The Silent Journey

When God called Abraham to
GO!
Abraham was silent.
He was also silent when God told him
to take his son up a mountain
and sacrifice him there.

I think I get it now.

We question Abraham’s silence
during these trials
because so often he is chatty with God.
He has so much to say.
He is unafraid to challenge.

But these journey’s render him mute
and I as well.

I have no words on the eve of my own Exodus.
I have spent them all on goodbyes.
I used them up trying to explain the inexplicable.
“This is crazy!” they probably said to Abe as well.
I wonder how long he tried to explain it before he gave up.

And frankly, I’m too tired to think of words,
even words of prayer,
even wails of lamentation.
All of that came before.
Now, I am just tired.
Now, my heart is heavy.

I’ll bet Abraham was tired too.
I’ll bet his leaving was also abrupt and hurried.
God is more fearsome than even the U.S. government
after all.

But anyway.

I understand his silence.
It mirrors my own.
I don’t want to speak.
Not even to God.
Not now.

Now I just want to begin.
To move my tired feet forward
step by step
toward whatever I am being sent to.
A place neither familiar nor foreign.
Home and Not-Home.
Ancient and New.

It is Sukkot and I am wandering
between places
between homes
neither here nor there.
Everything is in boxes.
Everything is temporary.

Were they silent too,
as they left home to go home?

And did they know what I am learning:
That home is not a place you leave
or journey toward
or arrive at;
Home is what you carry in your heart.
The people
The animals
The memories
The lessons

Empty mouth. Full Heart.

And away we go.

EKG’15

6 Elul: Know & Console

Studying about the 6th day of Elul in 60 Days: A Spiritual Guide to the High Holidays by Simon Jacobson, I am struck, once again, at the brilliance of the structure of Jewish time.

Jacobson reminds me that this first week of Elul is the fourth week in the Seven Weeks of Consolation that began after Tisha B’Av. Jacobson teaches the midrashic explanation of the progression of these seven weeks as a dialogue between us and God.

Week One: God sends the prophets to console the people after the destruction of the temple. (“‘Be conforted, be comforted, my people,’ says your God” – Isaiah 40:1)

Week Two: The people ask why God is sending comfort through the prophets instead of comforting them directly. (“And Zion said: God has forsaken me; my God has forgotten me” – Isaiah 49:14)

Week Three: The prophets tell God that the people are not comforted. (“O afflicted, storm-tossed, unconsoled one…” – Isaiah 54:11)

Week Four: (this first week of Elul) God begins comforting the people directly. (“It is I, I am The One Who comforts you…” – Isaiah 51:12)

Week Five: God’s consolation intensifies (“Sing out, O barren one, who has not given birth, break out into glad song and be jubilant…” – Isaiah 54:1)

Week Six: God’s consolation becomes more powerful and profound. (“Arise! Shine! For your light has arrived and the glory of God has shined upon you.” – Isaiah 60:1)

Week Seven: The people rejoice in God’s consolation (“I will rejoice intensely with God, my soul shall exult with my God…” – Isaiah 61:10)

Jacobson teaches that the reason God does not console the people from the beginning is to remind us that we have the power to console one another. “One vulnerable person can console another,” Jacobson writes, “It is a great gift that one person can give to antoher.”

And once we are consoled, we are then ready for the renewal and rebirth that comes with the New Year.

Jewish time, the wisdom of the rabbis in structuring it in such a way and framed by such texts – it is nothing short of brilliant.

Most people are not easily comforted. Most painful situations are ones that require comfort over time. Someone who tells you they’re sorry for what you’re going through but does not check in to see how you are doing a week or a month later has probably failed to comfort you. I know that I have a hard time accepting comfort and that I am not always as generous as I could be in seeking out opportunities to offer comfort to others. It is on my list of things to work on in the coming year.

At the same time, I am immensely grateful for those who know how to comfort me, those who remember to check in on me, and those who allow me to comfort them in their times of suffering. Jacobson is so right, it is a gift we give each other. I will endeavor to remember that. I will continue to teach it in his name.

Pulling ourselves out of grief takes time. The period of mourning that preceded Tisha B’Av, where we allow ourselves to descend into sorrow – that’s only a few weeks. It takes longer to come through to the other side; to comfort and be comforted. Seven weeks, with the hope of renewal at the end of it – a light shining, beckoning us to work through the pain and believe in our ability to work for a better next time around.

