended Phil. I'm not saying that it was the wrong decision (it was probably exactly the right decision), but that there's an aspect of it which doesn't sit well with me.

This has become a fairly regular, and depressing, pattern. Some star says something awful about gays, or African-Americans, or some other group, and there is (appropriate) outrage and disgust in reaction, and then the show, or team, or some other authority suspends them. Again--on one level (the most important level, I'd think), that's good. That's what I want. I'm fine with them being punished for airing these toxic views.

But, at the same time, I can't get away from the feeling that we're, intentionally or not, hiding these kinds of hatreds and bigotries away. We're not eradicating them, we're just pushing them off camera.

Stereotypes of this kind of person (rural, hillbilly, etc) being what they are, fair or not, was anyone surprised by what he said? Even if it hadn't come from someone who looks like he does, would anyone be surprised that someone thinks this way, and is willing to say it? It's not exactly an obscure, minority position, if you know what I mean. By suspending him, by removing him and his views from the show, nothing in reality has changed; we're now just seeing a falsely sanitized version of that world.

And, if we keep doing this, aren't we just doing the same on a larger scale.

Again, I'm not suggesting that A&E should have done something differently. I know that punishing these views, that labeling them as unacceptable and refusing to honor (or reward) someone who spews them is the right thing to do, and is (maybe more importantly) part of how we define, as a society, what is unacceptable. That's one step towards eventually eradicating those views. But, at the same time, pretending that those views aren't out there, wiping our hands of any connection with them and getting back to our entertainment feels--what? Too easy?

A&E did the right thing. But, somehow I'm left feeling like there's more to the story than just that.

It's Snowing In Hell.

Outside of the Old City of Jerusalem, there's a small valley* called the valley of hinom. The Hebrew for "valley" is gei, so this little valley is known as "GeiHinom." It's name was sometimes morphed into a Greek version, Gehenna.

* well, it's usually small. If you're trying to hike through it in the middle of the day in the middle of thesummer, after having walked all around Jerusalem, it suddenly gets very, very big. Some of my Rabbinical School classmates can verify this.

In ancient times, several cults (including, apparently, some apostate Jewish cults) used to perform child sacrifice in that valley. Needless to say, the place took on a very sinister air to the locals, who began to associate it with all bad things. In fact, it became known as the place to which bad, evil people would go when they died. Geihinom, or Gehenna, was the earliest Jewish idea of Hell.

So, if anyone ever gave you a "It'll be a cold day in Hell before..." or "I'll do that when Hell freezes over," you really should give them a call. Because, right now, as I type this, it is snowing in Hell.

Shabbat Shalom!

p.s. that photo is not actually the right valley. But, it's the closest valley I could find a picture of. 

I'm Shaving My Head.

That's right. I'm shaving my head. For real.

Most of you have heard about, if not been following, the story of Superman Sam (a.k.a Sam Sommer), the son of dear friends of mine, Rabbis Michael and Phyllis Sommer. Sam has leukemia and, devastatingly, all treatment options have failed. You can read all about him, and the terrible, beautiful, painful, inspiring, devastating journey they've been on at http://supermansamuel.blogspot.com/.

Just a short time ago, another Sam, this one the son of an old Youth Group friend, died of cancer. His story was captured by his mom at http://enough4now.blogspot.com/. It's no less devastating, or inspiring, than the Sommers' blog.

I've had other friends (and congregants) who have battled pediatric cancer, as well. Many of them have watched their children win the battle. Some have not. All have been devastated by the ordeal. And, many have noted along the way that funding for pediatric cancer is insufficient. It needs more attention, and it needs more money.

We simply have to find a way to stop cancer from killing children.

Among the many terrible feelings that come along with watching friends go through this hell is an overwhelming sense of helplessness. That intense feeling of wanting to do something -- anything -- in response to this. But, what can we do? What can I do?

Thankfully, some Rabbis have started a Shave For The Brave campaign for other Rabbis. That's right--a bunch of us are getting together at the CCAR (Reform Rabbis') Conference in March, and we're shaving our heads. We're doing this to raise awareness, and to raise money for research.

I've already signed up, and I set a fundraising goal of $1000. I have no idea what a realistic number is, but I have a feeling that all of the people that I know and love will make it easy to raise that much, and even more. Please give. Please, please, please give. Give because you love Sam, or Sam, or Lilah, or some other child who has fought cancer. Give because you hate seeing kids suffer, and you hate seeing their parents suffer. Give because you're dying to see me look ridiculous (which I'm sure I will). Give because you want to see my children (who are healthy, and I now thank God for that, every single freaking day) laugh at me openly when I come home from the conference. Give because you hate cancer. Give because we have to find a way to stop cancer from killing children, and adults.

Give for any reason at all.

Just, please, give.

