In the weekly cycle of Torah readings, we are reading from the beginning sections of the book of Numbers. Numbers, as the name implies, begins with a census of the Hebrews as they are in the wilderness on their way to the promised land.

Why was a census necessary? According to Rashi, it shows the importance of each individual. He compares it to God and says that mitoch hibatan lifanav moneen otam kol sha’ah, because people are so dear to God, God counts them every hour.

This is a beautiful thought. We are so dear to God as human beings that God takes note of us, counts us, every hour.

As beautiful as this thought might be, there was a Hassidic Rabbi, Rabbi Yehezkel of Kotzmir who raised an issue. He said that we are not worthy of being counted in God’s eyes every hour. There are some times when we just aren’t living up to God’s expectations for us, so why would God want to count us every hour?

He answers his problem by saying that the words “every hour” refer to a statement in Pirke Avot, Ethics of the Fathers, in which we read that we should not denigrate any human being because ayn licha adam sheayn lo shah, there is no person who doesn’t have his or her “hour”. In other words, every human being has the potential to live up to God’s expectations of us, to be the mentsch we should be. Each us has an hour in which we truly deserve to be counted and God counts us according to the hour in which we reach that goal. God sees in us potential for being a human being in the greatest sense of that term.

This is reflective of our tradition of teshuva: of repentance. We can always improve. We can always rise up to being the people we should be. We can always respond to the situation in front of us and make that particular hour great.

Needless to say, we find ourselves in a very difficult, heartbreaking hour in this nation.. We have seen the murder of George Floyd, another person in the long list of people of color killed, injured or abused by law enforcement officials. We have witnessed the breaking up of a peaceful protest in front of the White House with tear gas and other means so that the President could have a photo op holding a Bible. We have seen injury and property damage as a result of rage, anger and frustration.

We have seen once again the undeniable evidence that we, as a nation, have not lived up to our stated values of equality and justice for all. Racism and inequality continue to plague this nation. Yes, there has been progress in some areas but, overall, we have never been able to remove the stain of bigotry and inequality that has been part of our nation since our inception.

But, as we look at this hour of sadness and pain, there is an opportunity. So many voices are being raised. So many people are joining hands to recognize the pain and commit to working together. There is an opportunity to have the voices we hear and the pain that we are feeling inspire us to teshuva, to repentance. We have the power as a nation to turn this into a “good hour”.

God only knows we have had enough time to address issues of inequality. So many times, we have started the discussion, began to confront the issue and then found ourselves either distracted by other issues or satisfied with small steps of progress.

This can’t happen this time.

Our nation is at a crossroads and it will fall to all of us to work together to make real change in this nation. We must start by listening to each other and understanding that the pain and the frustration voiced by people of color has been building for centuries and that if we are to truly be the nation we want to be, we must embrace each other and work together for change.

I know that in one sense, these are easy words to say and to write and, I will admit, they can sound hollow because they have been written many times before by many people over the years. But, for so many reasons, it seems that this is a vital moment in our nation’s history. We have to choose a different path than we have been following. We need to change to become a nation in which all people enjoy the benefits of freedom, security and opportunity.

There is a beautiful legend about Moses. He brings the people to the edge of the sea. He hears the Egyptian army advancing and he does not know what to do. He turns to God in prayer.

And God stops him in the middle of the prayer and says: Moses, there is a time for prayer and a time for action. Ayn Hasha’ah mitzapah elah lach, the hour waits only for you. Move the people forward.

So it must be said. At this time: Ayn Hasha’ah mitzapah elah lanu.

The hour waits only for us.

All of us together.

In some ways, it could be viewed as inappropriate to focus on one symbolic act when our nation is in such great pain. We should be concentrating on addressing the issue of inequality and racism in law enforcement and the court system. We should be focusing on the dangers that people of color face in this nation every day. We should be trying to better understand why acts of peaceful protest turn into violent rage.

Still, when we experience trauma, as individuals or as a nation, we are often drawn to one symbolic act which could be seen as either promising hope for a better future or evidence that the trauma will continue.

In that spirit, I want to address one symbolic act that we saw yesterday.

As so many of you did, I watched with horror last evening as what was a peaceful protest in front of the White House was broken up by soldiers on horseback firing tear gas and rubber bullets. As President Trump spoke a very short distance away, those who had gathered peacefully to demand change in this nation, a change so desperately needed, were cleared from the streets.

It was unclear why the street was being cleared in this way.

Then, a few minutes later we understood.

President Trump wanted to make a visit to a church which had been burned the night before to make a statement, to have a photo-op.

And so he stood in front of the church holding up a Bible so that all could see.

That one symbolic moment summarized for me why I find so much of his behavior as president and as a human being so appalling.

Anyone can hold a Bible. Anyone can claim to love the Holy Book.

But, to hold a Bible as a symbol is one thing. To live by its guidance is another.

“There should be one law for all” says the Bible.

“Love your neighbor as yourself” says the Bible.

“Blessed are the peacemakers” says the edition of the Bible that he was holding.

For a man to talk and act as he has done over the past three years, including last evening’s call for the military to shut down protests while giving lip service to the concerns of the millions of people who have been protesting or raising deep concern about the state of our nation is horrendous in and of itself.

But, to break up a protest so that he could stand wrapping himself in the Bible was obscene.

We could use the inspiration of all the great religious traditions to change this nation for the better. We could use the values expressed in holy books to inspire us to lead our nation to a better place.

But, to use the Bible as a symbol in this way was an affront to every American and to the Bible itself.

We must address the issue of racism in this nation. We must listen to the voices of those who are calling out. We must learn to speak to each other and listen to each other. We must work for true equality and justice.

Our spiritual traditions could be great support for us to face this challenge. But only if we open the books and read them, not stand in front of a camera using them as props.