I’ll be honest. Today I had a hard time feeling optimistic about the future. Luckily, it’s only Week Four. I have a few more weeks to get my head in the game; to find strength in the comfort of friends, family and community, and to find strength in my ability to comfort others in turn.

It is Week Four.
Jacobson says that I can expect God to begin comforting me directly.
It is Shabbat.
If I can open myself to experiencing God’s comfort, what better day to start?

5 Elul: Accept

Accept
that this year probably won’t go as expected;
that your family won’t suddenly be less disfunctional;
that true change –
t’shuva
requires hard work and not just best intentions.

Accept
that you cannot go back;
that you don’t get a re-do;
that you can only move forward and
hope
that you might do better next time a similar set of circumstances
present themselves.

Accept
that not everyone who hurt you will appologize;
that not everyone you’ve hurt has told you that you hurt them;
that some of them will appologize and then hurt you again
and that you will likely do the same.

Accept your humanity
and theirs.

Accept
that this year may be your last;
that you need to treat it as if it were;
with humility and courage and realistic expectations.
Accept
that this year may not be your last;
that you won’t get it right either way;
that you will make some old mistakes and some new ones.

Accept who you are.
Then keep bettering yourself.
And then
accept
that you will still be you
and still need more bettering
tomorrow.

1 Elul

Breathe in.
A new beginning is on the horrizon,
fast approaching,
ready or not.

Breathe out.
It is okay to be anxious.
There is much that is unknown.
It is okay to question:
Will you make it through?

Breathe in.
Elul tells us it’s time to prepare;
brace yourself;
pace yourself;
steady and ready yourself;
A new beginning is coming.
Time is running out.

Breathe out.
This is not the first year,
the first change,
the first time
you’ve had to start over.
Make your lists;
you know how this goes.

Breathe.
You can be ready.
You can make it through.
You know the steps.
You know the tune.
You can do this.

Elul doesn’t mean to terrify us,
just to warn us:
This time is coming to a close.
A new time is heading our way.
Move toward it.
Embrace it.
What choice do you have?

Breathe.

Why I’m Going: As I Prepare to March

What bothered me most about last years cinematic representation of the march from Selma to Montgomery was the absence of the rabbis.

During the Civil Right’s movement, as you know, prominent Reform and Conservative rabbis became public civil rights activists, speaking out to their congregations, marching with Rev. Dr. King, and getting arrested at demonstrations (sometimes to the disapproval of their congregants and/or denominational leadership). Among the most famous was Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, whose photo marching arm in arm with King in Selma in 1965 has become an iconic image of Jewish civil rights activism, and whose description of that march as “praying with my legs” is often quoted by Jewish activists.

In the movie however, as I’ve mentioned in the past, there is no Heschel standing next to Dr. King, although there was a quick flash of a kippah in the crowd. This bothers me for two reasons. To begin with, the way that Heschel and other rabbis put themselves literally on the line during the Civil Rights Movement has had a deep impact on my own Jewish identity and my understanding of Judaism’s call to fight for a just world, not only for ourselves but for everyone. I didn’t just feel like Heschel and the other rabbis were missing from the story, I felt that I was missing from the story.

The second reason their absence bothered me, is that it seemed like a wasted opportunity in terms of educating today’s youth about the role of Reform Jews in the Civil Right’s Movement. These days especially, as we find ourselves facing renewed fears of increased or visible Antisemitism in the world around us, it seems all the more important to take advantage of a little good PR when we can get it, and to find ways to teach others about the good we do in the world. It makes me sad to think that there may be young people today who don’t realize that a large part of what it means to be Jewish is to fight for the rights of others, and that indeed, Jews have done this in marked ways in the past, and in prominent moments in America’s history especially.

The Reform Movement has publicly supported civil rights since the beginning of the 20th century, first coming out against lynching in 1899 and passing resolutions throughout the 1950s and 1960s (and beyond), asserting their commitment to civil rights and racial justice. I was surprised to learn recently however, that Civil Rights activism was often more complicated for rabbis in the South than for their northern counterparts. Southern rabbis generally supported racial equality in principle, but were concerned about the practical implications of taking a public stand against segregation and for civil rights. A rabbi’s public support of civil rights, it was feared, might strengthen the segregationists’ claim that Jews threatened the southern way of life, and could put the Jewish community in economic and physical danger.

