Monday, September 25, 2017

Rosh HaShanah Morning 5778 - The Divine Nature of Creating

A version of this sermon was delivered Rosh HaShanah morning 5778 at Temple Emanu-El of East Meadow

            Before there was anything, there was God, a few angels, and a huge swirling glob of rocks and water with no place to go.  The angels asked God, “Why don’t you clean up this mess?”
            So, God collected rocks from the huge swirling glob and put them together in clumps and said: “Some of these clumps of rocks will be planets, and some will be stars, and some of these rocks will be…just rocks.”
            Then God collected water from the huge swirling glob and put it together in pools of water and said: “Some of these pools of water will be oceans, and some will become clouds, and some of this water will be…just water.”
            Then the angels said: “Well God, it’s neater now, but is it finished?” And God answered…
“Nope!”
On some of the rocks God placed growing things, and creeping things, and things that only God knows what they are, and when God had done all this, the angels asked God, “Is the world finished now?”  And God answered…
“Nope!”
God made a man and a woman from some of the water and dust and said to them: “I am tired now.  Please finish up the world for me…really, it’s almost done.”  But the man and the woman said: “We can’t finish the world alone!  You have the plans and we are too little!”
“You are big enough,” God answered them. “But, I agree to this.  If you keep trying to finish the world, I will be your partner.”
“The man and the woman asked: “What’s a partner?”  And God answered…
“A partner is someone you work with on a big thing that neither of you can do alone. If you have a partner, it means that you can never give up, because your partner is depending on you.  On the days you think I am not doing enough and on the days I think you are not doing enough, even on those days, we are still partners and we must not stop trying to finish the world.  That’s the deal.”  And they all agreed to that deal.
Then the angels asked God, “Is the world finished yet?”  And God answered…
“I don’t know.  Go ask my partners.”[1]


In this telling of the creation story, God makes a point to emphasize that creation is not done, and that humanity is God’s partner, tasked with creation.  Rosh Hashanah commemorates the creation of the world, the reason why our Torah reading for the second day is the story of creation from the first chapter of Genesis.  A little later our choir will end our Shofar Service with the words of Hayom Harat Olam: this is the day of the world’s birth.  Our ancestors did the math in the Torah, adding up all the dates of birth and lifespans, and they determined that this year is the 5778th year since the world’s creation.  Perhaps we would have expected that in almost 6000 years, we’d be done, but this last year has taught us that creation is still awaiting perfection and that creation’s perfection still waits on us and our actions.  We are indeed partners in divine action.  And the angels are still asking if we’re done yet.
The Torah starts with a bang!  God’s first action is creation.  Bereishit Bara Elohim.  In the beginning, God created.  We understand God’s role to be primarily, or at least initially, that of creator, forming something of value and importance out of the primordial wild and waste, the tuhu vavohu.  We recognize this and praise God for it.
This morning, as every morning, we read the prayer Baruch She’amar, which begins: Baruch she’amar v’hayah ha’olam / praised be the One who spoke and the world came to be.  Every morning we thank God and praise God for the act of creation.  We recognize the unique ability that God has to speak creation into being. 
As humans, our words are indeed powerful, but not powerful enough to create worlds or beings.  As humans we are called to try to emulate God, we are created in God’s image, but we don’t have the divine tools.  We have our hands, our hearts, and our brains.  The closest thing we have to a divine tool is our voice; and its role, though not one of creation, is important.  When God is done with creation, God takes a moment, gazes over God’s handiwork, takes a divine breath, and recognizes that what God had created was not just good, but very good, and ultimately worthy of blessing, when God blesses Shabbat.  Our voices have the ability to bless and praise, but it’s our hands and our minds which have the divine creative impulse within them.
A year ago, as our congregation was deliberating our future, I described our place as in the wilderness, a place of uncertainty between where we’ve been and where we’re going.  The wilderness, though scary, is a place of great creativity.  This year, as many, but certainly not all, of the questions about our community’s future have been answered, we find ourselves moving closer to the border of the Promised Land, though not yet arrived.  And we are now given the opportunity to determine what our new community will be, so that we will arrive next year, on Jerusalem Avenue.
Our voices have been heard, so now it is time to put our hands and minds to work.  Let us, in this New Year, channel our divinely given charge of creation toward the establishment of our new community with divine impetus and skill, with a determination that everyone has something to contribute, with an eye toward seizing the opportunity presented to us, with the charge to make space for others, and with a sense that new doesn’t mean getting rid of the old. 

Let us create with divine impetus and skill:

In the middle of the wilderness, the people are commanded to create.  God calls to Moses and requests that the people build God a sanctuary so that God may dwell among them.  In order to make this happen, God singles out one man, among the many Israelites, to be the foreman of the divine building project.  This man’s name is Bezalel, and he takes up the mantle of overseeing creation of a house for the people to communicate with the divine.  The Torah tells us:
See, the Eternal has singled out by name Bezalel, son of Uri son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah.  God has endowed him with a divine spirit of skill, ability, and knowledge in every kind of craft and has inspired him to make designs for work in gold, silver, and copper, to cut stones for setting and to carve wood—to work in every kind of designer’s craft, and to give directions. He and Oholiab son of Ahisamach of the tribe of Dan have been endowed with the skill to do any work.[2]

Bezalel is singled out, but also partnered with Oholiab.  Oholiab is often forgotten in this story, First, because God singles out Bezalel first, and second because Bezalel has a school of art and design named after him in Jerusalem.  Each of them, and both of them, are filled with what the Torah calls chochmat lev.  While this is translated simply as skill, the literal translation is the wisdom of the heart.  The skills Bezalel and Oholiab have are divinely inspired, and a combination of both wisdom and soul, heart and head together.[3] 
            The rabbinic tradition reinforces this point about Bezalel.  In the Talmud,[4] we read of Bezalel:
In the moment that the Holy One of Blessing said to Moses: Say to Bezalel: make for me a Mishkan, an ark, and vessels. Moses went and switched the order, and he said to [Bezalel]: make an ark, vessels, and a Mishkan. [Bezalel] said to him, our teacher, it is the custom of everyone that [first] one builds a house, and afterwards [one] places inside vessels, and you are saying, make for me an ark, vessels, and a Mishkan. Where do I place the vessels that I am making?

In this moment, Bezalel recognizes an incongruity in Moses’ instructions.  Something doesn’t add up.  When he asks Moses what he’s supposed to do with the vessels, he’s asking Moses the purpose for all that he is asked to construct.  He wants to know the why.  He wants to understand deeply, in his heart as well as in his mind, so that he can build and create with intentionality, with kavannah
            Moses responds to Bezalel’s retort with words that amount to a blessing: “Perhaps you were in the shadow of God.”  Here, the Talmud makes a point of emphasizing the meaning in Bezalel’s name.  Shéma betzel el hayyita.  Betzel-el, in the shadow of God.
If, as a community, we make our choices with intentionality and purpose, if we ask the right questions, and seek the purpose.  If we focus on the why and use the skill of our mind as well as the skill of our heart, we will be blessed to do so in the shadow of God.  We will be blessed to create with divine impetus and skill.