            One of the principles of rabbinic Judaism is the idea of yetzer hatov and yetzer hara, the good inclination and the evil inclination. According to this idea, we are, in essence, blank slates and are subject to different influences in our lives. It is our obligation to, as Pirke Avot teaches: “kovesh et yitzro”, conquer the evil inclination and follow the good. 

            I find one character in the Bible to be the expression of the struggle between the good and evil inclinations: King Ahasueraus from the story of Esther. The king does not have an independent idea through the entire story but listens and agrees to the advice of anyone who offers it. We have Esther and Mordecai on the one hand and Haman on the other and the king is caught between these polar opposite characters always seeming to follow the instruction of the last person he talks to. His failure to take control of his own life but to leave it to others to decide matters for him is a sign of his moral weakness. 

            Clearly, there are many examples of similar characters in more contemporary literature. But I want to comment on one such character from a source that is very close to my heart. I actually hadn’t thought of this character in this way (or, frankly, in any serious way) until I heard a bit of news yesterday. 

            All of us grew up with fictional characters whom we most clearly identified with. For me, it was was none other than Theodore Cleaver, aka the Beaver, from the TV show Leave It to Beaver. 

            As the younger brother in a family of two boys, I identified immediately with the Cleaver household even though my mother didn’t wear pearls to breakfast and my father occasionally came upon a household object he couldn’t fix or a problem he couldn’t solve. Despite these obvious differences, I felt a kinship with the Beaver and the world in which he lived.

            Beaver grew up in a very stable home. His parents loved him. His father always found the ethical dimensions in issues that arose in family life. This were not a demonstrably “religious” family. Still, Ward Cleaver, played by Hugh Beaumont who was in real life an ordained minister, made sure that his children knew that their actions were being judged and that they needed to behave properly and to be punished for wrongdoing. Just as we say about the book of Esther, God’s name wasn’t mentioned in the scripts but God was always behind the scenes in the Cleaver home. 

            Beaver tried very hard to be good and clearly knew right from wrong and wanted to do right. Left on his own, he probably would have done right all the time. But he was surrounded by friends who often led him astray. His best friends: Larry, Gilbert, Whitey and Richard always got “The Beav” into trouble by appealing to his selfish or greedy inclination or by just taking advantage of how much he trusted them as friends. There were a few occasions where Beaver did some “bad things” on his own. But, the vast majority of the time, he was under the influence of others that urged him to “turn from the good and do the bad”.

            And, entering into this picture was the great character of Eddie Haskell played by Ken Osmond. Eddie was older brother Wally’s friend, but he was always hanging around the Cleaver household and annoying everyone with his phony compliments and his polite behavior. Once behind closed doors, he showed his true colors by being the TV equivalent of the “yetzer ha-ra”, the evil influence that preyed on those who trusted him and who took his advice. 

            Ken Osmond died yesterday at the age of 76 and for those of us of a certain age, it provided a moment to reflect on lessons we learned from his alter ego.

            Unlike Beaver’s other friends, Eddie was sly and deceptive. As Beaver grew, he was able to avoid falling victim to the friends of his age. He knew them and figured out they were going to get him in trouble (at least most of the time). 

            But Eddie was different. Beaver looked up to Eddie in a way, probably because he wished his brother Wally would be less perfect than he was. Eddie appealed to Beaver’s sense of adventure and daring and he was usually easy prey for Eddie’s advice. 

            Looking back on the show, it wouldn’t have been the same without Eddie’s character. Even though, in the end, he was always proven to be wrong and good always triumphed, the devilish look in his eye that he passed along to Beaver made the younger Cleaver boy more real and more believable than Wally. 

            God forbid, I’m not suggest we listen to the yetzer hara, the evil inclination that is always a threat to our ethical and moral behavior. But all kids growing up- and maybe adults too- need to push the boundaries just a little bit and looking back on Leave it to Beaver, Eddie’s character was the piece that made the stories real. 

            Ward and June Cleaver often wondered why Wally hung around with Eddie when he was so distasteful. I’m not sure Wally ever gave them a good answer. I’ll say it for him: Eddie made life more interesting for the Cleavers. 

            We should all be so privileged to know a character like Eddie Haskell. But, may we all be strong enough to not to follow his lead… at least most of the time.  

LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR AS YOURSELF

There are two well-known verses in the Torah which contain the word V’ahavta, translated as You shall Love…

One of these is the verse which follows the Shema. V’ahavta Et… You should love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul and with all your might.

The other verse appears in this week’s parasha: V’ahavta L’rayacha Kamocha. Love your neighbor as yourself.

Many commentators have discussed the differences and similarities between loving God and loving our neighbor. But, I want to focus on something different; one way in which the words of the verse are remarkable grammatically in the Hebrew.

In the verse from Deuteronomy commanding us to love God, we see the expected use of the verb to love, as a transitive verb followed by a direct object. The word “et” in Hebrew does not have any meaning in and of itself- it is a marker introducing a direct object and this is what we would expect to see and see in most all cases.

But, in the verse from our parasha about loving your neighbor, we see v’ahavta, and you shall love, followed by the prefix “l…” the Hebrew letter lamed which is a prefix meaning “to”. So, instead of reading the verse as you should “love your neighbor”, it literally means “love to your neighbor”.

Many of the commentators treat this grammatical oddity as indicating that instead of focusing on “loving” our neighbor as an emotional issue, we should read it as one focusing on action. So, we should understand the verse as meaning: “Show love to your neighbor” or “Act in loving ways to your neighbor”.

Let’s think about this further.