Jews in the South were facing discrimination of their own, with several communities experiencing the boycott of Jewish businesses and sadly, some synagogue bombings as well. Thus, the social position of Jews in the south was precarious –they were accepted as part of the social fabric of “White America”, but they were also seen as different. They had to work hard to fit in, and many Jews were reluctant to take action that would set them apart from the other white community leaders. They felt they needed to assure their own equality and security first. And some even went so far as to call segregation a “Christian problem”, punting the issue over to their Christian colleagues.

Although I cannot know what it is like to be a rabbi in such a time and place, I was saddened and disturbed to learn about this. Even though I can imagine someone making a similar claim today – that now is a time to lay low and not call extra attention to ourselves – I, personally,  would much rather stand up and demonstrate what Judaism is all about as a way to push back against Antisemitism, than bury my head in the sand and hope the storm passes. Racism or inequality of any kind is not a Christian problem. It is also not a political problem. It is an American problem, a human problem, and, I deeply believe, a Jewish problem.
Which is why, when the call came late last month, I was quick to answer.

The NAACP has organized America’s Journey for Justice, an historic 860-mile march from Selma to Washington D.C. In response, the Reform Movement, in keeping with our long history of involvement, partnership and collaboration with the NAACP, has quickly mobilized rabbis from around the country to participate so that our presence and support will not only be felt throughout the march, but will be visible on each day, as rabbis will take turns carrying a Torah scroll throughout the 40 day journey. Even though the call for action came at short notice, and even though the last days of the march lead right into Rosh Hashanah, 150 rabbis have already signed up to participate and more are joining every day. Each morning of the march, 2-3 rabbis will receive the Torah from the rabbis who marched the day before and will carry it forward, thus carrying the Jewish values that compel us to stand with our neighbors and fight for racial justice and equality.

I am incredibly proud to share that on August 12, this Wednesday, I will receive the Torah with two other rabbis and will carry it through an area of Georgia near Atlanta, participating with my own hands, feet and heart, in this historic event.

This 40 day march, this Journey for Justice, is focused on racial and structural inequality. Together we will be marching under the banner, “Our Lives, Our Votes, Our Jobs and Our Schools Matter”. The march is a peaceful protest advocating for economic and educational equity, voter rights, reform to the criminal justice system, and an end to racial profiling and police brutality. Yesterday was the 50th anniversary of the Voting Rights Act, a key piece of legislation designed to protect voting rights and prohibit discriminatory voting practices. And yet, despite this historic anniversary, there is still much work to be done as we continue to see racial disparities all across the nation, from the streets to the voting booths.

As we mourn the death of Michael Brown, just about a year ago today, we recognize that marching will not bring him back, but we hope it may be one step in ending the cycle of brutality in our country that has taken his and so many other lives. These steps we are taking – 40 days of steps; 860 miles of steps – are important steps toward acknowledging the humanity, dignity and equality of all Americans. Hopefully they will be just the first of many more steps to come.

Rabbis Organizing Rabbis, a joint partnership of URJ’s Religious Action Center and the Central Conference of American Rabbis, sent out this statement just last week:

Why do we march?

We march because we say enough. Enough of the tragedies. Enough of the subtle and overt racism. Enough of standing by. We march not only in the name of those whose deaths woke up our nation’s consciousness, but for the millions of others whose loss of life, loss of home, and loss of dignity never made a headline. Our hearts break for the world as it is–parched by oppression–constant, crushing, and unacceptable. We remember the slavery and oppression that bloodied our own past even as we recognize the privilege into which many of us were born. We, therefore, march arm-in-arm with other people of faith in our humble attempt to live up to our tradition’s demand to be rodfei tzedek, pursuers of justice, equality, and freedom. We feel called by our God, our tradition and our consciences to march. At the same time, we know that simply marching in this remarkable forty-day Journey to Justice is not enough. We march for the forty-first day, the one-hundred and twentieth (day), and the years and generations to come. We march, as our ancestors taught us, to get from Egypt—the world as it is, filled with injustice—to the Promised Land. We march toward a vision of this land’s promise: our world redeemed, overflowing with chesed, tzedek, umishpat—compassion, justice and righteousness. 