My fundraising page is at: http://www.stbaldricks.org/participants/mypage/660569/2014.

p.s. Mike and Phyllis, Sabrina, Eric and Tami and Lilah, Rebekah and Russell (even though I don't think I've talked to you two since college!), and all of your families, and everyone I'm forgetting to mention right now--I love you guys.

Can Rabbi Art Green Save Judaism?

A few weeks ago, a study was released by the Pew Research Center, and it offered all sorts of bad news about the Jewish world. And, it also spawned a seemingly endless stream of reaction from that same Jewish world. Some see it as a sign of impending disaster. Some see it as a technically flawed study*. Some see it as a potentially interesting data point, but nothing all that new, actually.

* I can't find the link right now, but the argument was, basically, that Pew compared current data to a 10-year-old study that used extremely different methodology. Therefore, any downward trend that it claims to find is extremely suspect.

Rabbi Arthur Green had a slightly different reaction, and it will surprise no one who knows me that I find it compelling. For those who don't know, for years, and with increasing intensity in the past few years, Rabbi Green has been constructing a fairly radical vision of Judaism. It's one which I find intensely compelling and which, quite frankly, has become the single largest piece of my own religious foundation. So, I'm clearly biased when I read his reaction to Pew. But, the upshot is that he thinks that his vision of Judaism might be the answer to the challenge posed by the report.

Rabbi Green's theology, and the Judaism which flows from it, is doggedly rationalist, and it's intensely Universalist. And, Green believes that it offers a version of Judaism which could potentially speak to the millions of Jews who find that a more classic theology, and religion, no longer fits them. Essentially, he's claiming that it's no surprise that university educated Jews who are fully integrated into the Modern world aren't impressed with Judaism which is based in a supernatural God, exclusivist claims to the truth and so on. If we can just offer them something which is spiritually compelling, while at the same time 100% consonant with the world around them, maybe they'll come back.

I deeply, deeply hope that he's right. I'll admit that I doubt he is–at least to the degree to which we might really hope. Even Green admits that his new theology isn't going to completely reverse the seeming flood of Jews who are leaving Judaism. Personally, I wonder if his theology/Religion would even appeal to enough people to significantly impact the Jewish world. I'd like to think it might, but that seems incredibly optimistic.

But, ultimately, I base my religious belief and practice not on what I think will be most popular, or most effective in drawing in the masses. I base my religious belief and practice on what I find to be true and holy. And, I don't think I've ever come across anything that feels more true and holy than the God which Green describes with such passion and clarity.

Whatever you think about its potential impact on the wider Jewish world, Green's article is worth reading if only because it offers a wonderful synopsis of his outlook:

Mystical religion by its very nature shifts the focus of attention away from the positive/historical and inward toward the devotional/experiential. The question is not: “Do you believe that God created the world, and when?” but rather “Do you encounter a divine presence in the natural world around you?” and “What does that encounter call upon you to do?” We are not concerned with “Did Israel hear God’s word at Sinai, and how much of the Torah was given there?” but rather “Can you feel yourself standing before the mountain as you hear the words of Torah?” The “events” of Israel’s sacred narrative are read here as myth rather than history, but their voice is made more powerful rather than less as they call forth deep personal engagement and commitment. The God of this religion is not the commanding Other who rules over history, but rather the still, small voice from within that calls upon us to open our hearts and turn our lives toward goodness, even in the face of terrible human evil and the inexplicable reality of nature’s indifference to our individual human plight. This sort of new mystical or Neo-Hasidic piety turns toward the natural world as a source of inspiration, seeing existence itself as an object of wonder and devotion. It finds the miraculous in daily life and tends to focus its religious energy on the building and celebration of human community.

It's interesting —I was recently talking to a colleague who describes himself as completely rational, and followed that up by saying that the mere mention of anything "mystical" shuts him right down. "Mystical," to him, equals "non-rational." That certainly isn't a minority view. To most people, "mystical" means wacky New Age spirituality. Well, I'm fairly proud (arrogant?) of my own rationalist credentials, and I can't find a single thing that Art Green says which doesn't pass muster for me, in terms of his rationality. For me, Green describes a God and a Judaism which are deeply, profoundly powerful, and which challenge, but never ask me to deny, my mind.

I don't know that Green's Radical Judaism, or his radical Judaism, can really change the world, or even the Jewish world. But, it's had a heck of an impact on mine.

Check out the article, and tell me if you agree.

