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. 

                           I AM JEWISH

SERMON FOR KOL NIDRE 2004

                           Rabbi Robert Dobrusin         

         One of the most well known of all modern Jewish songs is Yerushalim Shel Zahav, Jerusalem of Gold, written by poet and songwriter Naomi Shemer.

         One of the most beautiful lines in this exquisite song is the final phrase of the chorus: Halo lichal sheyirayich anee keenor, “I am a violin for all of your songs.” While I will not be speaking about Jerusalem or Israel this evening, this line and the line which precedes it have inspired the beginning and the end of my message.  

         In one of the piyyutim of the Rosh Hashana Musaf service, there is a phase chanted by the Shaliach Tzibbur which says lihalotcha shilachoonee makhalot hamonecha: “O God your great congregation has sent me to pray to you”. The word makhalot comes from the word kahal, congregation. But, as I looked at it, I noticed its similarity to the word makhela, choir, and I realized that it was another proof to me that you constitute not only a Congregation but a choir: a choir of distinctly different yet somehow connected voices. 

         The Rabbinate is a complex endeavor. For me, besides the obvious difficulties of time commitment and the difficulty of balancing different aspects of the role, there is one aspect which makes it uniquely difficult that most members of the choir usually do not consider. 

         One of the most difficult aspects of a Rabbi’s job is that he or she is expected to be a kinor, a violin, to accompany and set the melody for each and every Jew’s understanding of Judaism. Sometimes, Jews turn to a Rabbi and expect him or her to endorse every different approach to every different question which exists in the Jewish world and to prioritize Judaism in the same way that they do. 

         When I first became a Rabbi, I tried to do that. After a few months, I learned that it is impossible. I have my own opinions and my own priorities and they become clearer and more sharply defined as the years go on and as our relationship as Rabbi and Congregation deepen.

          Does that mean I can’t relate to someone with different opinions and priorities? Of course not. One of the reasons that this Congregation is such a wonderful sacred place is that there is such a high level of participation from congregants in so many different areas and the Synagogue is not bound only to this Rabbi’s melodies. But, I can’t deny nor should I deny that some responses to Jewish life move me more than others. Some approaches to Jewish law resonate in my mind more clearly than others. Some understandings of Jewish theology or history or philosophy touch me more closely than others. No matter how I, or any Rabbi, might try, I can not be a kinor, a violin for all Jewish songs. Some just sound better to me than others.

         None of this is meant as an apology. It is meant as a celebration of the broad experience of Jewish life and while I promise to continue to search out different understandings, different models and different ideas, so that I can serve more of you more effectively and with greater empathy and understanding, I, like you, am my own Jew. And I, like you I hope, am proud of who I am as a Jew.

         But, while this sermon begins and ends with me, it is really about you.

         None of you, no matter how committed you may be to Judaism; no matter how much all of this may mean to you; no matter how proudly you identify yourself; no matter how deeply you yearn to become a better Jew; none of you can play every part in the choir and none of you can be a kinor for all of Judaism’s songs. There are just too many of them.

         While there might be an occasional music lover who finds tremendous enjoyment in the Beatles, punk rock, Italian opera, blues, the Grand Old Opry, Klezmer, Tibetan chants and Polish polkas, I assume most of you have a playlist that is a little less broad. Eclectic can only go so far.

         And so it is with Judaism. I look at you tonight and I know that you connect with a shul for profoundly different reasons. Some of you find tremendous delight in Torah study, finding the pages of Talmud filled with evidence of divine inspiration and the words and ideas to be an intellectual and creative challenge. Others just don’t get it. 

         Some of you take or dream to take spiritual retreats, looking for a sense of the mystical and deep cleansing and internally strengthening experience in meditation and prayer while others find their Judaism in the here and now of the New York Times or Commentary. 

         Some of you are burning with the passion of Tikkun Olam, working to better the world and see in it the reflection of everything Judaism is and all our world could be. Others write their checks to charity, volunteer a bit but see Judaism in a much different light, celebrating peoplehood and nationhood. 

         Some of you come back from trips to Europe delighting in the fact that you discovered some small but significant Jewish connection that you learned of in a small town. You rush to tell others and they nod and smile a bit and then move on to what they clearly feel are more important things.

         Some of you are passionate about your commitment to the Jewish people, looking for every opportunity to connect with those far beyond these walls. Others recognize kinship but focus back on your own immediate family and community.

         History, theology, mysticism, peoplehood, social action, spirituality, Hebrew language, literature…Moses, Rabbi Akiva, Heschel, Golda Meir, Yitzchak Perlman, Philip Roth, Avivah Zornberg, Natan Scharansky. What a list to pick from.

         And no one Rabbi and no layperson can be a violin to all of their songs.

         I hope at least a few of you have found this statement liberating. It was intended to be. Too often, Jews feel that they don’t measure up because they don’t jump at the mere mention of anything thathas a Jewish connection. We must be more discerning than that to make Judaism meaningful for us. Taking every part in the choir doesn’t make you a better singer.