On Wednesday, I will be marching with this vision at the front of my mind and my heart. On that day, I will be marching in the name of those Southern rabbis who did take action even when it wasn’t the popular thing to do, like Rabbi Perry Nussbaum of Jackson, MS, who survived the bombing of his synagogue and home, as well as an attempted removal by some of his own congregants who did not agree with his public stances on civil rights issues; I will be marching in the name of Rabbi Heschel, along with Rabbis William G Braude, Saul Leeman, and Nathan Rosen, who came to Alabama to march with Dr. King; and I will be marching in the name of the 17 rabbis who were arrested in St. Augustine in 1964 (some of whom became my teachers at rabbinical school 40 years later).

In a joint letter entitled “Why We Went”, those 17 rabbis wrote, “Each of us has, in this experience, become a little more the person, a bit more the rabbi he always hoped to be (but has not yet been able to become. . .We came to stand with our brothers and in the process have learned more about ourselves and our God.”

I too, am looking forward to Wednesday as a day when I will become a little more the person and a bit more the rabbi I have always hoped to be but have not yet been able to become. I too hope to learn more about myself and my God through physically and personally acting for what I believe in.

I march for equality; I march to maintain the history of Jewish involvement in Civil Rights that I care so deeply about; I march for myself that I may practice what I preach; and I march for you, my community, in the hopes that you might join me on this march, or on some march in the future; that you might follow my example and take up the call for justice; and that you might see our contemporary issues of equality and justice not as political issues, but as Jewish issues, and engage with them for the sake of Torah and the betterment of our world.

May each of us march on proudly; May our world be healed one step at a time.
Kein Yehi Ratzon.

Scenes from Sci-Tech: Moments of Jewish Learning

It is Thursday evening and we are in a building called French. We are seven 10^th graders (7 boys, 3 girls), 1 counselor, 2 members of the leadership and 1 rabbi. The title of the program is Hineni: Now What? I had nothing to do with the name of this program. It wasn’t my idea at all. Here at Sci Teach, the faculty are rarely the driving force behind the integration of Jewish learning and camp. It’s quite incredible actually; the staff and leadership, following Director Greg Kellner’s lead, see Jewish learning as inseparable from the rest of camp life. They take the initiative to speak about and model the Jewish values of camp, along with a  healthy and unusually high dose of menschlechite while the faculty look on with pride and stand ready to jump in with resources and teachings as needed.

So there we were, in French, heading into a program that one of our fabulous leadership staff had thought of; a program that would give our eldest campers a chance to explore their questions about growing up, their fears about the future, all within the context of where Judaism fits into those conversations post-B’nai Mitzvah. Hineini means not just “I am here” but “I am fully present”. And the campers definitely were. Using a website that allowed the campers to answer questions honestly and annonimously, we were able to engage them in a deep, powerful and meaningful discussion about their questions. Slowly they began to open up to one another and to us. It was incredible to see them taking the conversation seriously and supporting one another’s questions about and hopes for the future.

I sat quietly through most of the program. Devon and Brett, the leadership in charge of the program, are Jewish educators and full-blown mensches in their own right. It was beautiful to hear them reassuring their campers about the future, sharing their wisdom about how to find happiness and love-of-self, and steering the conversation smoothly from anxiety about the future to excitement about the future.

My favorite moments were hear the campers talk about how URJ 6 Points Sci-Tech Academy, this sacred Jewish camp,  is special to them because it’s a place where they feel comfortable asking questions they might not be able to ask anywhere else. They know they will not be laughed at. They know someone will be able to relate. And they know they will get answers. It was incredible to hear them share this with us and it was a beautiful lead-in for Brett, Devon and I to remind them that in addition to nurturing their physical and emotional selves, camp is one of many Jewish communities that can give them a place to nurture their spiritual selves (this being Sci-Tech, we called it their “spiritual IQs”. Of course).  The campers nodded thoughtfully. This was something they already knew; something camp had already opened them up to; something they will hopefully remember when they are back out in the “real world”, looking for a place to bring their spiritual questions and nurture their “spiritual IQs”.