Rabbis Optional

A congregation in northern Israel just finished a year of living without a rabbi (not voluntarily, it seems). They were committed to holding services every Shabbat, as they had always done, and so they came together as a congregation, and as a community, and figured out how to do so. What they discovered is that although it was certainly challenging, and not always ideal, there were some real benefits to being forced into this:

Some members admitted that at the beginning, they felt unsure as to whether we would succeed, but at the end of the year, we overwhelmingly felt proud that we had pulled together to sustain our congregation. Our new reality had the positive effect of encouraging our multicultural and multilingual members to further integrate in order to overcome some of the differences between us. Without a rabbi, we discovered unknown talents and the hidden potential of many members who came forth willingly to contribute. Our ritual committee chairperson revealed that to her delight, she never received a negative response when she asked someone to give a drasha (discussion of the weekly Torah portion) or lead services. Moreover, some of the members who were not comfortable conducting services, stepped up their efforts in other areas for the well being of the congregation

Look--I don't want to oversell this (it would be bad for me, career-wise), but I think that every congregation would benefit from realizing that a Rabbi is, fundamentally, superfluous. Don't get me wrong; a Rabbi isn't useless*. A good Rabbi (or Cantor) will know how to lead a service well, and will have a body of teaching that will help to make for good sermons--that sort of thing. But, none of that is out of the reach of an average layperson. The majority of congregants at Beth Am (or, most synagogues' congregants), given the proper motivation, maybe a smidgen of guidance and a working Internet connection can construct a pretty darn good sermon, if asked to do so. I'd probably be better than most of them at giving one weekly, because I've got the experience and the knowledge base. But, that's very different from having some esoteric, magical ability that just isn't available to the run of the mill Jew.

* well, hopefully. I guess it depends on the Rabbi.

And, that's the real point. Rabbis (and Cantors) can bring an awful lot to the table. But, nothing that they bring is inherently, intrinsically tied to their being ordained. At my Ordination, no one sprinkled Magic Rabbi Dust ™on my head. I walked off the bimah pretty much the same person as I was when I walked on.

The most important time to remember this is not with sermons so much, as it is with prayers. Some people seem to think that, because I'm a Rabbi, my prayers have special power, special potency. That a prayer offered by me, or a name read for Mi Sheberach (the prayer for healing) or Kaddish (the prayer for mourners) is special in a way which that same prayer or name, if read by a congregant, is not. Believe me--I have no special access to God*. My prayers are in no way more likely to be heard or answered**. To insist otherwise is, I firmly believe, to misunderstand the nature of Rabbis, prayer, and God.

* Your Honor, I submit exhibit a, the 2013 New York Yankees' season.

** Your Honor, I submit exhibit b, the 2013 New York Giants' season.

One of my childhood Rabbis, Rabbi Jerome Malino (z"l) was often asked, before a wedding, bar mitzvah or similar event, to offer a special prayer for good weather. "I'm sorry," he would always reply. "I'm in sales, not management."

When it comes to prayer, and to sermons, and to just about everything that goes on in a synagogue, there may be someone who is more comfortable with you. There may be someone who is more knowledgable than you. Maybe more skilled than you.

But there is never anyone who is more powerful than you.

Be Careful With Your Language

One of our synagogues college students is off studying in China, and she made a mistake in a paper of hers that reminded me of a favorite story from Rabbinical School. Whenever I think of the story, I can't stop smiling or giggling, so I figured it must be worth a share…

First, with apologies (this really was meant to be a lighthearted post!) I have to give a tiny bit of history of the Hebrew language. For almost a couple of thousand years, leading up to the 19th century, Hebrew was a dead language — it was used for study and prayer, but it wasn't spoken as a primary language. When Zionism began to take root, and it looked like Jews might start thinking of themselves as a nation again, a brilliant, but apparently pretty eccentric guy named Eliezer Ben Yehuda decided to revive the language. And, part of doing that was to invent new Hebrew words for terms which hadn't existed back when Hebrew was commonly used. For instance, Hebrew had no word for "electricity," so Ben Yehuda used a biblical word that probably referred to an ember ("heshmal"). Many of his new words stuck; many didn't. Languages are funny that way.

Okay — linguistic history lesson over.

During our first year of Rabbinical School, our studies were heavy on Hebrew instruction, so we did a lot of essay writing and such. One of my classmates wrote an essay about how much he loved archaeology. Not just him — his whole family loved archaeology. They loved going to archaeological sites together. They had done archaeology in the field, as a family. And, naturally, he was beyond excited to be in Israel, which is home to so much unbelievable archaeology. He couldn't wait to explore the archeology here.

One small problem: he was using the classic Ben Yehuda dictionary which, as I said, contained words which Ben Yehuda coined, but had never really taken root. For example, the word for "archaeology" which he had wanted to be used in Modern Hebrew (hashpanut) was based on the root for "uncovering." But, that didn't work out. In the end, Hebrew just uses archeologica. 

But, luckily, hashpanut  did find use in another context. It's the Modern Hebrew word for "striptease."

Yeah. We had a hard time getting the class back to order that day...