         But, I also hope you will find my words challenging and in that spirit of challenge, I ask you this year to do two things. First, try to expand your playlist a bit more. Find some aspect of Judaism that isn’t as important to you, doesn’t touch you as deeply or, if you’re in the mood for a real challenge and shouldn’t we all be, an aspect that you just don’t understand and have no place for. Find it and work with it. Try to add it to your repertoire. Learn how the melody or harmony or underlying rhythm of that piece could, with your arrangement of course, please you in ways you couldn’t imagine.

         Seek out the more spiritual. Engage more deeply in tikkun olam. Delve into Jewish history. Explore Jewish music of the past and present. Go to Israel. Take the trip to some Jewish landmark. Learn to blow the Shofar. Build a Sukkah. Engage in serious Torah study or pick up a new book of commentary. Say blessings more often. Whatever it is, find one or two new areas to look into and consider seriously. Widen your perspectives enough to bring more meaning into what you are as a Jew. 

         The second challenge is get out the pen and paper and try to define, at some point over the year, why this all matters to you. Try to define why you are Jewish.

         Now, I want to explain something about that last sentence. I don’t ask you to explain why you are a Jew. You are a Jew because your mother was Jewish or you converted to Judaism. That is why you are a Jew.

         I am asking you to explain why you are Jewish. 

         Are the questions the same? To some, they are and if you are one of those people who aren’t interested in semantics, you can ignore the next few paragraphs.

         I make a distinction between saying: “I am a Jew” and saying: “I am Jewish” with the latter striking me as being more engaging, more deliberate, more pro-active, more thoughtful, more critical

         “Being Jewish”, and more precisely, “acting Jewish” because that is even more important, means we take what is in our heart, our soul, our family history and make it our own actively and purposefully and meaningfully. For  if “being a Jew” is just a statement, a title or an affiliation, it is, in the long run, meaningless. Each of us must know not only who we are but also what it means to us to be who we are.

         It is in that spirit that I want to introduce you to a book which some of you might already have seen and read. The book is entitled: “I am Jewish”. The “I” in the title is a tribute to Daniel Pearl, alav hashalom, the reporter for the Wall Street Journal who was brutally murdered by terrorists in Pakistan. These were his last words: a statement of pride by one who refused to hide, even under the most horrendous of situations, who experienced in the most dreadful way imaginable, the reality of hatred and evil and in this world. Daniel Pearl stood for who he was in a way that, God forbid, any Jew or any human being should have to experience.

         And, in tribute to him, his family compiled a collection of statements by Jews throughout the world: midrashim on the phrase “I am Jewish”.

         It is, as would be any book of this kind, uneven. Some of the statements are trite and some are eloquent. But, since one person’s “trite” is another person’s “eloquent”, the book is a masterpiece, even if read selectively.

         The contributors are of all ages, all walks of life, all degrees of commitment to Judaism. All are bound by only one criterion. All are proud to be and act Jewish.

         From Olympic gymnast Keri Strug (yeah, I didn’t know either!) who writes that she can’t believe she didn’t look Jewish on the medals podium when it was so clear she had shown “perseverance when faced with pain and hope in an uncertain future” to Milton Friedman who writes that he shares in “a deep and brilliant stream of culture and intellectual activity that has flowed for thousands of years”. From Julius Lester who writes that to be a Jew is to be “a love song-to the God of our people- and to the world” to Elie Weisel who cautions us that “to remain indifferent to persecution and suffering anywhere, in Afghanistan or in Kiev is to become an accomplice of the tormentor” to Professor Samuel Freedman of Columbia University who comments on the life story of Daniel Pearl and by doing so, calls so many of us to look at ourselves when he tries to balance what he calls tribalism and universalism and concludes that “Universalism without tribalism is a kind of self-loathing”. From brilliant essays by Rabbis Jonathan Sacks and Harold Kushner and Harold Schulweis to authors and poets and scientists and entertainers to Hebrew School children, each of us can find something that we agree with deeply or, in the true spirit of Judaism, disagree with enough to help us realize what it is we truly do believe.

         I hope that this book will help you to find that song you haven’t yet sung, that piece of music you haven’t yet explored as you think about what it means to be a member of the choir. And, I hope it will encourage you to sit down and write out your own essay and more importantly live it.

         And that is how I want to close this evening. I want to share with you my midrash on these three simple words. Each of us has our own.  

         These are mine.

         I am Jewish.

         I am inspired by the words of Naomi Shemer who wrote about Jerusalem, symbol of our history, our yearnings, our current struggles, our hopes and dreams to write of Zahav, gold. Nehoshet, metal, Or, light.

         Judaism is pure gold and being and acting Jewish and committing one’s life to this ancient yet dynamic and changing tradition is a way of mining some of the most precious metal which exists in our world.

         The words of the Torah are pure gold, sparkling and priceless. The words of our holy texts are food for the mind and for the heart. They can keep us up at night with challenge or lull us to sleep with their beauty and comfort. 