In the verses from the chapter in Leviticus before the commandment to love your neighbor, we read a long list of interpersonal mitzvot including: “Do not put a stumbling block before the blind”, “Do not curse the deaf”, “Don’t hold a grudge” etc. These could be seen as specifics (pratim) and our verse about loving your neighbor which follows as the “klal”, the general statement. In the system of Jewish legal interpretation, if specifics are followed by a general statement, the specifics should be seen only as examples, not an exhaustive list. So, here the general statement can only be understood as reflecting interpersonal actions like the ones mentioned in the chapter and others similar to them.

This is reflected in a statement of Rabbi Akiva who is quoted in the Jerusalem Talmud as saying: that love your neighbor as yourself is “klal gadol baTorah”, a great general principle in the Torah. If it is a klal, it is a general principle of action not of emotion.

And, in the famous Talmudic story of Hillel’s response to the individual who came to him asking him to teach him the Torah while he was standing on one foot, Hillel says: “what is hateful to you do not do to your neighbor.

So, it is reasonable to think of this verse as referring to action. “Act with love to your neighbor.”

But, this presents us with a problem.

If we translate it this way, what do we do with the word “kamocha“, as yourself. How do we understand “as yourself” in this context?

One way to understand this is: “Act in loving ways to your neighbor and act in loving ways to yourself”.

This is important. We should be careful to treat ourselves lovingly and respectfully.

But, I want to take it in a different direction and in order to do so, I want to refer to a teaching from Pirke Avot, Ethics of the Fathers.

Pirke Avot teaches that there are four types of people. The first listed is the one who says: “What’s mine is mine and what’s yours is yours” and the other three are the different permutations of those two ideas. Pirke Avot identifies the person who says; “What’s mine is mine and what’s yours is yours” as the average person. But, then Pirke Avot adds that “some say this was the attitude of the residents of Sodom and Gomorrah”, the evil cities destroyed by God in a story from Genesis.

This reflects an extensive rabbinic tradition that the people of Sodom and Gomorrah ignored those in need and did not practice hospitality.

But, there is a jarring commentary by the classic fifteenth century Mishna commentator Rav Ovadiah Mibartanura. He connects his commentary to the first part of the statement in Pirke Avot, before he comments on the statement about Sodom and Gomorrah.

He says the person who says What’s mine is mine, what’s yours is yours” is saying the following: “I will not do anything for your benefit” and “would that you won’t do anything for my benefit.” (using the word alivay, which we sometimes translate as “God willing”).

This is a chilling commentary.

Who would possibly say: “I hope you don’t do anything to benefit me”?

Unfortunately, we do hear people say this or act this way and maybe we have said it.

Often we are reluctant to accept help, compassion or support from others. Perhaps we are afraid of being “beholden” to another person. Perhaps we are insulted by the insinuation that we might need help. Perhaps we feel it is a sign of weakness to accept help or support.

These are all very dangerous attitudes. We should be willing to accept the love, support and compassion of others when it is offered to us.

So, to return to the verse from our Parasha, I would interpret it in this way. “Show love to your neighbor and accept the loving acts offered to you”.

Many of us have found ways to reach out to others during this terrible ordeal brought on by the Covid19 pandemic. We have made calls, written notes, donated to charities, and given an extra tip to those whom we depend upon. These acts should make us feel as we are fulfilling the Torah’s commandment to show love to our neighbor.

But, in addition to acting with love to others, we should be gladly and graciously accepting love shown to us by others.

A few days ago, I received a phone call from a woman who runs a program that I volunteer with. She said she was calling just because she hadn’t heard from me after a recent email and wanted to make sure I was OK.

My first reaction was to feel self-conscious and uncomfortable about the call. After all, I’m fine. Then, I realized how wonderful that call was, how it made me feel cared for and appreciated and it, literally, made my day. I thanked the person who called and still think of that call and others like it over these long days.

So, the bottom line is that while we continue to do good and loving things for others, let us make sure that when we are the recipient of an act of kindness, we realize what a wonderful occasion that is. We should be gracious and appreciative for that love we receive and realize we are helping others fulfill the mitzva in their own way.

When the time comes that we can get back to some form of “normal” activity (and that time should only come when it is safe to do so), let us carry from this ordeal the reminder of how important is to act lovingly to others and how important it is to receive loving acts openly and gladly.

If I were writing an interpretative translation of the Torah, I know what I would write as my translation for Leviticus 19:18. I would lovingly use the words of Bob Dylan: “Always do for others and let others do for you”.

May understanding this simple statement be one of the legacies of 2020.

Today is Patriots Day in Massachusetts. It is a day that has for decades been marked by two events: the running of the Boston Marathon and the Red Sox home game played at the odd hour of 11 a.m.

It is a day that always holds great memories for me. I grew up a 3 minute walk from the marathon course (right after Heartbreak Hill) and it was an annual ritual to walk up to Commonwealth Avenue with the list of runners from the newspaper so we could identify who it was that was running by. We encouraged the runners: “It’s all downhill from here” (which was not exactly true) and enjoyed the carnival atmosphere of the day.

Since that time, the Marathon has grown exponentially. But it is still, of course, an event with great meaning in Boston and across the area.

But now the Marathon carries with it an additional memory. That is the memory of the horrible day in 2013 when a terrorist bombing at the finish line killed 3 people, including a young child, and wounded hundreds more. I remember being shocked at hearing the news of that bombing and watching incredulously from my home 500 miles away as the city was thrown into panic until the terrorists were captured.

The slogan that grew out of that horrendous event: “Boston Strong” was the trademark of a city which refused to give in to fear. That slogan carried the Red Sox to an improbable World Series championship that year and lifted the hearts of New Englanders everywhere.

And, the next year, the Marathon ran as a testament to the strength and resilience of the human spirit.

This year, however, the Boston Marathon, and the 11 a.m. Red Sox game, will not take place, at least not on Patriots Day and for several months after it.

The enemy this time is an unseen enemy but one which has threatened us all.