Flash forward to Saturday and I am teaching my Shabbat “Shelective”. There are 13 campers ranging in age who have chosen “Stump the Rabbi” over a variety of other Shabbat elective options including nature walks, international charossetmaking, and “Aliens, A.I., and The Big Questions”. Along with 2 counselors, we sit in a circle in one of the science labs (at this camp, there is no better setting for the deep theological questions about to be asked and considered). Although the class was called “Stump the Rabbi”, most of the campers were not there to trip me up. From the youngest child in the room to the oldest, each came with a serious and well-thought-out question, and each participated with seriousness and thoughtfulness as they assisted me in trying to answer one another’s question. We discussed the intersection of God and science, creationism vs. evolution, Jewish views of the afterlife, why God chose the specific geographic location of the Land of Israel for the Jewish people to have, where Adam and Eve (Chava) got their names, and questions about some of our prayer rituals and choreography. Until the very last question, we were able to answer one another’s questions. No one was stumped. It was a fantastic way to spend a Shabbat morning. Serious questioning and discussion. We might even have had a little fun!

And then, the inevitable: “Rabbi, what is the meaning of life.”

. . .

Anyone else want to weigh in on that one?

 

Day 4: The Upside of Sorrow (Tammuz 21)

Morris Adler writes, in A Modern Treasury of Jewish Thought (ed. Sidney Greenberg):

Our sorrow can bring understanding as well as pain, breadth as well as the contradiction that comes with pain. Out of love and sorrow can come a compassion that endures. The needs of others hitherto unnoticed, the anxieties of neighbors never before realized, now come into the ken of our experience, for our sorrow has opened our life to the needs of others. A bereavement that brings us into the lives of our fellowmen writes a fitting epilogue to a love that had taught us kindliness, and forbearance and had given us so much joy.

Sorrow can enlarge the domain in our life, so that we may now understand the trivialty of the things many pursue. We havve had in our hands a noble and refined measure for judging the events and objects we daily see. What is important is not luxury but love; not wealth but wisdom; not gold but goodness . . .

Our sorrow may so clear our vision . . . [and] out of that vision will come a sense of obligation. A duty, solemn, sacred and significant, rests upon us. To spread the love we have known to others. To share the joy which has been ours. To ease the pains which man’s thoughtlessness or malice inflicts. We have a task to perform. There is work to be done and in work there is consolation.

Out of love may come sorrow. But out of sorrow can come light for others who dwell in darkness. And out of the light we bring to others will come light for ourselves – the light of solice, of strength, of transfiguring and consecrating purpose.

Sorrow is not always keenly felt. Sometimes it simply lies beneath the surface while we go about our daily lives. We can feel it, beneath, if we reach for it, but it is not crippling. We can get up in the morning and almost forget that it’s there. Almost.

Living with grief this way, for three weeks, for a month, for a year, for years… no one would say it was preferable. No one would wish it upon themselves. But there are upsides to sorrow – the ones Adler describes and more. I know the pain in my own life has made me better able to bear witness to the pain of others. I know grief has made me more empathetic.

There are clouds. There are silver-linings.

Some days we can’t see beyond the clouds.

Other days, the silver-linings shine bright.

Day 2: Resignation

Greif is (often but not always) preceded by either shock, or resignation.

When it’s a new grief, a new loss, shock is what paves the way – surprise over losing something precious. Then the implications of the loss begin to set in (and thus the grief).

But when we are mourning something anew, mourning it again, or mourning something similar to what we’ve mourned before, resignation is what announces that grief is on the way. A melancholy sets in. Oh this. Yes. I know this. I know what’s coming and it’s not going to be fun.

We feel a space open up inside us where once something else was. And at first, it’s just an awareness of the emptyness. Oh yes. I no longer have what I once had. I will soon feel something more sharp than emptiness. All the feels are heading my way.

We brace ourselves; resign ourselves; take a deep breath and sink a little deeper down.

Sometimes, if it’s not a new loss or a tragic loss, we can push through the resignation – maybe even delay the sharper sting of grief for a while. But on the 18th of Tammuz, day 2 of our 3 weeks of obligatory mourning, the resignation is as inevitable as the rest of it. Oh yes. These three weeks have begun. And they won’t be the best three weeks. They will be hard and sad and dark weeks. And then they will be over.