         The traditions of tzedakah and of interpersonal standards of behavior beckon to us as goals for our lives. They help me to aim to be a mentsch in a world which often denies the importance of treating one another respectfully. They inspire me always to believe in and live for and work for the betterment of all people, those I see around me and those half a world away.

         Our ritual traditions form the basis by which I reach for something greater. When I hold a yad to read Torah or hold a lulav at Sukkot or pick up the matza at the Seder, the connection is so deep and is so lasting that it is pure gold. Truthfully, sometimes the gold is a bit tarnished with familiarity. Sometimes it is less attractive than other things which shine in our world of freedom but even if my eyes stray to something else, the gold is there waiting for me to return and see it with new appreciative eyes. 

         Judaism is metal. It provides strength beyond anything else in my world. It links me together with a past and a present and a future which provides meaning for everything that I do and everything that I am. 

         It provides a connection for me and for my family with people far away, with times long ago and it helps me to believe that we are not alone. It gives a structure to our lives in ways that nothing else could, no matter how much we might love the fun, good and pleasant things in the world we share with everyone. 

         It inspires a connection, a deep connection, with those who need me and whom I need, and the line between those is sometimes blurred. When I stood on a street corner in Kishinev, Moldavia on Erev Pesach 1982 and was taken in by a family for Seder and later in a small way helped that family to freedom; or when I said el malei rachamim at a Jewish cemetery in an inner city which had fallen into disrepair; or  when I stood with the members of the community of Alon HaGalil this past year on Yom HaZikaron, Memorial Day and heard the names of those who had died in wars to defend Israel and in terrorist attacks and the next night danced with those same people at a Yom Ha’atzmaut party, when all of these experiences and so many more come into my mind, I wonder, how could anyone who has such a family available to them not grasp it and embrace it, be strengthened by it  and add to its strength?

         And Judaism is light. It is God. It is the sense of the spirit, the meaning, the hope, that believing in something beyond us brings. It is light at times of darkness and light to add to the light so resplendent around us. It is light to make us love our partners that much more deeply, hug our children that much more tightly, sing our songs that much more clearly, dedicate our lives to pursuits which are that much more lofty and, in the spirit of this kol nidre evening, take our vows that much more seriously.

         I am Jewish because my life needs gold and it needs strength and it needs light and I know where to find it. It is there for all of us, for all of you, in whichever doorway you enter, in whatever part you play, in whatever you decide to do with it. It is within your reach and it is a wealth, a strength, a light that we are privileged to call our own. 

         I can’t be a violin for all of its songs, no one could be. But, I can not imagine a world without the melodies that we, as a people, have composed over the millennia. They have given a wealth of meaning, strength beyond compare and a glowing light to our people and those who know us and see us. It is a song which, God willing, will always be sung.

         It is what it means to me to be a Jew. It is why I am Jewish. 

Several months ago, I posted two pieces on the school year that I spent in Israel in 1979-1980. I promised there would be more to come on that subject in the months ahead.

As it turns out, there were several issues that I wanted to post about and other writing that took precedence. But, I thought I would take a moment on what is a very cold Michigan morning to think about one issue that I think about a lot when I remember that year and that is what is was like to live through the change of seasons in Jerusalem.

I have been fascinated by weather since I was a little kid. The beloved Boston TV and radio meteorologist, Don Kent, was one of my heroes as a child. I used to love to watch him describe the various aspects of weather in Boston (which was never easy to predict) and to explain the science behind them.

I don’t think I thought very much about what the weather would be like before I left for Israel but almost immediately upon landing, it became an issue.

I flew to Israel with two good friends and classmates and while they went to arrange transportation to Jerusalem, I sat on a bench at the airport with our luggage. Still trying to figure out exactly where I was, I was joined on the bench by a woman and her two grandchildren. The children were jumping up and down, having met their grandmother who had just arrived on the same plane as we did. The kids were so excited and kept telling her: k’var yarad geshem!, “It rained already”.

I couldn’t figure out why they were so excited about it. Then I realized that being that it was a few days before Sukkot, that was very unusual indeed. The rainy season usually doesn’t start in Israel in early October and the early rain led to two conflicting attitudes. It’s great in that it might portend a much needed season with sufficient rain. But, it might also intrude on Sukkot celebrations. So, the kids were excited and more than a bit wary.

As it turned out, it didn’t rain again for a couple of months but that first conversation made me realize how critical the issue of weather is in Israel, specifically regarding rain.

The Torah is full of references to rain as a blessing and lack of rain as a curse and it is easy to see why when you spend the winter in Israel. The beautiful green areas of the land depend upon sufficient rain during the winter. Of course, now there is irrigation that can help in terms of the fruits and vegetables but nothing substitutes for the blessing of rain nourishing the parched earth after the summer.

So, I sat back and waited for a good rain storm. I was tired of endless days of sun and gently warm weather leading into December. Then, it all changed. I distinctly remember sitting in class one day and looking out the window and seeing what looked to me like a dust storm: wind whipping up great clouds of haze and dust. Someone muttered: “a storm is coming”. And, it certainly came very quickly.