As we continue to “shelter in place” and observe social distancing, I think it is important to remind ourselves that this is not a sign of weakness or irrational fear. It is not similar to cowering in fear of a terrorist attack. It is not the antithesis to “Boston Strong”.

It is the strong, wise and courageous thing to do at this time. We are not hunkering down in fear. We are using our wisdom and our hope for the future to give our nation and our world every chance we can to survive this pandemic.

As we stood watching the marathon runners emerge from the Newton hills and cross over into the city of Boston at last, it was clear in their eyes that they knew they were nearing the end and could muster up the physical strength to run the last 3 and a half miles to the finish line. As a young child, it was inspiring to watch them. I remember that look on their faces especially today.

We don’t know at what part of the course we find ourselves in this race against Coronavirus. But the important thing for all of us, including elected officials, to remember is that we are, to use an overused phrase: “in a marathon and not a sprint”. And, we must show the determination to reach the finish line even though we don’t know exactly how far we are for that line.

With great appreciation, respect and awe for all of those on the front lines whether in health care or in keeping our towns and cities running properly, we must show the courage and strength to continue to stand up to this virus in the wisest possible way. We must protect ourselves, our families and those around us by making the wise and courageous decision to continue to shelter in place, wear our masks, wash our hands and believe that we will be strong enough to defeat this enemy.

May we all reach the finish line in health.

On the morning before the first Seder, it is customary to hold a siyyum, the conclusion of a section of study of a traditional text. This is done in order that the participants can then join in what is known as a Seudat Mitzvah, the meal celebrating the completion of a commandment. This occasion overrides the “fast of the first born” and enables those who would otherwise fast to eat through the day.

This year, I am going to be presenting the Siyyum at Beth Israel and I wanted to share the teaching in this way. If you do plan to attend and participate in the Siyyum, please don’t continue reading but join together with us through Zoom (link is on the Beth Israel website homepage).

For the siyyum this year, I studied Masechet Ta’anit, a section of the Talmud which focuses on traditions relating to fast days, particularly those which were called by the leaders of the community at times of drought. It was felt that drought was a punishment from God and therefore, if rain did not fall during the rainy season, public fasts and rituals of atonement were instituted which became more and more strict as the drought continued.

When I began to study this tractate at the beginning of January, I had perhaps heard of Covid19 but it certainly was not something I was concerned about and could never have envisioned that it would impact our lives as it has. As the pandemic worsened, the sections of the Talmud took on a great deal of additional meaning and raised many questions in my mind.

For many years, influenced by my teachers, books such as Rabbi Harold Kushner’s When Bad Things Happen to Good People, and just by observing life itself, I have come to embrace a theology which does not include God’s intervening in day to day life. I do not see God as micromanaging the world or in any way judging people or nations and sending punishments where appropriate.

So, I am not inclined in any way to see this pandemic as a punishment sent by God. I do see some aspects of the disease and certainly some of the failures to respond to it properly as evidence of arrogance of human beings but that is a matter of free will and while I believe it disappoints God greatly, I would not put the blame on God for this.

But, the question then becomes: What is the role of prayer during this crisis? If I can’t pray to God to stop the disease, what can I pray for?

We can certainly pray for strength and wisdom to make intelligent decisions. We can certainly pray for patience when suddenly spending intensive time at home becomes difficult. We can certainly say prayers of thanks- I have started each morning to say Modeh Ani, the prayer of thanks for awakening in the morning, a prayer I hadn’t really said that often since my days at Camp Ramah where it was the first of our morning tefillot– and prayers which recognize the miracle of our bodies.

And, we can ask God to send healing, in whatever way possible, to those who are battling this horrible disease. This last prayer can certainly be seen as challenging my theology of God’s non-intervention. But, I believe that on some level, a prayer of this kind can bring comfort and a healing of spirit that those who are ill so desperately need.

So, there is a place for prayer as we face this crisis, no matter what our theology is.

Another thought that studying this section of Talmud raised came from a story in Ta’anit about the Talmudic Rabbi, Rav Huna. It is said that before he sat down to eat each meal, he would say: “Let all who are hungry come and eat”. This, many believe, is the source for the statement that we make at the Seder: kol dichfin yaytay v’yachul, let all who are hungry come and eat.

These words remind us each year of the importance of giving tzedakah before the holiday so that all can celebrate a full Seder. But, it also emphasizes the hospitality which is part of the experience of a Seder, opening ones home to family, friends and strangers who need a place to celebrate the holiday. We will not be doing that this year although many of us will be connecting online with others. This line in the Haggadah will certainly cause us to recognize once again where we are at this time in our lives.

There is an interpretation of this line in the Seder which says that the reason that Rav Huna could make this invitation was because he was in fact wealthy. And, while we may not be able to open our homes to everyone for every meal, on Pesach night, if we have a home of freedom to celebrate the holiday in, we are wealthy in every sense of the word and must then share that home and our wealth with others.

I thought of that interpretation quite a bit over the past few days as I have read many articles, including one in Monday’s New York Times by Charles M. Blow, which call our attention to the disparity that exists in the suffering brought by Covid19. Blow points out, as so many have, that a disproportionate number of those who have died from the disease are people of color and that the poor have suffered in such significantly higher numbers.

This is in great part due to the fact that while many of us can afford to “shelter in place” and, in fact, have a warm, safe place to shelter, so many do not. So, if all we have to complain about is boredom and cancelled vacations, we are wealthy indeed.

We can’t wait until after the pandemic eases to address issues of inequality in this nation but this experience has called us once more to seriously confront the issues of race and of poverty in this nation. We see the impact clearly in the course of this disease and we must address this issue seriously and passionately.

Finally, I want to share the teaching from the end of the tractate which I will teach to end the siyyum.