Let us be determined as well that everyone has something to contribute to this creative project:

Bezalel gets the accolades, and deservedly so.  But even before God singles out Bezalel in the book of Exodus, we read: “the Israelites, all the men and women whose hearts moved them to bring anything for the work that the Eternal, through Moses, had commanded to be done, brought it as a freewill offering to the Eternal.”  But it’s not just that they brought the gold and the precious stones and the skins and the yarn and the wood, the materials commanded for the building.  It’s that everyone who wanted to be a part of the creation was invited to be.  Everyone whose heart moved them to join in the act of creating a home for God was welcomed to participate.  Big tent Judaism in the service of building a big tent for God. 
We read that the women who were skilled in spinning, spun yarn, and then brought it.  Everyone’s skill set was put to use.  Everyone who could do, did.  Everyone, men and women, helped to create the beautiful house for the Eternal, because they knew that it was also a house for them.  A place where they could reach for the sublime and find the answers to life’s most difficult questions.  A place where their connection to heaven was made manifest.  A place where God would dwell among them.  A place where they could create community and pass traditions on to their children.
Bezalel may have been imbued with a divine skill, but he was only given two hands, like the rest of us.  He needed everyone’s help to accomplish the task.  He needed everyone to give of their time and their effort, in addition to their donations.  It was the first capital campaign in history, but it has an important lesson to teach, because it wasn’t a passive campaign.  It asked people to participate and made space for everyone.  It asked of people to express their talent for everyone’s benefit. 
Everyone in our community has been asked to be a part of this creation, with your skills and your hearts.  Each of us has our own skills we can add.  If we choose to use them, and choose to give of our talents, we will be blessed to create a place where God will surely dwell among us.

Let us work to seize the opportunity given to us to build something to the glory of God:

The building of the Mishkan in the book of Exodus is the first of the two great building projects dedicated to God described in the Bible.  The other is the Temple in Jerusalem built by Solomon in the book of Kings.  David, Solomon’s father, was not allowed to build the Temple for God because even though he was the king of Israel and established Jerusalem as the capitol, his sins of the heart and body render him unfit in God’s eyes.  So it is left to his son, Solomon the wise, to establish God’s permanent abode atop Mount Moriah, that same mountain where Abraham brings Isaac, that same mountain where Adam and Eve find refuge after exile from Eden.
In the book of Kings, Solomon’s building of the Temple comes about not only by divine command.  We read of Solomon corresponding with Hiram, the King of Tyre, in modern day Lebanaon:
You know that my father David could not build a house for the name of the Eternal his God because of the enemies that encompassed him, until the Eternal had placed them under the soles of his feet.  But now the Eternal my God has given me respite all around; there is no adversary and no mischance.  And so I propose to build a house for the name of the Eternal my God, as the Eternal promised my father David, saying, ‘Your son, whom I will set on your throne in your place, shall build the house for My name.’[5]

Solomon, as any good son would, tries to clean up his father’s reputation by commenting that it was David’s enemies, not his dalliances, which caused a delay in the building project for God.  Solomon then goes on to tell King Hiram that it is his idea to begin construction now.  “I propose,” he says, “hineini omer.”  The Hineini here is important, because it is most often used as the marker of a response to God.  When God calls to Abraham twice in our reading this morning, once with the command to sacrifice his son, and once with the command to stay his hand, Abraham responds both times with the word, Hineini.  When God calls to Jacob, Moses, and Isaiah, each of them respond with Hineini.  Here I am, but also with an implied sense of being ready to do what God has commanded. 
            In Solomon’s case, there is no call from God to build as there was in the desert to Moses.  Solomon looks around, sees the peace he has been able to establish after his father’s wars, and the wealth he has begun to amass due to his expanding empire, and he determines for himself that he is ready to do God’s work in building the Temple.  It is only after Solomon finishes building the Temple that God’s voice is heard.  “The word of the Eternal came to Solomon: With regard to this House you are building, if you follow My laws and observe My rules and faithfully keep My commandments, I will fulfill for you the promise that I gave to your father David.  I will abide among the children of Israel, and I will never forsake My people Israel.”[6]
            Solomon takes it upon himself to look around at the situation and determine that the time is right to begin construction.  The time has come to create a house for God.  It is only after Solomon takes the initiative himself that God recommits to the covenant with the people Israel.
            We have looked around.  We have determined that the time is now and the time is right to commit to a new project to create a house for God and a house for our community.  By devoting ourselves to that task, by taking the initiative, we will make an opportunity for God’s presence to dwell with us, and be blessed to find our covenant with God reaffirmed.

Let us make space for others:

            We know that not everything will be the same.  Many elements of what we have come to know and love about Temple Emanu-El may change.  Much will most likely stay the same, but we also must look with honesty at the reality of what it means to bring two congregations together.  It means bringing together two sets of customs, two sets of expectations, two distinct histories, two traditions, and two groups of people.  In many cases there can and should be room for both.  But in order to make room for both, we have to take a cue from God.
            Before there was anything, there was God.  The Kabbalists teach that in order for God to create the world, God had to make space, since there was only God, and God filled all space.  This process of withdrawal is called tzimtzum, contraction, making space, and it is a necessary part of creation.  Creation cannot come to be without it.  “How did God create the world?  Like a person taking a deep breath and holding it, so that the small contains the large.”[7]  “Before the creation of the world, the Eternal God withdrew itself into its essence…it left an empty space within its essence in which it could emanate and create.”[8]
            For God to create the world, God has to make space.  God takes a deep breath in…holds it…forever.  It is in that void, in the space that used to be filled with God’s essence, that God creates.  God has to make room.  God has to clear away some of God, give up some of what God had always been.  God gave that up for us.  God made space for us, for the earth, for the universe to be.  In order to create, God had to give.
            We will no doubt be asked to compromise, and make space for traditions, customs, and ideas which are new, unfamiliar, and possibly even uncomfortable, for both sides.  But if we remember the divine contraction, the divine making of space, the tzimtzum, we can try to emulate the divine way and make room to create something new and worthy of blessing.

New doesn’t have to mean getting rid of the old:

            When Moses goes up to the mountain of God a second time, after the Golden Calf, after he throws down the tablets of the law and shatters them, he is given two new tablets.  But, unlike the first set, these are not etched by God.  They are etched by Moses.  The second time, God tells him, the work is up to you.  You were handed something, but now you have to create.  Moses transcribes the Ten Commandments onto two new tablets and descends from the mountain with them in his hands, as he had done 40 days earlier.
            When the time comes to place the tablets in the Ark of the Covenant, the gold covered box, carried by the priests, and upon which God’s presence was said to dwell, there was a choice to be made.  Moses had before him two sets of tablets.  One, shiny, new, etched by his own hand.  Another set, shattered, broken, a remnant from an earlier encounter with God.  Moses decides that both sets belong in the Ark.  The new and the old have a place.  Each set of tablets has holiness.  Each set of tablets has within it the word of God, the breath of God, the presence of God.  There is room in the Ark for both.
            When we come together as a new, merged community, we will make space for both sets of tablets.  Those that are a remnant of what was, and those that represent the new direction.  There is a place for both, and both deserve to be preserved and revered.  When we make space for both sets of tablets, we will be blessed to have completed the creation of a new community devoted to God, built upon the foundation that was laid by our forebears.

            In this next year, we have a special opportunity to channel our internal divine impulse in the service of creation of a new community.  It will take a lot of work and effort from all of us, and everyone is invited to participate.  If we channel the divine skills we have been given, if we ensure that everyone has a role and a contribution, if we seize the opportunity afforded to us, if we work to make space for others, and if we work to bring the best of the past with us, we will no doubt be successful.  We will be successful such that a year from now, when we gather together on Rosh Hashanah 5779 we will be blessed to look back at the work that we have created, declare that it is very good, and find cause to take a divine breath, and bless all that we have created.