The temperature immediately dropped some 20 degrees and sheets of rain and hail came pouring down on all of us especially those who hadn’t listened to the radio and brought an umbrella (not that it would have done much good.)

There were several storms that followed that winter and I can honestly say that I have never been as cold as I was in my dormitory room with poor central heating and cold, stone floors. I immediately sent a letter home to my parents asking them for a few more warm shirts which, thankfully, came rather quickly.

But, then came the unforgettable moment: my first Jerusalem snowstorm.

Many think it doesn’t snow in Jerusalem. It does. Believe me, it does. On the night before Purim, it began to snow and that morning, we woke up to several inches of snow and spent the day on long walks through the city enjoying the views and watching Jerusalemites having snowball fights in the middle of the city. It was truly a great experience and seeing the “city of gold”covered in white was unforgettable.

(Here I should mention that on one of congregation trips to Israel in December 1991, we encountered one of the worst snowstorms in the history of the city, some 14 inches. That was the last time I ever led a trip during the winter.)

But the snow disappeared quickly and winter turned to a glorious spring. The rain and snow of the winter led to the most marvelous smells and sights as the land woke up after the rains.

I left Israel at the beginning of June but summer had already come and with it the dreaded “hamsin”, the hot, dry desert wind which brings in the highest temperatures over the course of the year. Not being a real fan of hot weather, those days were difficult to deal with, especially one day when the temperature rose to about 44 degrees Celsius (about 112 Fahrenheit) and I experiences heat exhaustion for the first time in my life. But, it all was part of a cycle.

The climate in Israel was strange to me: the idea of a dry season and a rainy season and the occasional bouts of cold weather interrupting warm winter days. But, in its own way, it was predictable and I accepted the pattern even though I missed some of the weather I used to experience in Boston.

Now to the present day.

As everywhere else in the world, the reality of climate change is a serious issue in Israel. Adequate supplies of water, the ability for the land to continue to produce the fruits and vegetables which are so delicious and unique to the land, and the excitement of children who watch carefully to see when the first rains come are all affected by the dangerous changes that are coming to our world. Looking back with some nostalgia on my experience that year makes it even more imperative that, for the sake of the entire earth, we address climate issues seriously and passionately. It is important to remember God’s promise to Noah after the flood that the cycles of the world, from cold to hot and winter to summer would never change.

But, God also promised that God would never destroy the world again. That does not cover destruction brought about by human beings. We must do all we can to save the wondrous cycles of the world wherever we live.

More to come on my recollections of that year.

My writing concerning TV shows usually focus on nostalgic old programs from the 60s and 70s. I don’t find contemporary series as interesting to write about. But, that certainly isn’t the case with the series The Good Place which ended this past week.

If you have not seen the final episode or want to start watching the series based on the publicity the show has received, consider this a “spoiler alert” and stop reading. But, for those who did see the ending, I offer a couple of thoughts.

First, I thought it was a great show. The acting was superb and the storyline, while admittedly a bit hard to follow at times, was fascinating. The unexpected moments and the sly humor were great. Most importantly, the characters were truly memorable and, as with any good “ensemble cast”, they worked so well together.

The series often presented philosophical concepts and debates in a rather unique way. Sometimes, I paid less attention than I should have to those philosophical issues in deference to just watching the series and enjoying the characters so I think I will take the time to watch the series again from the beginning to fully appreciate that aspect of the show.

I was drawn to the show originally because, as has been evidenced in my postings, I am fascinated by the question of the “afterlife” and am a firm believer in the continued existence of our souls after physical death. But, to me, the most important point that the series made, has really less to do about the afterlife as it does to our lives here on earth.

In my opinion, the most important message that the series presented was that we can make positive changes in our lives and the best way to do is to get help from – and be helped by- other people. The evolution and transformation of the characters from the beginning of the series to the end- especially that of Jason who was my favorite character of the four “friends” was stunning to watch and so uplifting in so many ways.

This lesson was reflected in the ending of the series. The decision to make the first destination after death a learning place that would enable one to get to “the good place” was brilliant. Our Jewish tradition teaches that we can transform this world into paradise and it is interesting to consider that that paradise would not be a place of perfection but a place where everyone was dedicated to helping each other grow to be better people.

And Eleanor’s final act before she was ready to go through the “door”: that of convincing Mindy who was alone in “the medium place” that she needed to surround herself with others brought me, literally, to tears.

By making the afterlife a place of learning, the Good Place reminded us all how much we need to depend upon others to help us be the best we can be and how much others are counting on us to do the same.

Thank you to the creator of The Good Place for teaching us that we can’t wait for eternity to make the most of our lives.

In honor of tonight’s airing of the final episode of the TV series: The Good Place, I am posting a sermon I delivered before the Yizkor, Memorial Service on Yom Kippur 2010. I would love to read responses and your own stories! (There are no spoilers- you can read this before you watch the show.)

        

  Before I begin my remarks, I want to acknowledge my Rabbinic colleague, Rabbi Elie Spitz who was, I believe, the first Conservative Rabbi to address the issue I will address today. He relates that it took courage for him to do. I completely understand his feelings. 