The tractate of Ta’anit goes into great detail in teaching about Tisha B’av, the fast day of the 9th of Av, the saddest day on the Jewish calendar. It then turns its attention briefly to the ancient holiday of Tu B’av, the 15th of Av which was considered a day of great celebration.

One of the traditions of Tu B’av was that the women of Jerusalem would join in a dance together to celebrate the day and the Talmudic tractate ends with a vision of the time of the Messiah.

Ulla teaches that in the future, “God would arrange a dance of the righteous and will sit among them in the Garden of Eden. Each and every one would see God so clearly that they would point to God and say in the words of the prophet Isaiah: “Behold this is our God, for whom we waited that He might save us“.

How can we understand this text and what does it say for us today?

I thought quite a bit about this section and tried to envision how it might be relevant to us. And, then I thought that if according to this vision, God were visible to all, God must have been standing, as it were, in the middle of a circle of dancers.

If we envision ourselves today as standing in that circle, we can ask ourselves: where is God during all of this?

I believe that if we look across the circle into the eyes of others, we can see the presence of God. We see the presence of God in the doctors, nurses, EMTs, police and fire fighters, and all those who are serving in hospitals and doctors offices, putting their own safety second as they attend to the needs of those in danger.

We can see the presence of God in the social workers and other helping professionals who are reaching out to those in emotional distress.

We can see the presence of God in the dedication of people who work in grocery stores and restaurants who are serving the needs of those of us who have the privilege of sheltering in place.

And, we see the presence of God in each other, as we inspire each other and continue to support each other through this crisis.

May that circle grow stronger and may we stand (appropriately physically apart) during this holiday season and continue to hope for an end to suffering for all.

Best wishes to everyone for a healthy Passover and Easter season.

As I’m sure is true for many of you who are not working at this moment, whether by choice or as a result of the pandemic, I have been searching for things to do while staying in place at home.

So far this week, in addition to teaching two online classes, I’ve finally gotten rid of a box of miscellaneous papers and files that had been sitting under my desk at home since I moved out of my synagogue office almost two years ago. I found good places for much of what was there and recycled quite a bit.

In addition, I have cleaned out a few drawers at home which needed to be organized, worked on my 2nd jigsaw puzzle this month, tried to keep up with my exercising, listened to some online lectures, walked our dog about 300 times and finished reading a book which I began a month or so ago. (The book is called The Body, a Guide for Occupants by one of my favorite authors, Bill Bryson. I heartily recommend it.)

But, there also have been a lot of moments of boredom.

Believe me, I’m not complaining. I am so grateful that, as of this moment, we are all feeling good. I am so deeply concerned for those I know and the thousands I don’t know who are suffering from coronavirus and I pray for healing for them and for our own continued health. I pray for the health and strength of those who don’t have the luxury of staying in their homes: those on the front lines in the hospitals and as first responders and those who are risking their health so that we can sneak in and out of the grocery stores to buy what we absolutely need. They are today’s heroes and we owe so much to them. I also am so fearful for those who have no safe homes to hide in and are in such danger.

I know I have lived a fortunate life and I have never felt such anxiety for myself, my family and for our nation and our world.

One thought that has been very much on my mind is the upcoming holiday of Pesach. We will do all that we can to prepare for and celebrate the holiday knowing that it won’t be the same as we won’t have guests at our Seder and, I assume, there will be some other aspects of the holiday which will be significantly different this year.

But, we will celebrate the holiday and, as I stressed in a d’var Torah I gave last Shabbat during our congregation’s online service, even though we are all doing things differently than we usually do, we are doing them with one hope in mind: that we can continue to hold on to the things which are important to us through this crisis. We do this so that when the time comes, God willing, and we move on from this horrible place, our actions during these weeks will help guide us to continuing those commitments in a healthier future.

Pesach has always been one of my two favorite holidays of the year. (The other, by the way, is Yom Kippur). I have to confess that I get a bit tired of hearing the Megillah and a bit cold sitting in the Sukkah. But, I never get tired of the Pesach Seder and had already had several ideas for good discussion topics for this year’s Seder. I intend to use them when, God willing, our immediate family gathers around the table two weeks from last night. It won’t feel the same. But, it will still be Pesach.

But, as much as I look forward to Pesach and have been thinking about the holiday over the past couple of weeks, I woke up this morning and did my usual davening without remembering that today is Rosh Hodesh, the first day of the month of Nisan. I didn’t remember it until I saw a post on Facebook and realized I had missed chanting Hallel, the psalms of praise said on Rosh Hodesh.

It wasn’t the first time that I have forgotten Rosh Hodesh in my daily prayers but it was the first time I have forgotten Rosh Hodesh Nisan which, coming as it does exactly two weeks before the first Seder is always circled on my calendar.

When I realized I had forgotten the significance of this day, I realized once again that even though we do all that we can to make these days as “normal” as we can, they will never be normal. This isn’t how we are meant to live: separating ourselves from friends and extended family, shutting ourselves up in our homes and going through extraordinary steps to try to avoid becoming ill. These thoughts have dominated everything else in our minds and will continue to do until we feel we are safe.

When I thought of today being Rosh Hodesh, my mind went back to last Shabbat morning. During our service, the special reading from the Torah which I look forward to each year was read from a hummash. The reading is from Exodus Chapter 12 and details the instruction for the night of the Exodus. I always look forward to the excitement of hearing of the urgency of the moment of freedom.

But, then I realized for the first time that I had missed my one of my favorite Haftarah readings of the year, the reading from the Prophets which is part of each Shabbat morning service. The special reading for the Shabbat before the beginning of the month of Nisan, Shabbat Hahodesh, comes from the book of Ezekiel and concerns the prophet’s vision of what the Passover ritual would be like in the rebuilt Temple of the future.