Deep breath. Another step down on the intentional spiral toward Sheol. We are not there yet. Not quite in the depths of The Pit. But we sense it on the horrizon. We feel its chill, its darkness, creeping towards us. And we hunch ourselves against the despair we know is soon to envelope us, and sigh. It’s coming. Soon it will be here. The titlewave of grief. And we will ride it and survive it as we have always done.

I feel the heaviness descending.

I can only pray that, like wightlifting, these burdens will bring me a renewed spiritual strength. As I take another step down.

The Intentional Downward Spiral

This weekend, America celebrates. And with good reason.

But tonight, I was reminded that in another calendar – OUR calendar – the Hebrew calendar – tomorrow night begins a day of fasting. Sunday is the 17th of Tammuz. Tzom Tammuz, or the Fast of Tammuz, recalls the breaching of the walls of Jerusalem before the 2nd Temple was destroyed. But more than that, Tzom Tammuz marks the beginning of an intentional period of collective and communal grieving. Between now and the 9th of Av (Tisha B’Av), for three weeks, the Jewish people spiral downward into grief – on purpose! Though the world is sunny and bright around us, our liturgy and Haftarah portions and fasts and rituals take us deeper into darkness and despair; into Sheol, The Pit. And only as the 9th of Av comes to an end, do we begin to climb back out again.

For someone like me, who has struggled against grief and despair for much of her life (with a disproportionate amount in particular these last 7 years), this idea of an intentional descent into Sheol is both horrifying and facinating. Instead of fighting grief and fighting to overcome grief, we embrace it; we choose it; we immerse in it – knowing that it will not be unending; knowing that at the end of three weeks there will be respite and light and release.

For those of us who know grief well, we know that you never really get to choose when it rears its ugly head, or when it might leave again. Grief is not timebound. It comes when it comes and it leaves when it leaves and you are not in control. And yet, Jewish tradition responds to mourning with timebound structures. You have 7 days to fall apart, and then 30 days to ease back into the world, and then a year to live with one foot in the world of mourning and one foot in whatever else life brings your way. And then an annual day to mark the grief, and remember, before moving on again.

And those of us who know grief, know it’s not that simple. Grief doesn’t follow the Jewish calendar. It doesn’t dissipate just because your 7 or 30 or 365 days are up. And yet, Jewish tradition tells us we have to move forward; choose life; find a way.

Except for these three weeks, from the 17th of Tammuz to the 9th of Av, where we choose grief; choose dispear; choose to spiral intentionally down into Sheol together. And this too, is Judaism structuring our grief – saying yes, the loss of The Temple, or the horrors that our people have endured throughout history – we could mourn them for eternity; we could lose ourselves in the grief of it all. But we won’t. We don’t get to. We get three weeks a year to fall apart and tear our clothes and sit in sackcloth and ashes, and then we have to pull ourselves back together, and pull ourselves out of The Pit. Slowly. Slowly. With comforting liturgy and Haftarot to accompany us along the way as we reeeeeach toward a new year, toward new life.

I’m a fighter. When grief pops up, I want to fight back. Even when it gets the best of me and I’m weeping, weeping in the shower or in the car or in bed, there is always a point where I take a breath and choose to fight and start to dry my tears. I reach for healing Psalms. I call a friend, or my mom. I turn on loud music and force myself to dance. But this period in the Jewish calendar forces me to wonder: what would it look like to embrace grief; to welcome it, for a set amount of time? To allow the Jewish calendar to carve out three weeks where we can weep, unabashedly, about whatever heartbreaks have befallen us along with our people. What if, for three weeks, we just let it all come; let it all come out; let ourselves take up residence in Sheol and just be. For a while. Be with our grief. Accept it. What would that look like?

I think I’m going to try it this year. I’d like to find out.

Not that you’ll find me tearing my clothes. You may not even notice it. Or perhaps you’ll find me a little quieter than usual, a little subdued. Then again, it could be that I will seem more peaceful, more resolved. I’m not sure, I’ve never quite allowed grief to take up residence before and have free reign. But I’m giving it a three-week sublet. We’ll see how it goes.

Three weeks to not appologize for grief. To not hide from it or hide it from view. Three weeks to hold it and know, that all throughout the Jewish world, we are grieving together. Three weeks to not be alone in our grief.

Tomorrow night I will go and watch the night sky light up in celebration. I will marvel with childlike glee at the fireworks, and, I will also start to take steps downward; to let myself sink; to permit a little more despair to take up residence.