I also wish to express my appreciation to a few friends in this congregation and beyond who also encouraged my thinking and my speaking and teaching about my thoughts. Thank you.

         Yizkor is a time for stories – those we tell with a smile or a tear, and those which, for whatever reason, we choose to keep to ourselves.

         This morning, I want to share a story with you. It has a few laughs, a few tears, and it is definitely a story that I cannot keep to myself. 

         I have told it to a few of you already and never really considered telling it in such a public way. However, the more I thought about the story and the impact it had on me, the more difficult I found it to speak on anything else this morning. 

         I am keenly aware that there is an inherent risk in my telling this story at this time. But the best sermons are the ones that come with a bit of risk and push all of our boundaries a bit. 

         My story is absolutely true in every detail and in every nuance. It is a story of an event which moved me this past year like none other did.  It is a story the likes of which, I am sure, many of you could tell and I want you to view my telling this story as encouragement for you to tell your story if you have been reluctant to do so. I certainly believe these stories are deeply “Jewish” stories, consistent with our tradition and our perspective on life and on death. I hope all of you will share your stories with me. 

         As you know, I received an honorary Doctor of Divinity degree from the Jewish Theological Seminary this past May for serving more than 25 years in the Rabbinate. You may not know that my brother, Charley, received the same honorary degree for the same reason at the same ceremony. In March, two months before the convocation, Charley and I received an email from the public events office of JTS.

         The email was prompted by the fact that there was a discrepancy in the material that we had submitted for our diplomas. We had been asked for our parents’ Hebrew names and my brother and I had each spelled our mother’s name differently. My mother’s Hebrew name, or Yiddish name to be precise, was Ginessa and neither of us really knew how to spell it.  My brother and I had spelled it differently when we filled out the forms for our original diplomas two years apart in the 1980s and, although we had come to an agreement more than twenty years later on how to spell it on her headstone, this year, for some reason, we each used our original and inconsistent spellings of the name. JTS, known for its academic honesty and intellectual precision, wanted to know what to do. Could we possibly choose one of the spellings in order to be consistent?

         I found this extraordinarily funny and called my brother and he was already laughing hysterically for the same reason. We both kept picturing our father, alav hashalom, laughing at us for not checking with each other, and our mother, aleha hashalom, smiling with a bemused expression deriving great satisfaction from the fact that she was the subject of such a confusion. She would have thought it was so ironic, having the name she never liked as the issue of a great Jewish academic debate. 

My brother and I then spent some time reminiscing, laughing through a few tears because we knew the timing was perfect as the next night was Mom’s fifth yahrzeit.

         We decided to ask JTS to keep the machloket (an academic disagreement) going and to spell the name differently on the two diplomas. 

         As the day wore on my laughter began to turn to real and deep sadness. I have this midlife orphan stuff down pretty well; but every once in a while it gets to me, and this was one of those days. All that I kept thinking about, all day long, was that in the 5 years since her death, my mother had already missed 4 simchas: our kids’ bar and bat mitzvah and the weddings of my brother’s two daughters. And I realized she would not be present at the ceremony which, with all due respect to my kids and my nieces, would probably have meant more to her than any of the others – seeing her two “boys” together on the stage receiving these degrees.

         I couldn’t get this sadness out of my mind all day. It was a miserable day and just before I left for shul, I checked my email and read the response from JTS. They were willing to suspend academic correctness and glad to help continue the family tradition of different spellings. What a relief!

 I was about to turn off the computer when suddenly a word flashed into my head for the first time in years.

 The word will not be familiar to most of you, but those of you who grew up in Boston around the same time I did or before may recognize it so I will mention it for the sake of completeness and to show those of you who are familiar with it how unlikely a word it would have been to pop into my mind on a March afternoon in Ann Arbor in the year 2010. 

The word was Norumbega.

         Norumbega Park was an amusement park a few miles from where I grew up. Now there is a Marriott hotel there on the Charles River right near Brandeis University. I know I went to Norumbega when I was a little kid. We rode the merry go round and we fed the ducks on the river, but I don’t remember it well; the park closed when I was about 6 or 7. 

         As I sat at the computer I started thinking about one building at the park called the Totem Pole Dance Hall. I never went there of course, but I remember it because it had remained open – or at least the sign remained visible – after the rest of the park closed. I had a mental image of the sign on the front of the building and I wondered that afternoon whether it was as I remembered. So I went to Google and typed in Norumbega; and sure enough a few entries down the list, after the Norumbega Boy Scout Council and the Norumbega Apartments, I saw a website for “Memories of Norumbega Park”. I clicked on it and there were 6 or 7 different “folders” of material. I went to one randomly and it included a section called “Archival Pictures”. I clicked on that link and 5 thumbnail pictures came up, pictures so small you can’t really see too much detail.

         None looked like it was a picture of the Totem Pole and time was getting short, so I started to leave the website.  But then my attention was drawn for some reason to one of the pictures. I couldn’t figure out what was happening in the picture and it looked intriguing, so I clicked on it.

         The picture was of a woman looking at animals on display at the park’s small zoo.