The reading is not the most dramatic but it contains a line which literally brings tears to my eyes whenever I hear it. In Ezekiel 46:9, we read: “When the people come before the Lord, whoever enters by the north gate to bow low shall leave by the south gate: and whoever enters by the south gate shall leave by the north gate. They shall not go back through the gate by which they came in but shall go out by the opposite one”.

I love that line. As we approach Pesach each year, it reminds me that we all must constantly move forward in our lives, look to the future instead of trying to relive the past. Each year, on Pesach and on every day of our lives, we should be remembering and learning from the past but we need to have our eyes set on the future and remind ourselves that there is no turning back from the future, no matter how uncertain it might seem at any one time.

So, as I sit here on Rosh Hodesh Nisan and think of something that I can write to make sense out of where we are, it comes down to this. None of us expected to be walking through this gate that we have walked through. There is a gate at the other end: the one that will open when (and please, please, not before) it is safe to come out of social distancing and back to a somewhat normal life. That gate seems so far away at times. Yet, we will carefully and wisely walk towards it, hopeful that the day will come soon when we will walk through it in health and ready to celebrate more holiday and more “everydays” in the future.

We can’t turn the clock back. We are experiencing things now we never thought we would. But, with God’s help and, I will say, more importantly with the wisdom and courage of those who are helping us all, we will walk through that other gate and back to a full life.

I wish you all health and peace.

As we approach Pesach this year, we are facing a world we never expected to see. There is so much uncertainty, so much fear around us and it is sure to affect every aspect of our lives, including our observance of the holiday and our Seders.

While we deal with the more immediate issues around us, many of us still have Passover in the backs of our minds asking so many questions about how we can possibly be ready for the holiday, how we can celebrate without family and friends in our homes and what the holiday will feel like as we address its themes of freedom and redemption.

Clearly, our health as individuals and our concerns for our families and every other human being should come first. But, the holiday is so important in our tradition, that it can not be simply an afterthought.

Several years ago, I began to think about the issue of the 10 plagues and how we present them at our Seders. I wrote a sermon which I am sharing here. I hadn’t thought about it until a friend asked the question of how we could approach the recitation of the plagues at this year which is so different than all other years.

So, without further introduction, here is the sermon I wrote several years ago.

        

            When the newly freed slaves crossed the Sea, they sang a song of praise to God for having annihilated the Egyptians. An aggada, a legend, states that when the angels sought to join in the song, God silenced them, chastising them with the famous words: Maaseh Yadai tovim bayam v’atem sharim tishbachot, my creations are drowing in the sea and you sing praises to me? 

            But, it is critical to note that God did not silence Moses and the chorus of praise coming from the people. God understood that human beings are just that and that while more might be expected of the angels, we are clearly entitled to celebrate when, in the words of the Psalms, we see the doom of our foes.

            And yet, thousands of years removed from the Exodus, with thousands of years of experience behind us and with millions of hopes and dreams for a better world, we take a moment at the Seder table, when reciting the 10 plagues which caused such pain and agony among the Egyptians, young and old alike, to take a drop of wine with our finger from our full cups at the mention of each plague, diminishing the joy a full cup signifies in deference to the pain of the Egyptians. Is this just diminishing the wine in our cups or are these drops to resemble tears?

            This is a critical moment in the Seder. As we sit suspended somewhere between past and future, between freedom and slavery, between reality and redemption, we have to decide how seriously we take this symbolic action, how we understand the story of the past in light of our world today, how deeply we dare to feel the pain of those who tormented us.

      

            For as long as I can remember, the 10 plagues have been one of the parts of the Seder we use to awaken our young children’s interest in the Seder. Just imagine,” frogs here, frogs there, frogs jumping everywhere”. Just imagine, the wicked Egyptians scratching from lice and boils. Just imagine, locusts, and who of us knew what those were when we were kids, all over everything. We made up songs, made up toys and, now the ultimate, and the reality that inspired this sermon, we can now buy chocolate representations of the 10 plagues, right down to a baby cradle for the 10^th and ultimate plague.

            Something is terribly wrong here.

            In an era in which we rightfully express horror when some choose to celebrate the murder of innocent individuals by showering the streets with candy, how dare we make light of the death of innocent children?. These plagues are not for celebrating. Remember: even if we are not angels, we strive to be as Godlike as possible and enjoying the sweetness of the death and destruction even of our legendary enemy does not find favor in God’s eyes.

            So, my proposal this year for the Seder is simple. Instead of the plague bags or the chocolate plagues, God forbid, or even instead of the creative ways we all have had to make the 10 plagues part of our Seder, including my personal favorite which I now regret, finding 10 hats in my baseball cap collection whose logos can refer to each of the plagues and spreading them out on the Seder table. (Well, my kids were young and I thought it would help.) Instead of any of that, let us use the plagues as a way to commit ourselves to a better world, to a world of tikkun, of repair and an end to as much suffering as we can manage. Let us think of a path of righteousness that we can connect to each of the plagues and redeem them as we were redeemed. I offer these suggestions but use your creativity to find your own:

            Dam, blood. Give a pint of blood before Pesach.. It is a  great act of tzedakah.

            Tzfardea, frog. Singular not plural. Say the Rabbis, one frog came up and called the others to join him. Let us, each of us, be an influence for constructive rather than destructive acts and get others to join us.

            Kinim, lice. This is a tough one. But, I note that the word kinim is spelled like the word, ken, yes. Let us say “yes” when asked for help from someone rather than a knee jerk” no”.

            Arov, wild animals. Let us spend a little extra time with the animals living under our roofs and show concern for endangered species throughout the world.

            Dever, cattle disease. A little less meat maybe at the Seder, a little more healthful eating in the year to come.

            Shchin, boils. Here’s a stretch. Seriously recognize the dangers of global warming and reduce our energy use.