Kein Yehi Ratzon.

Shanah Tovah!



[1] From: Does God Have a Big Toe?
[2] Exodus 35:30-35
[3] Thanks, Rabbi Jillian Cameron for this teaching about Bezalel
[4] Berachot 55a
[5] 1 Kings 5: 17-19
[6] 1 Kings 6:11-12
[7] Matt, Daniel.  The Essential Kabbalah,  p 92
[8] Ibid. 93

Erev Rosh HaShanah 5778 - If Not Higher: Consider the Litvack!

A version of this sermon was delivered on Erev Rosh HaShanah 5778 at Temple Emanu-El of East Meadow

During the month before Rosh Hashanah there is a custom for Jews get up early to say selichot; prayers asking for forgiveness from God.  And every Friday morning, during these prayers, the Rabbi of Nemirov would disappear.  He would simply vanish!
He was nowhere to be seen—not in the synagogue, not the house of study.  He was certainly not at home.  His door stood wide open; whoever wished could go in and out; no one would steal from the Rabbi.  But there was not a living creature inside.
Where could the rabbi be?  Where should he be?  He must surely be up in heaven!  A rabbi has plenty of business just before the High Holydays.  Jews, God bless them, need a living, peace, health, and good matches for marriage.  They try their best to be good, but it isn’t easy, and so our sins are many. Who can help us if not the rabbi!
That’s what the people thought.
One day a Litvak heard the people talking about the rabbi being up in heaven, and he laughed.  You know the Litvaks.  They think little of spiritual things but stuff themselves with the laws of the Talmud.  So this Litvak points to a passage in the Law where it is says that even Moshe Rabbaynu, Moses our teacher, did not ascend to heaven in his lifetime but remained suspended two and a half feet below.  Go argue with a Litvak!
So where can the rabbi be, if not in heaven?
“That’s not my business,” said the Litvak, shrugging.  Yet all the while — what a Litvak can do! — he is scheming to find out.
That same night, right after the evening prayers, the Litvak sneaks into the rabbi’s room, slides under the rabbi’s bed, and waits.  He’ll watch all night and discover where the rabbi vanishes during the selichot prayers of forgiveness.
Someone else might have gotten drowsy and fallen asleep, but a Litvak is never at a loss; he recites an entire book of the Talmud by heart to keep awake. 
At dawn he hears the call to prayers.
The rabbi has already been awake for a long time.  The Litvak has heard him groaning for a whole hour.
Whoever has heard the rabbi of Nemirov groan knows how much suffering, how much sorrow for Israel, lies in each groan.  Your heart could break, just hearing it, but a Litvak is made of iron; he listens and remains where he is.  The rabbi —  long life to him! — lies on the bed, and the Litvak under the bed.
Then the Litvak hears the beds in the house begin to creak; he hears people jumping out of their beds, mumbling a few Jewish words, pouring water on their hands, banging doors.  Everyone has left.  It is quiet and dark again.
Afterward the Litvak admitted that when he found himself alone with the rabbi a great fear took hold of him.  Goose pimples spread across his skin.  To be alone with the rabbi at the time of the selichot prayers!  But a Litvak is stubborn.  So he quivered like a fish in water, but remained where he was.
Finally the rabbi gets up.  First he says his morning blessings.  Then he goes to the closet and takes out a bundle of peasant clothes: linen trousers, high boots, a coat, a big felt hat, and a long wide leather belt studded with brass nails.  The rabbi gets dressed.  From his coat pocket dangles the end of a heavy peasant rope.
The rabbi goes out, and the Litvak follows him.
On the way the rabbi stops in the kitchen, bends down, takes an ax from under the bed, puts it in his belt, and leaves the house.  The Litvak trembles but continues to follow.
You can feel the approach of the holy days, there is a hushed awe hanging over the dark streets.  Every once in a while a cry can be heard from a prayer minyan where the selichot prayers are being said, or from a sickbed.  The rabbi stays to the sides of the streets, keeping to the shade of the houses.  He glides from house to house, and the Litvak after him.  The Litvak hears the sound of his own heartbeat mingling with the sound of the rabbi’s heavy steps.  But he keeps on going and follows the rabbi to the edge of town.
A small wood stands behind the town.
The rabbi enters the woods.  He takes thirty or forty steps and stops by a small tree.  The Litvak, overcome with amazement, watches the rabbi take the ax out of his belt and strike the tree.  He hears the tree creak and fall.  The rabbi chops the tree into logs and the logs into sticks.  Then he makes a bundle of the wood and ties it with the rope in his pocket.  He puts the bundle of wood on his back, shoves the ax back into his belt, and returns to the town.
He stops at a back street beside a small broken-down shack and knocks at the window.
“Who is there?” asks a frightened voice.  The Litvak recognizes it is the voice of a sick Jewish woman. “I” answers the rabbi, in the accent of a peasant.
“Who is I?”
Again the rabbi answers in Russian, “Vassil.”
“Who is Vassil, and what do you want?”
“I have wood to sell, very cheap.”  And not waiting for the woman’s reply, he goes into the house.
The Litvak sneaks in after him.  In the gray light of early morning he sees a poor room with broken, miserable furniture.  A sick woman, wrapped in rags, lies on the bed.  She complains bitterly, “Buy?  How can I buy?  Where will a poor widow get money?”
“I’ll lend it to you,” answers the rabbi disguised as Vassil the peasant. “It’s only six cents.”
“And how will I ever pay you back?” asks the poor woman, groaning.
“Foolish one,” says the rabbi.  “See, you are a poor sick Jew, and I am ready to trust you with a little wood.  I’m sure you’ll pay.  While you, you have such a great and mighty God and you don’t trust God for six cents.”
“And who will kindle the fire?” asks the widow.  “Have I the strength to get up?  My son is at work.”
“I’ll kindle the fire,” answers the rabbi.
As the rabbi put the wood into the oven he recited, in a groan, the first part of the selichot prayers, asking for God’s forgiveness.
As he kindled the fire and the wood burned brightly, he recited, a bit more joyously, the second part of the selichot Prayers.  When the fire was set he recited the third part, and then he shut the stove.
The Litvak who saw all this was so moved he became a follower of the rabbi.
And from that day forth, when any of the people would tell how the rabbi of Nemirov goes up to heaven at the time of the Penitential Prayers, the Litvak wouldn’t laugh.  He would only add quietly, “If not higher.”
*     *     *