         And I nearly fainted.

         For the woman in the picture was the exact double of my mother: the build, posture, the hair, the facial expression, the clothes, everything – absolutely uncanny similarity. 

         I was alone in the house and was frantic. I did not what to do or to say. I printed the picture out and took it and my hands were shaking. A few minutes later, Ellen walked in from walking the dog and I called her in and said: “Look at this”. She looked at the picture and said, and I quote: “I never saw this picture of Gert”.

         I sent it to my brother on email with a topic: “Sit down for this one.”

         He called me one minute later – a record for him – and said: “This is incredible. It isn’t her, is it?” I said: “I don’t think so, the dates don’t match”. But, then he said: “Either way, it’s incredible”.

         And then he asked me, as he always does when I send him unusual stuff from the Internet: “How did you ever find this?”

         And as one academically and rationally JTS-trained Litvak Rabbi would say to another, I answered him: “Who knows?”

But after I hung up the phone, I took a deep breath and admitted to myself that that wasn’t the right answer. 

There was only one right answer. 

I have no doubt whatsoever that this was not a coincidence. Ani Ma’amin b’emunah shlayma…I believe with perfect faith that in some way, my mother led me to find that picture.

I have always believed in existence after death and since my parents’ death, I have believed in it even more strongly. I have no idea what that existence is and I assure you I am in no hurry to find out.  I have felt my parents’ presence in dreams and, occasionally, in an unquantifiable feeling which I can’t describe. But now, after my Norumbega experience, I believe something else. 

I believe that in ways I wouldn’t even pretend to understand or even try to explain, those whom we love can and do occasionally let us know that they are still with us. 

I know some of you accept this- you’ve experienced it as I have. But I also know that many of you can’t believe what you are hearing. So be it. Last year, I would have been fascinated by the story, as I have been with stories of this kind for years; but I would have looked for other explanations or just chalked it up to coincidence or wish fulfillment. I no longer look for other explanations. I believe because it has happened to me. 

         I have not changed my beliefs about death and mourning since this experience. I still believe that death is an end. And it is still so very, very sad. There is nothing that can replace having our loved ones sitting beside us, living and breathing and smiling as they look into our eyes; that all ends with death.  And so despite what I have experienced, it has not changed the way I look at mourning or how I will guide you when, God forbid, you experience the death of a loved one The funeral will be just as difficult, the sadness just as intense, the goodbyes just as final and no anticipation of such a moment as I described will soften the blow of death. 

But I have taken tremendous comfort in this experience and I believe that if you are open to this type of experience and allow yourself the freedom of accepting something which can’t be explained but which feels so very real, you will know what it really means when we say the dead are with us bitzror hahayim, in the bond of life, and you will find it a comfort beyond any that you could have imagined. 

If it has happened to you, I would love to hear about it. 

To all of you, trust me, it happens. And I believe it is real. 

And maybe it has happened many more times, but in my rational stubbornness I missed it. Maybe you’ve missed it as well.          This year, starting now, open your eyes, your ears, your heart, your mind and see if it in fact happens to you. 

And maybe next year at Yizkor, when we say: “Our loved ones are with us in the bond of life”, you will quietly and simply nod your head through the tears and say: “Yes, they most certainly are … and I have a story to prove it”.  

In Parashat Vayechi, we read the story of the death of Jacob. Following his death, Joseph and his brothers return to Canaan from Egypt to bury their father in the Cave of Machpelah which Abraham had bought for a family burial plot. 

We read in the parashah that on their way back from Canaan, the brothers tell Joseph that their father Jacob had instructed them to tell Joseph to forgive them. There is a beautiful legend which teaches that they told Joseph this becuase they had seen Joseph slip away from the caravan as it passed the pit into which he had been thrown as a young man. According to the story, Joseph stood over the pit and said a silent prayer of thanks to God for having delivered him from the pit. The brothers, fearing that Joseph was standing in silence planning his revenge, concoct a story that their father had told them to tell Joseph that he should forgive them. 

The story of Joseph standing over the pit and thanking God for his salvation is a beautiful story indeed. It is a story which many of us can relate to. For many of us, we can easily think of a place in which we faced or overcame a great challenge or turned a negative into a positive. To return to that place with the satisfaction of having survived and thrived since leaving is a moving experience. To return to a place of pain and know that life has taken a more positive turn since we were last there is truly worthy of a prayer of thanks to God. 

But, some can not return to such a place. Some were not rescued from the pit. Some did not find salvation and had no ability to return. 

We are all too familiar with stories of this kind and we immediately consider the 6,000,000 who could not go back to the site of their pain. 

In June, 2011, I had the opportunity to travel to Latvia, the birthplace of my paternal grandfather. Just a few months before, we had learned that one branch of my grandfather’s brother and his children and grandchildren were killed in the massacre of the Jews of the town of Preili at the hands of the Nazis in 1941. 

I felt a need to go to the site of that massacre and stand at the memorial that had been built to the victims. As I stood at the monument, two feelings came to mind. 