            Barad, hail. The Rabbis claimed that the hail stones which hit Egypt contained fire within them, nes bitoch neysthey claimed, a miracle inside a miracle. Let us treat life like the miracle it is and see to elevate the holiness of our lives through an appreciation for the world we live in.

            Arbeh, locusts. Let us reach out our hands beyond our own walls and join in a community which can be a swarm of people acting for the good of all.

            Hoshech, darkness. The Torah is called Or, light. Let us commit ourselves to Torah study to bring light to the darkened corners of our lives and our world.

            And, finally, makat bichorot, the 10^th plague, let us take steps to see that all of our children in our nation and throughout the world are cared for, protected and loved. Let no child go without health care, no child go to bed hungry, no child, anywhere be denied the opportunity to grow in health and in freedom.

            Our world is full of plagues and God has no one but us to stop them. And today’s plagues are not selective. They affect all of us, no matter who we are, no matter where we live. The only way to stop them is to fight them. When the plagues are mentioned this year, even if we want to celebrate our ancient redemption, let us remember the pain they caused and the pain caused by plagues today and instead of making fun, let us make commitments to complete the job God began at the Sea. 

This year, as we face this horrendous plague of the Coronavirus, let us find other parts of the Seder ritual to greet in song and a sense of freedom. Let us realize that we still live in a world of plagues, plagues which are not as selective and not necessarily a means to the redemption of any one people. This year, we are all victims.

Next year may we feel safe once again outside in the world among our brothers and sisters everywhere.

This piece appeared in the current edition (March 2020) of the Washtenaw Jewish News.

“And who knows, perhaps you have attained to royal position for just such a crisis.”

Mordecai’s impassioned plea to Esther in which he urges her to tell the king about the plot against the Jews is one of the most dramatic moments in the book of Esther. He begs her to see her role as queen as enabling her to do what others could not as the Jews faced the threat of annihilation.

We sometimes overlook how dramatic the story of Megillat Esther really is. After all, we are often pre-occupied with costumes and celebration to listen seriously to the story and, of course, we know how the story comes out in the end. 

But, we would do well to pay close attention to the story as it can teach us important lessons about who we are and what we can and must do in life. 

So, in that spirit, let me share one of those important messages.

I am not a huge movie fan but when I see a movie that inspires me, I find myself drawn to seeing it over and over again and the words of the critical scenes always stay with me. 

This is the case with one of my favorite movies: The Verdict, a film directed by Sidney Lumet and starring Paul Newman. If you have not seen the movie, I would urge you to do so. It is a fascinating character study of a human being struggling with his shortcomings and his failures. The movie, as the name implies, is a movie focused on a trial and attorney Frank Galvin’s attempt to win a medical malpractice case against a powerful hospital. 

I will not reveal any more about the film but will share with you Frank Galvin’s speech just before the end of the movie as he summarizes the case for the jury. Reading it will not do it justice. You need to see it and to understand it in context to get the full effect. But, even by reading his words, we are reminded of its critical message. 

It had been a lengthy trial with many dramatic moments and when asked by the judge to give his final statement, Frank Galvin hesitates, crumbles a piece of paper in front of him, stands up, heaves a sigh and says this: 

Well, so much of the time we’re just lost. We say:” Please God tell us what is right, tell us what is true”. There is no justice. The rich win. The poor are powerless. We become tired of hearing people lie and after a time we become dead, a little dead. We think of ourselves as victims and we become victims. We become weak; we doubt ourselves; we doubt our beliefs; we doubt our institutions. We doubt the law. But, today, you are the law. You are the law. Not some book, not the lawyers, not the marble statue or the trappings of the court.., those are just symbols of our desire to be just. They are in fact a prayer, a fervent and frightened prayer. In my religion, we say: “act as if ye had faith and faith will be given to you”. If we are to have faith in justice, we need only to believe in ourselves and act with justice. See, I believe there is justice in our hearts.

It is an impassioned and brilliant speech. 

It brings tears to my eyes each time I watch it. 

And it reminds me of a message from the Megilla. 

The line that resonates with me in thinking about Purim (and certainly about some current events as well) is Galvin’s admonition to the jury that: “You are the law.” He told them that, at that moment, they were the final arbiters of right and wrong. They may have felt reluctant to be in that position and might have had a desire to avoid the critical decision. But, in the same way Mordecai did for Esther, Frank Galvin reminded them that that is where they found themselves and they had to seize the opportunity. 

There are many lessons in the book of Esther. But surely one of the most critical is the importance of acting definitively and courageously when we find ourselves in the position to do so. We must recognize that there come times in life when “we are the law”. There are times when we can determine, if not the fate of another individual or an entire people, then in a smaller but significant way, the direction of the world, whether towards justice or injustice, towards right or wrong. 

Maimonides taught that we should view the entire world as precariously balanced between destruction and redemption so that even one act we perform may tip the balance in the right direction. Do we have the courage to be the agent of positive change in the world?

As Frank Galvin taught us: “we need only believe in ourselves and act with justice.” May we all have the courage to do so when, as we surely will, are presented with the opportunity to make a difference. 

Traditional Jewish texts offer many teachings concerning the afterlife, olam haba. In a text found in Pirke Avot, Rabbi Ya’akov teaches that this world is a prozdor, a foyer for the world to come. Hatken atzmicha biprozdor, “prepare yourself in the foyer so that you can enter the great hall.” 

         Clearly, he is elevating olam haba, over this world. But, Pirke Avot follows this statement of Rabbi Ya’akov with another of his teachings: Yafeh Sha’ah achat bitshuva u’maasim tovim b’olam hazeh mikol hayey olam haba. One hour spent in repentance and good deeds in this world is yafeh, nice and more beautiful than the entirety of existence in the world to come. 