If not higher.  This famous story by among the greatest Yiddish authors of the late 19th to early 20th century, I. L. Peretz, has many messages that resonate on these High Holy Days.  Messages about the work we are supposed to engage in, the work of self-evaluation, the work of cheshbon hanefesh, the accounting of our souls.  A central message of this story is a meditation on the message of the Yom Kippur Haftarah when the prophet Isaiah reminds us that God prefers we care for those in need rather than make our sacrifices.  The rabbi in the story understands that the way to demonstrate to God that we are repentant is to remember this call.  It is not enough to make our confessions and repent in word and prayer only.  No, we must act. 
But this message is a standard High Holy Day message.  This year marks the 6th Rosh HaShanah I am spending with you on this bima and I have preached this message over and over.  It doesn’t get old, mind you.  We’ve been preaching it for thousands of years and it still has merit.  You’ll certainly hear it again from me; it is at the core of what it means to be a believing Jew.  But this evening, I’d like us to consider the Litvack. 
Now, far be it from me to deign to say that the rabbi is not the most important character in this story.  No, it’s the Litvack.  Everything hinges on him: his thoughts, his impulses, his prejudices, his cunning, and ultimately his humanity, capacity to learn, and deep faith.  The Rabbi doesn’t have an emotional arc.  The Litvack does, which is especially funny, considering Litvacks are known for their analytical and legal approach to Judaism, as opposed to the religious fervor and emotion of the Chassidim. 
The first we learn of this Litvack is that he’s out of his element.  He’s come to a town where he doesn’t know the people and he doesn’t know the rabbi.  He knows a lot, though; and he’s quite certain that all that he’s learned in his Talmud sessions and his poring over tomes of Jewish law can explain away everything in God’s creation.  When the people tell him that their rabbi is up in heaven, he knows that’s not possible.  He laughs at the suggestion!  He scoffs at the townsfolk and even cites a verse in the Talmud that says that even the great Moses himself didn’t ascend that high!  He only got within arm’s reach.  If Moses didn’t reach heaven, certainly this rabbi didn’t either!
And so he goes out to disprove the theory, like a good Litvack, searching for a logical explanation that fits into his worldview.  The Litvack may know his Jewish law, but he seems to have forgotten his pirke avot.  Particularly the verse that tells us: “Aseh lecha rav, u’kneh lecha chaver, ve havei dan et kol ha-adam lechat zechut.”[1]  The first two phrases: Aseh lecha rav, u’kneh lecha chaver : Get yourself a teacher, and find someone to study with, are clearly in the Litvack’s wheelhouse.  He’s a learned man.  But it’s that last one, “dan et kol ha-adam lechaf zechut,” that he has trouble with.  This short phrase can be translated a variety of ways: judge everyone favorably, judge everyone as meritorious, or judge everyone with the benefit of the doubt.”  At his core, this is the Litvack’s great sin.  He does not give the rabbi the benefit of the doubt, nor the townspeople.  He’s certain in his answer, and cannot fathom being wrong.  Ultimately he is proven wrong.  Not literally wrong, but wrong in how he understood the Rabbi’s merit.
To get to the bottom of things, the Litvack goes to hide under the rabbi’s bed.  You might think this an odd way to try to learn, but it’s a common trope in the Talmud: a student hiding under their rabbi’s bed in order to learn from their every move.  It is an intimate experience and an action done out of sincere devotion.  But here, the Litvack uses this scheme to catch the rabbi at something.  The Litvack lacks faith, for such a pious man.  He lacks faith in his fellow man.  He does not judge the rabbi meritoriously.
This last year, we’ve been bombarded with a lack of giving people the benefit of the doubt, or judging of people as meritorious.  We’ve seen, and been guilty of, becoming entrenched in what we believe, declaring it the truth.  We have been unwilling to see another perspective.  We’ve been loath to look at someone who disagrees with us and find within them some merit.  Too often we don’t even know a person, and we approach with skepticism and a lack of empathy.
Research has shown that constantly judging toward the negative has an effect on our ability to trust others, stranger and friend alike.  It hinders our ability to be empathetic, and diminishes the happiness we can experience.  If we assume the negative, it comes from a place of mistrust, suspicion, judgment and prejudice.[2]  This leads to a cycle of negativity in our lives and in our relationships, and even to loneliness, as we push people away before we have a chance to bring them close. 
If we truly want to have a shanah tovah, a good and fulfilling new year, let us remember the words of the great sage Shammai who teaches us to “greet everyone we meet with a cheerful countenance.”[3]
In this new year, let us resolve to treat each other, and approach the people in our lives, not with the cynicism and apprehension we’ve allowed to become all too normal.  Let us strive to approach others with the benefit of the doubt.  When the townspeople see their rabbi missing, they think the best case scenario.  They assume that he’s in heaven.  Where else would he be?! 
Our sages understand this quality, that of being generous in your judgment of others, as being immensely worthy of merit in and of itself.  One commentator on the verse from Pirke Avot describes it as akin to welcoming the stranger, visiting the sick, and comforting the mourner, actions which have dividends in the world to come.  It is placed on par with the greatest of the commandments,[4] loving your neighbor as yourself, v’ahavta l’reacha kamocha.[5]  And as I have preached before, the crux of this commandment is a call for empathy.
The Litvack here learns empathy, therefore, in two distinct ways.  First, by following the rabbi and learning from his anonymous good deeds.  And second, by learning to judge a person with the benefit of the doubt.  When the rabbi disappears next, the Litvack is the only one who knows the rabbi’s secret, but he doesn’t reveal it.  He has learned from the townsfolk.  And, his experience leads the him to become a follower of the rabbi.  He has learned what it means to assume the best of someone.  And he has learned what it means when that assumption is also the truth.  He has been changed by his experience for the better.  He no longer laughs at the suggestion that the rabbi is in heaven.  No, he just recognizes to himself that the people are right.  And always have been.
Let us strive to reach higher in the new year.  Yes, by ascending toward the heavens with our deeds and our actions to make the world better, even for just one person, as the rabbi does.  But also by giving others the benefit of the doubt and greeting each other cheerfully.  Let our year truly be happy and sweet because that is how we will have treated others.  Then will we achieve untold heights of empathy, kindness, and relationship.  Then will be opened the gates of heaven to us.  If not higher.
Shanah Tovah!



[1] Avot 1:6
[2] See the work of Brene Brown
[3] Avot 1:15
[4] According to Rabbi Akiva
[5] Magen Avot

Friday, January 27, 2017

Va'era 5777 The Executive Order halting Refugees and International Holocaust Remembrance Day

A version of this Sermon was delivered on 1/27/17 at Temple Emanu-El of East Meadow