It is a little frightening and yet, it is almost a relief.

So I’m giving it a three-week sublet, and we’ll see how it goes.

Solidarity Shabbat: Mourning Our Losses, Celebrating Our Wins

I am daunted by the task of speaking tonight. I feel a great weight on my shoulders.

I feel the weight of nine vibrant lives, snuffed-out. I feel the weight of expectation – the expectations that you, a diverse group with diverse opinions, have of me as your rabbi, the expectations that the Reform Movement – also diverse yet clear in its missions and values – has of me as one of their rabbinic representatives, and the expectations that I have for myself as a rabbi and as a human being.

I feel the weight of Tradition – the Reform Jewish tradition of social activism, of speaking out for justice, and the Jewish traditions that I deeply believe bring meaning and purpose to my life.

I feel the weight of the prophets standing at my back. Men and women of God who took to the streets and decried their understanding of God’s will, whether the people found it popular or repugnant. Who carries on their legacy, if not me?

And I feel the weight of Torah – the yoke of the Law, as it has been called – heavily weighing me down. How do I live with it’s values and its contradictions?  How do I reconcile its ideals with the reality of the world around me?

And finally, I feel the weight of the Priesthood, whose legacy I also carry forward – the legacy of men who enacted sacred rituals and rites in order to comfort their people.

I am daunted by the these tasks. I do not venture into this sermon easily tonight.

In the wake of tragedy, each of us struggles to respond. What are our obligations? What is our role? What are we capable of? What are we not capable of? How do we live in a world that one day is abhorrent to us and the next day inspires us?

Even when I don’t have all the answers, I seek to comfort and be comforted. But in the wake of last week’s inexcusable tragedy, I find myself floundering. Each one of us finds comfort in different ways. Some find comfort through action, while others find comfort in faith, in tradition, or simply in the loving arms of another. For me, each of these responses brings a measure of comfort, and thus, I feel torn as to which path to choose tonight.

I want to act. I am angry.

Religious intolerance, racial discrimination and hate-motivated violence have no place in our society, which aspires to be a haven for people of all faiths, races and ethnicities.

I want to do something – do whatever it takes to repair our world, to bring it one step closer to the dreams we have for it, and for ourselves. I know there are many possible actions and responses to choose from, and none of them is perfect. There are no easy answers. No action, no advocacy, will solve all our many problems. And yet, especially on this historic day of long awaited progress, how can I stand here and say that it is better not to act, even if acting is only one step, is only one problem solved at a time?

I want to preach.

I want to stand up, as my friend and colleague, Rabbi Jill Perlman did, this week, at a prayer vigil at an AME church. I want to teach, as she did, about Moses, who in last week’s parasha, called out to his brother, Aaron, get your fire pan and run – run into the midst of our people. “And Aron ran,” she wrote, “He rushed in and he stood among the people…he literally stood between the dead and the living – Vayamod bein hameitim uvein hahayyim – Aaron stood between the dead and the living in an attempt to stem the flow of blood, to prevent more people from perishing from the advancing plague.”

Rabbi Perlman goes on to teach the midrashic tradition that Aaron fought the Angel of Death on behalf of his people that day. “He stood his ground, he stood between life and death – and the plague was checked.

I want to stand my ground, like Aaron.

I want to stand next to my friend Jill – stand between life and death – and speak out against the plagues in our own society. The plagues of hate and ignorance, intolerance and complacency. I want to demand that we take more responsibility – not as as a society, not as a government, but as human beings, for providing care and help for those with mental illness, and for providing better education to counter ignorance, and I want to demand that we, as human beings, care more about the right to live than we do about the right to own.

I want to weep.

I want to wrap my arms around the historic Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church community, around those nine bereaved families, around anyone who has ever had someone they love ripped from their arms because of hate, because of ignorance, and yes, because of guns. I want to share words of condolence, such as my friend and colleague, Rabbi Jen Gubitz, wrote this week, when she shared these words:

Dear Mother Emanual, we are so profoundly saddened for your loss. We are so profoundly saddened for your losses. For thousands of years, in Jewish tradition, upon hearing of a death, we recite these words – Baruch Da’ayan Ha’emet, Blessed is the True Judge. And we tear Kriyah – we tear, rip, rend our clothing to expose our hearts. We expose our hearts breaking for you and, dare I say, with you.