I felt such deep sorrow and pain for my great uncle Shael and his family who suffered so horribly, who died al kiddush hashem. They never had the opportunity that Joseph had to celebrate coming out of the pit. 

But the other feeling that I experienced was thanks to God that my grandfather had, in fact, left Latvia and came to this great land of freedom. 

As I stood at the memorial, I said a prayer of thanks as Joseph must have said, for being saved. 

I have written extensively on my trip and you can find some thoughts on this website. But, the one thought that always has risen above the others and which I consider again as we read Parashat Vayechi this year is that thought about standing at the place of the deep pit my family members were thrown into and realizing how fortunate I have been.

The feelings are the same this year but with more than a bit of concern. We are all justifiably worried about the rise of Anti-Semitism in America in recent months but we can never lose hope that this land will always be that place of freedom and safety that it has been for our people.

As I said in concluding the sermon I gave on Rosh Hashana following my return: 

While I will never forget and never abandon my great-uncle and his family’s memory and will tell their story to my children, and God willing my grandchildren,  I will always be guided by the sunshine that has graced my life because my grandfather came here. 

And I hope and pray that all of those who have been as fortunate will be grateful to God for the sun that shines on us and will find ultimate meaning, Jewish self definition, obligation and challenge in that blessed light. 

May that light continue to shine.

Shabbat Shalom. 

It’s been quite a day trying to understand the implications of President Trump’s planned executive order and reading through various different perspectives from people and organizations I trust. I’m still trying to process this entire issue as I know many are. So, as everyone continues to discuss this from all sides, I’ll make some statements in principle.

First, while I am deeply concerned about anti-Israel statements and actions on campuses and throughout the country, I am opposed to any law (and many have been proposed) which would make some such statements illegal. I believe that in many cases, those who criticize Israel’s policies are doing so out of genuine love and concern for Israel. And, some who express the opinion that Israel is not a legitimate state or should not be a Jewish state are speaking from a political or philosophical, not an anti-Semitic perspective. Such political speech, as much as I oppose it and cringe when I hear it, should be protected. There are clearly those who are anti-Israel who are anti-Semites but not all are and to in any way limit anti-Israel sentiment limits free speech which is dangerous. It would be a double standard to prohibit such speech specifically against Israel.

Secondly, I am wary of any statement, and President Trump has made many such statements, which suggest that Jews’ connection with Israel constitute our principal loyalty. Such statements provide ammunition for those who are looking for reasons to consider Jews as “the other” when it comes to being Americans. I am loyal to my people but, as I have said many times including from the Bima, my principle political loyalty is to the United States. While I won’t deny my love for and concern for Israel, I am a loyal American. AAny statement which makes a point of clearly identifiying a Jew as a member of a “different nation” is of grave concern.

And, finally, after his statements of the past weekend and so many other divisive statements and actions of this President, I will admit to being skeptical about anything President Trump says or writes regarding Jews. I wish he would just stop talking about Jews and anti-Semitism because, frankly, I think a man who uses his pulpit to encourage divisiveness and bigotry in this nation is simply not to be trusted when he singles Jews out, even for good.

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This morning, I want to share with you a thought on Jacob’s dream and how it relates to our lives as Jews today as we approach the festival of Hanukkah.

One of the most prevalent traditional rabbinic interpretations of Jacob’s dream of angels ascending and descending a ladder is that Jacob was witnessing a “changing of the guard”. The angels who were assigned to protect him within the land of Israel were leaving him while those who were to protect him outside the land were coming down to take their place by his side.

Jacob was lying on the border of Israel, traveling back to the extended family in Haran in order to escape from the anger of his brother Esau. The interpretation underscores a revolution in Hebrew religion: Jacob’s god was also effective outside of his homeland. While the dominant idea of the time was that one would owe allegiance to the local deity of an area when one was traveling, Jacob was assured that God would protect him wherever he was. This truly was a revolutionary idea.

But, there is another transition that is taking place for Jacob besides a change of location. Jacob left home as a rather self-centered, overly confident individual. He was a man who, quite frankly, did not reflect the ethical life that we would like to associate with our heroes. His action of buying the birthright from his brother was in many ways an act of greed and opportunism. Then, while you can blame his mother, Rebecca, for arranging the ruse that fooled his blind father Isaac into giving him what was rightly Esau’s blessing, Jacob went along with it with apparently no compunctions.

But, Jacob is to change as he travels outside of the land. He becomes more a sensitive to others, able to think outside of himself. He falls in love with Rachel and he adores her. He refrains from taking revenge on his father-in-law Laban when he substitutes Leah on the wedding night but continues to work for him. While he is not immediately transformed to model husband and father, he is certainly moving in that direction and when we read the story, next week of his wrestling match with the angel and his reconciliation with Esau, we see a completely different individual, one with spiritual yearnings and a touch of humility which have become essential parts of his life.

Perhaps then, we can view the angels that descend upon Jacob as those who will be urging him to realize that it is the time in his life for spiritual considerations. At some point in our lives, we all become Jacobs, learning to balance our need for personal advancement, independence, security and survival with the demands for a more spiritual and ethical life.