Parshat Va’era 5777

          Today is a confluence of special days on our calendar.  To start, it’s Shabbat, the 7th day which God gave us as a gift to rest and revel in creation as God does in the book of Genesis.  That makes it special.  Today is also Rosh Chodesh Shevat, the first of the month of Shevat.  In this month, we celebrate Tu b’Shevat, the New Year for the trees and the unofficial Jewish start to spring.  That makes it special.  Today is also special because it is International Holocaust Remembrance Day.  On this day in 1945, January 27, was the date that the Russian army liberated the Auschwitz prison, concentration, and death camp.  Since 2005, the international community, after a UN vote, uses this day to recognize, remember, and hopefully learn from the Holocaust. 
I am of two minds about this day.  On the one hand, we Jews already have a date on the calendar devoted to this, Yom HaShoah, which falls the week after Passover and which commemorates the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising.  Yom HaShoah was established by the Israeli Government and has been widely accepted by Jewish Communities around the world as a day of mourning, reflection, and remembrance.  On Yom HaShoah, a siren blasts for 2 minutes throughout Israel at 10am and everything stops.  All cars pull over.  People stop in mid stride to remember the 6 million Jews who were murdered simply because they were Jews.  This date was chosen to commemorate those who fought for their lives and freedom, even though they did not succeed.  Israel has a tendency to focus more on the resistance than on the victims.
On the other hand, another day that recognizes the enormity of the Holocaust, lest we forget its lessons, isn’t a bad thing.  Remembering the liberation puts the focus on the armies which liberated the Jews from the Nazis.  On this day, the international community, not just Jews, pauses to reflect on what we’ve learned and how we’ve changed in the 70 years since the end of World War Two.  The world is asked to take a moment and think about how far we’ve come since those dark days when a minority community was ostracized belittled and systematically exterminated because of their heritage, those days when the mechanisms of state were used to divide people and frighten citizens to imaginary dangers in the quest for power, those days when fear of the other overtook our God commanded call to welcome the stranger, the orphan, the widow.  How far we’ve come since those days and yet how little we’ve progressed.
Not every act of remembrance has the same purpose.  Sometimes we remember those who perished, as the siren on Yom HaShoah asks of us.  Sometimes we remember those who fought and those who resisted, as the date chosen for Yom HaShoah asks of us.  Sometimes we remember those who sacrificed, as today’s choice of date reminds us.  Sometimes, however, we must make a point to remember those who stood idly by. 
Today, a new Twitter account has taken up the cause of remembering some of those who perished and remembering some of those who stood idly by, in recalling a blemish on our nation’s history.  All day today, a twitter account by the handle St. Louis Manifest has been tweeting the names and many pictures of the passengers on the St. Louis, fleeing from Nazi Europe, who were turned away from every country, sent back to Europe and many of whom perished at the hands of the Nazis.  Each of them has a name, and each name is accompanied by the phrase: The US turned me away at the border in 1939.
As a congregation, last May we welcomed Sonja Geissmar, a survivor of the St. Louis, a steamer ship with 937 people aboard, mostly Jews, who were desperate to flee Europe.  She shared her story, and recalled the people she met on the ship.  She recalled the captain who worked as hard as he could to get his passengers to safety.  The ship made it to the United States, close enough to see the lights of Miami, but its passengers were not allowed to disembark.  These refugees, yearning to breathe free, were actively prevented from seeking refuge in the United States, a nation of immigrants. This came on the heels of the US congress voting against opening the doors to 20,000 Jewish refugee children.  The excuses given were economic, isolationist, and based on a fear that among these Jews would be Nazi spies.  254 of the 937 people aboard the St. Louis died at the hands of the Nazis.  254 lives which could have been spared had there been an abundance of Godly compassion rather than an abundance of fear, xenophobia and anti-Semitism.  Roosevelt and our government chose not to act.
Today, though there is a resurgence in anti-Semitism, Israel ensures that Jews need not fear that another nation may prevent them entry.  However, the threat to our adopted nation living up to its highest moral character continues, and it comes from Islamophobia.  The world is in the midst of the largest refugee crisis since World War Two as millions continue to flee war torn Syria and Iraq, fleeing ISIS on the one side and Assad’s cruelty on the other, and we have already forgotten our history.  The arguments against welcoming refugees from Syria go as follows: Some of those coming might be ISIS in disguise.  They won’t fit into our country.  They bring crime and radical Islam with them.  
This is all too familiar to us and we ought to stand against it because it wasn’t so long ago that these charges were levied against the Jews.  It wasn’t so long ago that a lack of compassion for families and children fleeing war and oppression denied our relatives and families entry into this nation.  It wasn’t so long ago that irrational fear and protectionism condemned those 254 Jews, and countless more, to die.  It wasn’t so long ago, and yet here we are again.
Today, on the date the international community recalls the horrors of the Holocaust, our nation once again turns its back on the most vulnerable as an executive order places a months-long halt on any refugee coming to the United States, and cuts in half the total number that would be allowed entry in 2017—and there’s no guarantee that that number will even be met.  In addition, there has been an indication that preferential treatment will be given to Christian refugees and that visitors from certain Muslim-majority countries will be denied entry.  As Jonathan Greenblat, CEO of the ADL put it in an op-ed today:
Today, orphans and widows in Syria are trapped, caught between the
Assad regime’s barrel bombs and the unparalleled brutality of ISIS. Young men and women around the globe are fleeing for their lives, persecuted because they love another person of the same sex or because they are transgender. Political dissidents who have had the courage to speak out in defiance of authoritarian regimes fear for their lives. And the executive order would send them a terrible message: The United States will not be a beacon of hope for you. You will not find safety here.

The truth is that refugees from any country go through the most complicated vetting system of anyone who is admitted to this nation.  The process takes over 2 years, often, and involves 20 steps of redundant interviews and background checks involving the United Nations, Homeland Security and US immigration services.  This is not people getting on a plane and showing up.  We are not talking about an easy process, here.  As was explained to us when Rabbi Rachel Grant Meyer from HIAS, formerly the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, came to speak last year, the refugees who come into the United States today are the most closely screened in history and more is asked of them than was asked of any previous generation of refugee.  And with all that they have to do, they still desperately want to come here, they still know that this nation has always been a beacon of safe haven and welcome.
They want to experience what we’ve all experienced since our parents, grandparents or great grandparents came to these shores: welcome, opportunity, peace, and a place to raise a family.  These American ideals are being denied them by the new administration.  Once again our nation will be forced to answer the question of why we didn’t do more.  
As the administration continues to sow fear of our Muslim brothers and sisters, lumping them all into one category, let it not be said we stood alongside silently.  Let it not be said that we ignored the plight of those our nation barred from admission.  Let it not be said that we agreed with this bigoted policy.  Let is not be said that we did not embody the Godly compassion that is so lacking in our leaders today.
We can and should call our representatives, donate to causes like HIAS and sign petitions.  All of these actions are good, necessary and important, but the truth is that until and unless the President changes his mind, his order will stand, halting months of progress made toward welcoming refugees into the United States.
In this week’s Torah portion, Va’era we learn something important not from what we find in the Torah portion, but from what we don’t.  This week, we read the first 7 of the 10 plagues.  Now, because we get to this story every year, both in the Torah and when we celebrate Passover, we know that three more are coming before Pharaoh finally accedes to let the Israelites go.  But the Rabbis who divided up the Torah into its weekly readings had choices.  They could have divided them equally.  Or, what would have made more sense, they could have decided to put them all in one portion.  They are all of the same narrative, after all.  Why stop this week’s Torah portion after just 7 of the 10 plagues?  I think this is meant to teach us that sometimes, we must wait for redemption.  Even when we know it’s what God wants and demands, we must wait.  Sometimes, through forces out of our control, we cannot get to where we want when we want to get there; we are halted in our progress.  Sometimes it has to wait.  But make no mistake, redemption is coming because we know it and because we believe it.

Shabbat Shalom.

Saturday, January 21, 2017

Shemot 5777, When Rule Becomes Unjust

A version of this sermon was delivered at Temple Emanu-El of East Meadow, January 20, 2017.