I want to write sympathy card after sympathy card. I want to tell them how sorry I am and how sad I am. I want to say that while I will never understand what it is like to be African American, or to be hated simply for the color of my skin, that I do know what it is like to be a minority and to carry the weight of a history of oppression and hatred. My people too, have been enslaved. We have been hunted and murdered. We have been hated for our identity and our beliefs and our bloodlines.

I know what it is to fear that I and my loved ones might be targeted for these things. I know how it feels to want to keep my synagogue doors open and welcoming to the stranger, but to choose to keep them locked instead for fear of another Dylan Roof wandering into our midst – armed and hateful.

I want to turn to Torah and to the Wise Traditions of my people.

I want to learn from this week’s Haftarah portion, where a man named Jephthah makes a terrible vow. Jephtah wanted victory over his enemy so badly – or maybe understandably, he wanted to defend his land and his people, his home – so badly, that he makes this terrible vow: If You, God, will deliver my enemy into my hands, than in return, whatever comes forth first from the doors of my house to meet me when I return, I shall offer it up to You as a burnt offering.

Jephtah’s enemy is delivered into his hands, and when he returns home, it is his beloved daughter who first comes forth from his house to meet him. His daughter, whom he must then sacrifice in accordance to his vow.

The Torah teaches us that we must protect ourselves from those who wish to kill us. But the Torah also teaches us, here, in this story of Jephthah’s daughter, that protecting ourselves, our homes, even perhaps our very lives, can come at a steep price.

It seems almost unfair sometimes, that Jewish tradition holds, above all, the value of pikuach nefesh, the value of life. Our Sages taught: “He who takes one life it is as though he has destroyed the universe”. And yet, it is unfair, because the very same value of pikuach nefesh justifies the decision to arm ourselves against our enemies. He who saves a life, it is as if he has saved the world. How are we supposed to live with this contradiction? How are we supposed to understand it?

I wonder, with deep humility, if the trick isn’t to figure out how to do both – protect life and save life – as safely and as considerately and as fairly as possible.

The right answers are never the easy answers and Judaism has much to say about the cost of one life for the sake of the many, and about when it’s okay to kill another and when it is not. I could write a sermon a week and it would take years to work through it all; to come to some clarity. Torah is not meant to give us quick or easy answers. Torah is meant to be wrestled with; To be studied over time. We must protect life and we must figure out a way to make the world a place where we can safely turn our swords into plowshares.

And finally, I want to find comfort in faith.

I want to remember where Mother Emanuel’s name comes from. Emanuel, in Hebrew is prounounced, im anu El, God is with us. I find comfort in that, even in the darkest of times. Perhaps God can not change this world, but God has given us the ability to change it. And while we struggle to do so, Im anu El, God is with us.

Though last week was terribly dark, today’s Supreme Court decision to make Marriage Equality a reality for all Americans, affirms my faith in our ability to fight for what we believe in and, by doing so, make the world a better place.

Maimonides said, Ani Ma’amin, I believe with a perfect faith. Faith is terribly hard to hold on to, especially in the wake of so many challenging issues, especially when humanity looks in the mirror and is ashamed of what we see. But today we looked better in the mirror – more equal, less hateful. More humane.

And so – yesh li Tikvah – I have hope. And so – Ani Ma’amin – I have faith.

And so, in the end, I will act on my conscience. I will stand up for what I believe to be true and just, but not without first consulting my sacred texts and tradition, and struggling with the complex and sometimes contradictory messaging therein. And in the meantime, I will seek to comfort and be comforted. To cling to my fellow man, and to God – both of whom I believe in, even when they let me down.

My colleague Rabbi David Widzer wrote today, “The work of equality, in all realms, is never done. We both mark its darkest moments and celebrate its triumphs with the faith that we are always called to the pursuit of justice.”

I want to do all these things. I want you to do them too.

Yir’defu Zedek – Let us pursue justice unabashedly.

Yir’defu Yichud – Let us pursue solidarity, remembering always that our commonalities are far greater than our diversities.

v’Yir’defu Shalom – And through both our pursuits of justice and solidarity, let us come to finally know peace.

Kein Yehi Ratzon. May it be God’s Will.