         Although the sentence that follows this teaching seems to re-establish the superiority of the afterlife, Rabbi Ya’akov’s teaching about the beauty of teshuva in this world deserves our consideration.

         There is an obvious tension here.  But, it can be resolved. According to Rabbi Ya’akov, the reward offered in the “world to come” is the goal we should aim for but the beautiful reality of a life well lived on this earth is of great value and holds potentially greater meaning. 

         There are many ways to find meaning in the section of the Torah we are beginning to read today: five parshiyot dedicated to the details of the building of the Tabernacle. The details of the building project are interrupted only in Parashat Ki Tissa by the story of the Golden Calf and Moses’ breaking of the tablets and the subsequent renewing of the covenant. 

         Many of the commentators throughout the tradition said that we these two stories took place in a different chronological order. The idea is that the building of the Tabernacle was not interrupted by the incident of the golden calf but, in fact, followed it. Viewed this way, the Mishkan was, in essence, a response to the building of the calf.          God recognized the creation of the calf as demonstrating the people’s need to have a visible focus of their worship. Thus, the tabernacle provides that focus and is evidence that God is still present in the community even when Moses can’t be seen and God remains invisible. This would obviate the need the people might feel for future idols.

         In addition to this idea, for many of our teachers, the Tabernacle was also intended to serve as a miniature replica of the divinely created universe. With its symmetry, its beauty and its sanctity, the Mishkan was designed to be a perfect building: an appropriate human made place for the Shechinah, the presence of God to dwell while on earth. It also would serve as a proof that human beings could strive for that perfection, that symmetry and beauty in our world and by extension in our personal lives. 

But, building such a perfect building could only be accomplished using chochma, practical human wisdom, gained from experience and most importantly with the work done as a communal effort, built with the contributions of all of those who had, in the words of parashat Terumah, a willing, giving heart. It was supervised, not by God, not by Moses, but by Betzalel, a “regular” member of the community. This was a communal effort that elevated the people. Thus, the building of the Tabernacle was, in fact, an effort of teshuva, repentance for the Golden Calf linking the individual’s self-improvement to joint efforts in attempting to build a better world.

         I have been thinking quite a bit about teshuva lately and not only because of the dramatically unsatisfactory teshuva example set by the Houston Astros. We’ll see, if necessary, how the Red Sox decide to do teshuva- that’s for another sermon but I hope they set a better example.

My thoughts about teshuva are inspired by, of all things, a television show. That may not come as a tremendous surprise to those of you who have listened to me over the years. But this time, the TV series in question not from the I Love Lucy era but rather one that just ended its four-year run on NBC a few weeks ago.

         The show is entitled The Good Place and if you haven’t seen it, you really should. If you have seen it, I strongly urge you to watch it again. I’m watching it now for the second time and I’m seeing things I missed the first time. And, if you started to watch it and gave up, as I did at one point, consider this an incentive to keep watching it to the end as a good friend advised me to do.

         The series’ story revolves around four individuals who die and suddenly find themselves in what they are told is “The Good Place”: a place of pastel colors, fulfilled wishes and all the frozen yogurt one could eat. But, very early in the series, we learn that two of the four have mistakenly arrived in The Good Place due to a clerical error. They should have been sent, in fact, to “the bad place” and these two try desperately to prove that they are worthy to stay in the good place. 

But, we learn very quickly that this is not the entire story. In fact, the four are not in the good place after all. Rather, they are in a specially constructed neighborhood of “the bad place” where in place of physical torture, they are being tortured emotionally by having to spend their time in close proximity with other people who get on their nerves constantly because of their differences. This is clearly a reference to Sartre’s: “Hell is Other People.” But that is not the only philosophical reference in the series. As one of the four deceased individuals is a professor of moral philosophy who constantly teaches from Aristotle, Kant, Kierkegaard and many others, the series gives us all of us a survey of philosophy along the way.

         The show is utterly charming, extraordinarily creative, very funny in parts and very insightful. 

         I won’t give you a “spoiler” but suffice it to say that, in the end, the message of the series is the same lesson as the second of Rabbi Yehuda’s statements with which I opened this morning. The lesson is that whatever lies beyond this world is not as good as what human beings can experience when we continue to work on perfecting our lives to the extent possible and that can only happen in community with others. The principle lesson learned by these four and most significantly by the bad place “architect” who placed them in this experimental neighborhood in the first place is that we can be a support to each other; we can help each other grow; and we can make this world a “good place”. This teaching is at the heart of so many approaches to Jewish philosophy: repairing our lives by repairing the world and vice versa. 

         While the show reflects religious teachings from many spiritual traditions, I was able to spot many allusions to Jewish tradition: from the line in U’nateneh Tokef which talks about God “counting our acts” to several references to the teaching Mitoch She Lo Lishma Ba Lishma; Actions done at first without the proper sincerity can lead to actions done for the right reasons. People can in fact teach themselves to be better people. 

         There were many other allusions to Jewish tradition as well but none as critical as the statement of the demon from the bad place who has done teshuva after being inspired by the changing of the human beings he had intended to torture. He says: “What matters is not whether people are good or bad but what matters is that they are trying to be better today than yesterday.” A simple statement, but what could be a better definition of teshuva?

At the end of the series, we are shown that a place of active teshuva, growth and improvement is really the “best place.” And, the entire effort of the transformation in the series emphasizes the message that giving of ourselves with a willing heart can help to build not only a beautiful building but also a beautiful life and a more perfect world. 

         If you haven’t done so, I hope you’ll watch this series. I’d suggest if you have teenagers at home, watch with them. But, whether you take my advice or not, as we read through the story of the building of the Mishkan over the next few weeks, consider how you can join others to best construct a world of true beauty, working together to turn this world into the “Good Place” that God intended it to be.