But, it would be incorrect to describe this change simply as a rejection of a selfish youth and a sign of adulthood. For even adults need to keep that side of self-preservation with them as they grow. And, we will see that in next week’s parasha when we read that Jacob prepared for his reunion with Esau not only with gifts and with moments of prayer but also with preparations to defend himself and his family should Esau attack him. He knows that he must do what is necessary for his survival.

So, it is important to note that the Torah does not say that the ascending angels are leaving the scene and going “up to heaven”. Rather they are staying on the ladder, taking a backseat, or an upper rung, for a while as Jacob focuses on that spiritual aspect of his life. He will always need those other angels, the ones that represent his personal, physical needs but they can be in the background for a while as he contemplates who he is and what he brings to the world.

And, now, let’s turn to the holiday of Hanukkah.

While Hanukkah is a minor holiday in our tradition, it has many distinctions which are remarkable. One of those distinctions is the ability of Hanukkah to change its focus depending on the needs of the moment.  

Because Hanukkah is not a “Torah holiday” and because even traditional Jewish texts debate the reasons for lighting candles for 8 nights, Hanukkah has the unique characteristic among Jewish holidays to be able to change its message to fit the situation in which our people find ourselves.

Let me illustrate this with a story.

When I was a rabbinical school student in Israel, I worked at a wonderful institution called Neve Hanna, a home for children and youth in the city of Kiryat Gat. I was sent by the Jewish Theological Seminary to teach a bar/bat mitzvah class at Neve Hanna. The children all came from secular homes and our program was an attempt to bring spirituality and meaningful traditional rituals into their lives. By the way, this process has continued to this day and Neve Hanna has become a model for how to introduce meaningful Jewish experiences into a generally secular Israeli environment.

On one of my visits during December 40 years ago, I intended to discuss Hanukkah with the 13 year olds. I started by making a reference to the little jug of oil that burned for 8 days.

Are you ready for this? They had never heard the story. They laughed at it and mocked it.

So, I asked them what Hanukkah was about and I got the answer I expected: “the Maccabees”. Then, they jumped from their seats and dramatized, quite graphically, the military victory of the few against the many.

Twelve years after the Six Day War and with parents, older siblings and friends serving in the IDF, this was the story they related to. In their secular upbringing, it had been demonstrated to them, through silence, that there was no place for and no need for the story of the Divine miracle of the lights and any spiritual lesson one might learn from it.

As upsetting as that was to me, it certainly should not have been surprising for it should have been obvious that this was the story that resonated with them. And, my experience as a child should have prepared me for it.

For me, in Hebrew school, in Brookline, Massachusetts in the 1960s, there were no battles to be fought, no clear existential crises of the Jewish people that were shared with 10 year olds. So, our teachers talked much less about the Maccabees and largely as the story of the oil that inspires. They thought that that story would resonate more clearly with the goals of the synagogue and the Hebrew school.

And, what is demonstrated here has been true for two millennia, Jews have allowed Hanukkah to be what we need at any given moment and allowed it to change its entire message to be relevant. Even those who have sadly reduced Hanukkah to a “gift giving holiday” in the spirit of the “holiday season” have allowed it to “morph” into what they feel they and their families need.

So, what will Hanukkah 2019 represent for us?

As we approach the festival of lights, we are witnessing in words and in deeds, a horrifying increase in anti-Semitism, here and throughout the world. Our people are feeling more acutely in so many places the fear that we used to think of as being in the past. For that reason, the story of the Maccabees standing firm and standing strong against increasing threats resonates so much more deeply. In some ways, it seems poised to eclipse the spiritual, moral messages of the holiday which include freedom for all and bringing spiritual light to counteract the darkest days of the year.

That is the sad and scary reality in which we find ourselves as Jews here and around the world. The angels visiting us this Hanukkah may well be the ones that call us out to protect our people at all costs and stand strong, ready to do all we must do for our people’s survival.

This is not the time to analyze or quantify the threat. But, the rise in Anti-Semitism must be acknowledged and confronted.

However, it is imperative that we not let those angels that came down to Jacob get too tar away. We can’t let them retreat back up to the heavens because concern for ethics or an idealistic vision of the world gets in our way. We need them more than ever. Somehow, we need to keep both elements of the Hanukkah story, the protective and the spiritual, active in our lives. While, we must do what we must do to protect our people, I pray that in that fight, we will be joined with well meaning people from other communities who will stand us just as we must stand with those of other communities who are endangered by hate speech and acts of violence. Doing so will reflect the greater meaning of the holiday of Hanukkah as we attempt to bring light to all in the world who live in darkness.

While we commit ourselves to insuring our and our communities’ physical survival we can not turn away from the obligation to bring light, spiritual light, to our lives and to the world. Holding on to both goals is what truly make us mature human beings.

May we resist the temptation to turn this holiday and our entire mission as Jews into one purely of national survival.

 May we also welcome the light of the holiday into our homes and into our hearts and into our souls.

May we invite both sets of angels into our homes this Hanukkah season and always.