"וַיָּ֥קָם מֶֽלֶךְ־חָדָ֖שׁ עַל־מִצְרָ֑יִם אֲשֶׁ֥ר לֹֽא־יָדַ֖ע אֶת־יוֹסֵֽף׃"

“A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.”  This verse, the 8th verse of the first chapter of the book of Exodus, which reading we begin this Shabbat, cries out to us to be heard.  The Torah is always right where we need it to be, but some weeks it just seems all the more so.  This is one of those weeks.  "וַיָּ֥קָם מֶֽלֶךְ־חָדָ֖שׁ עַל־מִצְרָ֑יִם אֲשֶׁ֥ר לֹֽא־יָדַ֖ע אֶת־יוֹסֵֽף׃"  A new king indeed. 
What does it mean that he did not know Joseph?  Who was Joseph, anyway?  The most beloved son of our patriarch Jacob, he rose to be the viceroy of Egypt, responsible for saving the nation from calamity and famine, due to his innate abilities.  He was also an immigrant, victim of human trafficking, and ex-con, brought out of prison to serve the King.  Symbolically, Joseph is the past of Egypt.  The past of a nation which welcomed those in need, allowed for second chances, gave out food to those who were suffering and hungry, and planned ahead for the ravages of an unpredictable climate.  That’s who Joseph was: a patriot for his adopted nation, working hard to ensure his home’s success, and the success of all who lived there. 
When the text tells us that the king didn’t know Joseph, it’s talking about a king who didn’t respect the ideals of the past, a king who didn’t care what progress had been made, because he knew better than anyone what had to be done and how to do it.  He had a vision of an Egypt made for Egyptians, hearkening back to a time and a reality that probably didn’t even exist.  This Pharaoh solidified his control and power by casting an immigrant population as the other, demeaning them, scaring his populace on account of them, and ultimately enslaving them and condemning the baby boys to death.  A new king, a new kingdom.  Make Egypt Great Again!
In the face of such a power grab, upending generations of norms of behavior and tacit rules of governing and coexistence, how is one to respond?  How should the Israelites respond to their new reality?  How can they work to redeem themselves from the nightmare that has befallen them?  The Torah, again demanding, begging, us to see its continuing relevance, provides us with two blueprints of a response.  Two reactions, a generation apart, that teach us that our tradition recognizes that we are called to stand up when we witness injustice.  Reactions that teach us that we are called to work for immediate response, and long term change.  Reactions from two very different places, with the same intention of resistance. 
When we read that Pharaoh decrees that the Hebrew boys are to be killed, we read that Pharaoh himself comes to see the midwives, the women who help deliver the babies, to give them the instructions that the boys are to be killed and the girls are to live.  But, the Torah tells us, “The Midwives, fearing God, did not do as the king of Egypt had told them; they let the boys live.”  A simple sentence belying a powerful response. The midwives stand up against a law they know is unjust.  They resist the imposition of a decree that they know to be against God’s plan.  They don’t allow the Pharaoh to meddle in the Israelite women’s personal healthcare decisions.  
We read next that Pharaoh comes to see them, demanding to know why they’re not doing what he commanded.  They make up a story about the Israelite women’s cunning and strength, saying that they don’t even know about the births before they happen.  Rather than Pharaoh throwing the midwives to jail or executing them, we read that God dealt well with them. 
Moreover, we know that these women are to be noticed for this first recorded act of civil disobedience, for even though we only read of their story via a handful of verses in the Torah, we learn their names, Shifra and Puah.  Because of its rarity, when a woman in the Torah is named, it teaches us that she is to be noticed, payed attention to.  These women put their lives on the line to disobey a law they see as unjust, and our tradition recognizes the valiant nature of their actions by telling us their names.
A generation after the midwives, only a few verses in the Torah, we read of Moses, who would work not just against one unjust law, but against the entire corrupt system.  He doesn’t come to it naturally or immediately.
In the animated Midrash Prince of Egypt, we see Moses’s nightmare where he begins to learn the truth about what happened some 20 years earlier with the decree concerning the baby boys.  His nightmare is confirmed when the Pharaoh explains why he did what he did.  Moses at this point begins to truly learn who he is and where he comes from.  He begins to see that though he has benefitted from the regime, he is no longer comfortable with what it stands for, and so he runs away.  Even many years later, Moses is not quite ready to hear the call to fight against what he knows in his heart and soul to be unjust.
Moses, in our Torah portion, speaks to God for the first time at the burning bush.  God calls on him to lead the people against Pharaoh, to bring them out of bondage, toward freedom and the promise of the covenant made with Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, Sarah Rebecca, Rachel and Leah.  But Moses doesn’t want it.  He doesn’t see himself in that role.  He’s not a rabble rouser.  He fled that place and is content with his sheep.  Time and again, Moses tells God that he is not the right one to speak out.  He doesn’t have the right words.  They won’t believe him.  He’s just a shepherd.  He’s not the right guy to lead this revolution.  But God insists. 
God tells Moses that he will not be alone, God will be at his side, and he will have help from Aaron as well.  Moses, reluctantly, assumes the mantle of leader of the resistance.  Unlike the midwives, he is not just tasked with disobeying a single law or ordinance, he is sent to upend the system and bring God’s people out toward the Promised Land, to serve God and be a kingdom of priests.  
It won’t be easy.  It will take weeks of work, overcoming the Israelites’ skepticism, working with Aaron in the face of a recalcitrant Pharaoh who seems to take pleasure in toying with the Israelites lives, because he can.  It will take miracles and marvels, God’s outstretched arm and mighty hand, and attempt after attempt to persuade the Pharaoh.  Even once that happens, it will take a generation to undo the damage to the Isrelites’ psyche.  We all know how it ends.
Moses is reluctant to speak out.  “Who am I?” he says.  What can I do?  This scene is about more than Moses’s humility.  God wants us to recognize that if we all were to take Moses’s first instinct and run with it (or, as Moses does, run away with it) nothing would ever change for the better.  Even if the work ahead is hard, we can’t simply give up before we even try.  We cannot desist from the work even if we don’t think we’ll complete it.  We must take the first step and say we will commit to bringing about redemption.
When we are willing to commit ourselves to working toward that redemption, we have taken the first step in upending corrupt systems.  The first step toward that redemption is indeed a divine call.  And that call comes from our tradition through the prophets who time and again remind us to take care of the least fortunate, feed those who need it and heal those who are sick.
God wants us to take those first steps toward redemption by saying that we will be counted when necessary, marching alongside those who will fight back against unjust rule, a rule that focuses on the few and not the many.  A rule that sees some as better than others, and institutes that into law. A rule that seeks to institute its own prerogative over the welfare of the population. 
What will be our moment at the Burning Bush?  Will we respond when we see injustice in our midst?  Will we fight back like the midwives?  Will we, like Moses, question our place until God insists?  Will we take our God commanded place in the bringing of redemption?  
One of the subtle changes that Reform liturgy makes is in our Amidah, where rather than describing God as mevi go’el, the bringer of The Redeemer, we say, mevi ge’ulah, the Bringer of Redemption.  This change was instituted because don’t believe we’re waiting for one person to redeem us.  There is no sense in awaiting one person when there is all this work to do.  We’re actually not waiting for anyone but ourselves to take up the mantle of redeeming this world.  We are all supposed to work toward it together, hand in hand, heeding God’s call and command to love our neighbors as ourselves, to be holy, as God is holy, and to seek out and pursue justice. 
May we all hear the call, and respond.

Shabbat Shalom

Thursday, October 13, 2016

Yom Kippur Morning: Embracing the Wilderness

Near the top of my life’s to-do list is to take a road trip to the Southwest of the United States.  I’ve never been out that way, or seen that part of the country.  I’ve always wanted to see the Grand Canyon, and I love the desert.  I’m not sure what it is about a desert, maybe it’s the vastness.  Maybe it’s the openness.  There’s a sense of infinity and a sense of minuteness.  There’s a sense of timelessness and a sense of eternity.  There’s a sense that I’m as far from where I’ve come as I can be, and as far as I will be to my destination.  The Jewish people have a special relationship with the midbar, the wilderness, the space and time in between where we’ve been and where we’re going, when we’re neither here nor there.  But it is on those journeys and in the midst of the wilderness that we become who we are.

Our relationship with the wilderness starts all the way back with Abraham who is called by God to go from his land, from his family to the place that God will show him.[1]  We don’t read much of Abraham’s journey in the Torah.  He’s asked by God to go; and next thing we read, Abraham’s in Canaan.  Abraham had to truly trust God to embark on a journey unsure of where he was going and what he would find when he got there.  And when he does get there, he is named for his journey, not for where he comes from.  Abraham is called a Hebrew, and this comes from the word Ivri, which means one who has traversed or passed over.  In our identity with Abraham, we are always on a journey.  We don’t know a lot about what happened to Abraham and what he encountered along the way, we do know that it is his journey that defines him. 

What the Midrash[2] teaches us is that Abraham has to leave because there is nothing left for him where he comes from.  He is harassed for believing in the one God and so must begin a journey to find his homeland.  And it is that journey which makes him who he is.

But it’s not just Abraham who derives meaning from the wilderness.  His grandson, Jacob encounters God twice in the wilderness, once fleeing his home, and once on his way back.  Jacob flees after stealing his brother Esau’s blessing and his birthright.  On the way, he has the famous vision of the ladder reaching from the ground to the heavens with angels going up and down.  God promises Jacob a few things at this moment.  God says: “Remember, I am with you: I will protect you wherever you go and will bring you back to this land. I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.  Jacob awoke from his sleep and said, ‘Surely Adonai is present in this place, and I did not know it!’”[3]   It is in the desert that Jacob comes to experience God’s presence and comes to understand God’s promise of protection and commitment to the generations.  Jacob continues, shaken: “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the abode of God, and that is the gateway to heaven.”[4]  Jacob then anoints the place with oil and names it Beit-El, God’s house.

But that is not Jacob’s only encounter in the wilderness.  Later, after his marriages and after he has amassed great wealth, he decides it’s time to go back to Canaan and try to make amends with his brother.  He separates his family and his possessions, fearing attack by Esau, and once again finds himself alone in the wilderness.  Out of nowhere, a man wrestles him. 
When he saw that he had not prevailed against him, he wrenched Jacob’s hip at its socket, so that the socket of his hip was strained as he wrestled with him.  Then he said, “Let me go, for dawn is breaking.” But he answered, “I will not let you go, unless you bless me.”  Said the other, “What is your name?” He replied, “Jacob.”  Said he, “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with beings divine and human, and have prevailed.[5]
When Jacob awakes, he again dedicates the place, this time as Peniel, meaning, “I have seen God’s face.” 

Jacob’s identity is redefined in the wilderness.  The Midrash debates who the man in the wilderness was.  Was it God?  Was it Esau?  Was it an angel?  Was it Jacob wrestling with himself?  The Torah just says ish, a man.  The vagueness is seemingly purposeful.  In the midst of the wilderness, Jacob becomes Israel after this anonymous encounter and his identity and his understanding of God will never be the same.  It is in the wilderness that Yisrael comes to be.

We read of Moses that he drives Jethro’s flock into the wilderness, to the midbar, and it is there that Moses encounters God the burning bush.[6]  It is there that Moses learns who he is to become, what he is to do, how he is to be of service and what God’s name is.  It is in the wilderness that Moses expresses who he believes he is, slow of speech, unfit for the task at hand.  But it is in the wilderness that he learns who he will become: the leader of the people, their conduit to God, the definer of the Covenant.  And it is in the wilderness that he does, indeed become that leader.

But it is also in the wilderness that the people Israel come into existence.  Our greatest story, the story that makes us who we are, the story of our Exodus, from slavery in Egypt to freedom and covenant with God in the Promised Land, is a story about the wilderness, about the journey from one place to another.  It is in the wilderness that we meet God, at Sinai.[7]  It is in the wilderness that we learn God’s commandments.  It is in the wilderness that we learn what it means to worship God, through the holidays, festivals and Shabbat.  It is in the wilderness that we build a home for God, the Mishkan, taking it with us wherever we go.  Three and a half of our five books of the Torah take place exclusively in the wilderness.  One of them is even titled B’Midbar, In the Wilderness. 

It is in the wilderness that the people make the greatest strides, though it’s not always easy.  They had no idea what to expect.  There are rebellions, complaints, and challenges of authority.  There are scenes of idolatry and lechery.  But there are also scenes of great community efforts.  Everyone gives of themselves to create the Mishkan.[8]  People are called in to make use of their talents, as well as their financing.  The people willingly accept God’s commandments.  They learn to love and revere God.  And they learn how to say goodbye and make way for the next phase of the journey. 

The message is clear.  We are a Midbar people, a wilderness people.  We are supposed to learn from it, encounter God in it, and define ourselves by it.  It’s in the in-between time, the time in the wilderness that can often define whether the journey was successful or not, not just whether we made it to our destination in one piece and on time and under budget.

As we all know, we’re in an in-between time right now at Temple Emanu-El.  We’re in our own midbar here in East Meadow.  Like Abraham, we know that we cannot stay where we are, but we don’t yet know where we’re going.  Like Jacob, we’re not 100% sure what we’re up against, but we have a sense that we’re going to come out changed, potentially with at least a different name.  Like Moses, we may not feel up to the task at hand.  Do we even know what we’re doing?  Like the people, we don’t even know what’s in store!  How will we do it?  What will we accept willingly and what will be our sources of strife?  The journey is far and when it’s done, it definitely won’t feel like it did where we came from.

Entering the wilderness doesn’t mean that we have to leave everything behind - far from it.  When Moses and the people leave Egypt, they make a point of taking Joseph’s bones with them.[9]  At the end of his life, Joseph demands on oath that his bones be brought to the land of his ancestors.[10]  Moses and the people remember this oath.  They don’t toss it aside.  It matters to them that Joseph-who founded the community in Egypt, who brought the family down to sojourn there, who rose to prominence, wealth and power-it matters to them that they follow through with his wishes.

But they are only able to do so because of an enigmatic figure, Serach bat Asher, whose name appears both in the genealogy of the tribes that come down to Egypt[11] and in the genealogy of those who left Egypt.[12]  Because her name appears in lists of people who lived more than 400 years apart, The Rabbis of old imagine Serach Bat Asher as an immortal woman, a connection to the past.  The rabbis tell us that the evil Pharaoh had Joseph’s bones submerged and hidden in the Nile, since he knew that the Israelites could not leave without them.[13]  Well, soon no one remembered where to find the bones, except Serach Bat Asher.  She remembers because she was there.  She holds on to that memory and makes sure to speak up when it’s needed.  The people cannot and will not leave without their connection to the past, without upholding their oath to the community’s founder.  Serach provides the necessary knowledge of the past.

What will be our Joseph’s bones?  What will we be sure not to leave behind?  Who will we look to for those memories, so that we are sure to remember and recall where we came from and the oaths we made to our forefathers?

On the other hand, think of how far we’ve come already.  So many are pitching in and giving of their considerable talents.  We have a leadership with vision, dedication, and communication.  And we are a community that comes together and comes through when asked.  Above all, we have our devotion to God and to each other.  By recognizing our place in the wilderness, we can use it to our advantage.  We don’t have to be startled by what we encounter there if we’re ready for it.  We can make it an opportunity.  The wilderness, can often be the most creative and fruitful time, offering us the ability to shape our future home, to consider what it is we truly value that we will choose to bring with us.

There is a lot of uncertainty.  It is normal to be apprehensive.  The wilderness is scary.  We don’t know what we’re going to encounter.  What we do know is that we can use the wilderness to our advantage.  William Bridges, PhD, an expert on transition, explains that the wilderness “is not the wasted time of meaningless waiting and confusion that it can seem to be…It is a time of reorientation and redefinition... It is the winter during which the spring’s new growth is taking shape under the earth.”[14]  Bridges explains that it is only when we’re in the wilderness that we are forced to brainstorm for creative solutions.  It’s in the wilderness that the answers for the origin and the destination cannot work, and so creativity abounds.[15]

God seemed to work the same way, recognizing that the in between times, the times of transition, can be the most creatively creative.  It took God 6 days to create the world.  On the seventh day, God rested.  But, Pirke Avot teaches us that “ten things were created on the eve of the first Shabbat, at twilight.”[16]  This term twilight, in Hebrew is bein hashmashot, literally between the suns.  And it was understood by the rabbis of old to be a time of mystical significance.  The objects that God creates at this time, neither day nor night, neither weekday or Shabbat, have important significance.  Pirke Avot goes on to list the 10 things. The mouth of the Earth that swallowed Korach; the mouth of the well of Miriam, the mouth of the donkey that spoke to Balaam;  the rainbow; the mannah; Moses’ staff; the worm that helped to build the Temple; the writing; the letters; and finally the tablets of the Commandments.  Each of these had a purpose, and each of these has a lesson for us, challenging our creativity through God’s most creative moment.  Each of these can push us to make our time in the midbar as creative and rewarding as possible.

The mouth of the Earth that swallowed Korach.  Korach led a rebellion against Moses,[17] Aaron and the organized priesthood, demanding that he be allowed to present an offering to God.  God arranges for a test, and Korach and his crew all present a fire to God.  God causes the earth to open and all of the rebels are swallowed.  While this is not an easy vignette in the Torah, it does show us that sometimes we need to do away with whatever might be holding us back.  What is an impediment to our continuing the journey and fulfilling our vision and our mission? 

The Mouth of the Well.  It is said that Miriam was the source of water in the wilderness.[18]  Wherever Miriam went, the Midrash teaches us, the well followed her.  This is why many people include a Miriam’s cup on their seder tables at Passover, and why we fill that cup with water.  The mouth of the well reminds us that sometimes it’s about perspective.  It contrasts to the mouth that swallowed Korach.  Both openings in the earth are called a mouth, pi, to show us that there is more than one way to look at everything.  Will we look at what we have in front of us and see a curse or a blessing?

The final mouth of this group is the mouth of Balaam’s Donkey.[19]  Balaam was a Moabite diviner, sent to curse the Israelites, when his donkey gets in his way, due to God’s intervention.  The donkey ends up speaking to Balaam and that’s when he finally sees the angel of God.  Rather than curse the people, Balaam ends up blessing them, ultimately using words we are familiar with from the opening of each service.  “Mah Tovu, how wonderful are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places O Israel!”[20]  This is a blessing of community.  Balaam looks upon the Israelite community and can do nothing but bless them.  How will we devise a community worthy of blessing?

The Rainbow.  God sets the rainbow in the sky as a sign that God will not destroy the world again.[21]  It is a reminder of the covenant between God and humanity.  What covenants will we make as we move through our midbar and how will we work to renew our covenant with God?

The Manna.  God provides manna to the people to gather in the wilderness when they have nothing else to eat.[22]  God nourishes, but does so with a focus on the individual.  There are legends that the manna tasted different to every person.  God nourishes, but does so fairly.  The Manna was available every day, except on Shabbat everyone got two portions.  On every other day, if you gathered more than your portion, it would spoil, rot or disappear.[23]  Everyone got what they needed, but it was special for everyone.  What will we gather that nourishes our souls?  How will we work to ensure everyone is treated fairly, yet also valued for what makes them special? 

The Staff of Moses began as a simple staff of the shepherd.  It became the conduit of the power of God.  The humble can become magnificent!  But more than that, the staff was the symbol of Moses’ authority, his role as leader of the people.  He used that staff to part the waters at the Red Sea.[24]  But he also used it to ram the rock for water, an action which leads to his being barred from entry into the Promised Land.[25]  Who will we put into positions of authority through this time of transition and what kind of leader will we demand that they be?

The shamir was the worm that was used to help build Solomon’s Temple.  Solomon was to build a Temple of Peace dedicated to the one God, and so no tools that could be used for war or bloodshed could be used in the building, which means no iron or copper tools.[26]  Legend has it that this small worm, when placed on stone, would eat through and break it open as easy as we open a book.  This worm was used to build the holiest site, and to build it in a manner that did not desecrate its holiness.  This is a creative solution to how to build a place to worship God.  What creative solutions will we be able to come up with for our ritual questions as we move through the wilderness? 

The writing and the letters are about the words of Torah.  The Letters means the actual shape of the letters.  The Writing, according to some commentaries, was the black fire on white fire that was the Torah as it was handed to Moses on Sinai.  The black fire was the words.  The white fire was the space in between.  You cannot have one without the other.  These two creations from twilight are about our love of text and our tradition.  How will we use our time in the wilderness to reconnect to our sacred stories?  How will we look to them for wisdom?    The White fire is what we bring to the story.  What fire will we carry that emblazons onto our story and adds to its depth, its meaning, and its importance?

Finally, the last thing created by God, as twilight transitioned into the day of rest was the tablets of the 10 commandments.  These tablets were inscribed with writing that could be seen by all, from all sides, from all eyes at all times.  Everyone was included.  These tablets contained the most important rules for how to live in society with others.  One group of rules for how we are to interact with God.  One group for how we interact with each other.  As Yom Kippur reminds us, both of these types of relationships take work, time, and effort.  We cannot apologize to God for wrongs we have committed against our neighbors.  We are commanded to apologize directly to those neighbors.  How will we use the time in the midbar to work to find that sense of commandedness when it comes to the most basic ethical rules of our culture?

All these creations have significance and offer lessons on being creative during this time in between, in the wilderness, on our journey.  Whatever you want to call it, we, as a community, are in it.  How we work within it is entirely up to us.  Will we take the opportunity that is granted to us so that the next generation may have an easier time of it?  Will we take the opportunity that has been granted to us to emulate God in our creativity?  Will we take the opportunity to recommit to our community and see the journey through?  It is tempting to want to be at the end, just to get to the end, but even when the Israelites make it to the border of the Promised Land, they’re not done yet.  There’s another book of the Torah waiting, with instruction so that they are fully ready and prepared when we step foot into the Promised Land.

Though the wilderness is wide, and can be scary and intimidating, it is a place of deep meaning and power.  It is also a place of great creativity.  Let us embrace it together so that we may come out the other side changed for the better!

G’mar Chatimah Tovah.



[1] After Genesis 12
[2] Pirke De Rabbi Eliezer, and others.
[3] Genesis 28:15-16
[4] Ibid 17
[5] Ibid 32:26-29
[6] After Exodus 3
[7] Exodus 20
[8] After Terumah
[9] Inspired by Bridges, William: Getting them Through the Wilderness, p 8
[10] Genesis 50:25
[11] Genesis 46:17
[12] Numbers 26:46
[13] BT Sotah 13a, and others
[14] Bridges, William.  Managing Transition 3rd edition p 43.
[15] Bridges, William. Getting them Through the Wilderness, p 16
[16] Avot 5:6
[17] After Numbers 16
[18] Commentary to Chukkat
[19] See Numbers 22-24
[20] Numbers 24:5
[21] See Parshat Noach
[22] Exodus 16
[23] After Exodus 16:20
[24] See Exodus 14-15
[25] See Numbers 20
[26] See 1 Kings 6:7, Sotah 48b